What a Rogue Desires

by Caroline Linden

  She withdrew her hand. “Then you sell it. Take care to have an answer ready for why a man such as you would have such a thing.”

  Flynn scowled. “All right, then. But you take care to get a good price.” He shot another deadly look at Simon. “Or I’ll take it out of his skin.”

  Vivian waited until he had stomped out of the room before hitching up her skirts and sitting on the floor beside Simon. The old miller’s cottage was damp and falling down, but no one bothered them when they were here. She heard the squeak of a mouse as she settled herself, and moved aside with a grimace. She hated mice. Someday, when she had her own little cottage, she would have a big fat cat to keep them away from her.

  “We’ve got to get out of this,” said Simon, in a low voice so as not to be heard by Flynn and the others in the next room.

  Vivian sighed. “I know. Especially you.”

  “It’s bad for you, too, Viv,” her brother returned. “You’re the safest of us lot during the job, but then you’re on your own. How many times can you throw a fainting fit and not have to answer any questions? What if some constable puts together how you’re on every stage that gets stopped?”

  “That’s why I’m acting a widow,” she said. “No one wants to ask a poor, grieving, young widow any harsh questions.”

  “And what happens in a few years?” he pressed. “You won’t be young forever. And Flynn is waiting for you to be less important so he can toss your skirts, whether you say nay or yea.”

  “I’ll kill him if he tries it,” said Vivian.

  Simon shook his head. “Flynn’s a bad sort. I don’t like him.”

  She shifted. Flynn wasn’t her ideal, either, but he kept them fed. And she didn’t know how they would accomplish that if they left the protection of his little band. “It’s so difficult to find honorable highwaymen these days,” she said, hoping to make Simon laugh. Instead he just put his head back against the wall and let out his breath.

  “I hate this,” he said softly. “Not the stealing—don’t mind that at all, since there’s no choice except to starve, and any nob what wears a ring like that can afford a donation to the poor. But I hate feeling like we’ll get caught any day, and it’ll likely be my fault. Everything I do is wrong, Viv. I’m going to get us all in prison, or worse.”

  That was probably true. Simon had no sense for thieving. Unlike her, he was not a good liar or a good actor. He got nervous. He overreacted. He made mistakes. Today his persistence in taking that bloody signet ring had held up the job, and put them all in danger. They could be sitting in a jail cell tonight instead of in an abandoned miller’s cottage, damp and cold but fed and free.

  Wordlessly she took his hand. If only she had a little bit more money saved. She had always hoped to start Simon in a safer occupation, and now it seemed imperative. Their mother wouldn’t be proud of Vivian for leading her younger brother into a ring of thieves and scoundrels. “I’ll take care of everything,” she said. “You keep your mouth shut around Flynn. He’s a blooming idiot for sure, but he’s an idiot with a sharp knife. No one but me would care if he cut your throat, but if he killed you, I’d have to kill him, and then we’d all be dead.”

  He was silent for a long time. Vivian heard the skittering of tiny feet and tried not to shudder. “I don’t want to hide behind my sister all my life,” came Simon’s voice at last, thin and plaintive. “I’m a man now, Viv.”

  “A young man,” she corrected firmly. “If Mum hadn’t died, you’d still be under her hand, so mind you don’t make me smack you for her.”

  He huffed with a reluctant laugh. “Aye, you would. But I should be able to stand on my own two feet.”

  “Someday you will,” she promised, hoping it was true. “But first we need to eat, so you don’t take faint and end up lying on your own backside.”

  Simon shrugged and got to his feet, then helped her up. Vivian swatted at the black fabric of her dress, hoping no mice had gotten to it. “You go on,” she said. “I’ve got to put away this rag.” Her brother gave her a half-hearted grin and left, pulling the warped door closed behind him. Vivian retrieved the old valise that held her things and set about changing out of the shabby, secondhand widow’s weeds that had been her costume for the day. The widow’s pose usually worked very well for her. Today had been no different. That older woman had all but held her hand on the trip, so concerned for her tender feelings that Vivian had wanted to snort with laughter. Anyone in her supposed penniless state had better not have such tender feelings, not if they wanted to survive. The gentlemen on the coach had alternated between sneaking looks at her bosom and trying to look righteous whenever she glanced their way.

  Well, not quite. The rich one hadn’t hidden behind any such look. He didn’t keep the interest off his face. He was a right handsome one, she thought, although not too bright. A clever chap would have handed over the ruddy ring without complaint when Simon pointed a pistol at him. Thanks to him, she’d been forced to abandon her faint-with-fear pose and actually speak up for him in a vain attempt to warn Simon off. And all she got for it was a shove to the ground.

  It was doubly galling that he’d only had a pair of guineas in his purse. From the moment he’d driven his flashy carriage into the coaching yard, Vivian had been certain he would be worth their while, a spoiled dandy ripe for the plucking. She saw the way he demanded a horse as if the world should bow to his wishes, and then how he handed over a handful of money for the care of his very fine horses. The bloke was rich, she knew it, and so she’d made her move, dropping her handkerchief in signal to Simon. He’d gone off to alert the rest of the gang, and she’d gotten on the coach. And then the bloody cull only had a few guineas. It wasn’t even repayment for all the time he’d spent staring at her bosom.

  She inspected a rip in the elbow of one sleeve of the black dress, and cursed. Now she’d have to stitch the bloody thing. That was not the dandy’s fault, she conceded, pulling on the loose trousers and sturdy shirt she usually wore at nights. Simon should have known better. She didn’t know what had gotten into her brother lately.

  Ah, well. What was done was done. She ran a thin cord around the waist of her trousers and knotted it tightly. At least if Flynn tried to grab her bottom she’d have warning and a chance to get her knife before he could get the trousers off. Vivian’s mouth twisted as she folded her widow’s dress and put it away. Simon was right; Flynn was just waiting before he tried anything on her. Now he wouldn’t dare touch her, because she’d leave the band, if she didn’t fight him to the death for it. Vivian was well aware of the importance of her role to them all. It was she who chose their targets, she who rode the coaches as the decoy, and she who provided diversions by fainting or having a fit of hysterics that allowed the rest to get away. Flynn would be reduced to random robberies without her, and everyone knew he wasn’t clever enough to get away with it for long.

  But they had worked this stretch of road for too long, and Vivian couldn’t shake the sense that they ought to move on. Simon’s mistake today only made the feeling stronger. Perhaps they should lie even lower than usual for a few days, letting any fuss over the botched job die down, and then pick a better spot. Two jobs in any neighborhood was enough for Vivian, and already Flynn had put them to four in this corner of Kent. If someone recognized her, the game would be up before they knew it.

  She packed away the rest of her costume and followed Simon into the other room, where everyone else was already eating. She stowed her valise in the corner and took the bowl of stew Alice handed her. Simon scooted sideways, making space for her by the fire, and Vivian sat. No one said a word for a while; it was the first they’d eaten all day, except for a bit of oatcake in the morning. Vivian ate ravenously, even though the stew was redolent of onions, bringing back memories of the horrid man on the stage who had breathed on her with that wretched leer. It was rabbit again, just as it had been for the last three days. She knew it should be enough that they had meat at all, but one of these days she would s
hake some coin out of Flynn and buy a chicken for the pot.

  Across the circle from her, Flynn shoved aside his empty dish and produced a leather bag from his jacket pocket. Simon and Crum, Alice’s man, also put aside their bowls and sat up straighter, intent on what Flynn poured on the ground in front of him. With the keen eye of a moneylender, Flynn divided the money into five equal piles. Then he plucked a few coins from four stacks and added it to the fifth. That was his, as the leader, he claimed. Vivian gritted her teeth, saying nothing as Flynn shot her a glittering glance. He knew she thought it was unfair that he took more than the rest, but he also knew she had only Simon on her side. Crum was pacified by Alice getting a share, even though poor Alice never participated in their jobs. So Vivian kept her silence, and skimmed a little off the proceeds of the items she sold. If Flynn deserved a little extra for being the brawn of the group, she deserved a little extra for being the brains.

  The take was only modest. “Barely four quid,” said Flynn grimly. Again he flashed her a look, as if it were her fault the dandy had only carried a pair of guineas. She’d been sure he would have a nice fat purse, and never would have decided to rob him if she’d known otherwise.

  “What else?” Vivian prodded him. He grunted.

  “One plain ring of gold, a snuffbox, two pocket watches, one jeweled, and one cravat pin with pearl.” He lined them up.

  “And?”

  He glared at her, but pulled the wretched signet ring from his pocket. “One signet ring.”

  “Of good gold, and thick and heavy,” she pointed out. “That’ll bring a guinea at least.” Beside her, Crum perked up. He had been watching with his customary glumness. Crum never said much, good or bad. He was a big thick fellow, and only in defense of Alice did he show any animation.

  “That’s not so bad, then,” he said.

  “It’s passing fair,” she said before Flynn could speak. “It’s our best take in a month.”

  His mouth twisted. He didn’t want to admit that, after the way Simon had blundered. Vivian put up her chin and met his glare head-on.

  “We ain’t sold it yet,” he growled. “It might be trouble to sell.” He was rolling the ring in his palm again. She could see he had taken a fancy to it, for all his complaints about the way Simon had gotten it. She felt a whisper of dread. One never knew what Flynn would take into his head, and he was as obstinate as a mule once he set his mind on something.

  “I’ll take it tomorrow,” she said. Best to get rid of the blasted thing as soon as possible. “I’ll take the stage from Wallingford and find a pawn shop. It’ll be just another bit of gold.” She put out her hand for all the jewels. Still glowering, Flynn scooped them up and handed over everything but the ring. She kept her hand out, waiting. For a moment they stared at each other, neither willing to give. Vivian hid her clenched free hand in the folds of her shirt; if Flynn didn’t give over the ring, came the sudden thought, she could take it as a sign that it was time for her to go. She could sell the little things, hand over Flynn’s and Crum’s and Alice’s shares, and then go away with Simon. For the space of a second, she almost hoped he would refuse to hand it over, effectively announcing his lack of trust in her.

  Flynn tossed the ring at her. With a flick of her wrist she caught it, dropping everything else in the process. Flynn barked with laughter as she collected it again, her lips pressed tight together. It was time to go, all right; she hated Flynn worse than ever then, for his mocking laugh and leering looks.

  “We need to move on,” she said abruptly. “This bit of road is too dangerous now.”

  Flynn quit laughing and frowned. “We move on when I say,” he snapped, “not until. You mind your role, girl, I’ll mind mine.”

  She swallowed the protest that leaped to her lips. She forced herself to nod, and hide her thoughts. That was her sign, she thought furiously. They nearly got nabbed by the constables, and Flynn would ignore it out of bullish pride. Because he hadn’t said it first, he would refuse to do what any sensible person would do.

  She put the valuables with her widow’s dress and got her blanket. There was a general shuffling as everyone shook out their blankets and Alice banked the fire for the night. Vivian rolled up in her blanket and lay down next to Simon. Her brother’s frame loomed larger than ever over her, and she felt another pang of worry for him. He would soon be too old to become anything but a hardened thief. In the faint firelight, she saw his crooked grin.

  “Cheer up, Viv,” he whispered. “All will be well.”

  She mustered a smile. “I know.” Somehow, someday, she supposed, it would. She would do her damnedest to make it so—beginning tomorrow, when she headed into London to sell those stolen pieces. Simon knew she was angry at him, and he knew she’d stuck up for him tonight. She couldn’t do it forever, though. Sooner or later she or Flynn would run the other through in a fury, if Flynn’s stupidity didn’t get them killed first. Long after the snores around her indicated everyone else had gone to sleep, Vivian stared at the ceiling.

  She thought about Alice, asleep beside her, lying flat on her back with her mouth open a little. Alice had an unfocused, vague look in her eyes, and Vivian dimly remembered hearing something about her being kicked in the head by a horse. Alice never complained, never protested, never said much of anything. She went about her business with plodding determination, cooking for all of them and darning Crum’s old coats and socks. Vivian supposed Alice was sweet enough, but the sad truth was that Alice was simple, and would be lost without Crum.

  Crum would be no help to her, either. He was Flynn’s man, through and through. He was kind and patient with Alice, but that was it. Flynn must have decided tolerating Alice was a fair price to pay for Crum’s unwavering loyalty, because Flynn never said a word against Alice, even when he didn’t mind tearing into Simon or Vivian for the smallest thing. It was as if Crum and Flynn had made a pact that they would leave each other alone and blame any misfortune on the two Beecham brats. As everyone knew, the Beecham brats had no one else to turn to, and nowhere else to go.

  So it was only she and Simon, and her brother was more hindrance than help at times.

  She sighed, stuffing an extra fold of the thin blanket under her head. She hated sleeping on the floor. When she had reason to take a room at an inn, Vivian went to bed early and stayed in it as long as she could. Linens, even coarse, not-entirely-clean ones, on top of a mattress, even a scratchy, lumpy, straw-filled one, made for much better sleeping than a threadbare blanket and a hard floor. In her cottage, some day, Vivian would have a nice soft bed to sleep in, even if she had to eat nothing but oatcakes for a year to buy it.

  Across the room, Flynn grunted in his sleep, and Crum snored a little louder. Alice’s still face looked corpse-like in the wan moonlight. Vivian closed her eyes, hating it all. But how was she to get away from it? She’d been a thief for most of her life, and Simon had never known anything else. What could two thieves do besides steal?

  She set off early the next morning in her worn gray dress, with some of the valuables in her reticule. Flynn and Crum still snored away, although she knew they’d be at the local pub by noon, drinking away their shares. Alice handed her a cold oatcake with a shy smile before dragging the bucket out to the brook for water. Simon alone got up and walked her partway to the nearest coaching inn.

  “Be careful, Viv,” he said as they drew near the parting point. “That cove might put out a reward.”

  She smiled. “That’s why we sell it today, see? No pawnbroker in town will know today about anything stolen yesterday.”

  He frowned uncertainly. “I know. You’re quicker at this than me, for certain. Still…” His voice trailed off as he squinted into the rising sun, breaking over the trees. “I ought to start taking care of you now, not the other way around.”

  Vivian almost rolled her eyes with impatience. “We take care of each other, and ourselves,” she said firmly. “Now get on back and tend to your chores.” Simon had the care of the horses when
they weren’t working. Vivian would take the dusty stage into town and back. Alice would cook. Flynn and Crum would sit on their fat arses all day and do nothing, or even worse, walk into town to drink away money that should last them a month or longer. Bloody fools.

  She squeezed her brother’s hand in farewell and continued into town. She counted out the coins for outside passage to London, readily telling her simple story to anyone who asked: she was a poor governess on holiday, going to visit her mother who was ill with consumption. By keeping her eyes downcast and her mouth shut, she wasn’t interesting enough to draw any notice, and arrived in London just after noon.

  She disembarked at the Elephant and Castle and made her way into London. Being back in the city always made her a bit edgy. She didn’t like it here, with a thousand people pressed close around her. It was loud and dirty in the city, at least the parts Vivian knew. She’d grown up here, but never missed it. She walked quickly with her head down, clutching her reticule tightly, until she reached the edge of St. Giles. Here the houses were more crowded and dingy, the streets filled with ragged, dirty children. Vivian especially didn’t like it here, but here were the pawnshops.

  She never visited the same one twice. She always had a different story. People in St. Giles didn’t ask many questions, but Vivian wanted to be certain no one could connect her visits. She knew she was exposed again, and she knew what would happen to her if she were caught with stolen property. So she walked and walked until her feet felt blistered, and finally found just the sort of shop she was looking for.

  Vivian pushed open the door, making her eyes wide and nervous. The shop was small and plain, but fairly clean. It looked like a place a naïve young widow would think reputable. Clutching her reticule in front of her, she took tiny, hesitant steps to the counter where a rotund, balding man of indeterminate age watched her without a trace of expression, his chin propped on one hand.

  It took only a glance to size him up. Expecting something dodgy. The sort who had seen everything and then some. She decided to try being pitiful and stupid. “Your pardon, sir,” she said in her youngest voice. “Might you be Mr. Burddock?”