Chapter Nineteen
Charles ran his hands over Cassandra’s limbs a second time, needing to make sure nothing was broken. “Are you certain you can breathe freely? No pain anywhere?” He’d seated her on the billiard table as his employers trussed up the thief. She seemed unharmed.
“I’m fine.” Cassie attempted to tuck hanks of her long hair back into its knot but it was a lost cause. Full on half of her hair had escaped their pins in the tumble. As he trailed his fingers over her shoulders, the soft strands tickled the backs of his hands.
Lord Rothchild circled his shoulder and winced. “We’re not getting too old for this type of thing, are we?”
“God no. Just a bit out of practice.” Lord Summerset brushed at a smudge on his pantaloons. “Do stop petting the girl and give us a hand,” he said to Charles. “The man is greasy, and I, for one, don’t want to touch him.”
The back of Charles’s neck heated. He snatched his hands back. “I wasn’t….”
Summerset arched a manicured eyebrow.
Snapping his jaw shut, Charles turned from Cassie and stomped towards the man lying on the floor. With the aid of Lord Rothchild, they pulled his body onto a leather armchair. The man’s head lolled back, hair slipping across his eyes.
“What the devil?” Charles grabbed the man’s head and pulled. The dirty blond hair remained clutched in his hand. Darker brown hair remained on the thief’s head.
“A wig.” Rothchild angled the man’s face. “Well, you suspected he wore disguises.”
“Hold.” Montague bent over the thief’s body, his brow creasing. “I know this man. We all do.”
Summerset sniffed. “I do not associate with men who wear buckskin trousers to evening parties. Except for Dunkeld. Being Scottish, he has an excuse for his lack of fashion sense.”
Charles eyed Summerset’s chartreuse waistcoat and matching heeled shoes. If that lord was the height of fashion, Charles wanted no part of it.
“Viscount Hereford.” Rothchild rocked back on his heels.
Charles’s jaw dropped. A peer? Their thief was a bloody peer? Certainly they’d entertained the possibility, but he hadn’t truly believed it to be so.
“No, Hereford is naught but a boy.” Summerset slapped the back of the unconscious man’s head. “This can’t be him.”
“And when was the last time you saw him?” Montague asked, one golden eyebrow winging up.
“Ah….” The earl frowned.
“Over a decade ago.” Montague knelt before the thief, a brief wince flitting across his face as he rubbed his knee. “Warwick’s son has become a man.” He swiped his finger across Hereford’s face, a substance darkening the tip of his finger. A paler swatch of skin was revealed below. “And one who is quite adept at disguise.”
“If you can call someone who takes from others a man.” Charles glanced back at Cassie who still sat perched on the billiard table. It was a good thing for this Hereford that she wasn’t harmed, or there would be another charge added to the list. “Shall I send for a magistrate?”
His three employers shared a look.
Charles’s stomach clenched. “We are planning on turning this scoundrel over to the authorities.”
“Authorities?” The scoundrel in question groaned. He brought his hand up to cradle his head. “Such an abominable word, and one no man should hear when his skull is cracking open.”
“Whatever ills you feel are of your own doing.” Charles’s fingers itched to inflict yet more. He had a sinking feeling that the punch he’d landed was aught Hereford would see of justice.
“I suppose you have some sad tale of woe about why the son of the Earl of Warwick has been forced to steal for a living?” Summerset dropped into a nearby chair and pulled a knife from the inside of his coat sleeve. He began to clean his nails with the sharpened point.
Hereford rolled his neck then blinked widely. “None whatsoever. Stealing is a tremendous amount of fun. I highly recommend it.”
Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter sounded behind him, and Charles turned to give Cassie the gimlet eye.
She quickly rearranged her expression into one of placid indifference.
Hereford leaned over the arm of his chair and peered around Charles. “So my memory didn’t fail me. A lady was present at our little scuffle.” He pursed his lips and gave her an appraising look.
Charles’s shoulders went back. “She isn’t a lady; she’s a detective’s assistant,” he gritted out. “She was instrumental in discovering how to catch you.”
