by Shana Galen
But then something made her square her shoulders. Perhaps it was the thought of adventure. Perhaps she was still locked in her fantasy of Vauxhall, still imagining she could be someone else on those dark walks.
Someone brave and interesting and desirable.
“Why don’t you run back to your mama?” Susanna said, surprising herself when the words from her thoughts came out of her mouth. “I am using this room at present.”
“Then use another.” Lady Litton advanced, her parasol held before her like a weapon.
Susanna’s legs threatened to bolt for the exit, but she stood firm, even though she shook inside.
“You use another.”
Lady Litton’s eyes widened. Then she smiled, a very snide sort of smile. “Oh, I see. Your new sister has been influencing you. Tell me, Lady Susanna, what is next? Will you pick pockets and raise your skirts for every man in a dark alley?”
Susanna’s arm rose without her permission, and her hand made loud contact with Lady Litton’s cheek. A flower of red bloomed on the viscountess’s pale skin, and with a look of shocked horror in her eyes, she raised her hand to the offending mark.
Susanna thought the look must have mirrored her own. What had she done?
What if her mother found out?
She opened her mouth to apologize, but Lady Litton shrieked before Susanna had a chance.
“You little bitch! Now look what you’ve done!”
As Susanna stared in silent amazement, a tear slid down Lady Litton’s cheek.
“If you want the room, then take it.” The viscountess stomped away in a flurry of skirts and flounces, her hand still on her abused skin.
Susanna stared after her until the door slammed, then looked down at her hand, still stinging with the force of the slap.
Perhaps she was not as much of a coward as she’d thought.
And perhaps now was the perfect time for that adventure.
* * *
Gideon stood in the Golden Gallery in the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. All of London sprawled before him. The sun set on the River Thames, clogged with ships of all sizes and shapes. The forest of masts jutted from the foul, murky water like dead tree branches in winter. Just beyond, the soot-blackened buildings of London were crammed together as though huddled in fear. The day was hot and the streets teeming with short-tempered people jostling their way through the throngs. Peddlers pushed carts, children chased dogs, and horses pulled rattlers. The noise on the streets deafened him at times.
High above it all, blissful silence reigned. The wind whooshed in his ears and ruffled his hair.
“I could get used to a view like this,” Gideon said, spreading his arms like a king surveying his kingdom. He breathed deeply for effect, as the air up here wasn’t much cleaner than that on the streets. “Smell that fresh air. The wind in my hair. This is the life.”
But even in the heavens, he found only temporary escape from the world below.
Beezle stood just behind him, his gaze as dark as the dirt under his fingernails.
“You do the trick, and you can have any life you want,” Beezle said quietly. With Satin dead, Beezle was the new arch rogue of the Covent Garden Cubs. Gideon had tried to distance himself from the gang since then, but old habits were hard to break. That, and Beezle was none too willing to allow one of his best rooks to walk away.
Reluctantly, Gideon abandoned the indigo-and-orange skies of London. “I pinch the necklace, and I never have to see your ugly mug again?”
“And here I thought it was the blunt you were after. A hundred yellow boys will make you rich as a gentry cove.”
“The necklace is worth ten times that.”
“The necklace is mine, and I choose to let you in on the game. Do we row in the same boat, Gideon?”
He didn’t want to row in Beezle’s boat. Hell, he didn’t want to be in the same ocean as the arch rogue, but this was his chance. The blunt from this job would allow him to walk away from rooking. He could be his own man, start over in a new place, with a new name. Be whomever he wanted.
He’d never make it out of London without first lining his pockets. It took guineas to start over, and that’s where Beezle came in.
Gideon rocked back on his heels, imitating the swells who had all the money and time in the world.
Beezle waited. His expression remained hooded, but Gideon would have bet a shilling—if he’d had one—the arch rogue chafed at being made to wait. They were of a similar height—he and Beezle—and both had dark hair. That was where the similarities ended. Beezle had a narrow, birdlike face perpetually twisted into a malevolent expression. Gideon liked to think of himself as a rum duke. He bore no one ill will and was generally good-natured.
Gideon held out a hand, offering it to the devil.
Beezle’s icy fingers wrapped around his flesh, and Gideon’s belly clenched in revulsion.
“Let’s do the trick,” Gideon said.
After that it was a simple matter to make their way to Mother Cummings’s house at Six George Street. Mother Cummings rented rooms for as little as a shilling, but it was a bawdy house as well as a front for fencing goods. The molls’ game was to lure a man into bed—the more foxed the better—then purloin his property and make a run for it. Then everyone in the house would claim never to have heard of the moll who’d filched the goods. At the first opportunity, Mother Cummings was sure to fence it. If anyone was likely to have cargo of real value in St. Giles, it was Mother Cummings.
Mother Cummings had dozens of hidey-holes for the goods she acquired. Gideon had either seen or heard of most of them since he’d fenced cargo through Mother Cummings a hundred times or more before he’d joined the Covent Garden Cubs. Gideon’s job was to find where the necklace was hidden, filch it, and hand it over to Beezle. Beezle would fence it himself and give Gideon a hundred guineas.
A hundred yellow boys was more money than Gideon could even imagine, but he didn’t want to start thinking about the blunt before he did the job. He would be a thief in a house full of thieves. He couldn’t afford distractions.
Of one mind, Beezle and Gideon paused outside a gin shop on George Street, just across from Number Six. No one paid them any attention as they took careful note of the comings and goings at Mother Cummings’s. A steady stream of men filed in and out. Gideon would be all but invisible in the public rooms.
“You coming in?” Gideon asked after a quarter of an hour passed.
Beezle’s small eyes never left the door across George Street. “I’ll wait here for the drop.”
Gideon had been counting on that. He gave a casual shrug. “Suit yourself.”
He started away, but Beezle gripped his shoulder with hard, bony fingers. “Don’t even think about double-crossing me, Gideon. Racer and Stub are keeping watch in the back. Get the necklace. Give it to me. If you even think about keeping it, I’ll smash you myself.”
Gideon spread his arms in mock indignation. “Take the necklace for myself? Would I do that?”
Beezle dug his fingers painfully into Gideon’s shoulder.
Gideon covered his heart with a hand. “You don’t trust me. That hurts, Beezle.” He tapped his chest. “Right here.”
Beezle’s grip slackened, but his expression remained deadly. Gideon missed Satin. The old arch rogue was quick to cuff the cubs, but he was also quick with a grin. Gideon had usually been able to make him laugh.
“Get the necklace,” Beezle said.
“Work, work, work.” Gideon rotated his shoulder, shrugging off Beezle’s hand. “Be right back.”
“You’d better be.”
The interior of Mother Cummings’s house was as Gideon remembered. The well-worn stairs led to the drawing room where molls plied men with gin, then coaxed them to nearby bedrooms. The rooms for rent were on the second floor, and the ground floor was for dining and bu
siness. Mother Cummings was rarely in residence after two in the afternoon, so if a rook wanted to fence something, he learned to come in the morning.
It was a long time until morning, so Gideon should have plenty of time to search.
A large woman with a red face and bruised knuckles pointed upstairs. “All the rooms are rented, but go upstairs and find a rum blowen to entertain you.”
Mother Cummings was no fool. She had a guard on the first floor. Gideon had counted on at least one sentry. Upstairs, he made a pass through the drawing room, peeling the molls off when they tried to persuade him to sit or drink. Finally, he slipped back out and headed past the closed bedroom doors until he reached the servants’ stairs. He shut the door behind him and started down them, only to topple over a young mort sitting on one of the steps with a bottle of Blue Ruin.
She looked up at him with bleary, red eyes. “Shh. Don’t tell.”
“It’s our secret.” Gideon pressed a finger to his lips. He moved around her and cracked the door on the first floor, peering out. The entry was just a few feet away, where the guard woman growled at a young man. Mother Cummings’s library—if a room with no books could be called such—was across from him. That library was the most likely hidey-hole for the necklace.
Gideon slid across the corridor and lifted the library door latch.
The door didn’t open.
He cursed under his breath and, with a quick glance at the guard, retrieved a dub from his coat pocket. With slow, steady movements born from years of practice, he slid the tool into the lock and maneuvered it about until he felt it snap into place. His gaze never wavered from the guard. If she saw him now, he was stone dead.
A group of coves came in, but they were looking up the stairs, thinking about what lay ahead. They had no reason to note a man standing near a door by the servants’ stairs.
He twisted his wrist, hearing the lock click. The sound was deafening in his ears, but the guard dog didn’t turn. Withdrawing the dub, Gideon slipped it back into his coat, turned the handle, and slithered into the dark library.
Gideon felt his way toward a window and tossed several gowns draped over it onto the floor, allowing more light inside. He was met by a dozen haphazard piles of random treasures. Silk handkerchiefs lay on top of a table beside slabs of cheese and bacon. Brass knobs and shutters shared space with a mound of ladies’ petticoats, hats, and shoes. In the corner, a duck quacked. Stacked beside the creature’s cage were pails and coal scuttles. Gideon scanned the larger items, noting a tall chest in one corner. He crossed to it quickly, opening drawers and feeling inside for the contents—lead, glass bottles, a mirror, brushes…no baubles.
He tried another drawer and another until they’d all been searched. Perhaps she kept the necklace elsewhere. A parlor? The dining room? It could be anywhere, but this was the only room he’d never seen anyone but Mother Cummings enter. If the necklace was in the house, it must be in the library. A valuable necklace like that: Would she have left it here? It was widely known that Mother Cummings didn’t live at Six George Street. Maybe she’d taken the necklace to her other home to keep it safe until she found a buyer.
Gideon scanned the room again, looking for a hiding spot, something he’d overlooked. The necklace had to be here. If it wasn’t, his future was as lost as a pamphlet thrown into a fire.
He couldn’t allow that to happen. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life diving into pockets or cracking houses. He wanted out.
He leaned against the cold hearth and tapped his hands against his thighs as he meticulously studied every spot in the room. He had to be missing something. Why hadn’t he found any ladies’ fal-lals? Not a ring, not even an earbob. His foot kicked back, hitting the grate in the hearth, and he pulled his boot forward before the ash could coat it. But when he looked down, he didn’t see any ash.
Gideon crouched and stroked his fingers over the grate.
Stone cold.
No sign of wood or coal in the hearth. That was interesting. Even in summer, these houses were drafty. Surely Mother Cummings would want a warm fire while she inventoried her treasures. Gideon wished he had a glim-stick, but his eyes were so used to the dark, he figured he could see almost as well without one. Lying on his back, he shoved his shoulders into the hearth, wiggling until they fit. Then he reached up and felt the chimney stones. Bits of soot and ash dropped onto his face, but he ignored them as his deft fingers explored.
Brick, brick, brick, hole.
Gideon grinned in triumph, angled his wrist, and reached into the hole. His fingers closed on a velvet bag, and he tugged it out. Wrenching his shoulders from the hearth, he pulled the bag open. Inside, several rings tinkled, and a rum thimble ticked the minutes away.
Even better, something flashed and winked. Gideon lifted the diamond-and-emerald necklace. He whistled softly to himself.
“There you are,” he murmured.
He thrust the bag into his coat and stood. Now all he had to do was cross the room, open the door, and make his escape.
Footsteps clomped without, and the door handle rattled.
Two
Gideon cursed. He’d used the dub to open the door. Why the hell hadn’t he locked it again?
He had two options: hide and be found or not hide and be found.
He patted the velvet bag, still hidden in his coat. The door creaked open.
“You took your time about getting here,” Gideon said, hands on his hips. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”
The man and the woman in the doorway exchanged confused looks. That was better than having them try to kill him, so he kept talking. “Do you have any idea how late it is?” Not that Gideon knew either, but it sounded good. “I’ve been waiting for you for an hour.”
Finally, the girl edged into the room. “Who are you?”
Gideon raised a brow in a way the ladies seemed to like. He’d perfected the art of brow raising.
“The question is, who are you? No one mentioned a rum duchess like you.”
She giggled, and Gideon took that as a good sign. He moved forward, lifted her hand, and kissed it. “Pleasure you meet you. I’m Gideon.”
She giggled again. “Alice.”
The man she was with—little more than a cub, really—snatched her hand back. He probably had some prior claim on the girl. Gideon would have assumed he’d interrupted a romantic meeting, except he doubted Mother Cummings ever allowed anything of that sort down here. The rooms upstairs were for let. Everyone knew that.
“Ye’re not supposed to be in here,” the cub told him.
Gideon scrunched his face into a confused expression. “Then why’d you tell me to meet you here?”
Now might be a good time to think about escape. He spotted several brass door knockers on the floor nearby and sidled closer to them.
“I didn’t.”
“Mother Cummings don’t let anyone in here,” Alice told him.
“You’re in here.” He needed one door knocker. Just one.
“She trusts us.”
“I see why.” He made a show of looking her over, inching closer to the door knockers as he did. “Rum blowen like you. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Why don’t we go outside and talk about the game?”
“There’s no game with you,” the boy said. “You think I’m some kind of nob?”
He swung his fist, and Gideon ducked, grabbing one of the door knockers. He came up swinging and caught the lad on the side of the temple. The cub went down with a yelp that was sure to attract attention. Gideon took Alice’s hand again.
“Another time, sweet Alice.”
With a kiss to her knuckles, he bolted from the room. He sprinted for the door to the house, ignoring the guard screeching at him to halt. He would flash her a grin and a wave when he flew through the door.
Except three short, thick men, fat as Norfo
lk dumplin’s, thundered down the steps and cut off his exit.
Gideon skidded to a halt and went back the way he’d come. Unfortunately, the lad he’d smashed over the head had recovered and was coming for him, blood streaming from the new gash on his temple.
“Not going that way,” Gideon muttered to himself and took the only option open to him, the door on his right. The handle turned, and Gideon ran through, slamming the door on his pursuers. That wouldn’t keep them for long, and he turned in a circle, looking for a way to escape. The only exit he spotted was a glaze. He ran to it as the door burst open. Gideon pushed the pane up and jumped out.
He felt his coat again, making sure the necklace was still secure, and took off running. Behind him Mother Cummings’s thugs climbed through the window.
They’d never catch him.
He pumped his legs, clearing the shadow of the house and screeching to a halt when Racer and Stub stepped in front of him.
“Gideon,” Racer said, crossing his arms in front of him.
Gideon panted, looked over his shoulder.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Racer demanded.
“Ye’re not trying to chouse Beezle, are you?” Stub asked.
“Me? No.” His lungs burned, and his legs twitched. His body screamed, Run. Voices exploded behind him.
“I was trying to get away from…them.” He pointed to the Norfolk dumplin’s coming through the jump. When Racer and Stub turned to look, Gideon gave them a shove and took off running.
He tore past the fencing ken where Mother Cummings kept her goods and onto George Street. Behind him, Racer and Stub yelled for Beezle. Racer was fast, and Gideon couldn’t outrun him. He’d have to lose him. With that in mind, Gideon cut down an alley, leaping over a broken wheelbarrow and attracting the attention of a scavenging dog. He must have looked like a better meal than the dog had found, because the beast nipped at him and gave chase.
“Oh, come on!” Gideon said with a glance at the heavens. “A dog too?”
With the buffer nipping at his heels, he dove into a doorway, slammed the door on the mongrel, and stumbled up the stairs. His legs felt like lead bars. He was winded when he reached the roof, and he had to bend over and catch his breath. His legs cramped and threatened to fail him.