She looked at the drive and wondered when he might be back. She’d slept later than she intended, rising well past nine. By the time she’d dressed and made it downstairs, Owen had already taken breakfast, informed Mrs. Lewis of the previous night’s events—wisely editing out any mention of manacles, it seemed—and taken himself off to the village. That had been nearly three hours ago.
She wondered if his delay meant he’d obtained information on last night’s intruder or if he’d found Peter and Esther.
Hoping for the second more than the first, she resumed her stroll and nearly tripped over her own feet at the sound of Owen’s voice calling her. Whirling about, she found him striding up the path behind her.
A lovely thrill of anticipation sent her pulse racing. He was such a pleasure to look at—the long legs that ate up the ground between them in easy strides, the windblown locks reflecting the barest hint of copper in the sunlight. There was the relaxed grace, the hard jaw, the verdant eyes… Eyes, she noted as he drew near, that were shadowed by the faint bruise of fatigue.
“You’re tired.” This was not, she admitted, the most eloquent greeting a woman might offer a handsome man on a fine summer day. The words had just tripped out.
“I was up a time or two to check on the house.” He stopped before her and offered a brief smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I should have, clearly. Why didn’t you wake me? I might have helped.”
Something about her statement made his lips twitch. “I walked about the house. What sort of assistance do you imagine I required?”
It didn’t matter what he required. It was her house. If someone needed to stumble about it in the dark, that someone ought to be her.
She opened her mouth…and shut it again as she recalled Owen’s words from the night before.
Argue is what you do.
Not today, she decided. Not in the first thirty seconds of his return, anyway. Not when he looked so tired. “Never mind.” She gestured toward the drive. “I didn’t see you return.”
“Cut through the woods,” he explained. “Faster.”
“Oh.” As Peter was the only member of the family who could seat a horse properly, she’d never given a thought to alternate routes.
His features briefly tightened in annoyance. “I instructed Mrs. Lewis to keep everyone inside whilst I was away. Why are you outside?”
“Because I want to be,” she said and winced. “I didn’t mean for that to sound so disagreeable. I wanted to take a walk before I started on the letters again, that’s all. I’ve stayed in the garden, well within sight of the house. And Mrs. Lewis, you’ll note.” She pointed to a ground-floor window where, a moment ago, the elderly woman had been watching her like a hawk. She was gone now. “Well, she was watching me.”
Owen relaxed a little, and his lips hooked up in a small smile. “Yes, I noticed her earlier. Your idea?”
“Yes.” No. The woman was just bold as brass. “So, you see, I was quite cautious, and perfectly safe. Now, tell me what you learned in the village. Are Peter and Esther there?”
“No, but the innkeeper graciously provided an introduction to someone he believed could be of help in locating them.” He paused dramatically. “The physician’s wife.”
“Oh. Oh, no.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as the image of a ruddy-cheeked woman with a penchant for flounces and fussy lace collars popped into her head. “Mrs. McKinsey.”
“The very same. You’ve made her acquaintance, I assume?”
Everyone made Mrs. McKinsey’s acquaintance. There was no escaping an introduction to the mostly harmless, but exhaustingly effusive woman. One could escape further interaction, but to do so required an uncommon amount of work, a fair amount of guile, and, sometimes, a little bit of hiding.
“I have,” she replied.
“Then you will not be surprised to learn that Mrs. McKinsey was delighted to inform me, over the course of three-quarters of an hour, that her neighbor, the widow Smith, heard from her maid, Bridget Hamm, that her brother, a farmer, had cause to pass through the village of Fisckrem last night after visiting a sister with whom the aforementioned Bridget Hamm Does Not Speak. And during a brief respite at the local tavern, but not brief enough in Mrs. McKinsey’s estimation—the farmer has a weakness for drink, you know—”
“I did not.”
“Yes, well, during his shamefully extended respite at the tavern, he happened to learn from the innkeeper’s wife—Mrs. McKinsey’s second cousin once removed, in case you were interested—”
“I was. Awfully.”
“I was not. Nevertheless, Mrs. McKinsey informed me that her second cousin once removed mentioned to her maid’s brother, the farmer, that Mr. Peter Bales and Miss Esther Bales of Willowbend and two gentlemen said to be traveling with Viscount Renderwell were lodged at an inn eight miles down the road. Where, it was mentioned, one cannot find a respectable leg of lamb.”
“I see.” Amused and relieved, she tipped her head at him. “Who said it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who was it that told the farmer that Peter and Esther were down the road?”
A weighted pause followed. “I do not know.”
“Then it would appear you wasted three-quarters of an hour.” She had to bite her cheek again when his expression turned baleful. “It is a sad day when the Gentleman Thief Taker is unable to ascertain any sort of useful information from the likes of Mrs. McKinsey.”
“Shall I escort you to town so you might inquire yourself?”
She hopped back when he stepped forward. “Thank you, no.”
“It’s no trouble—”
She danced away from his grasping hand, delighted to see his fatigue lightened by humor. “Generous of you, I’m sure, but it’s quite impossible. The carriage is gone, and I don’t ride.”
Not well. She wouldn’t admit it to Owen under threat of death, but Lottie had not come by her poise naturally. As a child, she’d been ungainly and uncoordinated. The dignified elegance she was capable of displaying now was the reward for years of hard work and practice, most often in the form of walking about the house with various objects atop her head. Sadly, the reward did not extend to a show of coordination during equestrian pursuits. Her ability to glide into a room like a ballerina and her propensity for gliding off a saddle like a sack of potatoes were fairly well matched.
Owen fell back a step and lifted a brow. “Do you not? I could teach you, if you like.”
“Perhaps sometime.” Or never. She’d just as soon he not witness her take a fall on her backside. “You didn’t go into the village to ask after Peter and Esther. Did you learn anything about our intruder?”
Annoyance flashed over his face. “Your family did not come second in my consideration.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I know.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I know. I learned nothing, and it has left me irritated.”
“Perhaps he came from another village.” She didn’t mention that she was a little relieved by the news. Not out of concern for the man’s well-being but because she was quite concerned about the length of Owen’s stay. It was selfish of her, but she hoped to have him for at least a week. Maybe even a fortnight. She could keep Peter distracted for a fortnight. It no longer seemed quite so terrifying or impossible a task now that she could trust Owen’s intentions.
One fortnight, she thought, as they began a leisurely stroll along the garden path.
Let me have him for one fortnight.
“Where did you hear of my moniker?” Owen asked after a time. “The Gentleman Thief Taker?”
“Oh. Peter. You’ve an admirer in his Mr. Derby.”
“Ah.”
He seemed to take this as a matter of course. Did he face fawning admiration everywhere he went? How did one ever be
come accustomed to such a thing? “Are you still a sensation?”
He laughed softly. “Old hat now, thank God. As a viscount, I warrant an occasional mention in the society pages, nothing more.” He slanted her a cautious look. “That would change, if your father’s work came to light now. It would change for all of us.”
“I know.”
He nodded and seemed content to let the matter drop. “Your garden needs repair,” he commented as they walked past a large, knee-high reflection pond overfilled with rainwater.
“Esther will see to it, and Peter, if she can bribe or threaten him into it.”
“You haven’t a gardener.”
“An unnecessary expense,” she explained. “The gardens were well established when we arrived, and Esther takes pleasure in caring for them now.”
“Would you hire the help, could you afford it?”
“No.” She kicked absently at a pebble in the path. “Not unless Esther wished it.”
“I am relieved to hear it.” He cleared his throat. “I know you do well enough, but…I want you to know, I did argue that you should be able to keep the thirty thousand pounds.”
“It doesn’t mat—” She stopped in her tracks. “Thirty thousand pounds?”
That could not be right. Surely she had misunderstood. What thirty thousand pounds?
“The reward,” Owen said, as if that explained everything. “For the return of Lady Strale.” A line formed across his brow. “You didn’t know there was a reward?”
“Of course I did.” In a vague sort of way. She remembered the mention of a reward. But not thirty thousand pounds. It was a staggering amount of money.
“Lord Strale offered, in secret, thirty thousand pounds for the safe return of his wife and the Strale diamonds. A bargain, considering the exorbitant ransom Gage was demanding. I argued that as the surviving family of the man who rescued the duchess, you were entitled to the whole amount, but I was overruled by Strale and the Queen. Two-thirds was split amongst the men who brought in Gage and his men. You should have received the remainder.”
“I did.” The ten thousand pounds had come as a tremendous relief, as had the news that an annual allowance was to follow. “I assumed it was the result of my father’s contract with you. A sum upon his death. That sort of thing.”
“No. There…” He hesitated, cleared his throat again, and took a suspicious amount of time choosing his next words. “There was only the allowance.”
“That is not what you were going to say.”
Indecision played clearly over his features. It didn’t worry her at first. If Owen meant to lie to her, he wouldn’t be so obvious about it. But as silence dragged out, it occurred to her that it might not be reluctance that kept him quiet but a bid for time while he looked for a way to soften or skirt around the truth. And what was that but another kind of lie?
“I would have the truth, Owen,” she said quietly.
That did the trick. He gave a short, resigned sigh. “There was no contract. Your father agreed to work for us in exchange for his freedom.”
“I see. And the allowance I receive?”
“From the Crown’s coffers.”
“I have always assumed as much, but…” That assumption had been based on the belief that Owen was a selfish, untrustworthy liar and therefore highly unlikely to share his own wealth, even to honor a contract. The only logical source for her income had been the Crown. Until now. “Did you have some say in that?”
He bent his head a little so they were looking eye to eye. “That allowance is yours and always will be. I want you to know that. You are not dependent on me nor beholden to me in any way. Your family’s finances are not under my control.”
Not under his control, perhaps, but probably within the scope of his influence. Then again, he was a viscount. Most everything fell within his scope of influence.
“But the allowance was your idea?” she pressed.
He straightened and found something to stare at over her shoulder. “There was a consensus. It was only fair.”
“Liar. You’d not have hesitated over a consensus.” She didn’t understand why he should hesitate at all or why he should look embarrassed. “I would thank you—”
“Unnecessary. It is the Crown’s money, as I said. Besides, you earned it.”
“Earned it?”
“Your assistance was vital on a number of occasions.”
Vital was probably excessive, but why argue with flattery? “Thank you. I would—”
“If you are going to apologize again for our estrangement, I don’t want to hear it.”
His brusque and implacable tone seemed excessive, as well. “Why not?”
“I wish for things to be comfortable between us. I don’t want our friendship weighed down with apologies any more than I wanted it weighed down with anger.”
It hadn’t been weighed down so much as it had been thoroughly crushed, but she didn’t mention it. “I wasn’t going to apologize, as it happens.”
“Weren’t you?”
Yes, she was, but it was only a little lie to pretend otherwise. “I was going to say I wish someone had informed me of the details from the start.”
“Do you want me to apologize?”
“No.” That was the truth. She offered him a smile. “I should like for us to be comfortable as well.”
There were a half-dozen reasons she ought to feel distinctly uncomfortable just then—the continued absence of Esther and Peter, the fact that someone had broken into her home, Owen’s sudden reappearance in her life—but Lottie didn’t feel those matters pressing on her as they continued their leisurely stroll. Well, Owen’s company was certainly felt at present, but it was a welcome weight.
It felt right, just right, to be walking in companionable silence. As if a midday stroll on a sunny day was a diversion they’d indulged in a hundred times before and would indulge in a hundred times again.
No doubt it was unrealistic to hope for a hundred strolls with Owen, but a dozen might be feasible if she had her fortnight. Maybe more, if he returned to Willowbend in the future.
“Will you write me again?”
“What was that?”
Lottie wished she could steal the words back. They sounded like a plea to her ears when she’d meant them to be casual and careless. She shrugged, hoping that would add an element of disinterest, and knowing it didn’t. “I was wondering if you meant to write after you leave, or…” Or if their alienation had merely been a frayed string to him, one he now considered trimmed and knotted off. “Or not.”
“You could write me.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” she replied with an affected primness. “It would be unforgivably forward.”
“True.”
“Besides, I have no idea where you live. I assume you no longer keep rooms above a bookseller?”
“Ah, no. I’ve a house in Mayfair now. Park Lane.”
Fearful she might trip over it, Lottie bit her tongue.
Park Lane? She hadn’t expected Park Lane. That was the realm of wealthy aristocrats. Owen’s blood was blue enough, but it was still strange to think of him there, attending balls and dinners and soirees and…and whatever august and lavish festivities Park Lane inhabitants devised for themselves. Strange and disheartening. Did he dance with the pretty little debutantes, she wondered. Did he flatter their mamas and kiss the hands of their maiden aunts? Did he spend evenings sipping brandy with gentlemen who looked down their aristocratic noses at the lesser creatures of the world? People like the Walkers?
He must, she supposed. It was what respectable men did.
Suddenly, it seemed as if the great chasm they’d managed to bridge opened before her once more.
“How very fashionable of you,” she said with affected good cheer.
“I had little choice in the matter.
It was Caroline’s decision.”
The disgruntlement in his voice did wonders for her mood. “Your sister?”
“The eldest,” he said. “She wanted seasons for the younger girls and a proper address from which to launch her campaign for decent husbands.”
The chasm began to narrow again. “You don’t wish to live there?”
Please say no. Please, please…
“It’s no great hardship.” He absently trailed his fingers along the tips of a tall, thready plant that had managed to escape significant damage. “But I preferred the seclusion of my old rooms and the disinterest of my old neighbors. I find Mayfair inhabitants to be…”
“Pompous?” she offered. “Officious? Haughty? Ostentatious? Genuinely horrible people?”
He laughed at the last. “Obtrusive. I find them obtrusive.”
That was good enough. “I think I should dislike it as well. Peter wants to take a house in London.”
“Does he? Bit young, yet, to be contemplating the sowing of wild oats.”
“He doesn’t want it for himself.”
“Seasons for his sisters?” He nodded with approval. “There’s a fine boy.”
“Happy are they who have not walked in the council of the wicked,” she murmured, more to herself than Owen. The quote often popped into her head when she thought of Peter.
He gave a quizzical look. “Shakespeare?”
“The Bible, more or less. The Bales are a respectable churchgoing family.” A change that had first required several weeks of proper study and planning. Lottie figured she had probably seen a Bible at some point in her life before Willowbend, but that was as far as her religious education had progressed.
“Speaking of Peter,” Owen said. “I find myself curious. Why is it you didn’t ask how I knew the details of his schooling? You were surprised to hear I knew of Mrs. Lewis but not of Peter.”
“I was surprised to hear you knew of Peter as well,” she admitted. “But I reasoned it through quickly. We are Walkers and you are a man of the law. It is hardly surprising you kept apprised of our activities.”
A Talent for Trickery Page 12