That idea had appealed to Char. There had been those who had preyed on her father’s weaknesses to steal all that he owned. Now Char could repay them in kind.
“You have quick hands and a bright mind. Between the two of us, we’ll have that rent paid,” Lady Baldwin had predicted.
Of course, it had taken time for Char to learn the art of picking a pocket. Fortunately, Lady Baldwin was a good teacher and they had met with initial success. Claiming the money was from Uncle Davies, Char had given Sarah enough to keep the landlord from tossing them out.
She was a bit short this month. The fat money purse Matthew had tucked into his open coat would make up the difference in the rent and more.
Matthew was a cocky one. He turned toward the wharves and the hubbub always going on there. This was life in London at its rawest and Matthew fit in. He gawked at every female bosom that passed him by, shouldered his way through crowds gathered by pub doors, and generally behaved as if he owned the street.
Char kept close without drawing his attention to her. She skirted around those Matthew offended. She trusted her disguise, and few noticed her.
“Wait until the mark is properly distracted,” Lady Baldwin always advised. “Then you can lift his purse without his knowledge. His attention will be on something else. The secret to a good pickpocket is patience and the right moment.”
The right moment for Matthew arrived when a tavern wench stepped out from the dark doorway of her establishment. She was a slatternly thing—all bosom and chins—but had the dark, sloe-eyed look Char had observed men liked. The wench’s gaze met Matthew’s and then, with a shrug of her shoulder, her blouse fell down over one shoulder, revealing a good amount of bosom topped by a dark brown nipple.
The American stopped dead in his tracks. The bawd grinned and nodded for him to follow her.
At the same time, a woman carrying flapping headless chickens in both hands attempted to pass between Matthew and his coveted nipple.
A better distraction could never be found.
Char moved forward so that when Matthew practically fell over the woman with her chickens, she could pretend he had also shoved into her. His weight fell against her. Pushing back with one hand, she slid her other into his inside pocket.
Her fingers closed over his purse. She pulled it out without him the wiser and elbowed her way past him. Now, she would hurry home—
“Stop,thief.”
On those words, everyone on the street tensed—even the bawd, the headless chickens, and most certainly, Matthew.
But not Char.
She recognized the deep voice. She did not need to turn to know that Whitridge had seen her take the purse. She took off running, fear giving her feet wings.
For his size, Whitridge was fast. He was practically right on her heels. She could hear him breathe.
She dodged in, out, and around the pedestrians on the crowded street. Whitridge barreled over people, earning him some rough responses. He kept shouting the order to “grab the boy.” Fortunately no one wished to be involved. They stepped out of his way, but they moved out of Char’s way as well.
Matthew had realized he had been robbed. He shouted his outrage but he was well behind Char and Whitridge.
Rounding a corner, she dashed down an alley and grabbing at a rain barrel as she passed. She threw it into Whitridge’s path. There was the sound of wood on stone, a grunt of pain, and strong curses.
Char grinned at her success but did not indulge in a backward glance. Instead, she escaped onto a more crowded street, praying she had lost him.
She hadn’t. She couldfeelhis presence. The rain barrel had delayed him but had not stopped him.
This street was busy with coaches, carriages, drays, and even sedan chairs and dogcarts. She zigzagged her way around them. Her chest hurt from running so hard. The leather soles of her shoes slid on the cobblestones. She had managed to tuck the purse inside her jacket because she needed to use her hands for balance and to ensure her hat didn’t fly off her head. Revealing her sex would be the ultimate disaster.
She was moving toward home, toward safety. Soon they would be in neighborhoods where she could be recognized. For a moment, she debated running in the opposite direction, but couldn’t. She yearned for the haven of her bedroom, to throw on her skirts and safely return to being who she was supposed to be.
But first, she had to escape Whitridge. The man was a bloodhound.
Now it was Charlene who swore.
She ducked down another alley that was only wide enough for her shoulders. Certainly the giant Whitridge could not follow her here—and she was right.
He tried to squeeze himself into the narrow space between buildings, and failed. She hurried on, hating the feeling of having the buildings close in around her. She had no idea what was at the other end of this alley but it didn’t matter. In ten minutes, she would be home.
Home, home, home,home.
