by Eva Devon
She was good. Almost as good as he was. To be honest, if he didn't train every day, she might have had the better of him. It was almost as if she had learned her skills at the Liar's Club. There was a certain trick Kurt taught of keeping the knees spread and the hips tilted forward. She did it just like Kurt.
Minus the generally homicidal intent. And the knives, of course.
God, he really hoped she didn't have a knife. He was having such a good time.
She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn't think he was mistaken about the curl of her lips at the corners. She was enjoying their tussle just as much as he was.
Knowing her moves, he stepped backward and then pretended to slip on the icy walk. She almost didn't take the bait, but he saw the shift in her shoulders when she decided to move in. He was ready for her strike and ducked. She over-extended. He rushed in close to grapple. If he hadn't had the advantage of height and size, he might not have gained the advantage. She was fast, but ended up wrapped in his arms all the same.
He grinned into her hair as she struggled. “I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed our dance.” She twisted in his grasp, causing him to change his grip. Yielding flesh filled his hands. His gentlemanly reflexes shouted at him to release her with profound apology. His spy training wouldn't allow it. His animal instincts settled the vote in favor of holding on, so he held her all the tighter. “Alas, I fear it is time for the music to end.”
His intention was to trap her arms behind her back and frog-march her luscious criminal arse straight to the club. Instead, she kicked his feet out from under him.
Ow. He landed on his back on the hard snow-packed path. Because he knew better than to let go of an armful of furious woman with fighting skills, she came down with him. There followed a fascinating struggle, full of punches and squirming, where he wasn't sure if she was trying to kill him or make him fall in love forever.
Damn, he was smiling again.
He almost took a knee to the groin but managed to shift his weight and took it to the inner thigh instead.
Her low laugh gusted in his ear.
“Manners, miss!” It still hurt like blazes, so in order to protect his reason to go on living, he was forced to flip her beneath him. Not very chivalrous of him, but he persisted in subduing her struggles until he pressed her to the snow, straddling her with his hands pinning her upper arms down.
For the first time since he'd stepped through the gate, he had a moment to breathe. Beneath him, her chest heaved as well. For a long moment, there was no movement but the clouds of vapor they puffed into the icy air.
Her bonnet had come completely askew and dangled from the strings. It was now a crushed ruin behind her shoulder. Her brilliant hair streamed across the white ground, like sunset on snow. Her cheeks were pink and her vivid green eyes glared at him, snapping with emerald vexation. Damn, what a picture. The image was so arresting that when she squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth he hesitated a second too long.
She let out a piercing feminine scream of terror. It was a chilling sound, to be sure. He stared down at her in shock. She laughed up at him, a husky chuckle that rippled through his entire body.
She had a healthy set of lungs, and the house was not that far away. No more than a split second past before three burly footmen erupted from the back door of the structure. With the garden stripped of foliage by winter's chill, there was nothing to keep Elliot and his quarry hidden from three shocked gazes.
He gazed down at his delicious opponent in disappointment. “Now you've done it.”
She didn't scream again but only batted her eyelashes at him with a wide innocent gaze. “You have it coming,” she said calmly.
Then the husky footmen were upon them. They pulled him off with rough hands. Elliot didn't fight them, for the fellows were only doing as they should, defending a poor young lady being assaulted on the house grounds. He suffered their blows without resistance. Even when his face was buried in the snow and his hands were confined behind his back, he could hear the diabolical minx continue to work.
“I’m dreadfully sorry that I trespassed.” She certainly sounded breathless, but the battle had been fierce. The tremble in her voice wasn't terribly convincing to Elliot, but the footmen seemed entirely hoodwinked. “I was only trying to hide from him. He's been following me all the way from Oxford Street and I simply couldn't run anymore.”
Damn. Every word of it rang of truth because it was truth. She was brilliant. That was why she was hustled into the safety of the house while he, defender of the Crown, was the one frog-marched into the mews and tied to the door of a stall. The gleaming carriage horse inside the stall looked gently amazed and then nibbled on Elliot's hair.
“Do me a favor,” he told one of his guards. “That lovely redhead. Get her name for me?”
The request earned him a cuff on the ear and a growl. Elliot let out a resigned sigh. He had the feeling he would be having a long night.
Amie spent no more than a few moments in the house all in all. One of the housemaids helped her inside, then called for the housekeeper. The briskly compassionate housekeeper took her to the lady of the house, who was a young woman not much older than herself.
The bell was rung for tea, but there was no need to wait on the sympathy. They were lovely, both of them. Amie felt rather ashamed of herself as she begged for a moment alone then, when they left her, ducked out of the nearest window. She sidled along the side of the house, and ran down the street in front into the blue-gray of gathering dusk.
It was a very nice house, she thought as she ran. Full of little treasures and keepsakes. Silver this and porcelain that. A part of her had not been able to keep from assessing the potential, but she knew she would never be tricking her way into that particular establishment. The Jackhams only robbed those who deserved it.
She threw away her bonnet as a lost cause and simply avoided people whenever possible until she was a mile gone. She slowed and pressed a hand to her aching side.
This time, she was certain no one followed her. Her gentlemen thief had been quite thoroughly detained. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Her heart slowed to a more normal rhythm as she walked. She found herself with a silly smile on her face as she thought about their stimulating match in the snow. The blows had been serious and she knew they would both carry a few bruises, but she'd felt no actual fear of her life. She must be mad. He'd stalked her like a professional, had found her out when no one else ever had and had taken her down despite her skills.
It had been altogether the most stimulating adventure of her life.
And he still smelled astonishingly good. She smiled even as she reached a hand to massage her stiffening shoulder.
He'd fought well, and had bested her fairly. It was strange how easily she could predict his moves and evidently he had done the same. It was almost as if they had been trained by the same—
Liar.
Amie had to stop and lean against an iron fence as her heart rose in her throat and the breath left her lungs entirely. Oh, heavens. Oh, no.
He was a Liar. Trained by Liars, just like her father had trained her and her sisters. The same moves—dear God, the same list, the same target!
She swallowed hard, remembering the folded papers in his pocket last night, the ones she'd not bothered to pull. She'd stolen from a spy.
What had she done? She'd ruined everything! She and her sisters had managed to live their entire lives out of sight of the Liar's Club!
And now she had placed herself firmly in their view.
Did they know who she was? They must know something, for he'd been waiting for her outside the pawnbroker shop. He had clearly known where she was going to be, or close to it.
Connors's words rang in her memory, though she'd not listened well at the time. “We got hired agents watching all our shops.”
They'd known to look for a thief on the trade, but not who she was, no, not her identity. If they'd kn
own her name or address, they would've come to her there and taken them all.
This meant that it was quite possible they didn't know about her sisters. There was still time. Time to run. She pushed herself upright once more and picking up her skirts, ran for her life and the lives of her sisters.
Chapter 5
Fortunately for Elliott, trapped in the horse stall, it was not a long wait at all. The footmen who had tied him so securely to the stable post had scarcely left through the front door before a small shadowy figure slipped into the mews.
Feebles looked like a bundle of rags washed up in a sewer drain, but he was actually the greatest pickpocket the Liar's Club had. His weathered face grinned briefly at Elliott before he ducked his head and tugged at his cap with his usual unassuming air. “Will y'be wantin' that little rope problem taken care of now?”
Elliott sighed. Relief warred with chagrin. He really didn't want to stay here all night, nor did he wish to go through a great rigmarole with the magistrate. Still, he could not help but flinch at the hell he would catch back the club for not only being soundly defeated by a mere slip of a girl, but in ending up tied like livestock between a gelding and a nanny-goat.
“If you would, please.” Might as well strive for a bit of levity.
Feebles, being Feebles, made no more remark as he whipped a small blade from a worn boot and sliced through the heavy rope as if it were string.
Elliott rubbed his wrists as the two of them slipped out of the mews into the dusk. There was no guard. Well, it was just a house, albeit a very fine one, not a military post. They took the wall rather than chance the gate again. The bracing run through the back alleys of London did much to cool the heat of Elliott's mortification.
They picked up Rigg on the way, the other Liar who'd been posted at a pawnbroker's to watch for the red-haired thief.
It was only then that Elliot thought to ask Feebles how the diminutive pickpocket had known where to find him.
“Oy, ye went right past me. I seen you following the lady and then I seen her give you what-for.”
Elliott was sorry he asked.
Entering the club was synonymous with coming home. After the chill day, a fight in the snow, and a long dash back with frost crunching beneath their boots, it was almost miraculous to step into the light and warmth and delicious scents of Christmas baking.
Elliott's spirits lifted instantly. He was going to get his share of ribbing over today's loss, and he didn't look forward to making his report to the spymaster, but in the end this was his family. This was his home. Eventually, he would be forgiven. That was the Liar way.
On his way to face the music, Elliott sauntered past the room with the best fireplace, the one that had been taken over by the children as well as the evergreen tree. He poked his nose and grinned as the tiny flaxen-haired girl of no more than four slipped a hand into a jacket pocket draped over aspiring dummy and pulled out a handkerchief without setting off a single jingle-bell warning.
Elliott clapped and entered. The band of wee monsters gathered around him and he picked up the curly-haired tot to allow her to wave her hard-won handkerchief in high triumph.
“I did it, Uncle Elliott!”
“That you did, my candy-apple queen!” He swung her around until she shrieked and giggled, then he set her neatly back on her small booted feet. “I see your Jack has a jingle-bell on every pocket.”
The oldest boy, Robbie, string-bean fellow of the great age of twelve-ish, folded his arms with a smirk. “There's eight pockets, including the weskit. I've got six down.”
“Well done!” Elliott strolled around the dummy who wore an odd fashion of purple silk weskit, formal black dinner jacket only a bit ripped at the seams, and a lady's bonnet festooned cheerfully with holly and pinecones. He stretched his arms forward and cracked his knuckles with a show of warming up. “Shall I have a go?”
Robbie's eyes lit up. “I wish you would. Mother won't show me anything, for fear of encouraging me. And Father is afraid of Mother.”
Robbie had been adopted a few years ago by James and Phillipa. He'd changed a great deal from the stunted chimneysweep child who had saved Simon Raines's lady wife in a moment of great peril.
Still, although Elliott understood the parental urge to preserve Robbie's childhood, the boy had never really had one, had he? Picking pockets was a damned useful skill for a Liar, and best learned young.
Elliott turned his back, made a grand gesture of crooking one arm over his eyes and started counting slowly backward from ten. There was a great rustle, pierced by shrieks and giggles and thudding little feet, as the assembled offspring filled the sparring dummy's pockets once more.
“—three, two, one!” Elliott whirled and took two steps to the dummy. In eight quick motions, his hands moving the same time, he emptied eight pockets in half as many seconds. Not a single bell sang out.
The assembled circle of children made appreciative noises. Elliott flourished a deep theatrical bow. “Thank you, thank you.”
Robbie was gazing at him narrowly. “I saw what you did. I can do seven now, I think.” He stepped forward.
“Only for Crown and Country, eh, old man?”
Robbie nodded seriously. Elliott made way for the master-to-be, and left the room with a cheerful wave. “Carry on, ye sticky beasties!”
It was silly and perhaps a bit pathetic, but his success with the jingle-bell dummy had put the jaunty back in Elliott's step that had been stolen by his grand, and now probably very notorious, defeat.
He wasn't angry with his opponent. If he was to be truly honest with himself, he'd enjoyed nearly every moment of their contest.
She really was quite astonishing...
Despite the fact that he truly had nothing to be ashamed of, Elliott felt like a naughty schoolboy called on the carpet in front of the spymaster. Dalton stood there by the small fireplace in his office with both hands braced on the mantle. His head dropped to gaze at the glow of the coals.
Elliot wasn't one to look too deeply into his loyalties. When he encountered someone new he rather quickly sorted that acquaintance into one of two categories: those he believed in and those he didn't. His masters at the spy academy had tried to drill logic and analysis into his head, but when in the thick and the dark, Elliot always fell back to on instinct. As yet, he had never been proven wrong.
“So what did your precious gut tell you about your lady thief?” Dalton remained where he was, his attention apparently absorbed by the glow.
Elliot let out a great long breath. “She is…” Beautiful. Exciting. Tempting. And if he was not much mistaken, she was also quite sad.
He had no inkling of why she should be so bereft, so he said nothing. His shrug did not seem to satisfy Dalton.
“Hmm.” The man sent him a sour glance. “She bested you.” It wasn't a question.
Elliott lifted his chin. “She's a good fighter. But no, she didn't beat me. I won the day. Until she outsmarted me.”
Dalton shook his head, as if shaking off some inner memory. He sighed. “It happens to the best of us.”
Elliott wasn't sure if the spymaster was referring to being beaten, being outsmarted, or being beaten and outsmarted by a woman. Considering Dalton's own clever and talented wife, Lady Clara, Elliott had the notion that his superior was speaking of the latter.
“You got lucky with the pawnbroker, but she's onto you now.” Dalton straightened and turned to Elliott. “You need to widen the net.”
“Agreed.” Elliott nodded crisply. “If I may request more copies of the drawing of our target to pass around the club, we can ensure she sees no familiar faces. And I've had a better look at her now, so I believe I can give Lady Clara a few more details.”
Dalton nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the petite brunette sitting at the large desk that dominated the office. “More copies, Clara?”
Clara looked up from the political cartoon she was working on and brushed back a lock of dark hair that had fallen over
her brow. “Certainly. Lord Elliott, pull up a cushion. Dalton, darling, would you mind sending one of the children down to the kitchen? The scent of Kurt's baking has been wafting the halls for hours. I'm absolutely perishing for a biscuit.”
Dalton frowned. “He's being very territorial about his kitchen at the moment. I'd better do it myself.”
Elliott gazed ferociously at the carpet between his boot tips and struggled not to chuckle. One of the most dangerous men in the world nodded to his pretty little wife and scuttled off to fetch her a treat.
When he was gone, Clara gave Elliott a fond glare. “There is no need to laugh. You just wait, Lord Elliott. There will come a day when a woman will flutter her lashes and you will find yourself fetching her pretty floral pincushion from across the house.”
Elliott bowed with an old-fashioned flourish. “That day is now, my Lady Clara. What may I fetch you? A cup of tea? A stool for your feet? Shall I mop your brow as you labor so hard?”
“Idiot.” Clara rolled her eyes. “He could be standing right outside the door, you know.”
Elliott smiled, but he did stop his carrying on. Flirting with the ladies of the club was a dangerous hobby of his. He certainly meant no harm by it. Rather, it was a means of staying in character. Most of his assignments were undercover in the ballrooms and gaming tables of the rich and bored. He fit very well into foppish and useless society. After all, it was from whence he came.
He pulled up a chair and settled next to Clara, who opened a drawer and pulled out her original sketch of the red-haired thief. Seeing it again, Elliott realized he'd done little justice to the lady's snapping eyes and determined chin.
He continued to describe her from his new perspective of wrestling her down into the snow, a story which Clara enjoyed very much. However, she tweaked him ferociously when he began to wax eloquent about emerald eyes and fiery hair streaming across white snow.