“Sometimes it helps to acknowledge a sore spot before moving on.” He made a prompting motion with his hand. “If we could move on.”
“Right.” She cleared her throat and fixed her eyes on the carpet in front of her feet. “When I was seventeen, my father…that is, Will Walker, came to me with a plan to burglarize a house on Rostrime Lane.”
“I see.”
No doubt he did. She risked a glance at him and relaxed a little when she still saw neither anger nor judgment. “At the time, I thought it odd. He’d given up climbing in and out of windows years ago. Too much risk and not enough profit, he said. But he was adamant we should go through with the job, and I was eager to please.”
“He was your father.”
He offered that as a kind of excuse, and she wished she could accept it. Some mistakes, however, could never be excused. “I kept watch outside whilst he slipped inside and out again with a satchel full of trinkets. Candlesticks, silverware, that sort of thing. We pawned them that night.”
“Through Horatio Gage?”
The brutal gang leader she and her father had worked with during their last few years in London. Gage had been the one to turn a diamond theft into the kidnapping of a duchess and the one to shoot her father in the back. Gage and several of his gang members had eventually wound up on the gallows.
“Yes. Gage offered a third of their worth, six pounds. Father didn’t even bother haggling. He was in such a fine mood. I’d never seen him look so pleased with himself. So smug.” She could still see that bright, bright smile on his face. “He insisted we celebrate with drinks at the tavern.”
“Doesn’t sound like him.”
“No. I thought it strange, too.” Will Walker couldn’t hold his liquor, and he knew it. As a rule, he’d avoided all but the occasional glass of wine. “But, as I said, he was happy, and I was delighted to be a part of that happiness. Three drinks in, he handed me the six pounds, less the cost of our drinks, and told me it was my inheritance. Courtesy of my real father, Mr. George Smith of Rostrime Lane.”
Then he’d laughed and laughed while she’d sat there staring at her pieces of silver.
“I’m sorry,” Samuel said softly.
Though she didn’t want it, she picked up her cup again and sipped the last, cold bit of tea. “I stole from my own father.”
“Did you come to London to apologize?”
“I don’t know.” She stared at the soggy bits of tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. “I never spent what was left of the six pounds. It’s been sitting at the bottom of my hope chest for eleven years, waiting for me to… I don’t know. Make a decision, I suppose.” And she’d made a decision when she’d moved out of Greenly House. “I want to give it back. I want to give back every shilling I helped take from him.”
“I think that’s commendable.”
She managed a small smile at the encouragement but wondered if he’d feel the same once she finished. “Do you know the worst part?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “I kept going. I hated Will Walker after that night, but I kept helping him. I helped him every time he asked.”
“He was your father,” he offered again.
“He was Lottie’s as well. She stopped.” There were times she wondered if Will Walker’s preference for Lottie’s company had less to do with parentage and more to do with the fact that Lottie was simply a better, more likable person.
“As I recall, your father had a different sort of relationship with your sister.”
“He adored her. Or gave a very good impression of it. Difficult to say with Will.” Nothing about Will Walker could be trusted. Charismatic, brilliant, and unpredictable, he’d been the center of their isolated world. The sun and moon revolved around that one man. With a single look, he could make a young girl feel like she was the most important thing in the universe. He could make her feel invisible and worthless just as easily.
She shook her head at the memory of how significant that one small man had been to her. “I told you I wasn’t angry about how things turned out all those years ago, and I’m not. But I was angry with you at first for inserting yourselves into our lives. I was angry because your presence diminished his. There you were, the three of you, so strong and righteous in your pursuit of justice.” The stuff of fairy tales. “And there was my father, sneaking about the shadows like a weasel. He was terribly small and petty by comparison. And that made me even smaller, my desperation to please him even more pathetic.”
“It was never pathetic.”
“It was. It was,” she repeated with more force before he could object again. “And eventually that might have been enough to turn me from the life he wanted me to lead, but he died before I drummed up the courage to tell him to go to the devil.” She let out a small sigh. “I lost the chance.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But that’s the problem,” she whispered. “I wasn’t. I wasn’t sorry he was dead, and I wasn’t sorry I’d lost the chance. I was relieved.” She set the cup down again and briefly pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “God help me, I was just so relieved to have the decision taken out of my hands. I was free of him, free of all of it, and I didn’t have to lift a finger to see it done.” She dropped her hands. “The decision was made for me. No courage required.”
“There’s no shame in experiencing a spot of luck.”
“It was the coward’s way out, even if it wasn’t of my own choosing. I didn’t want to be that girl again, and now I don’t want to be the woman who hides in the shadows and hopes all the hard decisions are made for her.”
“You’re not.”
She had been today. “I didn’t go in that house with you. I was supposed to go in. But I got so scared, and you were there. I let you do it for me.”
There was a pause before he said, “And?”
“What do you mean, ‘and?’” Wasn’t he listening? She’d been a coward.
His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “What’s wrong with letting a friend help?”
“It’s not help when it’s doing all of the work. Besides, it was important I do this for myself.”
“And so you would have done,” he replied with confidence. “Had I not been there.”
“You don’t know that.” She didn’t know that.
“You wouldn’t have come all the way to London only to give up on Rostrime Lane. You might have stood outside arguing with yourself for a good long while but, eventually, you would have knocked on the door.”
“But I didn’t.” That was the salient point.
“You didn’t have the good long while to argue, did you?”
“No, but—”
“Were you relieved that I went in your stead?”
“No,” she replied, a little surprised to realize it. “No, I wasn’t.”
“There you have it.”
“I—” She wanted to argue with him. Yes, she’d not been relieved to take the coward’s way out, but that hardly excused her lack of bravery. There came a point in a conversation such as this, however, where continued objections began to sound like frantic bids for reassurance, even compliments.
Tell me again how blameless I am. Convince me.
That wasn’t fair to Samuel and wouldn’t be good for her.
She gave him an appreciative smile. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll think on it some. Thank you.”
He made a face and rose from his chair. “Right. Fetch your veil. We’re going back.”
“What? Back to the house? Today?”
“Right now,” he replied, coming to stand in front of her.
“But we can’t. You only just left. What reasons could I possibly give for coming back?”
“You’re a clever woman. You’ll think of something on the way.” He held out his hand to assist her from the seat and sighed when she didn’t immediat
ely take it. “Esther, if you don’t go back and see this done, you’ll always regret it. Clearly, nothing I can say will change that.”
He was right. If she didn’t fix this now, she could very well find herself back in London a decade from now, once again trying to free herself of old regret.
She gave him a sheepish smile. “Once we arrive… I might need to argue with myself a bit first.”
“I’ve the afternoon free, as it happens. Take all the time you like.”
This time when he offered his hand, she accepted it.
* * *
Esther went into number twenty-three alone. She didn’t need to argue with herself first, as she’d feared, and Samuel didn’t insist he come along, as she’d expected.
The master of the house, Mr. Thornhill, was a harmless old gentleman, he assured her. She’d be safe so long as she kept to the story Samuel had given and kept her veil down.
The staff greeted her with friendly, if slightly confused, smiles and ushered her into the front parlor. She took in the small room with its comfortably worn furniture and tried not to picture Will Walker sneaking about the place in the dark, slipping items into his bag. They’d not stolen from this couple. Her father had never laid eyes on these things, and yet she felt guilty all the same, because he would have. He would have stolen the lovely little clock on the mantel without a moment’s thought, and she would have helped him.
She shouldn’t be here.
Mr. Thornhill didn’t appear to begrudge the unexpected visit. An older man with a protruding belly and a puff of white hair, he smiled broadly at her as they took their seats.
“You are Sir Samuel’s client, then?” Mr. Thornhill inquired. “He mentioned a widow in search of a lost uncle. Or was it your uncle’s lost friend? I do apologize. My memory is not what it once was.”
“My uncle’s lost friend,” she replied. “My uncle would search for Mr. Smith himself, but his health is failing. He wants very much to reestablish a correspondence with his childhood friend whilst he is still able. I know Sir Samuel has already made inquiries on my behalf, but I had rather hoped to find your wife at home. I understand she was unavailable this morning.”
It was not the most creative of excuses for her visit, but it was believable.
“Mrs. Thornhill left a half hour ago, I’m afraid. She’ll be disappointed to have missed both visitors today.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” It might have been helpful to speak with the woman. As it was, she was left searching for any inquiry Samuel may have neglected to make in his earlier visit. “I was wondering, Mr. Thornhill, might Mr. Smith have left behind an item or two? A personal token such as a letter or—”
“Funny you should ask. Sir Samuel inquired after the same this morning and I told him there was nothing about the house, but then Mrs. Thornhill reminded me of this.” He hefted himself out of his seat and retrieved a pocket watch and fob from the drawer of a nearby desk. “Found it when we first took possession of the house from Mr. Brumly. He didn’t recognize it. Said it must have belonged to a previous tenant. We put it away in a cupboard thinking its owner might come back for it. That must have been…oh, many, many years ago. Quite forgot about it.”
She accepted the watch from him and stared at the large, elaborate letter B engraved on the case. “It’s the wrong initial, I’m afraid.”
“And so I told my wife. But she says, sometimes, the initial isn’t that of the owner’s, but of someone important to the owner. A gift from a wife, a son, or a daughter.” He gave her a playful wink she imagined he’d not have dared with an unmarried woman. “Or a sweetheart.”
Generally, such a gift would include a small inscription placed out of the way. One inscribed the inside of a ring in such a manner or put a few heartfelt words on the back of an item. One did not brand one’s initial on the front. Then again…
The letter B was her mother’s first initial. And her mother was just the sort of woman to brand a gift. She caught Mr. Thornhill’s questioning gaze. “Oh, my uncle once mentioned that Mr. Smith was briefly engaged to a Miss Brines. She passed away before the wedding.”
“How tragic. Perhaps he engraved the watch himself, in memory of her.” Mr. Thornhill shook his head sadly. “It must have torn his heart to have lost it.”
“Yes, I imagine it did. Mr. Thornhill, if you would allow me to purchase this from—”
“Purchase? I won’t hear of it. It’s not mine to sell, is it? You take it. Give it to Mr. Smith when you find him. Better yet, have your uncle return it to him.” He nodded, pleased with the idea. “There’s a fine start to a renewed friendship, eh?”
“I can’t. It may not even belong to Mr. Smith.”
“Then send it back, if you like. Mind you, it won’t be doing me and the wife a spot of good, sitting on the cupboard shelf.”
“But it has value. Let me pay—”
“I mean no offense, Mrs. Ellison, but that watch isn’t worth the time it would take out of my day to sell it. It’s not of the highest quality.” He reached over to lightly pat her hand. “You take it for now. If you can’t find your Mr. Smith, maybe it’ll bring your uncle a bit of comfort to have something of his friend’s to keep.”
She couldn’t claim to be an expert on men’s watches, but she’d helped her father steal and fence a few, and she was fairly certain the old man was deliberately understating its value. The watch had a bit of wear and tear, but it could be pawned for a few pounds at least. But Mr. Thornhill was determined to be generous, refusing several more offers of payment, until Esther was finally forced to accept the watch as a gift.
“Thank you. This means a great deal to me. To my family. Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure.”
* * *
Once inside the carriage again, Esther pulled the watch from her bag and handed it to Samuel. “He had this. I think it may have been a gift from my mother.” She tapped the enormous engraved B. “Beatrice. My mother didn’t like to be forgotten.”
Samuel let out a low whistle. “That is a bold reminder.”
“She was a bold woman.”
He took the watch from her and studied it carefully, turning it over in his hands. “It’s too old.”
“What? What do you mean? How do you know?”
“The case is fifty years old at least.”
“Is it?” She snatched the watch back as disappointment set in. “How can you tell?”
“The design mostly. The wear as well. Although it is possible she bought it secondhand and had it inscribed.”
“Oh, yes, of course. It may have already been inscribed, for that matter.” Her mother would have appreciated the convenience of a ready-made gift. “Realistically, there’s every possibility that it’s not connected to my family at all. Still…” She fiddled with the watch a moment longer, then opened her bag and dropped it inside.
“Do you feel better for having come back?” Samuel asked.
“I do.” She felt a tremendous sense of relief. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“It was no trouble.” He regarded her with an inscrutable expression. “I was thinking about something whilst you were inside.”
“Oh?” She felt a thrill of excitement, and her blood warmed with a sudden awareness of his closeness in the carriage. Was he thinking of the way he’d been staring at her at breakfast, his piercing eyes so full of wicked interest? She certainly hoped so.
Just in case his thoughts ran in that direction, she tugged the corner of the drapes firmly closed. Carriages were such wonderfully confined contraptions, and so conveniently private.
She leaned forward a little, and caught the subtle spice of his soap. “What were you thinking?”
“Do you remember when we found the diamonds Will had stolen from the duchess?”
She sat back again, deflated. This was not the direction she’d been hopin
g his thoughts had taken. “Difficult to forget.”
“You were upset that Will had broken the tiara so it would fit behind the picture frame,” Samuel said. “You wanted it repaired before it was returned to the family, and you insisted on paying for the repairs yourself.”
Rightfully so. She’d played a role in stealing the tiara, and then her father had destroyed it, wholly unconcerned with the skill and talent that had gone into creating such a magnificent piece of art. The philistine. “I remember. What of it?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and tender. “You can’t hope to repay every shilling you helped your father steal.”
Esther blinked once at the endearment.
To the best of her recollection, no one had ever called her sweetheart before. Nor darling, pet, poppet, love, or any of the countless little terms of affection she’d heard other men offer their wives and daughters. She’d simply never been any of those things to a man. Any man.
She had the most extraordinary reaction to Samuel calling her sweetheart. Her lips curved involuntarily, her heart sped up, and a swell of pleasure built in her chest. She suddenly felt more important, special, singled out in the best possible way.
It was a silly response to what was likely an offhand comment, but that didn’t seem to matter. She very much liked being Samuel’s sweetheart.
She wished she could take the time to savor the feeling, but Samuel was looking at her expectantly, waiting for a response.
“I know I can’t repay every shilling,” she replied. “I don’t even know the names of anyone else I helped swindle. But I know his. I can repay him. I have to try.” She shrugged. “It isn’t always enough to be sorry. There is something to be said for putting a bit of effort into atonement.”
“So there is. There is something else I didn’t ask before we left. Why did you lie about how you came to know Mr. Smith was your natural father? Why didn’t you tell me about the six pounds?”
“For the same reason you didn’t want me to shave your beard.”
A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) Page 17