A Thief in the Nude

by Olivia Waite

  Just when Hecuba was thinking of possibly suggesting that maybe she’d been wrong, the spade went thunk. Rushmore’s dirt-streaked, sun-reddened face broke into a grin.

  A few more minutes work and they had between them a small iron box, thoroughly corroded. The shovel’s blade was sturdy enough to break the old lock off the front, and Rushmore sat back on his heels. “Would my lady care to have the honors?”

  Hecuba knelt, heedless of stains on her skirt or the damage to her stockings. The box’s lid opened on the second try to reveal a fold of weathered black cotton.

  Both Hecuba and Rushmore held their breath.

  Her hands peeled back the cloth to reveal two small gold bracelets, an enamel brooch and a pendant with a stone that might or might not have been an emerald.

  Rushmore dropped the spade, which bit angrily into the earth. “That’s it?” he asked.

  “He must have sold the others while I was growing up,” Hecuba said. “I half expected that. We never had much money—every penny would have been welcome.”

  “Well,” Rushmore grumbled, then sighed. “That isn’t the most important part of the treasure anyway .”

  “No, it’s not.” Trust an artist to think of color as treasure. Hecuba smiled and pulled out the cloth, revealing a rough nailhead on the bottom of the metal box. She pressed on it, and on the outside of the box a small drawer snicked open. There were no jewels there at all, not even tawdry ones. Instead there was a slim black notebook carefully wrapped in oilcloth.

  With reverent fingers, she turned to the first page. “Umber,” she read and flipped a bit farther. “Chrome orange. Lead white. And—yes, here it is...” She presented one page to Rushmore with an air of triumph. “Hecuba green.”

  Her husband gave a whoop and threw his arms in the air. “You said the recipe had been lost!”

  “It had been,” Hecuba laughed. “Mother knew it by heart and I’d learned many of the rest—at least the ones we could make with limited equipment—but not all of them. There are some quite good ones in here as well as the green.”

  “Hecuba, my dear,” Rushmore grinned, “we’re going to be rich.”

  “Rushmore, my love,” she retorted, “we already are.”

  Next: At His Countess’ Pleasure

  The follow-up to A Thief in the Nude! A decisive countess, a stalwart earl, a painful secret, and some light femdom. Get updates when you sign up for my newsletter, and I hope you enjoy this taste of what’s ahead.

  * * *

  Miss Anne Pym kept her eyes fixed on Rushmore House as she stepped out of the carriage. The building in front of her was white marble, gleaming in the winter sunlight like an ancient matriarch. Amazing how time could be so kind to a building, yet so unkind to a gown—Anne’s pale pink muslin had seen only three years to compare to the great house’s three decades, but where Rushmore House had silvered over with dignity, the gown had only faded and aged. Nevertheless, Anne strode bravely up the walkway while her maid Dorothy fluttered behind her like an errant handkerchief.

  The butler who answered Anne’s knock raised an eyebrow at her appearance, but admitted her and offered to show her to the parlor to wait.

  “No, thank you,” said the lady, “I shall see the earl at once, please.”

  Gently but firmly, the butler denied her.

  Anne swept by him and ascended the stairs. The butler abandoned the maid in the foyer and followed Anne, pleading in increasingly strident tones.

  Her feet never faltered.

  Though she had only been here twice before, Anne knew the way to the study. The door was open, so she sailed over the threshold without a pause and curtsied with all propriety to the man seated there.

  Simon Rushmore, Earl of Underwood, rose from his desk and waved his butler into silence. “Thank you, Phillips,” he said, not without sympathy. “Would you have Cook send up some tea for our guest?”

  “No tea, thank you,” said Anne.

  The earl nodded acquiescence. Phillips bowed, spots of red staining his decorous cheeks, and the door closed whisper-soft behind him.

  The earl tilted his head at Anne, clearly bemused. “To what do I owe the honor, Miss Pym?”

  Anne had prepared herself for precisely this moment. She folded her hands in front of her and said, “I have come, my lord, for restitution.”

  The earl’s eyebrows lifted.

  Anne didn’t wait for him to ask her to explain further. “Your brother did a great injury to my family when he seduced my cousin Hecuba and painted her...en deshabille,” she said.

  The earl sighed, not as though he’d forgotten the incident, but as though it weighed heavily on him. “He did indeed, Miss Pym, but they are married now. Surely honor has been satisfied?”

  Anne had anticipated this denial and was determined to challenge it. “Your honor may be, but ours is still tarnished. John and Hecuba only married after the scandal had run its course. There was a full month of the Season when we were all quite thoroughly shunned—left isolated, disgraced, and avoided by anyone of name.” And now that Hecuba had opened her shop and was selling paints to artists all over Britain, last year’s scandal had new life on the lips of society’s gossips this spring. A cousin in trade! Can you credit it? Who would invite her anywhere, if not to gawk? Anne realized her hands were twisting nervously together and set them into fists instead. “My cousin’s marriage to your brother may have made them both deliriously happy, but it has done nothing to restore my family’s social standing.”

  The earl grimaced, but he nodded. Quite as though she’d said something ordinary and reasonable. Anne allowed a small seed of hope to begin sprouting. “What do you suggest I do about it?” he asked. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “I assume you came here with a practical scheme in mind.”

  She had, and she was frank enough to admit it. “It’s nothing so terrible. All I ask is that you host a few dinners, maybe a party or two, and invite us as well as your usual circle. My younger sister is pretty and charming and perfectly capable of attaching some eligible gentleman. She had a few excellent prospects last Season—I’m sure it would not take long for one of those sparks to rekindle. If she were given the opportunity.”

  His eyes were cool and considering. “And what of yourself, Miss Pym?”

  The question hit a sore spot, pressing her lips into a thin line. Anne was realistic about her own capacity to allure. She had excellent posture and straight teeth and no noticeable blemishes on her skin, but no artist would ever beg to paint her portrait. She had eyes that could see well enough and a mouth that could form words and a nose that perched on her face as it was supposed to. As much as she had once wished otherwise, Anne Pym was as plain and serviceable as the brown woolen gowns she’d left behind her in the countryside.

  She knew what she was. But more importantly, she knew what she wanted.

  “I want a family,” Anne said. “I want a husband who is kindhearted and who gives me at least three children. I want to have money enough to keep fed and warm in the winter, and not to have to worry about how to pay the cook’s wages or buy new clothes for the children when they outgrow the old. I know something about money worries, my lord. My father has just enough funds left to give us one more Season in town, and I mean to make the most of it. It’s possible there are men I knew in the country with whom I could be happy, but I would prefer to spread as wide a net as possible, the better to increase the odds.” She caught her breath, having admitted more than she’d intended. It was hard not to when he was looking at her with such thoughtfulness. As if he were really listening. As if what she was saying were important. She was unused to the weight of true attention, and for the first time in her quest she hesitated. “This may strike you as being tawdry or mercenary, my lord, but I am an essentially practical person, and I suspect you value frankness highly enough to excuse any indelicacy of expression.” That’s enough, Anne, she told herself, and clamped her mouth shut.

  He watched her for a while longer, then dr
ew himself up, hands behind his back. The pose broadened his shoulders in a way that sent a quiet pulse through Anne’s veins. The earl blushed only slightly and said: “Miss Pym, would you consider marrying me?”

  Anne blinked. This she had not anticipated.

  To give herself time to think about how to respond, she turned a critical eye upon the earl’s person. Lord Underwood was only a few inches taller than she was. He was neither fat nor thin—he was simply solid, his body a set of straight up-and-down lines like a tree trunk that had access to an excellent tailor. He had a square face, held in place by a lumpy nose and weighed down by a stern chin. His eyes were dark and his hair plain brown, with a moustache that could just be termed elegant. He stood patiently beneath her examination and waited for her conclusions.

  Physical charms aside, from his behavior after her cousin’s seduction and marriage Anne knew that he had a steely sense of right and wrong and preferred to deal with problems in a head-on, forthright manner. This was someone she could lean on, yes—but he was also someone she could quarrel with if there came a need.

  She came to a quick decision. “I would indeed consider marrying you, my lord,” Anne said. “But I would also like to know why you should consider marrying me.”

  “Ah.” Lord Underwood smiled and his shoulders relaxed. “Since my brother wed, I have been thinking it is time I started a family of my own. An earl needs an heir, and since John and Hecuba moved out, the house has had an empty rattle to it. I admire your character and the fact that you are moved to pursue what you want. It strikes me that this would be a fine quality in a wife—in a countess, especially—and in the mother of my children. More personally, I think we would suit well enough—and I don’t feel particularly inclined to throw my heart upon the tender bosom of society. To parade myself before a host of strange and pale young misses, gouty fathers, and overeager mothers.” Anne, whose mother could well be encompassed by the term overeager, grimaced in sympathy. The earl leaned forward, resting one hand on the desk. “Allow me to make my case to you. My fortune more than meets the requirements you listed, and three children strikes me as an excellent number to have. Your acquiring the title of countess would redeem your family’s reputation at once, particularly since you and I would not have an initial scandal to overcome. In short,” the earl concluded, “your problem and mine could be most speedily solved if we marry.” He nodded, as though the gesture might convince her if his arguments had not.

  His logic appeared sound, but... “Are you always this—efficient?” Anne asked.

  “No,” the earl admitted, mouth quirking. “Nor always so nonchalant. I can be a little irritable at times. I have my whimsical moods, the same as any man.” He glanced away briefly, then brought those gray eyes back to meet hers. “But I feel very strongly that opportunities should be seized when they present themselves.”

  Anne nodded in approval. This was entirely in line with her own philosophy. She had always listened to her instincts, and they were speaking quite loudly at the moment. “I think we may do very well together, my lord,” she said. “Would you care to call tomorrow at tea to propose formally? I can guarantee my father will be at home.”

  “It will be a pleasure, Miss Pym,” said the earl, and held out a hand.

  They shook, and the bargain was sealed.

  About the Author

  Olivia Waite writes romance, fantasy, and science fiction, depending on the mood. She lives in Seattle.

  In addition to her fiction, she reviews romances new and old in the monthly Kissing Books column for the Seattle Review of Books.

  To get book updates, recommendations, fascinating research tidbits, and thoughtful longreads, sign up for her newsletter, which is sent out at the tasteful rate of every two months or so. You can also email Olivia at olivia.waite.books@gmail.com, or find her buzzing about on Twitter.

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  * * *

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