A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers)

by Alissa Johnson

  Samuel nodded, then regarded her thoughtfully. “Renderwell once described you as wounded.”

  “Did he?” She made a face at that. “Can’t say I care for the description.”

  “I thought it apt at the time. But not now,” Samuel said softly. “Mending. That’s a better description for you, I think. You’re mending.” He reached for her hand and pressed a soft kiss into her palm. “It’s not an ugly scar, Esther. Not anymore.”

  * * *

  The sun was setting by the time Samuel returned Esther to the house. He left immediately after seeing her settled, claiming a need to follow up on inquiries he’d made into recent attacks in Hyde Park. And, of course, he had other, paying clients who demanded at least some of his attention.

  Remembering their kisses, and that wonderful look over the kitchen table that morning, Esther waited for his return with excited expectation. Perhaps that evening he would turn his wicked interest into wicked intent.

  She took dinner later than she would have liked, hoping he might be back to join her. Afterward, she read in the parlor until her eyelids began to droop. She might have fallen asleep right there, but Sarah’s voice pulled her from her half slumber.

  “Mrs. Ellison?” Sarah looked over from where she was holding back the edge of one parlor drape. “Mum, come here and have a look at this.”

  “What is it?”

  Esther set down her book and rose just as Sarah turned to the window again and frowned.

  “Oh, it’s gone now.”

  “What’s gone?” Esther joined her and peered into the lighted street and deep shadows beyond. “What did you see?”

  “I don’t know. A dark figure just there at the edge of the Ginley house.” She pointed at a home across the way and one door down.

  A dark figure? The hair on the back of Esther’s neck stood on end. “One of their staff?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Awful short to be a body. I thought it was one of the bushes until it moved.”

  “Maybe it was a dog.”

  “Bit tall for a dog.” She glanced over her shoulder at Harry, who was sprawled out in the middle of the floor. “Most dogs.” Her gaze shot back to Esther. “Do you think it might be someone skulking about the place?” She hunched her shoulders and bent her knees. “Crouched down all sneaky?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She thought of the men in the park. There was no reason to believe they’d followed after the attack. But the bushes down the street would be a fine place to hide and watch Samuel’s house.

  Tension pulled across her shoulders, and her heart began to beat a little faster. She leaned closer to the glass, and Sarah followed suit. For several long seconds, they stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring silently into the darkness.

  Suddenly, the drapes on one of the Ginley windows shifted, and a weak beam of light escaped to illuminate a long, thin figure in the grass.

  The women leaped back simultaneously. Esther gasped. Sarah let out a little yelp.

  The curtains moved again, and the shadow with it. The dark figure bent and curved up the nearby bushes, creating a short, squat shape.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Esther exhaled heavily and patted her chest twice to coax her heart out of her throat. “It’s just shadows from inside the house.” She looked to Sarah. “That is what you saw, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.” Sarah swallowed hard. “I think so. Blimey, that gave me a fright.”

  “And me.” She blew out another hard breath and managed a choppy laugh, amused at their silly overreaction. “The pair of us, jumpy as field mice.” She thought about that as she inhaled deeply once more and let it out slowly. “Don’t mention this to Sir Samuel.”

  “No, mum.”

  Esther nodded. “Right. Right. Cup of tea for both of us, then?”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  In the kitchen, Sarah made up a light brew that did an excellent job of soothing nerves. Esther lingered over her cup, then poured herself a second after Sarah left. Halfway through, her lids grew heavy again. She tried blinking the sleepiness away, but it was no use. She gave up the effort to wait for Samuel’s return and sought out her bed.

  Thirteen

  The next day, Esther decided that the best thing she could say about searching through records at the General Register Office was that Samuel had no objection to her participation provided she kept her veil down.

  The process itself was slow and tedious, but after much hard work, and a little bribery, they were able to obtain the location of Mr. Brumly, the former owner of 23 Rostrime Lane. They also discovered that 58 Commercial Street had, indeed, once belonged to a Mr. George Smith. It had been a grocer’s before it burned down. The property had then been sold to a Mr. Jonas Wheaton, who had built the structure currently on the premises before willing it, and a number of other properties, to a nephew two years ago.

  To Esther, it felt as if they were finally getting somewhere. At least, it did until Samuel returned to the carriage from calling on the nephew, Mr. Gregory Wheaton, at his grand town house on Arlington Street.

  “He claims not only to have never heard of George Smith but to be unaware that he has any interests in Spitalfields.” Samuel pounded on the roof of the carriage with a bit more force than Esther felt was warranted.

  “Could the records be wrong?” she asked, a little wary of Samuel’s mood.

  “Always a possibility, but I suspect his denial stems from fear for his reputation. He was very quick to see me out.”

  “He doesn’t want to admit to having any association with a place like Spitalfields,” she guessed.

  Samuel nodded and Esther made a face at Mr. Wheaton’s elegant home. “And I thought my determination to win the good opinions of others was foolish.”

  “It is.”

  She rolled her eyes at the small jab. “Thank you.”

  “The difference is that his is shameful. You’re not the sort of woman who would degrade others to elevate yourself.”

  She was stunned by the comment, unable to respond in any way but to produce a half smile, pull down her veil, and pretend a sudden interest in the passing neighborhood. She didn’t know what to do with a compliment that was at once enormously flattering and at the same time…terribly wrong.

  She had hurt others. She was exactly that sort of woman. Time and time again she had stolen from people, turned them into victims, all in an effort to raise her father’s opinion of her.

  Her shame was no different than Mr. Wheaton’s. How could Samuel believe otherwise? She slanted a covert look at him. Had he managed to justify her past transgressions in his own mind somehow? Had he turned her into a better woman than she really was? She didn’t care for the idea, but neither had she the courage to set him straight. The need to be liked, perhaps to be loved, certainly to be a sweetheart, was as strong as ever, and the notion of reminding Samuel that she was capable of being despicable held little appeal.

  It was probably unnecessary at any rate. He was clumsy with words, wasn’t he? He’d likely meant to acknowledge that she no longer hurt others for her own gain.

  This was, after all, the same man who believed he’d made a declaration of affection by announcing she could no longer go to her hotel.

  Lord only knew how the man went about choosing his words.

  She kept her thoughts to herself as they made their way to Mr. Brumly’s house, which turned out to be situated in a slightly less fashionable neighborhood than Mr. Wheaton’s. Though its size was somewhat imposing, its brick exterior had a comfortably weathered appearance, and the multitude of brightly colored flowers blooming in its small front garden lent a welcoming air.

  “I would like to go inside with you,” she said to Samuel.

  She expected him to refuse, to invent some ridiculous argument wherein their deal had been satisfied at Rostrime Lane. To he
r surprise, however, he hesitated only a moment before offering his hand to assist her from the carriage.

  Five minutes later, she was settled on a settee in Mr. Brumly’s parlor, trying her hardest not to appear ill at ease when the man himself walked into the room.

  Mr. Brumly was a tall and remarkably handsome older gentleman with a full head of silver hair, a pair of warm brown eyes behind round spectacles, and a friendly, if somewhat distracted, smile. He greeted them politely and listened with interest as Samuel related their fictitious quest to find the long lost friend of Esther’s uncle, Mr. Smith.

  “I remember your Mr. Smith,” Mr. Brumly said with a thoughtful nod. “Odd duck, that one. Good sort, but odd.”

  “As is my uncle,” Esther replied. He’d have to be, to send his widowed niece out on a ridiculous quest on his behalf.

  “In that case, if your uncle has need to let a town house, he need only come to me. I’ll take his friendship with Mr. Smith as a reference.”

  “He was a good tenant, then?” Esther asked.

  “Quite. He let the house for a year and paid the annual sum in advance. Then he left the house as immaculate as he’d found it less than three months later without asking for a coin of rent returned. All very advantageous for me, of course. But most odd.”

  Esther exchanged a look with Samuel. If her father had already paid for his rent, it was unlikely he’d left for financial reasons. At least she could cease wondering if she’d played a part in sending him to the workhouse.

  “Did he have family? Staff?” Samuel inquired.

  “Oh, let me see.” Mr. Brumly briefly tipped his head back in thought. “He had a housekeeper. Mrs. Fowler. And there was a young woman named Lydia. She was…” He gave Samuel a knowing, amused look. “A maid, I’m sure.”

  Esther took that to mean Lydia had likely been her father’s mistress. “Anyone else?”

  “There was a young lad about.” He shot another look at Samuel. “Possibly related to the aforementioned maid. I don’t recall his name. And there were two other young women employed as day maids. Their names also escape me, I’m afraid.”

  “Do you know where we might find any of these individuals?” Samuel inquired.

  “I’m sorry.” Mr. Brumly shook his head. “Mrs. Fowler went to work for another family of my acquaintance after Mr. Smith’s departure and passed on not long after. God rest her soul. She was the only individual from that household with whom I had any contact after Mr. Smith’s departure. Aside from Mr. Smith, I met the other residents only once or twice in passing.”

  “Might you have any sense of where Mr. Smith was headed after he left?” Esther asked.

  “None at all. I had nothing from him but a hand-delivered letter encouraging me to let the house to someone else at my earliest convenience.”

  Samuel leaned forward in interest. “Do you recall who delivered it?”

  “A young lad I’d not seen before or since.”

  “Do you still have the letter?”

  Mr. Brumly adjusted his spectacles, his lips turned down in thought. “I suspect my man filed it away somewhere. I’ll have him dig it out and send it to your office if you think it might be of use in your search.”

  “Thank you,” Samuel replied, getting to his feet. “We’re grateful for your assistance.”

  “I’m only sorry I could not be of more help.”

  Esther wasn’t sorry. She returned to the carriage in a light mood despite their lack of progress. They may not have been any closer to finding her father, but the visit had been far from fruitless. Her fear that her actions eleven years ago had caused irreparable harm had been laid to rest, and the letter her father had delivered to Mr. Brumly might yet prove useful.

  She could no longer ignore the possibility, however, that it might take longer to find her father than she had planned. The time to leave London was drawing ever closer. Her meeting at Paddington station was only three days away. Whether or not she found her father and discovered the identity of the mystery man, she would need to return to Derbyshire before Lottie and Renderwell returned.

  The thought brought on a new worry. If necessary, she could continue her search for George Smith from Derbyshire. She could hire Samuel in earnest, or Gabriel, or some other private investigator. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she would know she had first done what she could herself.

  But what of the rest?

  Once she left London, what would become of her relationship with Samuel? Would they remain friends? More than friends? Or would everything be set aside and forgotten the moment she left?

  She didn’t want to set it aside. She most certainly did not want to be forgotten.

  “Will you call on me in Derbyshire?” she asked suddenly and winced at her choice of words. They sounded rather like a request to be courted. “That is…will you visit?”

  He often came to see Renderwell at Greenly House, and her own cottage was nearby. That had been part of the compromise she’d made with her sister. She could have the funds to set up her own home, but she couldn’t move out of reach of Renderwell’s protection.

  Samuel gave her a wry smile. “I’m not sure your sister and Renderwell would appreciate my attentions to you.”

  “Probably not.” She wouldn’t mind their disapproval particularly, except that much of it would stem from concern for Renderwell’s sisters, some of whom were still unmarried. If she caused gossip in the village, the young ladies would suffer for it. “It is fortunate, then, that I am so often at Greenly House to visit my sister.”

  They both knew that statement was nothing short of a blatant request to see him again. And a request, Esther realized, was probably as bold as she got. She never would have been able to seduce him in the parlor. She felt terribly exposed and vulnerable. It would be so easy for him to hurt her now. So easy to humiliate her.

  She was on the verge of making light of her statement, twisting it into an offhand comment when he leaned over and lifted her veil. “I had planned on visiting in a fortnight myself.”

  “Oh.” She licked lips gone dry. “What a happy coincidence.”

  “Indeed.”

  Carrying on a romance under Renderwell’s roof seemed far more scandalous to her, but there was nothing else for it. If she wanted to see Samuel in the future, it would have to be at Greenly House.

  And she did want to see him again. She wanted more games of badminton, more quiet afternoons in the parlor, more stolen kisses and secret moments of passion. She wanted more of everything, for as long as she could have it.

  A future without Samuel was not something she cared to imagine.

  You’ll have to eventually.

  There was no ignoring the little voice this time. There was no getting around the fact that, someday, Samuel would want a family, a wife and children.

  She remembered his visits to the Walker home years ago. He used to carry her very young brother about on his shoulders and surprise him with sweets and listen with endless patience to the boy’s nearly nonsensical babbling about toys and bugs and scraped knees and elbows.

  Samuel would make a wonderful father. And, no doubt, he would one day make an exemplary husband for the right woman.

  She was not that woman.

  Esther had no interest in taking an oath to honor and obey. The prospect of relinquishing her independence to a man, any man, did not appeal to her in the slightest. And yet, when she imagined Samuel setting her aside for someone else, a terrible sense of dread settled over her.

  What would that day be like? The day Samuel Brass replaced her. Would she be ready to let him go by then? Or would she argue with him? Plead with him?

  Would she try to change herself in an effort to keep him?

  The old memory of pitiful desperation layered over the dread. And she thought… No. Never again. If and when that fateful day arose, she would face it w
ith grace and dignity, and she would face it as herself.

  * * *

  The woman was incapable of sitting still in a room for more than fifteen minutes at a time. From his seat in the parlor, Samuel watched Esther inspect a candelabra on the fireplace mantel, then wander over to peek out a window into the night, then stroll over to fiddle with one of the lamps.

  In a few moments, she would resume her seat in the delicate green wing chair across from him. He liked seeing her there, liked watching her frown in concentration over her book and steal furtive glances at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

  And then, fourteen and a half minutes later, she would be up again to meander about the room.

  He liked that too—the gentle sway of her hips, the soft swish of her skirts, the faint hint of roses when she wandered near.

  Earlier, she had wandered near enough to touch, and he’d been sorely tempted to reach out, snag her, and pull her onto his lap. But Mrs. Lanchor and Sarah had been in and out of the parlor twice in the last half hour, and while he wasn’t particularly concerned about shocking his staff, he had no interest in embarrassing Esther.

  So he contented himself with the simple, tortuous pleasure of having her near and wanting her closer.

  He had, perhaps, been letting himself enjoy it a bit too long. There was a discussion that needed to occur, one he’d been putting off since they’d left Mr. Thornhill’s house.

  “Esther?”

  She turned from flicking her fingers over the tassels on the drapes. “Hmm?”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but given what we’ve learned so far”—what little they had learned—“it appears unlikely we will find your father in the next few days.”

  She sighed and gave a small, resigned shrug. “Yes, I know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She wandered back to her chair again and sat down heavily. “I’d always known it was a possibility. A fairly good one, considering. But one doesn’t begin a challenge with the hope and expectation of failing.”

  “You’ve not failed.”