A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

  “You think he’s not in control?” Samuel asked.

  “He is in some ways,” she replied. “But not all. He burglarized men of power, murdered a women, and left behind the means by which to catch him. Those are not the actions of a man in complete control of himself.”

  Gabriel’s brows lowered. “You make it sound as if he had no choice.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t, in a way.”

  “Bollocks,” Samuel grunted. “He knows what—”

  “I wasn’t attempting to exonerate him. He is accountable for his crimes.” Pursing her lips, she searched for a way to explain. “But you must know men of his ilk. We all do. Men who can’t control their desire for something. Men whose passion for drink or power or money”—or the next scheme or confidence game—“is so overpowering they become a slave to their own need.”

  “Yes,” Samuel agreed.

  “Those men will do anything to obtain the object of their desire.” She gestured at the papers on her lap desk. “Even if it comes at their own expense.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “The expense has been the life of a woman and several works of art.”

  “Yes, but thievery and murder are clearly not the sum total of his desires, are they? He left these behind to be found. He wants them to be deciphered.”

  Samuel leaned forward in his chair, intrigued. “How do you know?”

  “Why else would he leave them?”

  “Merely the ugly taunt of a monster,” Gabriel offered.

  She shook her head. “Taunts aren’t particularly effective, or gratifying, when the intended recipient is unable to understand what is being said.”

  “Perhaps he gains satisfaction from gloating over our ignorance,” Gabriel suggested.

  “If he wanted you to be completely ignorant of him, he would have walked away from his crimes and gloated in silence.” She looked down at her lap desk. “He wants us to decipher these letters, so that we might either comprehend his insults or, as is my guess, follow whatever clues they hold.”

  “Your guess?” Samuel repeated.

  “Until I know what these say, an educated guess is the best I can offer,” she said and shrugged. “Perhaps he is unhinged. In which case, there is simply no telling what he means by leaving these.”

  Unwilling to dismiss the letters as the indecipherable ramblings of a madman just yet, she continued her quest for useful information for another quarter hour. She asked after the location of the artwork within each house, the location of the houses themselves, the age of the art and its owners. She confirmed dates and times, took notes on family, staff, friends, and anyone and everything else that came to mind. Until, finally, the men grew visibly restless and she was forced to let them go.

  Owen stood but didn’t immediately follow his men from the room. “Will you rest now?”

  She tipped her head back and groaned. “I am resting.”

  “No, you’re working.”

  “I won’t sleep. I’m not tired, and if I force myself to sleep now, I’ll be awake all night.”

  “You like being up at night.” He held his hands out, palms up, when she glowered at him. “Very well. You don’t have to sleep. I’ll fetch a book for you.”

  “This needs to be done,” she argued, motioning at the letters. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, Owen. Every possible keyword involving the artwork, Mrs. Popple—”

  “And now you’ll have a few more keywords to try, won’t you?”

  “Yes, but…” She let out a frustrated breath. “Every day that passes is another day he—”

  “I know. We’ll stop him.” He stepped near and slid the desk from her lap before she could argue. “A compromise. Rest for a few hours and work tonight. You do your best work when the house is quiet. You told me that.”

  It was a reasonable suggestion, just not one she cared to hear. “If I say no, will you give me back the desk?”

  “No.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I could take it from you.”

  “I could fetch Mrs. Lewis and the laudanum.”

  “No,” she replied pertly. “You really couldn’t.”

  He set down the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You tossed it out?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’ve not tossed it out.” What if someone else had need of it? “I hid it.” Just in case Mrs. Lewis started worrying again.

  “You hid it.”

  He was echoing again—a sign, she was coming to realize, of mounting anger.

  No, not anger, she amended, taking a closer look at him. He wasn’t angry, or even annoyed. He wasn’t tensed as if to pounce or pacing about the room. He simply watched her with shadowed eyes and a line of concern across his brow.

  Worried, that’s what he was, and from his own perspective, being reasonably cautious. She found his behavior smothering, presumptuous, and fairly irritating, but she could see his good intentions clear as day. Which left her struggling to juggle her own wishes and the urge to accommodate his requests, if only to see him at ease and smiling again.

  “I don’t need a nap. And I don’t want a book.” She held up a finger before he could argue. “But I wouldn’t mind a spot of Esther’s company this afternoon.”

  The smile he gave her was small, but it reached all the way to his eyes. The sight of it was more than worth a few hours of compromise.

  * * *

  Minutes later, Esther entered the room with a smirk. “You rang?”

  “Yes.” Amused, Lottie snuggled back into the cushions of the settee. “I must say, being an invalid has its advantages. I quite like summoning people.”

  “Feels regal, does it? Sadly, you’ll tire of it soon. It takes twice as long to summon someone as to seek them out for oneself.”

  “It does,” Lottie admitted. “Play a game with me, will you? One of the disadvantages of indolence is boredom.”

  “And overbearing gentlemen who believe indolence and boredom possess medicinal properties?” Esther guessed.

  “Quite.”

  “Backgammon, then?”

  “Naturally.” It was always backgammon. Esther refused to play chess with Lottie, as she never won, and Lottie disliked playing cards with Esther, as Esther stubbornly adhered to the Walker family tradition of cheating.

  “You look well,” Lottie commented as Esther pulled a small table to the settee. “Have you made peace with Samuel?”

  “I’m not certain.” She took the backgammon board from a shelf and placed it on the table. “I tried. I did. I apologized again this morning, but I suspect he was only half listening.”

  “Was he otherwise occupied?”

  “Not especially, as he was cornered in the larder at the time.”

  Lottie paused mid-reach for the board. “Sorry? Cornered?”

  “Trapped, really. I went looking for him and found him in there hunting something up for Mrs. Lewis, so I took advantage of the situation. I stood in the doorway. He had to listen to me or pick me up and set me out of the way.”

  Amused, and a little bit proud, Lottie grinned at her. “Then he did listen.”

  “I don’t know.” Esther took her seat with a pronounced harrumph. “When I was done, he grunted. Just grunted.”

  Yes, that sounded like Samuel. “He is a man of few words.”

  “Then he picked me up and set me out of the way.”

  “Oh.” Lottie winced, then sat back against the cushions, considering. “I think if he stayed to hear the whole of your apology before moving you, then you’ve made peace.”

  “And I think I don’t care. I’m done with him,” Esther declared. “My apology was sincere, as was my gratitude. He ought to have accepted or refused them. Not grunted. That could mean anything, couldn’t it?”

  “I suppose, yes.”

  “Wel
l, I’ll not go begging for an explanation.” Esther brushed her hands down her perfectly smooth skirts. “I’ll not force another apology on him.”

  “I think that’s fair. If he chooses not to acknowledge or accept your apology, that is his business, but you’ve done what you can. You did what was right. Now you’re finished.”

  “Yes.” Esther reached for the dice and absently rolled them in her palm. “Finished.”

  It wasn’t finished, Lottie thought. It couldn’t be for Esther.

  Lottie had always wished for a more respectable standing in the world, but she rarely troubled herself over the opinion of any particular individual. It did not, for example, bother her terribly that the vicar’s wife thought her a fool for not bringing Mr. Whitlock up to scratch, nor that she’d angered Mr. Quimby by purchasing a horse from his neighbor, Mr. Crowlings.

  She could live comfortably knowing a few people in the world did not care for her.

  Esther could not. It would eat at her, wondering if Samuel was angry with her, thought poorly of her, had lost all respect for her. She sought approval, or at least acceptance, with the same unerring tenacity that Lottie used to solve a puzzle. Only Lottie found disappointment and frustration in failure, not heartache.

  Wishing she could ease her sister’s worries, Lottie strove for a light but encouraging tone. “Finish with him for now. Give him a few days. Then we’ll see.”

  Esther tossed the dice onto the board. “Let us speak of something else. Have you and Renderwell come to an understanding?”

  “I… An understanding? Do you mean an engagement?” Lottie’s pulse raced at the very idea, though whether it was because of simple shock or shock with a dose of impossible hope tossed alongside, she couldn’t say. And didn’t care to guess. “No, of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? There were a thousand answers to that question. Most of them could be neatly summarized with, “I’m a Walker, Esther.”

  “That’s no secret to Renderwell. He knows what Father did.”

  “He doesn’t know what I’ve done.”

  “Is it necessary that he should?”

  Uncomfortable on several levels, Lottie fussed with the pillows at her back. “I’d not come to an understanding with a gentleman under false pretenses.”

  Esther snorted. “You’re not a very good Walker.”

  She wasn’t good, period. That was the problem.

  “Well,” Esther continued, “if he must know, then tell him.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Whyever not? You’re fond of him. He’s fond of you. You would like to tell him the truth and I suspect he’d like to hear it. Why keep quiet, then?”

  “Because…” Again, there were so many reasons, but one stood out from the rest. “Because he’s like Peter.”

  “He’s no pigeon, Lottie. You told me so, and I can see it well enough for myself.”

  “No, not a pigeon. He’s good.” Completely, utterly, infuriatingly good.

  “Oh. Oh, right.” Esther paused thoughtfully. “He is, isn’t he? To the very core.”

  “I can’t tell him what I’ve done. He wants me to trust him, but…”

  “You want him to trust you back,” Esther finished for her.

  “Yes. And that would never happen if he knew the truth. No one trusts a criminal. And even if he did…” She shook her head. “It would never work.”

  A viscount wasn’t going to fall madly in love with a criminal and defy all convention and common sense by sweeping her away to Gretna Green for a few weeks so she could be married under her real name without anyone being the wiser and then return with her to his estate so his unsuspecting family and staff could properly welcome the new viscountess.

  What preposterous drivel.

  “I don’t know.” Esther shrugged. “I trust you. And Renderwell hasn’t always been a viscount. His view of the world, his expectations, are different, I should think, than those of your average peer. I think you should tell him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “He could take me for a black-hearted villainess and haul me off to gaol.”

  “There is that.”

  Lottie hunched her shoulders. There were times she wished Esther wasn’t quite so fond of lying to everyone else and was a bit more willing to lie to her.

  “Do you think he’ll hurt you?” Esther asked softly.

  “No. I don’t know. Not intentionally. Maybe.” She shook her head. “I don’t really believe he’d haul me off to gaol. I don’t know what he would do.”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t haul you off,” Esther said with total confidence. “He must already suspect some of what you did with Father, and you’re still here.”

  She shot a quick, nervous glance at the door and kept her voice low. “Suspicion isn’t knowing, and helping Father with a cipher here and there is not the same as being a regular accomplice.” She had over a decade’s worth of crimes chronicled in the hidden room upstairs. “Owen is a man of the law, and I was a proper criminal for a long time. What if it’s just too much for him to forgive? What if he doesn’t believe I’ve changed?”

  Once a thief, always a thief. Just like her father.

  He wouldn’t arrest her. He would keep her out of prison. She had to believe she meant that much to him at least. But he could turn from her. He could walk away and never look back.

  “I could lose him forever, Esther.”

  Life without Owen, without his smiles, his teasing, his touch. The very idea made her feel ill. She could never marry him, never have the dream of a husband and a family. But she could still have him in her life. Maybe, if she didn’t try for more, if she kept her mouth shut, she could even keep him.

  Esther set down a game piece and studied her with curious eyes. “You care for him a great deal, don’t you? I hadn’t realized how much.”

  “You thought we’d come to an understanding,” Lottie pointed out.

  “I assumed a mutual affection and attraction. That’s sufficient reason to marry for most people. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” She paused, her eyes narrowing with intense interest. “Are you in love with him?”

  “That would make me the worst sort of Walker, wouldn’t it?” It would make her vulnerable. A laughably easy mark.

  Worry flashed over Esther’s features. She set the last game piece in place and handed Lottie the dice. “Only if you end up hurt.”

  * * *

  Later that night, Lottie pored over the encrypted letters and her notes by the light of her single candle.

  She forced herself to focus on the task at hand with cold detachment, just as her father had taught her. There was no Mrs. Popple, no gentlemen whose homes had been invaded, no works of art that had disappeared. There was only a series of events, a list of actions and reactions occurring in a world of innumerable variables. The key was narrowing down those variables to the ones most likely to affect one man’s world.

  It’s like walking a man down ten miles of gravel path. Some of the pebbles, he’ll notice. A pretty stone here, a stone out of place there. Most he’ll pass over without a second thought. It’s reaching the end of the path that most interests him. But here’s the secret, poppet. There is always one stone in the mix sharp enough to push through the sole and slice the foot. Sharp enough to make a man stumble, make him fall. And in that moment, that split second when he loses his feet, all other variables disappear. There are no other pebbles to him, no path, and nothing waiting for him at the end of it. There is only the fall, the fear of hitting the ground, and the overpowering instinct to right himself again.

  “And me. I exist.”

  Aye, and you, my clever girl. You can catch him now, if you like. You can be certain he’ll reach for you. Or you can let him fall. You can give him a nudge, if it suits your purposes, or offer him just enough assistanc
e to keep him upright but off balance. You can do whatever you like.

  But you’ve got to know where the sharpest pebble is, love, and you’ve got to know when to lead him to it. Find the pebble and, for a time, you can control his world.

  Lottie trailed a finger down the letter in front of her.

  Find the sharpest pebble.

  What, in the murderer’s vast world of smooth stones, made him react?

  She tried several keywords inspired by the information Owen and his men had supplied earlier and wasn’t particularly surprised when they failed. There was little to connect the crimes besides the missing artwork and the letters left behind. Certainly, there was nothing that stood out as a possible key to the puzzle. Nothing that stood out like a sharp stone.

  She concentrated on the numbers next. Earlier, she’d found their corresponding letters in the alphabet and applied the resulting nonsensical string of letters, but it had resulted in nothing. Hoping those same letters might be an anagram, she’d combined them into every possible word or set of words she could imagine, but to no avail.

  Now she added them up, halved them, added them in pairs, threes, fours. But in no order or arrangement could they be matched to letters that constructed a usable keyword.

  “Damn it.”

  She glowered at the stacks of paper before her. She was alternately going in circles and standing in place while banging her head against a brick wall. Both approaches led her nowhere. She needed a new start, a fresh perspective.

  “From the beginning, then. Slowly and carefully.”

  She grabbed more paper and, though she’d done it a half-dozen times already, listed the numbers in rows, between nine and sixteen on each letter, making four neat lines of numbers on the page. The result meant nothing to her, and her mind and fingers itched to move on, to try something else, but that was what she’d done every time before. She had rushed ahead.

  This time, she made herself stop and look. She stared at the numbers and stared at them, and then, going on a hunch, rearranged their order and stared some more. And finally, she saw it—that twinkling hint she’d seen on the first night. The pattern was in the numbers. It was the only possibility that made sense. They were the only variable that stood out from the rest. Somehow, someway, the numbers had to add up to the keyword.