by Jo Goodman
Elizabeth could have told Louise that Eastlyn and Southerton had not come upon her and Lord Northam in a clinch, but she was no longer certain it was true. She had heard nothing of their approach until Northam pointed it out after they had left the woods. Now she had cause to wonder if the earl had not been aware of them earlier. The three friends seemed to share an uncanny sense among them.
"I cannot be easily compromised, Louise. As you have pointed out, I am six and twenty, an age that implies some maturity and the license to give my consent."
"Fiddlesticks. You are the Earl of Rosemont's daughter and your reputation can be ruined as easily as a gel's in the first flush of maidenhood. It is all in how one manages the aftermath, I assure you."
Elizabeth had cause to know Louise Edmunds, the Right Honorable Lady Battenburn, was a master of manipulating the aftermath. "It seems it is all arranged, then."
"More or less." She regarded Elizabeth's bleak expression with concern."You are overset, m'dear. I always forget how easily shocked you are. One would think that by this time..." She lifted her hands helplessly. "But no, you have no head for matters such as these. It is just as well that the baron and I have taken you into our bosom. I shudder when I think of how you would have gotten on without us."
Elizabeth suppressed her own shudder. She said with credible calm, "Will you excuse me?"
"Of course. I have kept you too long as it is. Harrison, I fear, is still at the card table. I only hope the outcome will be different from last night's debacle."
Elizabeth did not comment. She let herself out and hurried down the hallway to her own suite in the north wing. Once she was inside she leaned over the washstand in her bathing room and emptied the contents of her stomach into the porcelain basin.
Chapter 4
It was still the middle of the night when Northam roused himself from his bed. He dressed in the dark and took no candlestick with him when he left his room. Four nights had passed since Southerton's snuffbox had gone missing, and the earl thought he might have missed his one and only opportunity to surprise the Gentleman Thief.
He shook his head, his mouth set derisively as he considered that moniker. It showed a lamentable lack of creativity on the part of the Gazette's writers, though Northam supposed it was accurate enough. Still, there were more colorful cant expressions that could have been made to serve and given this sneaksman an excess of notoriety that might have made him easier to apprehend.
This particular thief—if the stories could be believed—expressed no interest in celebrity and, when confronted from time to time as he inevitably had been by those whose jewels he was lifting, made an elegant leg and apologized for the necessity of his activity. Southerton, sleeping as he always had in the very deepest embrace of Morpheus, had not been awakened by the Gentleman Thief and would not have been moved to shoot the fellow if he had. It was much more likely that South would have inquired as to whether a decent living could be made lifting snuffboxes, earbobs, necklaces, and the like, and then questioned the man as to all the particulars of his profession. In short, South would have talked the man to death, or at least engaged him in pointless conversation until help arrived in the form of the marquess. One could at least count on Eastlyn to shoot the intruder first and ask for the particulars later.
Northam yawned so widely that his jaw cracked. In the stillness of the manse it sounded like a shot. He hoped that lapse in good sense was the only one he had.
Tonight, he decided, he would go up to the roof. At first he had concentrated on finding the secret passages that Battenburn was famous for, then he reasoned that the thief would not use his precious time in a similar study. Every London town house the thief visited was not riddled with corridors between the walls and panels that opened into parlors and galleries. The Gentleman Thief was known to scale walls and trellises to gain his entry, at least when he was not invited through the front door.
What intrigued the ton about this thief was that he appeared to be one of their own. Lady Carver's emerald brooch had indeed been stolen from her person at the Winthrop winter ball. It was impossible for her to say at what point she had lost the brooch. When she discovered it gone it might have been minutes or hours since she had had it last. Neither was she inclined to believe it was stolen. It was the theft of Lord Adamson's watch that same evening that made the squeeze suspect the Gentleman Thief was moving among them. With the finely honed skill of a boman prig raised in the criminal dens around Covent Garden or Holborn, this thief was able to speak to the tattler, or remove watches, and chive the froe, cant for cutting out a woman's pockets. The term boman prig, as it was applied occasionally to the Gentleman, was something of an honor and meant to mark him as an adept in his trade.
The question raised by the newspapers who reported the Gentleman's activities, was whether this thief had studied his craft in one of the slum academies, and later learned the manner of a gentlemen, or if he had prepared for rum-hustling while he was still attending public school at Eton, Harrow, or Hambrick. This chicken-or-egg poser presented no dilemma for members of the ton. To a person they were convinced this thief was a real gentleman, for they could not conceive that just any man could pass among them, participate in their entertainments, or dance with their daughters during the Season, without the kind of bearing, grace, and good form that was bred in the bone. To suppose otherwise, to think even for a moment that one could be taught to affect a position in society that was not one's birthright, would have turned the social order on its ear. It was far more reasonable, and much less threatening, to hold the opinion that a gentleman had chosen to study and embrace the practices of a thief.
Though he was regularly denounced in the papers, it had escaped no one's notice that he was good at his craft. Pride warred with annoyance that the beau monde was being filched by one of their own.
Northam carefully opened the door that led to the roof. It swung soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, leading him to conclude that it was a much-used passage. Stepping outside, he understood why guests at Battenburn would come here. The night sky was limitless, spreading out in all directions without any barriers to mark its beginning and end. He had chosen tonight to explore the parapet for two reasons: The lack of a moon presented what he thought was a good opportunity to the thief; and it was a perfect condition for stargazing. If the Gentleman Thief decided to sleep in his own bed this evening, rather than scale the stone walls at Battenburn, Northam at least could make the best of his watch.
The earl walked the perimeter of the roof, stopping occasionally to lean over the parapet and study the recesses in the wall beneath him. With his eyes already adjusted to the dark, the starlit sky presented him with sufficient illumination to view the shadows where the windows were set and follow the different routes a thief might take to move from room to room using the outside wall for access.
Northam had never been present at a private entertainment where the Gentleman Thief had done his work. While Lady Carver was having her brooch removed, Northam had been staying with the Pollards and deftly avoiding an entanglement with their oldest daughter. There had been a rash of thefts that same winter, all of which could not properly be attributed to the Gentleman but which were laid at his door nonetheless.
No less a personage than the Dowager Duchess of Hammersly had had three ropes of perfectly matched pearls removed from her neck. Sapphire earbobs, ebony hair combs set with diamond chips, gold watches and fobs, bracelets, necklaces, and tiaras had all been taken at one time or another during that winter. The Gentleman had never struck so recklessly before or since. In the five years this sneaksman had been robbing the rich and giving... well, giving to himself... his established pattern was to openly steal at relatively few functions of the ton. He seemed to prefer to visit the town homes of the best-kept mistresses, where he could take jewelry that would be replaced by their protectors and not cause a terrible kick up among the society matrons. It did the Gentleman Thief's reputation no harm that on occasion a put upon mis
tress would claim a bauble had been stolen when it was in fact pawned by her to repay gaming debts.
Northam had had months to try to sort through the facts and fictions of this case, and he was still not certain he knew one from the other. It was absurd to believe that every time a purse was lifted in the crush at Drury Lane, it was the Gentleman Thief practicing his specialty. The intermission at the theater, known as the breaking-up of the spell in the cant of the thieves, had been a prime time for picking pockets as long as Drury Lane had existed.
The accounts that involved somewhat reliable reporters among the ton had been marginally more helpful. Lord Gaithers had surprised the thief in his study and been able to provide a modest description of the man, though Northam doubted the Gentleman Thief was quite the bruiser Gaithers depicted. More likely his lordship exaggerated some of the particulars to explain how he had had his primed pistol taken from him and been brained with the butt of it.
Similarly, Sir Anthony Palmer and his wife were visited by the thief and relieved of an exquisite emerald and diamond bracelet and two ruby stickpins. They provided what was perhaps a better picture of the thief as long as one accounted for their advanced age and failing eyesight.
The Gentleman Thief was no fool.
Northam, under the direction of Colonel Blackwood—whose authority to act in this matter he did not question—had been gathering such evidence as existed for better than six months. This involved the delicate work of speaking to all the Gentleman's victims among the peerage in a way that did not raise their hackles, or even lead them to suspect they were being interviewed. He compiled information about the guest lists at hundreds of parties over the last five years and painstakingly searched for the commonalities. He forced himself to examine the broader picture, taking into account what was happening beyond the sometimes narrow interests of the ton. How might have Napoleon's victories and defeats influenced the timing of the thefts, for instance, or the Treaty of Ghent that ended the war with America? What celebrations brought out the very finest jewelry, and when did society's anxieties keep what was best locked away?
The idea of this larger influence intrigued him. Thinking on it, though, made him very tired. Perhaps if it were only jewelry the Gentleman had his eye on, North's own task would be made easier. Complicating his assignment were the things that had gone missing that few wanted to report or discuss.
After circling the roof's perimeter a second time, Northam found a relatively comfortable place for himself in one of the notches in the wall. Removing his telescope from an inside pocket, he extended its length and raised it to his right eye. The clear night gave him opportunity to study the constellations and visible planets. It had always been a hobby of his, this interest in the stars. Camped out in a remote Indian pass, he had often lain outside his tent and stared at the patterns of light in the blue-black sky. The domed shape of the heavens, an illusion his eyes insisted on seeing, gave him the sensation of being held in the cupped hands of the Creator. It was a peaceful thought that had lulled him to sleep, and one he had carried into the thunder of battle.
He roughly estimated the passage of time by noting the change in the position of Sagittarius relative to the landmarks he had fixed on the horizon. Hours later, when the southernmost star appeared to dip behind a distant stand of trees, Northam admitted to himself it was another night gone begging for sleep. He collapsed his scope for the final time and returned it to his jacket.
Stretching his legs, he eased himself down against the stone until he was sitting on the roof. He should have been more tired than he was, having roused himself from a comfortable bed every night since arriving at Battenburn. A lot of work had gone into determining that this particular fortnight of reveling presented prime pickings for the Gentleman Thief. The theft of Southerton's snuffbox seemed to indicate that he and the colonel had properly narrowed the playing field. It did not mean, however, that the Gentleman would limit himself to Battenburn's guests. Travel to another country manor was not out of the question. It was this line of thinking that led to Marchman being dispatched to Rhylstone, west of London. Eastlyn and Southerton had nothing but their own suspicions regarding his assignment, and history had proven it was better that way. Their association with the colonel had presented them all with danger from time to time, but it was a fact they were in more danger when they were tripping over each other in pursuit of the same end. To the extent it was possible, the colonel kept them on parallel assignments and avoided entanglements that set them at cross purposes.
North found a natural cradle in the stone for the back of his head and rested it there. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, his legs at the ankles, and closed his eyes. For some men this posture would be a precursor to sleep, but not for Northam. He imagined that it was under an apple tree, in just this position, that Newton had found the intellectual acuity to postulate the existence of gravity. He did not flatter himself that he was in the same cerebral league as Sir Isaac, but he considered this exact arrangement of head, arms, and legs to promote the best cognitive powers.
He therefore applied himself to consideration in the matter of Lady Elizabeth Anne Penrose. She had been avoiding him these last few days. East and South had both been moved to remark on it, and Northam's lack of response had not kept them from making this observation again the following day.
People Northam considered far less astute than either of his friends also felt free to comment. Over whist, Lord Battenburn asked Northam if he had given Lady Elizabeth some offense. The bald question startled Northam enough that he dropped a diamond when he meant to throw a heart and reneged on the hand. Lady Powell, still in pursuit of South, wondered aloud if Elizabeth's strategy of avoidance was not perhaps a tactic she should use herself. Oddly, it was the baroness who was quiet on the matter, making Northam curious whether she was encouraging Elizabeth's retreat or merely shrewd enough not to make her opinion known.
Sighing, Northam wondered what theories Sir Isaac might have advanced about women if he had never been conked on the head with that apple. After all, Elizabeth Penrose exerted a gravitational pull every bit the equal of the one that kept the moon orbiting the earth. At least she did on him. Southerton and Eastlyn found her a pleasant enough companion, more than tolerably attractive, and sufficiently quick-witted to keep them entertained, but neither of them seemed to know the exact moment she entered a room or showed the ability to single out the threads of her conversation in the midst of so many others.
Northam was not a little concerned about his proficiency in doing both these things. He reminded himself that East had his own difficulties with Lady Sophia and a discarded mistress to sort out, and one part of South's clever mind was given over to the problem of Lady Powell's self-serving interests. They were not so free as he to be drawn to the Earl of Rosemont's daughter.
Only part of his interest could be attributed to her connection to the colonel. Certainly it had been at the root of their introduction, but it was not what sustained his attraction to her. The kiss, without a doubt, had something to do with it. If he was any judge—and Northam assured himself he was—Lady Elizabeth was no green girl. When he was being uncharitable, he wondered what looseness of morals allowed her to take so much pleasure in a kiss. When he was in a more reasonable frame of mind, he considered what good fortune it was to find a woman whose passion equaled his own.
He had thought a great deal about the kiss they shared, his mouth lowering on hers, her tongue sweeping the soft, sensitive underside of his lips. He could sometimes still feel the edge of her small white teeth pressing against his skin, the wetness and warmth of her mouth on his. She had sucked in his lower lip as she had drawn a breath, tugging on it with precise, delicate nibbles. Open mouthed. Hot. His own tongue had curled around hers. Deep. And deeper.
A soft, guttural growl rose at the back of Northam's throat. His trousers were becoming uncomfortably tight. He reckoned with the temptation to unbutton his fly and take himself in hand. The tension relea
se and comfort afforded by a little masturbatory gratification hardly seemed worth the effort just now. Because Northam had heretofore been of the opinion that sexual pleasure, even when achieved through self-indulgence, was always worth the effort, he took it as a sign he was either falling asleep or falling in love. At six o'clock in the morning he was understandably muzzy on what distinguished one from the other.
It was a scream that woke him. For a moment he imagined himself trapped in the pages of a Gothic novel, where all screams were described as bloodcurdling. Northam promised himself he was done reading the likes of Castle Rackrent. The scream rose again, less shrilly than before, but managed to sustain the warbling notes with all the tragic passion of an operatic lament.
Northam rose to his feet and shook out his legs. Leaning over the parapet, he was able to vaguely determine which rooms were the likely origin of the scream. He was not so foolish as to attempt to scale down the wall to the open window. Instead he left the roof and hurried down the steep spiral staircase to the main hallway. If he had not already fixed the source of the caterwauling in his own mind, it would have been easily found by the crush outside Lady Battenburn's bedchamber.
The door to her room was flung wide and guests who had been moved to investigate were pressing themselves into the opening and craning to see what manner of injury had taken place.
The baroness sat at the foot of her bed. Her heels dangled several inches above the floor, making her seem younger and more vulnerable than her earthy appearance would otherwise suggest. She was fanning herself with one hand, which had the effect of changing the pitch of her scream. The other hand was being held by her husband, who soothed and patted it in the hope it offered enough comfort for blessed silence to follow.