“You’re a monster! How can you do this?”
“Have you any idea how many horses are in London? Do you think people want to be stepping over rotten and smelling carcasses everywhere they turn? We provide a much-needed service.”
She heard the defensiveness in his tone, which made her feel peevish because she knew the truth of his words, knew something had to be done with the ancient and feeble steeds. “But Sophie is neither rotten, smelly, nor near death.”
“You should have thought of that before you goaded her.”
His words stung more than her hand did after hitting him. “You’re horrid!”
Ignoring her outburst, he strode past her, opened the stall gate, and slipped a noosed rope over Sophie’s head and secured it about her neck, affectionately rubbing the area. “Come on, pretty girl.”
He led her out. Lavinia rushed forward and wound her arms around her mare’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Sophie. So very sorry. I’ll never forget you. I’ll always love you, sweet girl.” Then she looked at the young man. “Please don’t let her be frightened.”
Sympathy and sorrow wove themselves through his brown eyes. “I’ll sing her the sweetest lullaby ever heard.”
“She’ll like that.” After planting a kiss on Sophie’s neck, taking one final deep breath of her fragrance, Lavinia stepped back, nearly crying out at the pain tightening her chest.
She watched as he led Sophie toward the wagon with its wooden enclosure, suspecting not all horses were in a position to take themselves where they needed to go, and that traveling in what looked to be a small plain cottage provided them with a bit of dignity. He urged her up the plank and closed the partial door on her. Lavinia’s final look at her beloved horse was her rump and the swishing of her tail as she was being carted off to be summarily executed, like one of Henry the Eighth’s doomed wives.
As the wagon rumbled slowly through the streets toward the slaughter yard, Finn Trewlove shifted his backside over the wooden bench and tightened his hands in frustration on the reins. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called to a posh house to dispose of a horse that appeared perfectly healthy. The nobs didn’t like it when a mare tossed off a precious daughter or a gelding took a nip at their valued heir’s arse. Still, it irritated the devil out of him when good horseflesh had to be put down for stupid reasons.
But he’d told the lass true. He was paid ten shillings to dispatch the creature to heaven, and if it was discovered he hadn’t, his boss could forfeit his license and Finn would lose not only his position but his ability to find employment elsewhere, because who would trust him after not carrying out orders dictated by law? No cheating of the customer was allowed. The taking of a horse that was to be put down was theft. He wasn’t going to risk going to prison, no matter how pretty the girl, no matter how green her eyes—the greenest, prettiest he’d ever had the pleasure to look into. Even if they were filled with anger directed at him, when it should have been directed at herself. Silly chit, to hasten a horse’s end by goading her and then begging Finn to spare the beast, as though he had a choice in the matter.
He didn’t. At the depot, they were expecting the horse and the ten shillings. It would be killed with one swift blow of an axe. Normally he found comfort knowing that the end came swiftly and mercifully.
But the girl, blast her—he could still see the tears glistening in her eyes—made him feel guilty about his current occupation. It paid well, but it wasn’t where he planned to spend his entire life. He was one and twenty, had saved a good bit of money, and would soon be moving on to better things. But no amount of moving on was going to stop him from being haunted by the sorrow reflected in those green, green eyes.
That night, near midnight, in the mews outside the Earl of Collinsworth’s massive residence, Finn stood with his black burglary bag resting near his feet. In his youth, he’d gotten involved with an unsavory group of lads. He’d been fifteen when his mum had discovered what he was about and had nearly flayed the skin off his backside with her switch—even with his britches still covering the sensitive flesh. She hadn’t taken him in when no one else wanted him and kept him alive all those years to see him rotting in prison or dangling from a hangman’s noose. To placate her he’d left the trade of burglarizing but kept the tools he’d purchased as well as the skills he’d acquired, never knowing when either or both might come in handy.
He’d been studying the residence for a couple of hours now, striving to determine which bedchamber was hers, but the girl never peered out a window. Based on the glow occasionally coming from between the draperies, he’d been able to narrow the possible windows down to eight, but not knowing the size of the rooms, he couldn’t be certain he had the right of it when it came to their number. In a residence as large as this one, some of the chambers were bound to have more than a single window. Hedges lined the walls, but no trees were near enough to the house for him to climb up and take a peek inside.
Hence the tools. He was going to break into the lord’s manor.
He’d considered stopping by tomorrow afternoon and asking to talk with the girl about the fate of her horse but had decided he was safer with a clandestine meeting because absolutely no one except the girl could ever know what he’d done. A lord who sent a horse to its doom for tossing his daughter from the saddle might not take too kindly to a commoner asking to speak with said daughter, especially when Finn was hoping their little meeting would result in her traveling with him. The rationale had all made sense when he’d been tossing back beer in his sister’s tavern, although he suspected come morning, when a clearer head was to be found, he’d realize he was every manner of fool.
But that was for tomorrow. For now, he wasn’t so far into his cups he couldn’t sneak stealthily into the house. He’d watched the lights going out one by one until not a speck was visible, so he was rather certain all the inhabitants, including the servants, were finally abed. The larger the residence, the better it was for burglarizing because so much of it was abandoned at night that a thief could easily wander about, lifting goods without ever running into another soul.
Hefting his bag over his shoulder, pulling his cap down low, he crept toward the massive manor that was the sort he planned to live in when he was older, when he’d made something of himself. As much as he hated his current occupation, he loved working with the horses and hoped, with a bit of luck, to own a horse farm someday where he could breed and train the noble beasts. It wasn’t a fancy dream, but he’d rather be his own man, work for himself, not have to answer to another. However, dreaming was for another time. At that precise moment he needed to focus on not getting caught.
When he reached the servants’ door, he quietly lowered his bag to the ground, opened it, and pulled out a small lantern, enclosed on three sides, with a tiny hole on the fourth that allowed only a minimum of light to escape. After using a match to light the candle within, he held it up to the lock, grateful to see it was one he was quite skilled at unlocking. He had the tools to pry open a window or to cut away glass when prying wouldn’t work, but opening a lock was always the better choice, especially in this case. If the unlocked door was discovered, a servant would be taken to task for not securing the home properly, but that was preferable to leaving glaring evidence that someone had indeed entered uninvited. Removing the small satchel containing his picks, he went to work and less than a minute later he was through the door. He left his bag on the stoop because he wouldn’t be taking any treasures with him.
Although it was tempting, so damned tempting, to lift a vase here or an ornate box there as he made his way quietly through the residence, holding his lantern aloft to guide him. Now and then the light would shine on some fancy object he knew probably wouldn’t be missed. The nobs had so many blasted knickknacks, as though filling their house with useless things would disguise the fact their lives were lacking in some regard. On occasion, after he’d ransacked a residence, no one ever noted the absence of the silver candlesticks, trinkets, or figurines he’d nicked. Coppers had never been sent for. He’d known because he’d taken perverse pleasure in keeping an eye on the house just to see if any frantic activity occurred the following morning. He’d prided himself on getting away with the thievery, had thought eventually he could become the greatest burglar who ever lived—but then his mum had discovered his antics and put a quick stop to them.
If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t now be creeping through the residence, up the wide swath of stairs. He imagined the earl’s daughter descending them in a ball gown of clover green that matched her eyes. He suspected her dance card would be filled within a few minutes of her arriving in the ballroom. He knew all about balls because they were good for a burglar’s business, especially when the guests stayed over. More jewelry to rob because it was seldom locked up when people retired late and were too weary to properly see to things. The gang boss had sent him to case out a few balls, then ordered him to rob one of the residences. It had been the most terrifying and exhilarating night of his life. Until now. His heart was thumping hard, not from fear but from anticipation.
At the landing, he turned down a hallway, and when he reached the first door, he paused, pressed his ear to the wood, and listened. Heavy snoring, male snoring. The next door revealed nothing but quiet on the other side. Probably the lady of the manor, but he needed to check. Slowly, ever so slowly, he released the latch and then inch by inch eased open the door. Fancy houses also tended to have silent hinges, the servants keen about keeping them oiled.
He was halfway to the bed when he gained a clear view of the occupant, a lady—her mouth unpleasantly open and folds of skin gathered at her neck—at least as old as his mum. He made a quiet but hasty retreat, closing the door in his wake. Picturing what he now knew of these rooms and the windows through which light had spilled into the darkness, he ignored the next three doors and slowly opened the fourth, knowing immediately he’d found the correct bedchamber, because it smelled of her: flowery but not sickeningly so. Something rare, a scent he’d only ever inhaled once, when he’d walked past her to get to her mare. The fragrance had haunted him ever since, until this moment when he could inhale it and feel a sense of calm.
On feet as light as a cat’s, he edged toward the bed, grateful it was summer, and she’d not drawn the heavy draperies around the bedstead. Carefully, he set his lantern on the table beside the bed, turning it just so in order to direct the flickering flame so it illuminated her face. Lost in sleep, she appeared more innocent and kinder than she had when they’d first met, when she’d smacked him with her ineffectual balled fist. Her injured arm was still encased in the splint, would no doubt be for a few weeks if his experience dealing with broken bones was a true indication of how things went. Her hand rested, palm up, on the pillow, her fingers curled. Her other hand was hidden away beneath the blankets. Her hair, a shade reminiscent of the brightest of moons, was plaited, the braid draped over her shoulder, the tail of it curled beneath her small breast, temptingly so.
With a silent curse, he tore his gaze from a spot where it should not be looking and cleared his head of thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking. She was a lady, an earl’s daughter. It was folly to think there might ever be anything more between them than a casualness brought about because of a need to reassure her. Folding his hand around her slender shoulder, surprised by how dainty it felt, as though it could easily shatter beneath a tighter grip, he shook her. “M’lady?”
Slowly she opened her eyes. They widened. More quickly she opened her mouth. Swiftly, he covered it with his hand before she could cry out. “Shh. I mean you no harm. I bring word of Sophie.”
She blinked. Beneath his palm, he felt her mouth relaxing. “Promise not to scream and I’ll remove my hand.”
She nodded. Cautiously, he lifted his hand slightly, prepared to drop it back into place rapidly if needed.
