by Eva Devon
“What’s she got—besides enough jewels to choke a milk cow?”
He was in no mood to give consequence to meddling brats. “She’s a lady.”
“Why do ye want to buy an expensive cow when all the milk flows as sweet?”
And in even less of a mood, now. “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
“Drat. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of your dignity hoofing it about the park.”
It was Caledonia Bowmont, who had slipped up behind him as quiet as the sneak thief he was pretending not to be—another young woman who bore careful watching, for a myriad of reasons. “Mrs. Bowmont.” He tipped his hat. “I didn’t see you dismount.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your chat with your little friend. But do introduce me—I so love making new acquaintance.” It was the same request, made in the same sunny tone, that she had made to Arthur Balfour to introduce him.
He was even more wary than young Balfour had been. “She’s not an acquaintance—she’s merely a flower seller.” Toby fished a ha’penny from his pocket, made a sharp toss of his head to send the blighty girl off, and passed the posey to Mrs. Bowmont. “Let me help you mount.”
“If you say so,” Mrs. Bowmont answered his first statement. But her eyes were all for young Betty, who stubbornly hadn’t removed herself. “Such an intriguing and memorable face you have, my dear,” Mrs. Bowmont said to the girl. “You’re quite beautiful—I hope you know that.”
“I knows my worth,” the little wretch answered.
“I’m glad.” Mrs. Bowmont smiled at her. “But you should have put the squeeze on him for at least a full penny, since you know he’s got to pay the price. And can afford it.”
That was enough of that. “Come, Mrs. Bowmont. The morning grows late. We’d best get you mounted if we’re to have our ride.”
“Oh, we’ll have a ride,” Cally assured him as she swung smoothly up into her saddle without waiting for any assistance. “Shall we try to lose them now?”
“Who?”
“Them—those two fellows in the red waistcoats—the Bow Street Runners trying to follow you.” She laughed as she threw a meaningful glance over her shoulder. “Shall we give them a run for their money, Tobias McTavish? Or should I call you the Cutty Purse—the Scottish Wraith?”
Chapter 9
Caledonia gave vent to her excitement, and gave her mare her head. Off they went down Rotten Row at a pace designed to shred decorum as well as miles. And why not make it miles? Why not get Tobias McTavish all to herself so she could get to the heart of the matter—and have an adventure saving her mother’s jewels in the meantime.
So she turned her mare off the well-beaten, hard-packed bridle path, and angled their course northward along the ice-bound line of the Serpentine River. Cally checked surreptitiously once or twice to make sure McTavish followed, before she put him to a real test by jumping the low railing out of the park and across the Oxbridge Toll Road into the fallow frozen fields of Craven Hill.
And gracious if McTavish didn’t clamp his hat upon his head and follow, making an effort to draw even with her by the time they reached the outskirts of the small village of Paddington.
“I had no idea you were a jockey masquerading as a young lady,” he observed as coolly as if she had not just called him by his real name. “You ought to be working the circuit at Newmarket.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun.” Cally laughed and gave him her sunniest smile as she patted her steaming mare. “One does one’s best.”
But her companion declined to flirt, and drew rein before turning his mount southward. “We’ve gone far enough—it’s time to turn back. Your people will be wondering where you are.”
“I’m a widow of four and twenty, Mr. Smith.” She used the name he obviously preferred as she turned her mount abreast of him, lest he think she was the sort of girl who could be led. “I’m hardly a green girl who needs to be minded.”
He tried to be quelling—favoring her with a ferocious frown. “That is a matter of opinion.”
But she could see the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he were working manfully to deny them both the pleasure.
“Have it your way.” They rode on in silence until she felt obliged to pick up the conversational reins. “Come now, Mr. Smith. I’ve been waiting all morning for you to ask me about—or even mention—that kiss I gave you last night.”
And there was the discernible curve to his gloriously full lips. “A gentleman doesn’t like to introduce such a topic.”
Cally laughed again, her breath curling in delighted arabesques over her head. “But we both know you’re no gentleman. Especially if you really were a Mr. Smith—they’ve done away with such distinctions in America.”
Her blithe response seemed to make him even more quelling—his frown grew into a narrow scowl. “In America—and in Scotland as well—” he added, “you’re what we’d have called a headstrong lass.”
“Thank you.” She touched her riding crop to her hat in acknowledgment. “I know men always mean the opposite when they say that—as if they judge my head not strong in the least—but as I’m from Scotland, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He looked at her askance. “It wasn’t meant as one.”
Cally laughed at his discomfort—she’d teach him to flirt yet. “Nonsense. You’re Scots,” she pointed out. “And you like me. You’d never have consented to come riding with me otherwise. Unless…you’re like the rest of the men, and only after my money. And jewels.”
He reacted not at all to the last. “And have you any money, Mrs. Bowmont?”
Now they were getting somewhere.
Cally minded herself enough to safely cross the traffic at the Oxford Road near St. George’s Row into the rather more tame confines of the park. “Not enough to make me an object of unscrupulous fortune hunters.”
“But you think I’m one of them?”
“I’m not sure just what you are, Mr. Smith. But I know you’re not American.”
“As I said, I was born in Scotland.”
“Where?”
“Fife.”
“Which is a rather large place—although it does make us neighbors of a sort, as I’m originally from Perthshire—so where specifically in Fife, Mr. Smith?”
“And why do you want to know, Mrs. Bowmont?”
“Why, to see if we have any acquaintance in common.”
“We do not.” His tone was firm. “I come from humble—frankly poor—stock. Not at all the type of people who have acquaintances.”
“Nonsense.” Cally pulled up, so she might face him. And so he might actually look at her, and see that she was sincere. “I come from good solid farming stock myself—my father was a gentleman farmer, not a nobleman like my mother’s husband. Viscount Balfour is my step-father only, and as generous and kind as he is, he shares with my siblings and me some of his money, but none of his bloodline.”
“All of the benefits, and none of the responsibility.”
He was trying to be off-putting again, so Cally switched tacks to agree with him. “I suppose so, when you put it like that. I do know I’ve been very lucky and very fortunate in my circumstances—though I have known the abject loss of widowhood, I’ve never known want, nor ever lacked all comfort. In fact, the loss has made me see what matters more clearly—and that knowledge has made me stronger.”
“So I see. As I said—headstrong girl.”
“Yes, headstrong. And heartstrong as well. I decide what I like and what I want, and I pursue it.”
“And do you usually get it?”
She gifted him with a smile. “Usually.”
“A singular girl, as well. I hate to be the first to disappoint you—”
“Oh, you’re not the first. And I was already disappointed in you—consorting with such a young girl back in the park. Shame on you.”
He was honest enough to immediately take her meaning. “There is nothing I can do about the age of a fl
ower seller.”
“My dear man, I may be headstrong, but I am not stupid. You were quite clearly more than acquainted with that gawp-mouthed girl—I saw you go out the water stairs from the Thames at the Grindle & Company warehouse with her when I went there to arrange for wine to be supplied for my lady mother’s Christmas masquerade. You nearly knocked me down in your haste to escape the Runners. I’ll warrant you really didn’t see me, but I saw you.”
Now she had his attention—he leaned over the pommel of his saddle to openly stare at her. “I beg your pardon. I seem to have greatly underestimated you.”
As that was as good as an apology as she was like to get from him, she accepted it with an airy wave. “Men always do—they underestimate all women, I fear. But we do seem to have lost them, the Runners.”
He didn’t even bother to look around to confirm the truth of her assertion—he still just looked at her. “Very neatly done. You do seem to have your uses after all, Mrs. Bowmont.”
He was looking at her with open admiration—his eyes were shining with it.
He was going to kiss her now—she could tell by the way his gaze sharpened and dropped to her lips.
Cally’s heart squeezed in her chest, making it a pleasurable discomfort to breathe. It was everything she could do to sit still, and wait for him. To not moisten her suddenly dry lips, or lean toward him in encouragement.
Or maybe she was leaning toward him. Maybe…
“Let’s head back.” He turned his mount away, quashing her hope. “We’ve been gone far too long. And the horses will grow cold. Someone will miss me, even if they can’t possibly miss you.”
Chapter 10
Cally followed him docilely enough along the shaded path adjacent to Park Lane until two rather hot-faced men ran into the avenue ahead of them.
McTavish instantly turned his mount. “Let’s head this way to Berkley Square.”
Cally set her mare to follow. “They are nothing if not persistent, aren’t they?”
McTavish muttered something under his breath, and changed his path again, turning down Stanhope Street toward Chesterfield House.
A glance over her shoulder told Cally that the new set of Runners were still determined to follow—darting across the traffic on Park Lane. But wait—these fellows didn’t have the red waistcoats of the Robin Red Breasts. So who were they?
McTavish gave her no time to pose her question—he abruptly dismounted and turned sharply into Derby Street and the crowded warren of narrow lanes surrounding the Shepherd’s Market. Cally did the same, immediately sliding to the ground and leading her mare directly in his wake as he threaded his way through the throng, cleverly steering toward larger obstacles like drays with teams of steaming, jangling horses, so they might blend into their surroundings.
In no time at all he had whisked them straight through the market, across Curzon Street and into the maze of Clarges Mews, where they were effectively concealed from their pursuers.
“Well done, McTavish.” Cally was all admiration at his skill. “You’ve lost them for good this time.”
He looked annoyed at being congratulated. “Did it never occur to you that it might be you I was trying to lose? You and your bloody royal purple riding habit, which is undoubtedly recognizable a cable’s length away. And stop calling me that—my name is Smith.”
“It won’t fadge”—Cally enjoyed her use of the vulgar street cant—“this pretension to being mere Mr. Smith when I know full well you’re Tobias McTavish, the famous thief.”
“Devil take you, woman. If you don’t stop saying that name out bloody loud, you’re going to put my head in a noose.” He glanced around them for anyone who might be listening to their conversation.
Cally belatedly checked their surroundings—thankfully, the alleyway leading out toward Charles Street was empty. “We’re entirely alone—alone enough for you to admit who you really are.”
“I’m Ansel Smith, from Boston, Massachusetts—”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I’ve read all about you in the broadsheets—”
“The broadsheets are full of lies made up to look like news in order to sell copies and make money, not to tell the truth.”
While that was undoubtedly true, it wasn’t the whole of the truth. “But I also have another source of information. My brother—your shipmate and friend, Hugh McAlden. I thought for sure you would have made the family connection before now.”
“I made the connection,” he protested, though he looked far too conscious to do it convincingly. “But I thought better of Captain Sir Hugh McAlden than to feed his impressionable baby sister Banbury tales.”
“There! You do know Hugh. You are Mr. Tobias McTavish, the hero from Fife. And the Scottish Wraith.”
He muttered an oath so blue, Cally was surprised his lips didn’t turn color. “Former wraith.”
“I knew it.” Her triumph was a physical thrill that echoed through her body like a shout across a glen.
“Don’t sound so smug,” he chided. “It’s unbecoming.”
She wouldn’t let him dim her sense of accomplishment. “I’ve never caught a jewel thief before—it’s exciting. I feel positively clever. I first noticed you as I said, at the wine merchant’s warehouse. You got into a boat rowed by that girl you were chatting with today. And then, of course, I followed you to Exchange Alley. That was two days before you showed up at the Marchioness of Queensbury’s ball.” She gave way to the irresistible urge to gloat. “Mr. Ansel Smith just fresh from America—I wanted to ask if you’d come all that way via row boat?”
“Naturally.”
“But more than all that, I thought I recognized you from an old broadsheet I remembered, so I went right out from the warehouse to find a fresh one. And it was full of the news of the Peverston diamonds. But something about it seemed too pat, too easy. And Hugh never mistakes a man. Never. But if you’ve really come to steal my mother’s jewels, because they’ve been written up in the tattle sheets, you’d best tell me now.”
His eyebrows lofted for a moment—as if he were surprised that she had made that connection.
“You see, you’re not the only clever one. Perhaps the Runners haven’t noticed that particular fact, as they might not read the tattle sheets, but I did.”
“You are remarkably observant for such a rattle.”
Cally felt her face bloom pink—she didn’t know when she’d felt more complimented. “But I knew you couldn’t let these accusations against you stand unanswered. And so I waited. Not very long, as it turns out—you came only two nights later, with Arthur in tow. Very clever of you. And of me. As the barristers would say, Q.E.D., quod erat demonstrandem—thus it is demonstrated.”
“I must assume your own ambitions to take the bar have been frustrated by your sex, else you’d be King’s Bench by now.”
“Nothing about my sex frustrates me, Mr. McTavish. As a matter of fact, the next thing I noticed about you was remarkable—you only looked at my mother, who is a very attractive woman, I’ll grant you, but she is married, quite happily so. She is also a woman of mature age who did not flirt with you in the least, like I did. But you didn’t look at me until I made you. And you did not look at my jewels, as any real self-respecting thief ought.”
“What do you know about what self-respecting thieves ought? And perhaps I was only trying to be a gentleman. I kissed you.”
“I kissed you,” she countered.
“So you did,” he admitted with a hint of a begrudging smile. “Expertly and efficiently.”
“Thank you. But your mind was elsewhere, else you’d never have let me go so easily.”
He stopped and looked at her—really looked, just like he had the first time, in the fields. “And do you often kiss men with the expectation that they won’t let you go?”
“No,” she admitted. “You were the first. Not to kiss me, of course—I’m four and twenty and a widow. But you were the first man I’ve ever kissed first—the first, besides my sweet hus
band, that I’ve ever wanted to kiss.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be. If there’s anything all those other kisses have taught me, it’s to be selective.”
“All those other kisses?”
She would have none of his attempt at shaming her—she had earned her right to kiss as she wanted through the grief and loneliness of widowhood. “Don’t try to get me off the real topic at hand here, and that’s my cleverness—which doesn’t get the least bit of exercise at home.” But that was a topic for another day. “You’re simply not convincing as this rough colonial character you’re supposed to be playing—I’m from Scotland and I know a true country man when I see him. You’re far too dashing. No man who moves in society with such sophistication could be this rube you’re trying to play.”
“I’m not a character, Mrs. Bowmont. I assure you, I’m a real person—a real man with real wants and real desires.”
She wasn’t about to let him be off-putting—she gifted him with another encouraging smile. “Which is exactly what I’d hoped.”
“No.” He shook his head, warding her off—refusing to be charmed. “I’m sure you’re a very nice woman, despite this propensity to let men kiss you, but you’ve got too great an imagination, and—” He gave up whatever he had been about to say and crossed Charles Street into the mews behind Berkeley Square instead.
She quickened her pace to fall in beside him. “Do you think my mama might be robbed next?”
That knocked McTavish back a peg—he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Are you asking if I plan to rob her? Of course I am not going to rob your mother. I should like to live long enough to regret this conversation.”
“That’s nice—Mama likes you.” Relief made Cally optimistic. “She loves a rogue.”