by Amanda Quick
Hannah’s lower lip quivered. She blinked several times, very hard.
“Please do not cry, dear.” Concordia thrust a handkerchief into her fingers. “When this affair is concluded, we will see about Joan.”
Hannah wiped the moisture from her eyes. “Thank you, Miss Glade.”
“Cheer up now and try on these pretty shoes,” Mrs. Oates said, holding up a pair of pale yellow high-button boots. “They will go nicely with that gown.”
Concordia looked at Phoebe. “What do you think of the pink dress?”
Phoebe scowled at the gown. “I do not want to go back to wearing dresses. I prefer my trousers instead.”
“And you look quite dashing in them, indeed,” Concordia said calmly. “You may wear them as often as you like. But just in case you want an occasional change, what do you think about the pink gown?”
Mollified by the knowledge that she was not going to be forced back into a dress, Phoebe studied the gown with a critical eye. “It will do for tea, I suppose.”
“Right, then, that is settled,” Concordia said.
Mrs. Oates nodded sagely. “I expect the gowns will need a bit of taking in here and there, but Nan is a fine hand with needle and thread. I’ll send her up to have a look.”
Concordia waved a hand at the unopened packages. “Onward to the gloves, ladies.”
Edwina, Theodora, Hannah and Phoebe tore into the wrappings.
Concordia went to stand next to Mrs. Oates. Together they watched the girls try on the gloves.
“I am very grateful to you, Mrs. Oates,” Concordia murmured. “You did a fine job with the shopping.”
“It was no problem.” Mrs. Oates chuckled. “Indeed, I quite enjoyed myself.”
“I must say, I was astounded that the dressmaker was able to supply so many dresses on such short notice. She must have put off all of her other projects in favor of satisfying this order.”
Mrs. Oates raised her brows and looked knowing. “I’m sure she did precisely that.”
“The dressmaker is a friend of Mr. Wells?” Concordia inquired smoothly.
“A former client more like. She was no doubt happy enough to pay her bill at last.”
Concordia stared at the expensive gowns, shocked. “Good heavens, do you mean to say that the fee Mr. Wells charged for his services amounted to the cost of these gowns?”
“No, no, no, Miss Glade.” Mrs. Oates waved that aside with a chuckle. “Mr. Wells paid full price for the dresses. The favor he asked was that they be made up and delivered as quickly as possible. That was how the dressmaker settled her account with him.”
“I see. Mr. Wells handles his business in a most unusual manner, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, Miss Glade, he does, at that.”
“There is something that confuses me, Mrs. Oates.”
“Yes, Miss Glade?”
“If Mr. Wells does not charge money for his services and instead merely collects favors when he needs them, I assume that he is a wealthy man.”
“He is quite comfortably fixed and that’s a fact.”
“Yet he occupies another man’s house,” Concordia added.
“Oh, Mr. Stoner doesn’t mind him living here.”
“Yet they are not blood relations?”
“No, Miss Glade. Not related in any way. Just good friends.”
“Very good friends, evidently.”
“Aye, Miss Glade. That they are, that they are.”
“Mr. Stoner obviously places a great deal of trust in Mr. Wells,” she said as tactfully as possible.
Mrs. Oates rocked slightly, acknowledging the comment. “That he does.”
Very good friends. Concordia thought about the casual manner in which Ambrose had referred to the possibility that a woman might take another woman as a lover. Was he at ease with the subject because his own personal physical interests were directed at members of his own sex? It might explain the odd connection between Ambrose and the mysterious Mr. Stoner.
It was also, from her purely personal and private point of view, quite depressing.
Then again, it was not as if she had ever had any real expectations of indulging in a passionate liaison with Ambrose Wells, she reminded herself.
“Would you look at the time?” Mrs. Oates gave a small start. “How did it get to be so late? I must be off to see about the preparations for dinner. If you will excuse me, Miss Glade, I’ll leave you and the young ladies to the new clothes.”
She bustled out the door and disappeared.
Concordia tapped one finger against the top of the dressing table, absently listening to the girls discuss the matching of shoes, gloves and dresses.
So much for her attempt to elicit information about the odd workings of this household. Obviously she would have to take a more crafty approach in the future if she wished to learn anything useful.
12
The knock on the library door pulled Ambrose out of a deep contemplation of the garden on the other side of the French doors. He surfaced slowly from the meditative trance.
“Come in,” he said.
He heard the door open behind him but he did not turn around. He remained where he was, seated cross-legged on the carpet, hands resting on his knees.
Mrs. Oates cleared her throat. “My apologies for intruding on you, sir, but I thought you should know that Miss Glade has started asking questions about Mr. Stoner.”
“It was inevitable, Mrs. Oates. With luck, the mystery will occupy her attention while I take care of other matters.”
“If I were you, I would not depend on Miss Glade becoming so distracted that she ceases to pay heed to what is going on around here, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Oates. I will keep your warning in mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Are the young ladies pleased with their new clothes?”
“All except Miss Phoebe, sir. I believe she has developed a great fondness for trousers.”
He smiled. “Ours is an unconventional household. She is free to wear them here.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be dining in tonight with Miss Glade and the young ladies?”
“I am looking forward to it.” He paused. “But I intend to go out later after our guests are in their beds. There is no need for anyone to wait up for me. I will likely be quite late.”
“Very good, Mr. Wells.”
The door closed with a hushed sound. Ambrose went back to his meditation on the garden. The past whispered through his thoughts.
HE HAD JUST turned eighteen the night he entered John Stoner’s elegant town house through a rear window on an upstairs floor.
His career as a burglar had begun his first night on the street. But his survival instincts had been keen, even at the age of thirteen. He made his way to the nearest cemetery, burgled the lock on the back door of the small chapel and spent the remaining hours until dawn holed up behind the altar.
He did not sleep that night for fear of the dreams he was certain awaited him. He knew, even then, that the events of the night would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He forced himself to do what his grandfather and father had taught him to do before tackling a new enterprise. He made a plan. When it was finished he allowed himself the cold comfort of a few tears.
The next morning, taking to heart the old axiom that the Lord helps those who help themselves, he helped himself to some of the church silver. He selected a rather nice pair of candlesticks and two cups, said a prayer and set out to make his way in the world using the family talents. He knew full well how to go about pawning the items. His father and grandfather had visited the pawnshops often enough in the past when business was not good.
On the whole, a life of crime had proved to be an excellent career choice, he thought as he paused to study John Stoner’s bedroom. It was not as if he had not been raised and trained for the work. He came from a long line of professional swindlers, fraud artists and cheats.
The room was empty, as he had anticip
ated. He had done his research carefully, watching John Stoner for nearly a week before making his plans. In that time he had learned that his intended victim was a scholarly man who had, in his younger days, spent a great deal of time in the Far East.
This was the night the servants had off. A survey of the house a short time ago had disclosed the information that the lights still burned downstairs in the library.
Through the crack in the curtains he had glimpsed Stoner, dressed in an expensively embroidered maroon dressing gown, sitting in front of a comfortable fire. He had a glass of port by his side and was deeply involved in a weighty tome.
Ambrose opened a drawer. The first thing he saw was a pocket watch. He recognized the unmistakable gleam of gold, even in the dim moonlight.
He reached for the watch.
The door to an adjoining room opened without warning.
“I do believe your eyes are even better than my own were at your age,” John Stoner said from the shadows.
It was the first time he had been caught while going about his business, but Ambrose had known that sooner or later disaster might strike. He had practiced for just such an eventuality, just as his father and grandfather had taught him. And, as they had always admonished, he had not one plan but two.
Speed and agility formed the basis of Escape Plan Number One.
He did not stop to think, let alone grab the pocket watch. He leaped for the open window and the rope he had left secured to the sill. It would take only seconds to get to the ground.
But he never reached the window. His legs went out from underneath him. A split second later he found himself flat on his back on the floor. The jolt of the fall stunned him and stole his breath.
“Do not move.”
Ignoring the command, he sucked in a lungful of air and hauled himself to his knees. His only thought was to reach the window.
A booted foot caught him at the ankle. He plunged headlong back to the floor.
Before he could rise a second time, Stoner leaned over him and seized first one of his wrists and then the other. Ambrose tried to struggle. He was much younger and stronger than his opponent. In addition, he was desperate. He should have had every advantage. Yet in seconds his hands were bound behind his back by a strong cord.
He kicked out with both feet. Stoner sidestepped easily.
“I admire your determination, young man, but I am not going to let you go. At least not yet.” Stoner looked down at him. “There is an old saying, ‘Do not hurl yourself against a fortress wall. Dig a tunnel beneath it.’”
Ambrose fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that it could destroy him as quickly as any bullet.
Time to fall back on Escape Plan Number Two. He started talking. Fast.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that old saying. Shakespeare or Proverbs, perhaps?”
He employed the cool, carelessly cultured voice that he adopted when he dealt with men of this gentleman’s world. It was a tone that conveyed the impression that he had been born in the same circles, that he was one of them.
It was nothing less than the truth. His father and grandfather had been scoundrels and rogues by choice, but they had been gentlemen by birth. He was well aware that one’s social class was infinitely more important than one’s morals.
With a little luck he might be able to talk his way out of this affair. Gentlemen did not like to send other gentlemen to prison.
Stoner shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown and inclined his head, as though pleased. “Well done, young man. Not every housebreaker would be capable of making polite conversation at a time like this. You’re thinking on your feet, or off them, as the case may be, and that is the important thing.”
Ambrose did not have the vaguest notion of what he was talking about, but at least Stoner was making conversation, not summoning the constables.
“I apologize most sincerely for this unfortunate meeting, sir.” Ambrose sat up cautiously. “I assure you, matters are not as they appear.”
“Indeed?”
“I fear that tonight’s work is the result of a few bottles of port and an unfortunate wager made with some of my friends.” He grimaced. “You know how it is among men who have Oxford in common. Can’t resist a dare.”
“What was the nature of the wager?” Stoner sounded genuinely curious.
“As I said, a group of us spent a recent night drinking. Someone, Kelbrook, I believe it was, brought up the stories that have been appearing lately in the sensation press. You may have noticed them? A great deal of nonsense about a burglar who is said to prey exclusively upon wealthy gentlemen.”
“Ah, yes, now that you mention it, I do recall reading one or two of those pieces. I believe the journalist who is writing them has nicknamed the rogue The Ghost.”
Ambrose grunted in disgust. “The sensation press is very fond of attaching fanciful names to villains in an attempt to make them more interesting to their readers.”
“True.”
“Yes, well, as I was saying, Kelbrook mentioned The Ghost. My friends and I fell to arguing about how difficult it would be to imitate a successful burglar. I claimed it would not be at all hard to do. Someone else disagreed. One thing led to another and I am sorry to say that I accepted the bet.”
“I see. What made you choose my window for this experiment?”
Ambrose exhaled deeply. “I’m afraid that you matched the description of the type of victim The Ghost is said to prefer.”
Stoner chuckled. “You really are quite quick, young man, I will give you credit for that. What is your name?”
“Ambrose Wells,” Ambrose said, using the name he had invented for himself the night he fled his father’s house. If he got out of this he would come up with another.
“What do you say we go downstairs and have a cup of tea while we discuss your future, Mr. Wells.”
“Tea?”
“I thought you might prefer it to the other option I am offering.”
“What is the other option?”
“A meeting with a police detective. I doubt if you would be likely to get any decent tea in that case, however.”
“Tea sounds like an excellent notion.”
“I thought you would see it that way. Come along, then. Let us repair to the kitchens. We shall have to see to the business ourselves. This is the servants’ night off. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”
AMBROSE SAT LASHED to a wooden chair and watched in silent astonishment as his host made tea. Unlike the vast majority of men of his rank and station, John Stoner appeared quite familiar, even comfortable, in his own kitchen. In a matter of minutes he had the kettle on the stove and tea leaves spooned into an elegant little pot.
“How long have you been pursuing your career as a ghost, Mr. Wells?” Stoner asked.
“No offense, sir, but that is a rather awkwardly worded question. Regardless of how I choose to answer it, you will have me admitting that I am The Ghost.”
“I think that, under the circumstances, we can dispense with your artful little tale about a wager, don’t you?” Stoner carried the pot and two small cups to the wooden plank table and set them down. “Let me see, from what I observed upstairs in the bedroom, you are right-handed. Therefore you will likely be a bit less agile with your left hand, so I shall free that one.”
“You could see me that clearly in the shadows?” In spite of his predicament he was rapidly developing a great curiosity about John Stoner.
“As I mentioned, my night vision is not what it used to be, but it is still a good deal better than most men my age.”
Stoner sat down on the opposite side of the table and poured tea. Ambrose noticed that the delicate cups had been fashioned without handles. Like the pot, they were decorated with exotic scenes that he could not identify. Not Chinese or Japanese, he thought. But there was something about the designs that let him know they had come from somewhere in the East.
&n
bsp; He picked up one of the cups very carefully and inhaled the fragrance of the tea. It was delicate, complex and intriguing.
“Would you mind telling me how you discovered that I was upstairs?” he asked. “I thought you were engaged reading a book in the library.”
“I have been expecting you for the past several days.”
The elegant little teacup nearly slipped from Ambrose’s fingers. “You noticed me?”
Stoner nodded absently, as if it were no great feat. But Ambrose knew that was not the case. None of his previous victims had ever detected him while he was following them about, making notes of their habits.
“I cannot say I was greatly surprised when you showed up here tonight,” Stoner said. “From what I had read of The Ghost in the papers, I suspected that he made a thorough study of his victims before he entered their houses. I was interested in your methods. Most burglars lack either the intelligence or the patience to take such a careful approach. They are, by and large, opportunists, rather than strategists.”
“I told you, sir, I am not The Ghost. I was merely trying to copy him for the sake of a wager. As you can see, I made a poor job of it.”
Stoner sipped tea, looking thoughtful. “Actually, you managed the business quite skillfully. Who taught you your trade?”
“I’m a gentleman, sir. I would not think of lowering myself by going into trade.”
Stoner chuckled. “This is going to be a very one-sided conversation if you insist upon evading all of my questions.”
“I beg your pardon. You asked me a question. I attempted to answer it.”
“The Strategy of False Sincerity is a useful tactic upon occasion and you appear to have a talent for it, but I can assure you that there is no point employing it with me tonight.”
For the first time Ambrose started to wonder if John Stoner was a madman.
“I don’t understand, sir,” Ambrose said.
“Perhaps I am going about this in the wrong manner.” Stoner held the little cup between his fingers in a way that implied both elegance and control. “Since you are not disposed to tell me your story, I shall tell you mine. When I have finished with it, we will discuss your future.”