She had thought it a game. Who would think that Charles Waverly hoped to use his own child in his crimes?
He had been a handsome, affable man. Well spoken and fluent in many regional accents, he fit in wherever he went, whether a party in Mayfair or a rustic tavern. His charm and his confidence had been his most valuable attributes for his chosen career.
Both might have come to him by birth. Her parents, she’d learned, came from good families that owned property. Perhaps if they had not met each other they would have married others and lived normal lives. Instead, together they became thieves.
It was a lark at first. One daring attempt as a game. Eventually it became a way of life. No pickpocketing for them, although both learned how. They specialized in carefully organized thefts of valuables from the best houses, and on occasion elaborate frauds in which their victims did not even realize they had been hoodwinked.
She remembered seeing her parents when she was six years old, dressed to pass for high society, leaving whatever home they’d used at the time. She’d had no idea then that they would insinuate themselves uninvited into a large party or ball. When the hosts were occupied, one of them would slip upstairs to take a few valuables.
For years, no one suspected. No one tried to stop them.They don’t even know it’s gone most times, her mother had explained when she was older.It may be months before that lady looks for that necklace or the gent for that silver and gold snuffbox. It really isn’t stealing when they have so much they don’t remember what they have and what they don’t.
Then, when she was twelve, her mother had rushed home to her one night, frantic with worry. Someone had seen her father at his trade. He had only escaped by taking one of these leaps out of a window.
They waited all night for his return. Had he found a ledge or deep sill where he’d landed? Or had he plunged to the ground and still lay there, broken and in pain?
He’d finally arrived home at dawn. He’d still had the bracelet he had stolen.We will need to take it apart. They will know it is gone now. Also, it would be best if I made myself scarce for a while. You take the girl. I’ll find you in a year or so.
He’d left them the next night, with half the bracelet’s jewels in his pocket. They’d never seen him again.
Her mother had continued the only trade she knew. She did not need a man at her side to slip into those houses during parties. She could slide up the stairs as easily as Charlie.
Two years later, however, she put Amanda in Mrs. Hattlesfield’s School in Surrey.You will have a chance to live differently if you are educated, she had said.You might even marry a decent man if you can present yourself well.
Amanda suspected the real reason had been less motherly. Put simply, having a daughter in tow had proved inconvenient. Also, as she’d matured, Amanda had begun to ask questions, and to suggest they find some other way to live. A respectable way.
She lifted her gaze from the ground. She focused on the window across the hedge and wall, slightly lower than the one where she stood. A corner window, it was within arm’s reach of the quoins on the back corner of the building, and it had a deep sill and some thick decorative molding. No bars and she guessed no lock, although she could deal with the latter if she had to.Four feet maximum with no leverage. Seven with a running start. Five if you can push off with your foot.
She calculated that her odds were at best one in three that she would survive this adventure both free and whole.
She sang softly to herself while she gathered her concentration and confidence. Then she crouched low on the table she had placed to abut the window’s sill, set her right foot back, drew on all of her strength, and leapt.
* * *
Gentle hands jostled him. Gabriel fought his way out of oblivion enough to push them away and curse the intruder.
“You said at dawn, sir, and the carriage awaits.” It sounded like Miles, his valet.
Dawn. Carriage. Gabriel swam up to semi-consciousness. That only informed him that his head hurt and his neck felt so stiff he could barely move it.
“I will go make coffee, sir.”
More alertness. More pain in his head. Hell, he must have been foxed last night to feel like this. And his neck—
He opened his eyes. The view confused him. Then he remembered.
He looked immediately to the chair on which his mystery woman had sat. Empty, of course. The last thing he remembered was her singing.
What an ass he was. To take such pains to lure a woman here, then to fall asleep on her. He would be lucky if no one learned of it. He could do without more needling, this time from men in his clubs jabbing him at his lack of finesse with ladies.
Or not ladies, as the case may be. She had not looked like one last night, in those pantaloons and shirt. Had she stayed, he would have sent her home in his carriage so she would not have to walk London’s streets like that.
Thoughts of her challenge and his intended seduction made him laugh, but his aching head cut that short. He’d certainly showed her a thing or two, hadn’t he? By Zeus, his great talent with women undoubtedly impressed her to no end.
She’d probably howled with laughter all the way home.
He closed his eyes again, and changed his position so his neck might uncramp. He drifted down into a half sleep that at least eased the pounding in his head. He indulged in a few mental pictures of buying a certain woman a lovely wardrobe, with dresses to be removed mostly by himself.
“Here you are, sir. Coffee. You will feel better if you drink this. It always helps with the morning effects of too much wine.”
