A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

  Owen took a cautious step forward. “Walker is dead. You can’t best a dead man, and there is nothing to be gained by the attempt.”

  “Oh, but I can, and there is,” Strale hissed. “If I can’t have what’s mine,” he lifted the knife over Peter’s head, the lethal blade glinting in the candlelight, “I’ll have something of his.”

  He swung the knife down just as a shot rang out from the balcony. Strale jerked, released Peter, and stumbled back with a scream. Red bloomed through the side of his coat.

  Gabriel had taken his shot. Astonishingly, he’d spotted his target between the crack in the balcony doors and hit the only mark that would disable Strale without injuring Peter. Owen rushed forward as Peter dove out of the way.

  Strengthened by madness and fury, Strale was still standing and still gripping the knife. Owen didn’t give him the chance to use it. Catching Strale around the middle, he used momentum to bring them both to the ground. Strale landed hard on his back, but he managed to turn the knife in his hand and plunge the blade toward Owen’s chest.

  Rearing back, Owen caught Strale’s arm at the last second and slammed it to the floor.

  There was a crash on the balcony, and Gabriel came rushing inside. He reached them just as Owen snatched the knife from Strale’s hand and tossed it aside.

  “Have him?” Samuel called out from where he was standing with his foot on Jim’s neck.

  “Almost.” Owen pinned down Strale’s other flailing arm. Gabriel yelped and yanked his hand away from Strale’s snapping teeth.

  “Damn it, he’s a biter.” Gabriel reared back and delivered a powerful blow to Strale’s jaw, stunning the man just long enough for them to roll him over and secure the manacles.

  Owen took a seat on Strale’s back, effectively subduing the man’s renewed struggles. He threw Gabriel a hard look. “You climbed the damned tree, didn’t you? What happened to the plan?”

  “The wall’s crumbling. I had to improvise.” Gabriel shook his hand, hissing through his teeth, and then stared down at the mild injury with utter disgust. “I hate it when they bite.”

  “Number six, my friend,” Samuel noted with conspicuous pleasure. “You just need a few more.”

  “Would you like to come over here and try for number seven? I’d be happy to give you that fifth bullet.”

  Owen listened to his men trade threats and insults while Strale howled and cursed and bucked beneath him. He would miss this, he thought with a grin. He no longer wanted the rest of it. He was done with the danger, the violence, the constant need to be on guard.

  But he would miss this.

  “Come on, then, Peter.” He jerked his chin at Gabriel, signaling him to take charge of their prisoner. “Let’s get you home.”

  Twenty-five

  Peter was the first through the front door at Willowbend and the first into Lottie’s arms. She hugged him close and let the healthy warmth of him seep in to chase away the chill of terror that had settled in her bones. “You’re not hurt? You’re not injured?”

  “Not a scratch between us,” Owen assured her.

  With a small cry of relief, she relinquished her brother to Esther and flew into Owen’s waiting arms. Uncaring of their audience, she buried her face in the fabric of his coat and breathed in the familiar scent of him while her trembling hands moved over his back, down his arms, across his chest. She needed to touch him, needed to feel him whole and hale.

  “Your men?” She heard Esther ask. “…Samuel? He was injured, and…”

  “Safe.”

  “I’m sorry.” Peter’s voice was thick with remorse and swallowed tears. “I’m so sorry. For everything. I’m sorry. I—”

  Lottie turned her head in time to see Esther cut off the next apology with her own enveloping embrace and then follow it up with a sound slap to his arm. “What were you thinking, trying to capture a murderer on your own?”

  “Ow.” Peter rubbed his shoulder and then shook his head vehemently. “I wasn’t. God’s truth, I wasn’t. I thought to ride to Wayton and send a wire to Michael’s father.”

  “Your friend at school?”

  Owen explained for him. “Michael’s father is Inspector Ernswot of Scotland Yard.”

  “I thought he could help,” Peter whispered. “I thought, if he sent more men, we could catch the man in the woods. I thought…”

  “You thought to protect your sisters,” Owen finished for him. His hand moved over Lottie’s back in soothing circles. “Esther, would you mind…?”

  Esther wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Let’s get something warm in you. We can sort everything out later.”

  Lottie didn’t watch them go. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will away the shivers that raced over her skin. “I might have lost you,” she whispered as every dark possibility of what might happen, every horrible, worst-case scenario she’d managed to hold at bay for hours flooded her mind all at once. She’d been so careful not to think of them, so careful to focus on drawing information out of the silent Ferret. But there was no holding back the fear now. “I could have lost both of you.”

  Owen caught her hands and held them against his chest. “You didn’t. I’m here, Lottie. Look at me, now. I’m here.”

  “You’re here.” And Peter was with Esther. And she was here too, standing in her foyer with the man she loved. She freed one of her hands to dash away an errant tear. “We’re here.”

  The dark images faded. For once, she thought, everything really was all right. Probably. “Where are your men?”

  “With Strale and his men. They’ll wire London and wait—”

  “Strale? Lord Strale?”

  Keeping a firm arm around her waist, Owen led her into the front parlor and took a seat next to her on the settee.

  Exhausted to the very core, she rested her head against his shoulder while he related the events of the night. He explained Lord Strale’s involvement and then his own plan to see justice served without endangering the Walker family.

  “Strale and his men are entitled to a trial,” Owen told her, “but Strale is unlikely to insist upon it. England is not in the habit of hanging its peers, but even the unlikely chance of a death sentence is a possibility he’ll want to avoid. He’ll accept incarceration out of the country, as will the men he hired.”

  “And if they won’t?”

  He hitched up one shoulder. “I doubt her majesty will concern herself with their whinging.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “The queen doesn’t care for scandals. The quiet removal of a disgraced duke and his cohorts is more to her taste. Also, I can offer her a boon.”

  “What boon?”

  “My retirement. She doesn’t care for scandals, as I said, and a viscount employed as a private investigator does raise eyebrows.”

  She sat up to look at him. “You mean to retire?”

  “I do. I have for some time. I’ve sufficient funds to keep my family comfortable, and I’d like to see what the idle life has to offer. Peace, I should hope.”

  “Oh. I see.” It seemed as if she should add something of substance to that remark, but all she could think to say was, “Now what?”

  “Well, there are a few details left. I imagine we’ll find the missing artwork in the hunting box or in one of Strale’s holdings. We’ll need to find out if Brock was involved in any way; though, at this point, he doesn’t appear to have been. Gabriel can track down the other men hired to follow us in London and make certain the Ferret’s claims of their ignorance holds true. And I’ll send Samuel to speak with Mrs. Popple’s sister. He’s good at that sort of thing.”

  “No, I meant…” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “What do we do now? Us.”

  “Ah.” Cocking his head, he studied her. “What would you like for us?”

  “I should like…very much…”
For a fair bit more courage, just now. “To see you again.”

  He smiled at that and, reaching up, stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You could see me every day, if you agreed to become my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Hmm.” He gave her a teasing half smile. “But you have to ask me first.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am. I want to be wooed.”

  “That is not what I meant. Owen…” She shook her head at him. “You can’t have a viscountess like me.”

  “I can. If you’ll let me.”

  “You would be living a lie.” It was little trouble for her to do so. She was accustomed to leading a fictitious life. He was not. “Married to a woman with a false name and a fabricated past.”

  “I would be married to you. And we would be the reclusive Lord and Lady Renderwell of Greenly House—or we can make our home on the Continent, if it suits us. Whatever we need. Whatever you like. But first…” Leaning close, he cupped her face in his hands. “You promised me something.”

  “I did?”

  “You did.” He kissed her softly and then whispered against her lips, “Say the words. I came back. Say them.”

  She closed her eyes and covered his hands with her own. “I love you,” she whispered back, and when she felt his mouth curve into a smile, she said them again, just for the pleasure of it, just for the pleasure of feeling his smile. “I love you. I think I have always loved you.” She smiled back. “Even when I wanted your head on a pike.”

  He laughed at that, and she thought, Yes. Oh, yes. Here was the laughter and the joy she had wanted, and it was every bit as wonderful as she had imagined.

  “And I, you,” Owen said. “Without the pike bit.” He pulled back and dipped his head to catch and hold her gaze. “I don’t love everything you have done, and I can’t promise to love everything you will do, or that you will love everything I do. But I love the person you are, the person I have always known, and the person you will be. I can promise that.”

  “I can promise that too.”

  “Then trust us. Trust us to make this work. To make each other happy. To keep each other safe. Trust love.”

  Love. A life with Owen. No secrets, no fear, no lies. Just love. It was a dream she’d never dared to hope for, a life she’d always imagined outside her grasp. But here it was, hers to have, to cherish, to keep. All she needed was the courage to grab hold.

  “I do. I do trust us.” This time, it was she who reached out and took his face in her hands. “Owen Renderwell, will you marry me?”

  “I don’t know.” He brought her hands down and made a face at her empty palms. “I believe a ring is the fashion. You don’t appear to have one.”

  “True,” she replied with laughter of her own. “But if you say yes, I’ll let you buy me something quite nice.” She considered that a moment. “But not a diamond.”

  “Not diamonds,” he agreed. He pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Yes, I will marry you, Charlotte Walker-Bales, if you’ll have me.”

  “I will. I absolutely will. And you’ll have me. Always.”

  Read on for a sneak peek from

  A Gift for Guile

  1872

  “Hello.”

  Hello. Quite possibly the single most innocuous comment in the whole of the English language. Under nearly any circumstance, it was difficult to take exception to the word hello. Unless, of course, it happened to be uttered in the wrong place, at the wrong time, by the wrong man. In which case, that one simple word spelled disaster.

  Esther Walker-Bales stood amid the bustling crowd of Paddington station and, for several long seconds, did nothing but stare through the thick crepe of her weeping veil at the man who had greeted her so unexpectedly. Sir Samuel Brass. All six feet and three and a half enormous inches of him.

  “I said…” Samuel leaned forward to tower over her, his deep voice edging toward a growl. “Hello, Esther.”

  His misguided attempt at intimidation goaded her into action. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, then shook her head once. “No, never mind. It doesn’t matter. You have to go. Right now.” She gave him a discreet push. “Go.”

  He didn’t budge an inch.

  “No.” Straightening, he flicked the edge of her veil with his fingers. “Who died? A husband? A father?”

  No one had died, and he damn well knew it. “An interfering acquaintance of mine. A woman threw him on the tracks at”—she looked pointedly at the station clock behind him—“eight minutes past six.”

  “You’ve taken the death to heart, I see. I’m touched.”

  She was tempted to touch him with the dagger she had strapped to her ankle. “You have to leave.”

  “No. What are you doing in London?”

  “Standing on platform number one in Paddington station.”

  His smile grew a little more strained. “Why are you standing in Paddington station?”

  “I like trains.” As if on cue, a locomotive began its laboring journey out of the station, sending a billow of smoke and steam to the ornate ironwork above. Just the sight of it made her throat itch and eyes water. She didn’t like trains especially.

  “Right.” Samuel threw a quick look over his shoulder at a noisy group of passengers. “We’re leaving.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She gathered her own meager supply of patience. “Samuel, listen to me. I will tell you everything you wish to know.” Some of it, anyway. “But not right now. Please, if you won’t leave entirely, then at least go…” She waved her hand in the direction of an empty, and distant, alcove. “Stand over there. Pretend you don’t know me.”

  “God, if only,” he muttered. “Esther, you will tell me what is going on, or I will haul you out of here. Over my shoulder if necessary.”

  He could probably get away with it. Samuel had been a police officer once. He’d since left the police with his friends to become a private investigator to the wealthy and well connected, but he retained some notoriety. If the crowd in the station recognized him, no one would move to stop his departure, however unorthodox, with an unknown woman.

  Still, Esther didn’t think he would risk the attention for the same reason she wouldn’t risk leaving her hotel without the veil. She couldn’t afford to be seen. “You’ll not make a scene.”

  “I will take a thirty-second scene over arguing with you indefinitely.” He cocked his head at her. “Do you doubt me?”

  Yes. Or maybe no. Damn it, she couldn’t tell if he was bluffing. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “It is not your concern.” She half turned away, giving him her shoulder and, hopefully, giving the impression to passing travelers that the two of them were not together. As Samuel was staring right at her, however, she feared it was a futile gesture. “Please. Go away.”

  “Are you waiting on a mark?” he guessed. “An accomplice?”

  “What? No. I’m not a criminal.” Not anymore. Not for a long time.

  “Then you’ve no reason for secrecy. For whom are you waiting?”

  “My lover.”

  “Try again.”

  She honestly didn’t know if she was pleased or insulted by how quickly he dismissed the idea. “I don’t know. And I’ll not find out if you stay here. Go. Away.”

  This last she punctuated by turning her back on him completely.

  And that was when she saw him—a scrawny young man of maybe sixteen, with a long face, sallow complexion, sharp chin, and filthy blond hair peeking out from under a ragged cap. He stood ten yards away and was staring at her as if he’d known her all his life. Only he didn’t. Esther had never seen him before. And he couldn’t possibly see her clearly behind the veil.

  She sensed Samuel tense behind her. “Is that him
?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The boy’s gaze flew to Samuel, then he spun about and bolted in the opposite direction.

  “Damn it,” Esther hissed.

  Samuel brushed past her with a curt, “Stay here.”

  The ensuing chase was oddly subdued, with the young man’s escape hampered by the crowd and Samuel slowed by his apparent unwillingness to draw attention to himself. Esther knew him to be quick and agile, particularly for such a large man. He would have no trouble running the boy down under normal circumstances, but today he strode after his prey in long, unhurried strides, neatly sidestepping people and luggage alike.

  Grab him, she thought, heart racing. Grab him!

  Samuel stretched out an arm, but the young man dodged left, dashed to the edge of the platform, and leaped into the path of an oncoming engine. Nearby onlookers sent up a cry of alarm, but the young man was over the tracks and out of danger in the blink of an eye. Samuel, on the other hand, was trapped on her side of the station, his path blocked by the long line of passenger carriages behind the engine.

  For a moment, Esther thought he might hop on one of the moving carriages and pass through the other side to continue the pursuit. In fact, she rather hoped he would. She’d not wanted him there, but since he’d been the one to scare the young man off, the least he could do was bring him back.

  But Samuel casually turned away from the platform edge as if he’d merely been a curious bystander, and began a leisurely stroll back to her.

  The young man was gone.

  Esther balled her hands at her sides. Oh, this was awful. This was a dreadful, dreadful mess. Seething, she waited for Samuel’s return and wholeheartedly wished he could see her look of derision through the veil. “I knew you wouldn’t make a scene.” And because of it, the young man had been able to dash away.

  His gray eyes narrowed dangerously, but he didn’t respond other than to say, in the stiffest manner possible, “Shall we, Miss Bales?”

  He offered his arm.