The Thief

by Bonnie Dee

  Jody protected his head from the next hit. Pain radiated from the spot on his forearm that absorbed the blow. He cried out.

  The strength of Lassiter’s swing and Jody’s deflection of it put the old man off balance. He planted the tip of his cane on the floor to steady himself. Jody reached out to grasp and jerk the weapon from the old man’s hand.

  Again, Lassiter staggered, and this time, he toppled toward the stove. His hand flew out, knocking the teakettle over. Boiling water splashed everywhere, dousing Lassiter and spattering Jody as well

  Jody scarcely felt this new burn as he scrambled to his feet and snatched away Lassiter’s weapon. Jody planted his feet and stood over the shrieking man. He shook from the strength of his fury and feared he was now the one ready to beat a man to death.

  But Lassiter was merely an old man lying on the floor, sobbing and clutching his injured arm to his chest. A bright red burn had formed on his temple where it must have hit the stove. His moaning and begging for mercy prompted no pity in Jody—only quiet despair. This was the pathetic ending of a criminal life. Was this the same future Jody was building for himself?

  Cradling his own burned palm, Jody stooped to finish revealing Lassiter’s loot. He snagged the canvas bag from the wall and opened the drawstring. Inside were jade and ivory and gilded knickknacks. Art objects that Lassiter had not been able to turn into cash, Jody guessed. Or maybe he’d simply collected them like a magpie coveting shiny things.

  In addition to the large bag, the cubbyhole held a lockbox. Lassiter howled like a dog as Jody took it out of its hiding place.

  “Where’s the key?” Jody demanded.

  “I lost it years ago. The box can’t be opened. That’s why I never have any money.”

  “Give me the fucking key, or I’ll smash the bloody box over your head to open it.”

  Lassiter held up placating hands as Jody towered over him. “Calm yourself. There’s no need for more violence. We have been partners for years. Surely we can come to a reasonable agreement.”

  “Open it. Now.” Jody dropped the box on the old man’s groin. Lassiter cried out as the heavy container landed on his balls.

  He sat up and, with gnarled fingers, pulled a key on a filthy bit of ribbon from around his neck. He fitted it to the box and opened the lid, revealing stacks of soiled bills and the loose coins that gave the box its weight.

  “You can’t take me life’s savin’s, son. For God’s sake, leave me with something to get by on in me old age.”

  For a moment, Jody stared at the money that had been stored in the very room where many hungry, ragged boys had slept over the years. The meals they’d missed, the coal they’d lacked, the thin coats that scarcely kept out winter’s cold, Jeremy Jones who’d died from lack of a doctor—all could have been avoided if Lassiter had used more of his ill-gotten gains to care for the boys who served him. Jody should not be surprised by the depths of Lassiter’s indifference to their needs. He’d always known it, yet had somehow kept coming back for more abuse.

  Jody snapped the lid closed and lifted the box from Lassiter’s lap. When the old man continued to hold on, Jody slapped his hands away. “You right bastard. I pray you’ll die frozen and starving in a gutter.”

  Without another word to the man who had turned him into the selfish, hardhearted thug he was, Jody left the room for the very last time. The familiar powerful urge to drink his sorrows away or to lose them in an opium haze filled him. What difference now if he gave in to oblivion and stayed there until the money ran out. Who would care?

  He shook his head to clear those insidious, dangerous thoughts. This city was poison to his system, as corrupt and foul as the fog that often shrouded it. He did not have to stay here and turn into something like Lassiter. Although the first part of his life had been tarnished, there was no reason he must wallow in filth forever. Belmont had told him that. He would buy a ticket to America and see if he could build a better life, become a better man there.

  First, he would go to Belmont’s house again and give him the money owed for Simonds’s destruction and thievery.

  But when he reached the lovely house in Mayfair, Jody hesitated to ring the bell. He wanted to beg forgiveness, but didn’t dare, and this money couldn’t pay for Cyril’s pardon

  In the end, Jody wrapped a portion of Lassiter’s loot in a handkerchief along with a brief penciled note. He crammed the shoestring-tied parcel through the mail slot before fleeing the scene like the thief he was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cyril floated trancelike up the gangplank of the ocean liner under the shadow cast by a huge smokestack. The stench of briny water, dead fish, and coal smoke served to convince him this moment was not a dream. He was about to leave his homeland, possibly forever, and embark on the greatest adventure of his life. If he weren’t still so very heartsick about Wentworth’s betrayal, he would be far more excited and nervous at the prospect.

  A week had passed since that terrible night. It was past time he gave up the melancholy that froze him like a fly trapped in amber. After Jody had left that night, Cyril had boarded up the broken windows, tended the plants, then taken to his bed—not the bed which still smelled of sex, but in his childhood room, where there was nothing to remind him of Wentworth.

  He curled up like the little boy he had been and wallowed in despair for a night and full day before anger propelled him into action. When he had called on Alden, the weasel’s admission of gambling debts matched what Wentworth had told Cyril. Alden pleaded with him to keep the debacle a secret and offered up the name of the moneylender, Jacob Lassiter.

  “Send the police to investigate the man, but please be a good fellow, won’t you, and don’t mention my involvement?”

  “What do you know about Tobias Wentworth?”

  “He is some lackey who does Lassiter’s bidding. Honestly, old chap, I apologize for my part in the matter. I’ve learned my lesson. I shall never fall so deeply in debt again. Do forgive me, for old times’ sake, eh?”

  Cyril left the man’s house under no impression that Alden would ever change. He considered confronting Lassiter at the address Alden gave, but in the end, it would not change anything. So he returned home, keeping his mind from dwelling on Wentworth by focusing on contacting a glazier to replace the conservatory panes.

  As he entered the front hall, he noticed a small package mixed in with yesterday’s post on the doormat. He had stepped over the letters on his way out, too intent on his anger to pick them up. Now he seized the package and, with shaking hands, unfolded the note attached.

  I am sorry was the entirety of Wentworth’s message. Inside the tied pocket handkerchief was a thick stack of twenty-pound notes. It was a shocking gesture that left Cyril utterly confused. Clearly, this apology and money was meant to appease him, but nothing could erase the damage done to his heart. Wentworth had destroyed his trust in others, in himself, and in illusions of love.

  Agonizing over Wentworth’s apology and whether he might have cared for Cyril just a particle was useless. Time to chart a new course for himself, which included contacting his solicitor, putting his town house on the market, and buying a ticket to America.

  Thus, within a week, Cyril ascended the gangplank of the White Star Line ship RMS Celtic. A porter ushered him to his stateroom where his baggage awaited him.

  After the porter pointed out the amenities and gave him the schedule of meals, Cyril was left alone to check on the contents of one very precious piece of luggage. Drawing open layers of newspaper inside the case, he inhaled the clean, dry odor of soil and beheld the pale green shoots of his hybrids. He’d given the rest of his orchids to Judith and Prudence and only brought these seedlings along with him to begin life in a new land—provided they survived the voyage.

  The earsplitting blare of a whistle brought Cyril to his feet. He headed toward the deck for possibly his last glimpse ever of his homeland, as he did not intend to return to England. The Belmont relatives would be livid that he’d
left without so much as a goodbye, but there was not much they could do long-distance. No more harangues about finding a suitable heiress to help him regain his fortune and good standing. His branch of the family would wither and pass from memory, dead on the vine.

  On deck, Cyril gripped the railing and fixed his gaze on the point where sea met sky, until the queasiness of motion subsided a bit.

  Uniformed staff moved among the passengers, offering ginger tea and biscuits. Cyril gratefully sipped the warm brew, nibbled a crisp biscuit, and watched plumes of smoke issuing from the smokestacks to trail behind the ship like a man’s cologne lingering after he’d left a room.

  Time was like that: the present, apparently solid, the past, a ghostly remembrance, and the future, a hazy dream. Cyril prayed someday his feelings about Toby Wentworth would be bittersweet ghosts, but at present, they still ferociously taunted him.

  He gave his empty cup to a waiter and as his gaze passed over the throng of steerage passengers on the deck below, Cyril glimpsed a man who seized his attention. Viewed from behind, the shape of the man’s head, dark hair just touching his collar with no hat or cap to cover it, and his stance as he faced the ocean seemed painfully familiar. But it must be Cyril’s imagination. Many men had hair that color, or bodies that seemed barely to contain the energy within. It could not possibly be Tobias Wentworth, the lying blackguard who tormented his thoughts.

  Still, Cyril remained watching and waiting for the man to turn so he could see his face. He would feel a fool when he beheld the man’s features and found himself wrong. Just as the cold breeze made his eyes water so he had to wipe away tears, the object of his attention turned. Cyril’s heart simultaneously plummeted to his boots and shot up into his throat to choke him.

  Below, the man moved through the crowd. Cyril moved along the rail to keep him in sight, dodging around other passengers. But a group of boisterous, drunken young men in straw boaters singing their university’s alma mater blocked Cyril’s way. By the time he was able to look over the railing again, Wentworth had disappeared.

  Immediately, Cyril began to doubt his eyes. A similarity in coloring and build was all it was, a fantasy concocted from too much emotional upheaval. The fellow was some laborer relocating to America, not the devil of his dreams.

  Cyril started toward his cabin, but before leaving the deck, he spotted a man in an officer’s uniform. “Excuse me. Might you help me with something?”

  “If you need anything for your room, one of the porters will oblige you,” the portly, red-cheeked man replied.

  “I’m afraid my question concerns a matter beyond their capacity to aid me. I would like to verify that an acquaintance of mine is onboard the ship. Might you have access to the ship’s manifest?”

  The distracted official clearly wished to return to his duties. “I imagine you shall encounter your friend in the dining room. There are not so many passengers that one does not bump into most of them before the voyage is through.”

  “Nevertheless, could you check for me, Mister…?”

  “Third Officer Charles Longbow.” The ship’s mate gave Cyril a long, curious stare as if finally registering his presence and the oddity of his question. “This acquaintance of yours must be quite important. A dear friend or a thorn in your side?”

  “A little of both,” Cyril admitted. “I imagine if I wait long enough, I shall come across him, as you’ve said, but I wish to know sooner rather than later.”

  A single eyebrow lifted. “You make me quite curious as to the urgent nature of your request. It will cost me dearly to break naval protocol, but I suppose there is little harm in merely confirming a suspicion. What is the name of your friend?”

  Cyril’s hopes deflated as he realized the name Tobias Wentworth was useless. He had no idea of his one-time lover’s true name. Nevertheless, he offered the name to Longbow. “Thank you, sir. Could you look now, please?”

  “Wait by the bridge. I will examine the list, but it may take a bit of time.”

  “I’m not certain how he would be traveling, so please check all classes.”

  Now both of Longbow’s eyebrows shot up, but he nodded before ascending the stairs to the wheelhouse.

  Cyril leaned against the metal wall—everything onboard the ship seemed hard and cold—and stared fixedly at the horizon, willing his nervous stomach under control. Nothing to fear or to worry about. So what if the fellow was Wentworth? What did it matter? He was in third class, so they would not meet.

  But if it was him, the coincidence was bizarre. Was some higher power forcing their paths to cross once more? Or was Wentworth tracking him in some way? Why would the fellow hound him? What did he want? Elaborate fantasies played out in Cyril’s mind as he anxiously awaited Longbow’s return.

  At last, the rotund fellow descended the stairs from the captain’s wheelhouse. “It wasn’t easy to get a look at the list. Had to find a moment when no one was around, which put me in quite a spot.” The mate folded his arms and stared at Cyril, waiting for the underlying message to sink in.

  “I appreciate your aid. May I pay you for your discretion in this matter?”

  “I should say about five quid for the risk.”

  Cyril blinked at the exorbitant amount. He highly doubted the crewman would’ve been sacked for simply perusing the manifest, but he wasn’t in a position to argue, so he paid the man.

  Longbow plucked the money from his hand and tucked it away in his pocket. “No one by the name of Tobias Wentworth on board this voyage. If you need any further assistance in any matter, do let me know.”

  He walked away, leaving Cyril feeling an utter fool. His eagerness had made him waste five pounds he could ill afford on a search for a fictitious name.

  That’s it! Not another thought on this matter. It’s over, Cyril scolded his irrational heart.

  He headed to his stateroom to rest before dressing for dinner, but seasickness laid him low, and he didn’t make it out of cabin for two long and miserable days.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Temptation lurked in every coat pocket, every handbag left unprotected, and every piece of silver cutlery in gleaming place settings on the white cloth-covered tables. Jody’s fingers tingled from his desire to nick an item or two, which could be sold in New York, providing a bigger nest egg than he currently possessed. Ah, but then the point of his new beginning would be lost, wouldn’t it? He’d left London to reinvent himself as an upright citizen. If he didn’t prove now he could leave his thieving ways behind, it wouldn’t grow any easier due to a change of location.

  It would be safest for him to return to the lower deck, put away his best suit of clothing, and avoid the enticements rubbing shoulders with the upper class provided. But meals in the grand dining room with its crystal chandeliers and uniformed waiters were so superior to the slop served below, Jody couldn’t bear to stop going up top for dinner. With so many half-empty tables, their occupants moaning in their berths, there was plenty of space for an interloper. Tonight, Jody occupied the seat of Mr. Reginald Owen, as the card above his plate proclaimed in gilt script. There was no one at the table to challenge his identity.

  His belly comfortably full of beef Wellington and his crystal goblet full of wine, Jody toasted the success of another fine meal. He scanned the beautifully appointed dining room, admiring the luxury a first-class ticket afforded.

  A wall of mirrors at one end extended the room’s length. Studying the well-clad diners reflected there, Jody froze. His throat constricted, and he coughed the wine back into the glass. He blindly set his goblet on the table without breaking eye contact with the man in the mirror. The music and murmur of voices in the room receded until only the pair of them existed.

  Slowly, Jody turned from the reflection to find Cyril Belmont sitting only a half dozen tables away with a spoon poised over his cherries jubilee. His dinner companion continued to talk, apparently not noticing she had lost his attention.

  The meal in Jody’s belly turned to lead. H
e felt as ill as the pathetic passengers stricken by seasickness. The sight of Belmont was such a shock, he feared he might faint like a lady in a too-tight corset. Of all the bloody ships in the entire White Star line, what were the odds Belmont would be traveling on Celtic?

  Jody rose from his seat and started toward the doors leading to the gallery. Belmont could choose to follow him or not.

  Of course he will. He must be as astounded by this coincidence as I. Or he presumes I booked the same ship in order to hound him. If so, he must think me mad.

  In the grand lounge, a number of people strolled or sat, conversing in groups or duos. Some clustered near a piano, enjoying classical music, which flowed from the pianist’s fingertips. In darker recesses sheltered by potted palms, shipboard romances bloomed. A fellow bent over a woman’s gloved hand, peering into her eyes, while she lowered her lashes and offered a seductive smile.

  Jody headed for such a bench in an alcove across the room. He sat and picked up a discarded newspaper. A few seconds later, a pair of polished black shoes appeared in his field of vision.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Belmont demanded.

  Jody swallowed his shame, guilt, and a rush of longing, fixing his expression in a neutral mask before looking up. “Same as you, I imagine. On my way to America.”

  Those soft lips he’d kissed until they were swollen and supple pressed into a grim line. “I thought I spotted you on deck the other day, but supposed it must be my imagination. Now I see you are up to your old tricks, fishing for your next target. Who are you posing as this time?”

  Jody spread his hands to indicate himself. “No one. I am myself, Jody Smith, late of Shoreditch, now world traveler. No more nor less.”

  Belmont narrowed his eyes. “I first saw you on the third-class deck, and now you’ve apparently come up in the world.”