A thought occurred to him, a worrying kernel at the back of his mind. Curling a finger around the tarnished brass handle, he pulled open the topmost drawer.
There, shoved to the side of the drawer, where he’d left them last, were his boxing gloves, his old ones with the cracked leather. And on the other side of the drawer…
His thoughts trailed off, ending in wordless fury.
There was a layer of dust even inside the drawer. A circular, clear patch showed where an object had lain not too long ago. It looked as if it had been recently removed, with small finger marks on either side of the patch.
“Thieves, after all,” he muttered to himself, swallowing down an acrid surge of anger. “I should have known better.”
He strode to the window, nimbly ducking out and leaping into the alley. He took an instant to glance at the latch. Sure enough, it had not been smashed. They’d told the truth about getting in easily.
He jogged to the end of the alley and peered out. There, just at the end of the moderately wider road, he could see Miss Holt and her sister, Miss Marjory, walking close together, heads leaning toward each other.
“Discussing their successful crime, no doubt,” he muttered.
The anger was sharper than he’d expected. Robbing a storeroom like that was a foolish choice. Could they have known what they would find in his chest of drawers? It was possible. Miss Marjory already knew that he was Orion.
No, she doesn’t know it. She suspects it. That is not the same thing.
That hopeful thought did not quite stick, however. There was a sharp intelligence in Miss Marjory’s eyes that warned him that she would sniff out a story like a bloodhound on the scent.
“Looks like I will have to hunt tonight, after all,” he muttered to himself, straightening his waistcoat and tossing his hair back from his eyes. A haircut was sorely needed.
Breaking into a run, he sped toward them. Surprise was key. He could outrun the women, but these alleyways were treacherous. If he lost them, finding them again could be tricky.
Or I could ask around for a seamstress named Amelia Holt.
He made no noise as he ran, or very little. Perhaps instinct made Miss Holt turn around. Her face paled at the sight of him rushing toward her. She shouted something quick and unintelligible to her sister, and both of them broke into a run, each veering into a different alley.
Swearing, Stephen skidded to a halt. He hesitated only for the briefest of seconds before he realized what he had known all along.
Miss Holt was the one he had to pursue.
Grimly, he turned and raced down the alleyway toward her.
CHAPTER 3
Running footsteps approached, drawing closer no matter how fast Amelia ran.
At least he went after me, not Marjory,she thought frantically, gasping for breath.
That was all she had time for before a hand clamped around her wrist, hauling her backward. She staggered, flailing, and bumped back against a broad chest.
He was just so large, certainly the tallest man she’d ever seen. Not tall and rake-thin like some other gentlemen. No, no. This fellow was broad, and she was willing to bet he was thick with muscle beneath his suit.
Not that shehadimagined what was beneath his suit, which was a dull, dark-green thing that did not look particularly expensive.
No, her mother had raised her and her sisters well. They did not hanker after gentlemen or indulge in improper thoughts. That sort of behavior was better saved for ladies with dubious reputations.
“A lady may lose many things,” Mama had said several times. “But her reputation should always be shiny and pristine.”
Well, Amelia’s reputation had certainly been in better shape. She shrieked, not in the hope that anybody would come to her aid, but more in the hope of frightening him off.
It did not work, and when she tried to pull her wrist out of his grip, she could not tug herself free. So she stopped struggling. It seemed wiser not to tire herself out. His grip on her wrist was not painfully tight.
“You are cleverer than I gave you credit for,” the man breathed.
It occurred to her that she still had not learned his name.
