The Theft Before Christmas

by Cheryl Bolen

  His face softened as he dropped into a chair. "Go on."

  She proceeded to tell him everything she knew of the theft as well as their visit to Harriette Wilson's—which caused his eyes to widen.

  "Do you know Strickland?" Jack asked.

  Sir Ronald knew everyone. He shrugged. "I've played with him from time to time."

  Jack quirked a brow. "Lately?"

  His mouth screwed up in thought. "Not lately. As a matter of fact, it seems as if I heard he had run into a spot of bad luck."

  Daphne's gaze connected with Jack's. He nodded solemnly. "Do you know where he lives? I think I'd like to question him."

  "I don't, but I'll find out." Sir Ronald stood. "Allow me an hour to make myself presentable."

  "We'll just drop our coachman off near Miss Wilson's to do surveillance, then we shall be back here," Daphne said, getting up. Her gaze connected with her husband’s. “What did you tell Andy?”

  “I thought I’d leave that to you. Since you’re so adept at manufacturing imaginary ailments for me, I thought you might wish to concoct one for him. Perhaps he could disguise himself as a deformed beggar boy.”

  She frowned upon him. “That would be entirely too obvious. One doing surveillance must be innocuous.”

  In the short span of time they'd been in Sir Ronald's house, the sun had completely risen. Andy was standing beside one of their pair of grays, stroking its nuzzle and sweet talking to it. He had a wonderful way with horses.

  “We have an important commission for you, Andy,” she said.

  He looked up and arched a brow. Since when had he passed her in height? The lad had really shot up. Of course, he would soon be seventeen. “Remember that St. James house we visited last night?”

  “Like it was one of me own fingers. It’s not but a five-minute walk from ’ere.”

  “I hadn’t realized it was that close. I suppose you can just walk there.” She lowered her voice. “We need for you to take note of any gentlemen who come to that house today.”

  “You want me to watch the back of that house as well as the front?”

  “If you can contrive to be in two places at nearly the same time.”

  “I’ll do me best. Will ye be wantin’ me to follow any gentlemen what calls there?”

  She hadn’t thought of that. “What do you think, Jack?”

  “If a man in royal blue livery comes, then yes, do follow him. And make sure he does not know he’s being followed. It could be dangerous for you.”

  “What color is royal blue?”

  Daphne’s eyes rolled. “It’s not light blue, nor is it dark blue but a blue that looks like it could be paired with gold for a king’s cape.”

  “Very good, milady. Who’s house is it?”

  “Harriette Wilson’s. No doubt, you’ve heard of her?”

  He shook his head.

  Daphne shrugged. “She’s the most notorious courtesan in London.”

  “Pray, my lady, I ain’t never heard that word afore. What do courtesan mean?”

  “You tell him, Jack.” She turned back to Sir Ronald’s. “I’ll get Sir Ronald’s cook to find us something to eat. Rest assured, Andy, I won't allow you to starve.”

  * * *

  "Dearest, that was so clever of you to wrap Andy's food in newspaper which you just happened to drop at his feet." Much to her husband's protestations, she was riding up on the coachman's box beside Jack as they returned to their house.

  Andy, who was taking to his role as bees to honey, never even glanced at them as they rode by, but an almost imperceptible nod confirmed that he had seen them.

  The resourceful lad had somehow contrived to get his hands on a sack of chestnuts, which he was roasting in a metal bucket there on the pavement across the street from Miss Wilson's.

  "Hot chestnuts!" he called as they drove by.

  "Is he not the most clever of fellows?" she asked.

  "He is very good."

  As the lines blurred between Chelsea and Kensington, she said, "I do hope we return home before dear Miss Huntington awakens."

  He flicked the ribbons. "Why?"

  "I was only thinking of you, wishing to spare you from having to hobble. For you must be very lame in the girl's presence."

  Jack did not look happy. "For someone who professes to value truthfulness so highly, you can concoct absurdities in the blink of any eye."

  She attempted to look remorseful. "I don’t know why it's always you to whom I seem to affix these absurdities."

  "Because you torment me."

  "That's so romantic."

  "It wasn't meant to be, Mistress of Evil."

  She sighed. "You wicked man. I'd just grown used to you referring to me as Maiden of Evil, and now I've got to adjust to being Mistress of Evil."

  He pulled the coach up in front of their house.

  "You are not to help me down," she said. "It's very likely Miss Huntington may be peering from her window right now." Daphne repositioned herself so she could disembark from the seat backward—rather like descending stairs on all fours, feet first. Once she was on the pavement, she walked around the carriage, aware that Jack hadn't removed his amused gaze from her. "Do. Not. Start. Laughing," she scolded.

  "What in the bloody hell are you doing on my side of the coach?"

  "You are not to say bloody. Or hell. Think of our children."

  "We have no children."

  "But we hope to. You must start training that wicked tongue now."

  "Your father doesn't."

  She almost retorted that her father was an earl, but stopped herself before she slighted her noble-but-not-noble-born husband. "So I've had a very good example of things I shall not permit the father of my children to do."

  "You are not assisting me from this carriage, madam."

  "I know that. I merely am going to give the appearance of assisting my injured husband."

  He angrily drew in his breath as he began to disembark. He did pretend to take her hand to steady himself as his feet touched the ground.

  She put one arm around his waist and whispered. "Act as if you're leaning on me."

  "How long do you think it will be before Sir Ronald comes to us with Strickland's address?"

  "It's difficult to say. The dandy my sister married is still primping as we speak. Then he'll have to pop over to White's, then come here. The earliest he could be here is in an hour."

  "You know tomorrow's Christmas Eve," he said somberly. "That's when the King of Spain arrives.

  "It's not just that I want to restore the statue to the Regent and avert a terrible incident, but I cannot bear the idea of not being at Addersley Priory with all my family on Christmas Day."

  "I know, love."

  "It's shorter to just plop ourselves down in the morning room. Less feigned limping on your part."

  "Then we'll stop at the morning room."

  "We'll also be able to hear when Sir Ronald comes easier from there."

  "Since we have no servants here watching. . ."

  * * *

  Charlotte had awakened at the sound of horses in front of Dryden House. She leapt from her bed and peered from the window, surprised to see her hosts. Not only had they been out when it was not even eight yet, but their coachman was nowhere in sight. They both were seated up on the coachman's box. When had they left? And how could a man with a sprained ankle be gallivanting about town like that?

  Her brows lowered, she watched him hobble toward the house and realized something was wrong. As she watched, she realized what it was.

  Captain Dryden was avoiding putting weight on his right ankle.

  But she was certain last night, the left leg was the one he had elevated—the one Lady Daphne said was swollen, but which Charlotte was unable to observe any swelling.

  Why would they lie about something like that? And why to her?

  She did not know what was going on, but she was certain whatever it was intrinsically tied to the cancellation of yesterday's travel p
lans.

  She set about to dress. Her room was icy, so she wore her heaviest merino dress and a heavy shawl, which was actually the only shawl she possessed.

  Her governess had taught her how to descend a staircase with the grace of a swan. Therefore, her footfall was so light, the Drydens never heard her.

  But she heard them.

  "Once you steal the Regent's Michelangelo, how do you get it out of Carlton House?" Daphne asked her husband.

  "Well, if Miss Huntington were around, I'd have to feign a bloody limp."

  Miss Huntington's heart began to pound prodigiously. She turned and went straight back to her bedchamber, her limbs trembling as if her very life had just been threatened.

  Who would ever have thought a nice couple like Lady Daphne and Captain Dryden would be stealing Michelangelos from the Regent?

  Oh, dear. What was she to do? She could not calm her galloping heartbeat.

  She couldn't face them. They might suspect she knew their vile secret. Would she then be in danger? Oh, what was she to do?

  She just couldn't believe it! Lady Daphne was the nicest person she'd ever known, yet now she was lying to her friend of many years. And Captain Dryden? Why, the Regent thought the world of him. How could he abuse that? How could everyone have so terribly misjudged them?

  Oh, dear.

  Let them think she was sleeping. If she had to pretend to sleep all day, she could not face them.

  Less than an hour later, Sir Ronald came. Minutes later, all of them left.

  From behind her curtain, she watched the three of them move to Sir Ronald's fancy carriage. The captain was not limping!

  Her heartbeat roaring, she knew she had to do something. But what? Who could she turn to? Especially two days before Christmas. London was emptied of their sort of people. Except. . .

  Yes! She must go to Colonel Bond. He'd know what to do.

  Chapter 5

  Miss Huntington once more started down the stairs but decided if she were going to see the colonel, she must make herself more presentable. She hurried back to her bedchamber and peered into the looking glass. How would a man of the world like Colonel Bond perceive the mousy Miss Huntington?

  She did look awfully pale. Unbeknownst to Mama, Charlotte had nicked one of Mama's old French rouge pots after Mama made it known she abhorred anything to do with those nasty Frenchies.

  Owing to her mother’s strictures, Charlotte had never before used rouge. But today she would. Very subtly. It wouldn’t do to look like a doxy.

  A moment later, she had located the French rouge. Throughout her childhood, she had watched with fascination as her mother applied it. Charlotte had always thought it enhanced a lady’s appearance. If used subtly.

  Moving even closer to the looking glass, she began to apply it. Her first attempt was too obvious. She wiped it off, then reapplied less than half the amount she’d first used. It was astonishing, really, how natural it looked the second time. Except that mousy Miss Huntington never in her life had natural rose in her cheeks.

  Now that she did, she thought she looked a bit older. But as she peered at her reflection, she decided these clothes would not do. She had put on her warmest dress because her room had been so cold. As it was sure to be outside.

  The blue pelisse! Papa—the only man who’d ever told her she was pretty—preferred her to wear blue. Because it matched her eyes. She would just put that over the woolen dress she wore, and she would refuse to take it off.

  After donning the blue merino pelisse and stuffing her hands into the ermine muff Mama had sent her for Christmas, she started for Colonel Bond’s house. She was still trembling. She felt wretchedly disloyal to Lady Daphne for going behind her back like this, but she could not allow her to go through with her scheme to steal a Michelangelo from the Prince Regent. Why she and the captain could be transported to Australia! Or even worse. Crimes against the Crown were punishable by . . . oh dear, by death!

  We must stop them.

  Just because the aristocrats were all off at their country houses for Christmas did not mean the Capital had stilled. Nothing could be further from the truth. Once she got off the quiet lane where the Drydens resided, the streets were alive with the rattle of wheels and the clopping of hooves. On Vauxhall Bridge Road, many poorly dressed men were hawking ’ot nuts, and an assortment of equally as ragged onlookers peered into the windows of a print shop.

  Mama had told her never to look when a crowd gathered there because they were sure to be attracted by sights unfit for a maiden’s eyes. Which only increased Charlotte’s curiosity. If it weren’t imperative that she hurry to Colonel Bond’s, she might have stopped today. She was beginning to enjoy her liberation ever so much.

  Except for this frightfully nasty business with Lady Daphne and the captain.

  As she drew close to the colonel’s house, her heartbeat roared. What if he’s not there? He had told them when he left them the previous night he would await their summons.

  She came up the steps to the door and paused. She drew in her breath, then knocked upon the shiny black door with a trembling hand.

  To her surprise, his servant did not answer the door. The colonel himself did. That was when she remembered that he'd given his man a Christmas holiday.

  “Miss Huntington?”

  She burst into tears.

  He came to put an arm around her and steer her into his house. “Whatever can be the matter? Has something happened to Lady Daphne?”

  “It’s the most dreadful thing.” Sniff. Sniff. “I didn’t know what to do.” Sniff. Sniff.

  “Dear, dear. Do come into the drawing room. There’s a fire to warm you. You shouldn’t have been out on such a beastly cold day.”

  He pulled a chair up in front of the fire, and after she sat, he pulled up another chair for himself and spoke to her in a gentle voice. “Pray, Miss Huntington, you must tell me what is the matter.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. That’s why I’m here. I knew a man of your worldly experience would know how to handle it. I am afraid Lady Daphne will be executed.”

  His eyes rounded.”My dear lady, have you taken leave of your senses?”

  She began to wail.

  He patted her back. “Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

  He waited until she calmed, then he once more questioned her. “Pray, why do you think Lady Daphne might be executed?”

  Sniff. “Captain Dryden, too.”

  “Good lord! What can you be talking about?”

  “Captain Dryden did not sprain his ankle.” She looked up into the colonel’s concerned face.

  “I fail to see a connection between that and a possible execution.”

  His eyes, she noticed, were the color of scorched honey. If honey could be scorched. He really didn’t look so terribly old.

  “Well, it’s not exactly connected. It’s that the captain and his wife have been lying to us. I overheard something this morning which I was not supposed to hear.”

  “What did you overhear?” he asked, his brows lowered.

  Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to go on. She didn’t want the colonel to think her a hysterical girl. In fact, she didn’t want him to think her a girl at all. Did not her rose-tinted cheeks make her look more womanly? “They were making plans to steal a Michelangelo from Carlton House.”

  He laughed out loud. “Really, Miss Huntington, I could never believe that of Captain Dryden. He’s the most honorable man I’ve ever known. And, besides, he’s extremely loyal to the Prince Regent. The Regent trusts Dryden more than anyone else in the kingdom.”

  “That explains the Drydens’ access to Carlton House. . .Oh, Colonel, I do understand what you’re saying about the captain. I’ve always admired him and Lady Daphne excessively. That’s why this is so painful for me.”

  The colonel settled a gentle hand on her shoulder. While it was the same gesture her papa had often done, it affected her completely differently now. A sort of . . . glow-lik
e feeling spread through her. Unaccountably, she felt as if warm honey were oozing into every pore of her body. Even though reason told her she was not a beauty, at this moment, in this chamber, she felt like one.

  Which she knew was utter silliness.

  “Please, my dear Miss Huntington, start from the beginning and try to remember the exact words you overheard.”

  "I cannot get them out of my head, Colonel. Lady Daphne said, Once you steal the Regent's Michelangelo, how do you get it out of Carlton House?"

  His brows lowered with concern. "That does sound suspicious, especially if the captain's injury was faked. Could you explain how you know they tried to deceive us about his injury?"

  She peered up into his (very fine) eyes. He looked so completely sympathetic, she knew she'd done the right thing in coming here. "Do you remember when he elevated his ankle on that chair?"

  He nodded.

  "Can you tell me which leg it was?"

  "The left."

  "You're right. But this morning he pretended to avoid putting his weight on his right foot. And there's more."

  He lifted a brow.

  "The captain joked to his wife this morning, admitting that he concocted a sprained ankle for Miss Huntington."

  "Good lord, this is most shocking. Now about the execution?"

  "Well, it's hoped they would merely be transported when found out, but if their theft is perceived as a crime against the Crown, it could be perceived as treason- -"

  "Which is punishable by death."

  She started to bawl.

  He patted her shoulder and spoke tenderly. "There, there. It will be all right. I'm glad you came to me. We must stop this crime from occurring."

  "What if it's already occurred?"

  "Then we'll see that the Michelangelo is restored to the Prince Regent."

  Their eyes met. She really was awfully glad she'd thought to come here. She'd known she could count on him to make everything right. She nodded. "We must keep the Regent from identifying them as the culprits."

  "We shall do our best."

  * * *

  For several reasons Daphne was happy that they had once again enlisted the aid of Sir Ronald. The first very good reason was that he provided his own fine coach—and more importantly, his coachman. She had decided that riding up on the box on so frigid a day was most unpleasant.