As if a woman could do something like this, William thought. It was far more likely that one of the men the Marquess had traded with—someone he’d surely wronged—had arranged for the theft. Thomas whispered something similar to William, saying, “The man has taken money from half of London and much of the world. The fact that he sees this as such a shock is quite funny, frankly.”
“Shhh,” William returned, his eyes flashing back and forth. “You don’t want the wrong ears to hear you.”
“It is with great regret that I say we must end the evening early,” the Marquess continued. “Please, file out, past my butlers and servants. Please know that I must have them assess anyone who seems—shall we say—suspect, with regards to the theft. If you’ll only play by the rules, we can all get through this simply and easily. We’ll have our jewels back, along with our perpetrator. And the rest of you can be on your way.”
William felt a soft groan escape his lips. Several lines began to form to lead them out of the ballroom. Everyone fell into a strained whisper, giving their assessment of the situation at hand. The air was taut, accusatory. Surely, almost everyone had an idea of who they thought had taken the jewels. No one would throw another under the bus, as, if he or she were wrong, there was no coming back from it. The rift between the parties would be forever.
Thomas forced himself into line immediately behind Tatiana, leaving William a few heads back, near Lady and Lord Arnold, Harriet’s mother and father. William realised he still hadn’t spotted Harriet in their midst. Of this, both her parents whispered, their words edged with panic. “Did you see where she went?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“It’s not as though we should have to watch her.”
“I’m just worried—she’s been so volatile lately. You don’t think?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
William followed the line towards the edge of the ballroom. Once there, a butler with a pointed chin swept his hands across William’s chest and back pockets, hunting for the heaviness of the Marquess’ Parisian jewels.
William coughed, his nostrils flared. The butler lent him a cold expression, one that informed William just how little he, himself, wanted to do the act. William shoved forward towards Thomas, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing it on the back of his neck. The crowd milled from the foyer, pouring onto the front staircase that led towards the carriage lines.
“What a wretched ending.” This, the voice of Zelda, rang out from somewhere to William’s left. Her head was dipped to none other than Harriet’s.
Between Harriet’s eyebrows had formed a deep crinkle, showing her interest, perhaps her confusion. “It truly is. Who do you suppose might have taken them?”
Zelda churned a finger through one of her spiral-curls, batting her eyes across the crowd. “Really, who would do such a thing? I don’t know a man amongst us who would be so wretched as to thieve. From right under their noses!”
“It’s almost as though this person understood the method by which the Marquess secured the jewels himself,” Harriet murmured, barely loud enough for William to hear.
At this, William turned his head fully towards Harriet, watching as her green eyes sparkled. He froze, his lips parted. As his heart thudded in his throat, Harriet’s mother and father forged through the crowd towards her, whispering, “It’s time for us to find the carriage and return home, darling. As soon as possible.”
For reasons William couldn’t fully explain, Harriet’s eyes pierced through the crowd and found his. She lent him a slight smirk, one he found difficult to translate. Then, she swung her head towards the door, allowing her parents to guide her towards the darkness that awaited. William felt frozen, his feet plastered to the marble beneath him.
Had she just been trying to tell him something?
No. Surely not.
Only that—perhaps—Harriet felt precisely what William felt. That the Marquess didn’t deserve such finery. That the man was a wretched excuse for a high-society figure. It was difficult to pity the Marquess and his wife when they were surrounded with endless finery.
“William! Hello! William!”
Thomas’s voice rang out, tearing through William’s thoughts. “William! We really must be going.”
William had completely forgotten about Thomas. “Oh. Of course. Where is Tatiana?”
“She’s—been drawn away,” Thomas said. His cheeks brightened, making him look childlike and drunk. “It’s really necessary for us to—I mean … I would really appreciate it if we …”
“Shall we return to mine for a nightcap?” William asked, knowing full-well he didn’t wish to sit up with his own anxious thoughts, either.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
William spent the majority of the next hours sipping whisky with slow, methodical motions, listening to Thomas prattle on about Tatiana, yet feeling his own thoughts slip further and further into ones of Harriet. The zeal with which she demanded that butler’s attention—why? What on earth was she looking for? What was she trying to prove? And it was clear it had very little to do with her upbringing, with her relationship to her parents. Her parents regarded her as a loose cannon and seemed unwilling to allow her out on her own for long.
“She’s a mystery.” Thomas sighed, midway through his monologue about Tatiana, one that William had had very little time or inclination to interrupt. “I suppose all women are.”
Chapter 11
It was sometime after midnight when it happened.
Hardly a soul spotted it: a dark figure on horseback, clopping across cobblestones, covered with puddles that reflected the moon above. The horse paused at several street corners, allowing the figure atop it to lurch down a bit, peering at the various faces of the creatures that lived in the midst of these streets—like urchins, in the underbelly of society. Each of the humans on the street was wrapped tight in thick blankets, shivering against the chill of the night.
The horse clopped forth until it paused for a longer period in front of the mighty church steps. The figure swirled from horseback, tapping boots onto the cobblestones. The figure’s black cape swirled back as it stepped towards the staircase, pausing in front of a crumpled-looking beggar woman. The woman didn’t lift her head. Rather, it seemed she was sleeping—strewn out across the base of the steps, yet still shivering in deep slumber.
The figure paused before her for a long moment. Then, the figure reached a gloved hand into a pocket and drew out a large pouch, heavy and drooping. The figure placed the pouched alongside the beggar woman, in the shadow of one of her bent knees. Then, without another pause, the figure swept back towards the horse, mounted it, and clopped away.
The moment the horse disappeared through a back alley, the beggar woman’s eyes flickered open. They were glossy and almost yellow from lack of nutrition. She smeared her dirty fingers across her knees, her bones aching. When she forced one of her legs out before her, straightening the bone, she felt the pouch beneath her.
At first, she almost leapt with surprise. She crept to the side, peering down at the pouch. Her craggy hand wrapped around the top of it, pressing down until she felt the hardness of the objects within. Her lips formed a round O.
What on earth?
Her eyes flashed to and fro, as though searching for whoever was playing some sort of potentially horrendous trick on her. Then, she drew the pouch from the stairs and dropped it onto her lap. With delicate motions, she opened the pouch, making its mouth wider and wider.
Within, she found a pile of sparkling jewellery.
Her breath caught in her throat. Without uttering a single sound, she lifted a long string of pearls from the pouch, allowing it to be reflected in the night. Beneath the pearls were bright green earrings—were they emerald? Then, three other gold necklaces, fit for a queen, and even a tiara, which seemed outside the bounds of any kind of reason.
What were these items doing on Bond Street in the middle of the night?
&nbs
p; Why had they appeared beneath her in the midst of her slumber?
The woman felt too frightened to remain where she was. Perhaps this was a trap—set to trick her into admitting she’d stolen jewels?
Otherwise, it was an act of God.
Someone—for the first time in her entire wretched life—was looking out for her.
The woman slipped the pouch deep within her coats, of which she wore three, and then surged to her feet. With quick motions and fast, child-like feet, she rushed from Bond Street, heading towards a far different, quieter alleyway, where she could think and pray about what to do next.
Her entire life had changed in the blink of an eye. And she hadn’t a clue who to thank for it.
Chapter 12
It was difficult for Harriet to sneak back into her home. The moon shone far too bright over the stables, making her feel incredibly exposed. When they reached the door, she swirled from the horse and latched her hand around the reins, guiding the black mare through the shadows.
Occasionally, a slice of the moon would pierce over her cheeks from above, where a piece of the stable wood had broken off. She blinked into the stunning light, feeling as though God himself had caught her in the act.
Her heart beat wildly, drumming up near her tongue.
Luckily, when she appeared in the back of the stables, she found that the stable boy was still asleep, just as he’d been when she’d taken the horse earlier that evening. He shifted in the hay, moving his thumb closer to his lips. Harriet sniffed, struggling not to laugh.
In the wake of such a dramatic evening and night, seeing the little boy neglect his stable duties felt like such a silly thing. She bent low and drew a blanket over his lithe frame. She prayed he would awaken before the other stable hands found him in the morning, ready to rip into him for sleeping.
She watered the horse, watching as the mare rustled his mouth into the tin pail. She brought her fingers over his soft nose, so reminiscent of a rabbit her father had once allowed her to keep for a time.
Harriet entered the back of the mansion on tender feet, removing her shoes before they clattered with too much noise. She held them aloft to the side, feeling her black cape sweep behind her. She nearly stumbled on it, as it was far too long, suited only for riding whip-fast through the night.
At the staircase, she felt a smile creep across her cheeks, something she didn’t plan. She felt a rush of excitement, knowing that, perhaps for the first time in her life, she’d done something pure, something good. Something she could truly be proud of.
In her bedroom, Harriet struck a match to give herself a flickering bit of light. She blinked with horror into the mirror, remembering, with a jolt, that she’d given herself a last-minute black mask, made of fabric.
The image was gruesome: her hair curling wildly around her ears, the black fabric smeared over her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, with two cut-outs at her eyes. With a tender motion, she brought the fabric from her face, revealing the bright porcelain beneath. A bright smile echoed back.
She was delirious with pleasure.
Harriet undressed quickly, shoving her black cape deep into the closet, so that no maid or her mother would guess that it had been of use. She drew her nightgown over her shoulders and shivered against the soft fabric, grateful to be home, to be safe. Draping herself across the bed, she closed her eyes, allowing the back of her mind to dance with whatever it pleased.
To her surprise, one of the first images to drum up was one of Lord William Abernale.
Dark curls. A crooked, almost-sarcastic, yet eternally handsome smile. Bulging muscles beneath her slight hands.
Naturally, he’d been one of the most handsome men at the ball. This was a given.
And yet, there was so much more to him than that.
The way he’d approached her, in the midst of her tirade against the butler. The way he’d fabricated some sort of story, drawing her away from him. The way it had already seemed like they were a team.
But soon, these girlish fantasies were replaced in her mind with far different, far more exciting images.
Harriet imagined the poor beggar woman awakening to the pouch, parting its lips and finding the stunning jewels within. Where could the woman’s mind have gone, at that moment! Harriet felt sure the woman had never seen such grandeur in her life.
Harriet drew her palms together and began to whisper a prayer, one that made her heart ache with yearning. She prayed that nothing ill would befall the poor woman again; that she would know how to sell the items in the pouch to never go hungry again, to bring a roof over her head.
She prayed that with this boost of wealth, the woman could find a community who cared for her, perhaps a love to call her own. Perhaps she could find her children, even leave London, if she wished, or seek an old best friend, someone who would allow her months to rest and recuperate from her long months on the streets.
Without her luck, Harriet hadn’t a clue where she might have ended up. As it stood, she was the only daughter of a Duke: a man with a quick laugh, a decent sense of right and wrong, and yet no will to push for the betterment of mankind.
It was up to Harriet to ensure women like that beggar on the street didn’t go hungry.
It was up to her to right the wrongs of the upper class—especially those of the Marquess—and bring the fruits of their non-labour to the people of the streets.
Every single muscle and limb in her body buzzed with excitement. This was finally a purpose for her. A reason for her to rise in the morning (and sneak out in the evening).
All she had to do was wait, listen, and hunt for her next victim.
No one was safe.
Chapter 13
Harriet rode wildly through a glittering summer day in London, her light brown hair whipping behind her. On either side of her hung enormous bags, filled to the brim with jewels, pearls, emeralds. They cast the light off them, making music as they jangled together. Around her, homeless people crowded, their hands lifted towards her and their eyes alight. “HARRIET! SHE’S HERE!” they cried, each one clambering over the other, aching to touch her. Harriet was forced to slow the horse. She bowed her head to as many of the faces as she could, acknowledging each of them. How she yearned to tell them: Yes. You. I see you. I’ve always seen you, and yet now, I’m finally doing something about it. You will live. You will be taken care of.
At the far end of the crowd, a dark figure hung over them. The figure was hooded, dark, a mere shadow in the midst of everything else. Harriet peered at the figure curiously, noticing how similar it seemed to herself, when she’d embarked in the middle of the night to deliver the jewels to the homeless woman at the church. Show yourself, she wanted to cry.
And as though she had, the figure drew his enormous hands to his hood and swept it back, revealing a mighty head of dark black curls and a thick beard. It was William Abernale, and he gazed at her with tremendous emotion. His eyes seemed hazy with tears. He opened his thick lips to speak, words Harriet felt would surely bless her with their power.
But suddenly, Harriet felt herself shaken. Little hands appeared upon her stomach, her shoulders. She blinked several times, feeling as though she was falling down an enormous crater. She coughed and sputtered, then fully opened her eyes to find herself in her own bed, back at home at the estate. Sunlight streamed in through the opened drapes. And the hands, they belonged to her cousins. Both Renata and Zelda appeared on either side of her, peering down at her curiously.
“What was it you were mumbling about?” Renata asked, giggling. “You sounded outrageous!”
“You said something about—about jewellery?” Zelda said, her voice lifting.
Harriet bolted upright and tugged herself towards the hardwood of the headboard. She slipped her sweating palms down her white nightgown. She glanced at her legs, which were speckled a bit with the mud from the previous night’s ride.
A Ravishing Beauty in Disguise: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 9