A Mother For His Family

by Susanne Dietze

  “How did you manage to come upon the thief yet again, Mr. Coles?” John’s even tone didn’t fool Helena for a moment. There was a sharp edge to it, like a sword still sheathed, but ready for battle in an instant.

  Frederick shrugged, a practiced gesture she’d once found appealing in its apparent humility. “Same as your lady, I expect. I needed air. Oh, Lord Holliver, I was able to pull something from his hand.” He held out the chain in his fingers.

  When he reached, his coat opened, revealing a warp in the gold-weave pattern of his waistcoat pocket from something tucked inside. And then Helena knew.

  The Thief of Mayfair was not one man, but two.

  All of this was a performance, intended to place Frederick above suspicion. He’d probably waited for her and Frances—anyone—to leave the salon so they could bear witness to Frederick chasing the thief.

  She’d underestimated him. But he’d underestimated her, too.

  “Do not forget the item in your pocket.” Helena pointed her fan at his patterned waistcoat.

  Frederick’s laugh was brittle. “I do not—that is—oh, yes. I could not hold everything in my hands. Here.” He pulled a gold brooch from the pocket of his waistcoat.

  Someone mentioned summoning the magistrate. Papa tipped his head at Mama in the way Helena recognized as let’s take our leave. Frances had found her father, and they seemed to have the same idea, for they wandered toward the vestibule.

  John brushed her fingers with his, a discreet touch that lasted a mere moment but jolted up her arm. “I will call for the carriage.”

  “Wait.” She clutched her arm, as if it would dispel the effect of his touch. “If the magistrate is coming, shouldn’t I offer testimony? I saw them.”

  Them, not just the brown-coated thief. She must be more careful if she didn’t wish to give away her suspicions. “I mean the thief.”

  John shook his head. “If the magistrate needs to speak to you or Miss Fennelwick, he will call on our homes. But I doubt he will do so. Frederick Coles will probably suffice as witness enough.”

  “Because he’s a man?” Such was her lot as a lady, considered too delicate to bear witness to something unpleasant unless she was close to a fainting couch. She scowled.

  His countenance softened. “It will be well, Helena. He’ll be stopped one way or another. You are safe.”

  And by he, John didn’t mean the Thief of Mayfair. He meant Frederick. But no one was safe, not until Frederick was stopped—one way or another. The blackguard was free to harm women and steal. Free to taunt Helena.

  Until he was caught in the act of stealing, or with the stolen goods...

  John peered down at her, as if her expression was curious to him. “I’ll call for the carriage. You’ll be home shortly.”

  Home at the town house on Saint James’s Square, but also home at Comraich. The date of her and the children’s departure was in but a few weeks, and oh, how she desperately wanted to stop Frederick Coles before she left London.

  When John left her side, she watched after him. One way or another. He’d said it before about Frederick receiving the justice due him. It seemed he might share her suspicion Frederick was in league with the Thief of Mayfair, and he hoped Frederick would be caught.

  But Helena had to do more than hope.

  She hurried over to Frances. “May I call upon you tomorrow?”

  “For certain.” Frances pulled her pale blue shawl tighter about her shoulders. “We have much to discuss, do we not?”

  “That we do.” Helena lifted her chin. “I might have another plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Pattens are for outside, Louisa, not inside,” Helena said for the second time as they stood in the town house vestibule, with the butler Kerr and a footman waiting to receive their outer garments. It was three days after Lord Holliver’s musicale. Three days after Frederick “The Finder” Coles gave chase to the Thief of Mayfair, proving they were not one and the same person as she had hoped. Three days since Helena had truly slept well, waking frequently to mull over her plan to stop him.

  Perhaps fatigue was why her patience was worn to a wet string today. Still, she strove to keep her voice calm and even as she pulled off her gloves and watched Louisa do nothing about removing her pattens, as requested. “Come, Louisa. Sledding is over, so we must remove our overshoes.”

  Ignoring her, Louisa marched in place so the metal rings on the pattens’ bottoms clanked against the slate floor like broken bells.

  “Louisa.” John grimaced at the discordant sound. “Enough. Remove your pattens yourself or we shall do it for you.”

  She marched away from his voice, swinging Tabitha and accidentally hitting Alex in the nose.

  “Argh!” He covered his nose with his hands. “Her head’s wood, you know!”

  Helena gathered Alex close and pulled his hands away from his face. No blood, but the shock must be frightening. “The pain will recede—”

  “Bad show, Louisa.” Alex reached around Helena and batted Tabitha from Louisa’s hand.

  Louisa’s next stomp landed on something soft.

  “Now you’ve done it.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “You stepped on your baby.”

  “Tabitha!” Louisa’s screech could have peeled the blue wallpaper from the vestibule walls.

  Iona chose that moment to shake herself, scattering melting snow from her coat all over the vestibule—the floor, walls, lacquered table holding a vase of hothouse flowers and the post, and Helena’s face.

  Deep breath. Helena flicked the doggy-scented water from her cheek.

  Without a word, John plucked the wailing Louisa into his arms and tugged off her pattens.

  Margaret gathered up Tabitha, shoved the doll into Louisa’s arms and sighed far more loudly than necessary. “I’m going upstairs without you, Louisa.”

  “Me, too.” Alex pulled away from Helena, his nose apparently feeling better. “You hit me in the face.”

  Callum said nothing, but the moment Alex was up three stairs Callum scooped something white from his pocket and—

  A snowball exploded on Alex’s backside and ricocheted off Margaret’s hip.

  Not even a second passed before the entire lot of them began howling. Iona barked, Louisa cried, Margaret screeched and Callum cackled. Alex glared down at him, red-faced again. “I hate you!”

  And Miss Munro on her half day off, and Agnes down with the ague. Kerr and the footman’s eyes were wide.

  Helena met John’s gaze. He set Louisa down and—

  His lips twitched. “You know what’s more pleasant than this? Trying to convince your father and his cronies to listen to my ideas on education reform. And that says something.”

  A laugh bubbled out. “At least you didn’t receive the brunt of the dog’s shaking.”

  “Louisa screamed into my ear, so perhaps we are even.” He withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed her damp cheek with businesslike efficiency. “All right, then. Let’s settle this, shall we?”

  Helena nodded. “Children?”

  Margaret tossed her head. “I’m going upstairs.”

  “No you’re not,” Helena called after her.

  “Margie, listen to your aunt.” At John’s loud voice, they hushed—the older three entirely, and Louisa lowered her volume to a whine.

  John fisted his hands on his hips. “I’ve seen better behavior from monkeys. Callum, clean up the snow.”

  “It’s only water.”

  “And someone could slip on it. Clean it and apologize to Alex and Margaret. In fact, you all owe apologies. Louisa, I know it was an accident, but you must be careful. And when you’re told to remove your pattens, do it. Margaret, your attitude is unacceptable. And Alex, you do not hate your brother. Apologize and then the lot of you march up to the nursery to think on your behavior.
Later this evening when we’ve all calmed down, we’ll have a further discussion.”

  They gaped. Was this the first time John had ever disciplined the children like this?

  Probably, so they’d better respond appropriately.

  “Obey your father.” Helena’s spine straightened. “Now.”

  Mumbled apologies followed as each child went about his or her own business and lumbered upstairs, heads hanging low.

  “Oh, my.” Helena bit her lip.

  “Sorry to leave you with this.” John strode to view the damp post. “Carvey and I have an errand.”

  “Once Miss Munro returns, I have plans with Frances.”

  He tapped a vellum rectangle sealed with a red blob of wax, pressed with a bird of some sort. “You’ve spent each day this week with her.”

  “Yes.” Did he suspect they weren’t simply chatting about household matters and drinking tea?

  “I’m glad you have a friend.” He shoved the letter into his pocket.

  Should she tell him what they planned to do today? That they sought evidence to prove Frederick was in league with the Thief of Mayfair?

  Protective man John was, he’d stop her. He wouldn’t understand she didn’t do this just for herself, or for Frances and every other woman Frederick might have hurt or might hurt in the future, but for John, too.

  He’d promised to protect her. But one of these days, John might not be able to control his anger. No, she’d protect him this way. Today, she’d put an end to their agonizing over the injustice of Frederick wandering free, taunting them, seemingly untouchable.

  God, forgive me for keeping this secret from John. But it’s better this way, isn’t it? John’s brow furrowed, as if he debated saying something. Then he shook his head. “Have an enjoyable outing with Frances. I’ll change my clothes and meet Carvey, then, and you and I will spend some time with the children tonight to show a united front.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  And she did, her nerves calming at the thought of being together with the children, a team of sorts with John. And hopefully, with evidence to prove Frederick Coles guilty of thievery.

  God, let this be the end of it.

  Once John left for his errand with Carvey, she didn’t have much time. She summoned her maid, Barnes, requesting a particular heavy cloak and bonnet.

  “The white ones?” Barnes’s brows raised a fraction.

  Little wonder. Helena had never worn these items from her trousseau because they were white, a color she’d shunned since Papa’s scold on her wedding day that white was for purity.

  But the cloak was long and full, concealing her clothing, and the bonnet’s wide brim would hide her face. “Yes, please. I’m going out with Miss Fennelwick.”

  “Do you require the carriage?”

  “No, but a footman would be welcome.” There was no escaping the need to bring a servant with her, for propriety’s sake.

  Adam awaited her in the vestibule when she descended the stairs. She forced a smile. “Miss Fennelwick and I will meet to pay a call.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  He followed her out through the square and onto the busy streets of Mayfair. Weak winter sun streamed through a dull sky, adding a pale gold glow to the afternoon but little in the way of warmth. Helena hurried along until they reached the corner of Jermyn Street and The Duke of York Street, where she’d planned to meet Frances.

  The spot was ideal, since it afforded her an excellent vantage of Coles’s front door. His yellow brick house was three stories tall and two windows wide, small but well made, and the rent was no doubt dear in this neighborhood. But Frederick had a tendency to purchase more than his purse could fund.

  Where was Frances? Helena craned to look for her friend’s familiar blue cloak.

  Meanwhile, Adam loomed behind her. He was the greatest flaw in the plan today—he and whichever manservant accompanied Frances. Ladies did not call on gentlemen unless it pertained to a business matter, as even their footmen knew.

  Well, they indeed had business to discuss. The business of Frederick being a criminal.

  She and Frances would confront Frederick about his treatment of them. Then Frances, on cue, would require a moment and slip upstairs to search for proof Frederick was in league with the Thief of Mayfair. With such evidence, surely someone would mount a more legal, thorough search, and find enough to convict him of this crime, at least.

  “Where are you, Frances?” Her whisper curled like steam in the cold air, but Frances did not materialize, only a short, snub-nosed fellow in dark livery coming from the back of Frederick’s house.

  Helena gasped. It was him, the Thief of Mayfair who’d run past her on the stairs at Lord Holliver’s party. And he was Frederick’s manservant. Frederick’s only servant, if he’d spoken true when he told her about his financial difficulties.

  He glanced up. Grateful for her bonnet’s wide brim, Helena lowered her head, waiting a few moments before turning back to gaze at the yellow brick house.

  The front door opened. Frederick quit the house.

  With panic swirling in her stomach, Helena considered her options. She couldn’t confront him now. Even if Frances arrived this moment, Frederick was gone—

  * * *

  She glanced up at Adam. “We shall continue without Miss Fennelwick. The matter is of the utmost urgency.”

  “Milady.” He hid his hesitation well, but his voice held an uncertain edge.

  She strode across Jermyn Street, as stately and dignified as the duke’s daughter she was. Then she kept walking, past the yellow brick house and around the corner to the lean passage at the building’s rear. Four houses’ kitchens and gardens could be reached from this spot, which was why she turned back to Adam. If he lingered here, no one would know which house his master or mistress visited.

  She willed her voice not to shake. “Please wait here.”

  “Milady?” He didn’t disguise his hesitation any longer.

  “This will take but a moment.” She dashed around the corner to Frederick’s house. Four more steps and she was at the servant’s entrance. Her hand shaking, she grasped the knob.

  The door swung inward with a soft moan.

  Was this criminal of her, entering like this? Probably, but she went inside anyway. “Hello?”

  No answer replied. Frederick hadn’t lied. He had only the one servant, and apparently he hadn’t laid a fire in the house today, perhaps all week. The air was as cold inside as it was outside.

  Her breath created little clouds as she slipped up the back stairs. Her pattens clanked against the floor—oh, how Louisa would remind her pattens were for outdoors! But Helena hadn’t time to think of the children now. At the landing, she didn’t pause to look about, but it was impossible not to notice the dearth of furniture, the darker patches of floor where rugs had once been and the scent of tallow rather than beeswax candles. The place had an abandoned, greasy atmosphere.

  “Frederick, you have indeed fallen on hard times.”

  Only one room boasted a bed and the remnants of a fire in the grate. So this was where Frederick lived, this single chamber in an empty house. Regal red draperies on the windows and bed gave the room an elegant appearance. The odor of his bergamot scent clung to the air, a reminder Frederick spent what coin he possessed on what others might judge—a dandified appearance and the pretense of having funds.

  The taste of salt filled her mouth. She must have chomped her cheek. Swallowing blood, Helena swept into Frederick’s dressing room. How much time had she left to search through it for stolen jewelry? Ten minutes? She’d best hurry.

  Helena hadn’t touched a man’s clothes like this before. Not Papa’s, certainly not John’s. Oh, John. The thought of him pained worse than her bitten cheek. He wouldn’t like her doing this. But she did this for him, too. Would he understan
d that?

  She rummaged through the cupboard. There was nothing tucked into his coat pockets, however. Nor in his glove drawer or the pitifully unlocked box that housed a silver stickpin, a quizzing glass and two rings. Amazing. Such things should be in a heavy, locked safe.

  Did he have one? She stomped her foot at her foolishness. Everywhere she’d looked was the manservant’s domain. After giving the manservant his share of the stolen goods, Frederick would hide his portion. Where would he tuck the jewels away from his servant?

  Across the hall sat a pathetic library—perhaps there? Servants did naught but dust the books, since they were forbidden to read them. But Frederick was either a poor reader or had sold off what he’d possessed, for the lone shelf in the house held but five volumes. Helena investigated each, fluttering through the pages in case there was a hiding space cut out of one, something she’d read of in a novel.

  A creak sounded, like the house settling in the cold. Or a foot on the stair. Paralysis gripped her. Was someone in the house? She hadn’t heard either door open or shut, but she’d been focused on the task at hand.

  What if they’re back? Helena could hide, a task that would be easier if Frederick owned more furniture to shield her, true. If anyone was in the house, though, it was probably the snub-nosed manservant. He’d left first. She’d conceal herself behind the bookshelf until he busied himself with whatever a servant did in an empty house, and then she’d dash downstairs and out the door and he would never be the wiser. Frederick would never know, either.

  She wouldn’t have the evidence she wished, but she would escape with her reputation intact.

  Still gripping a leather-bound volume to her chest, Helena leaned behind the bookshelf, her wild pulse resounding in her ears. Waited. No creaks. No footsteps. Perhaps no one was in the house after all, and what she’d heard was the house settling. Poor house. So cold, and sheltering such a cruel master. It deserved better, like everyone and everything else that came close to Frederick.

  She peeked out from the bookcase. Nothing but cold, empty air.