Page 9 of His Improper Lady

“Don’t be silly,” he told her, grinning. “Then whom would I have to annoy?”

“Con. Go.” She leveled a firm gaze at him, but her smile when Con bent to kiss her cheek belied any irritation.

The three men went to the office, invitation in hand. Tom paused outside the front door to show the others the thief’s escape route. Alex whistled in admiration, and Con walked about a bit, going to the awning next door and back. Like his twin, Con possessed a particular ability. He had an innate sense of true north and could often pick up a person’s trail. Con walked slowly up the street to the next intersection, head down, then returned to Tom and Alex.

“It’s hopeless,” Con said in disgust. “I’ve been working on tracking specific people, but I still have difficulty unless it’s someone close to me. I can see which way you went this morning, Tom, and there are lots of traces of all three of us around here. But in public places like this, where so many people have walked, it’s hard to distinguish one trail from another. I think I picked up her track, but it soon vanished completely.”

Upstairs, Con looked through his desk and files and found nothing missing. Alex was able to pick up some emotions of excitement and fear, but the place was too much fixed with the presence of Con and Tom for him to acquire any information about the thief. Alex soon went down the hall to his architectural office, and Con sat down to go through the stack of mail on his desk before starting on a more thorough search of their files. Tom went looking for information from his various contacts who lived in the shadowy world of petty criminals.

Though in his childhood Tom was part of that world, few of his acquaintances from that time were still around. Most had died or were in prison; a few had moved into more legitimate pursuits. But over the years at the agency, he had cultivated several criminal contacts who were willing to sell information.

Unfortunately, none of them knew of a female housebreaker. Even his most reliable informer in the world of thievery, a pickpocket named Pike, looked at him skeptically. “A girl? Doing upper-story work? Nah...there ain’t many of that sort to begin with—too hard. Easier to jump,” he said, referring to the practice of breaking into a building through a ground-floor window. “And women?” He snorted. “There’s plenty of judies that swipe a bloke’s wallet and run. Or take something from a shop, like. But climb like a cat?” He shook his head.

“What about the Farrington Club?” Tom asked.

“That fancy club? Above my touch, lad.”

“Any pickpockets working it or thieves finding marks there?”

“Maybe some swell magsman,” Pike said doubtfully. Tom knew he was talking about the sort of well-dressed swindlers who duped their victims into giving them money. “But that place is particular. Takes more’n a few quid to get you inside.”

“What about robbing them when they come out?”

“Most of that lot get in their carriage or a hack, don’t they? The cabs are lined up outside the door. Two guards outside, too, dressed up like footmen. They keep it clear all around the place. No point in it—easier to wait at some boozer to catch a drunk. ’Sides, more’n yer life’s worth to try it. ’E warned us all when he opened it, din’t ’e? Don’t touch ’is customers if you value your ’ealth.”

“He? Who is he?”

“Bloke that owns it, ’oo do you think? Name’s Malone. Blew in from Australia ten or twelve years back. Learned pretty quick not to go up against ’im. ’E’s a bruiser, and ’is men, too.”

“Do you think he’s cheating his customers?”

Pike shrugged. “Nobody wins but the house—everybody knows that ’cept a fool. But I never heard nothing about it being any worse than others. But then, I don’t know the sort wot goes there.”

“Do you think he uses the place to find marks?” Even as Tom said it, he knew that was unlikely. Malone would be making too much legitimately to risk losing customers if word got around that thieves were targeting his customers.

Tom handed Pike a few bills and left. It was clear he wasn’t going to find out a great deal more here. He needed to see the place for himself. If he was lucky, his quarry was a regular at the club and might turn up in person.

That was probably wishful thinking; anyone who was high enough on the social ladder to get into the exclusive club would be unlikely to spend her spare time breaking into businesses. It was just as possible that it had been in a pile of loot she had stolen or that she’d found it on the street. Maybe she was a charwoman at the club and had swept it up for the dustbin—though he had some trouble envisioning a woman that daring working at anything so mundane. And if that were the case, why make the chip into a necklace?

No amount of reason could completely suppress his hopes, though, and Tom set out that evening for the Farrington Club in high anticipation. His stomach was a little knotted with nerves; walking into a nest of criminals would cause him less anxiety than trying to pass himself off as someone who belonged in an elegant club. He would have felt more at ease had Con accompanied him, but Con hadn’t wanted to spend the evening away from Lilah.

Tom had been careful to dress for the occasion, wearing the same silk waistcoat and tailored suit that he’d worn to Con’s and Alex’s weddings. His prized possession, the gold pocket watch Reed had given him when he finished his education, hung on a chain, tucked into his waistcoat pocket. He felt a bit foolish with the top hat on his head, but it finished the picture of a gentleman out for an evening of pleasure. He’d been around the Morelands long enough to realize that simplicity gave one more an air of entitlement than flashy rings or jeweled tie pins.

But the proper clothes could not give him the air, the carriage, the underlying surety of one’s high place in the world that graced a man raised in the genteel world. He had worked on his accent; he didn’t sound like someone from a rookery. Still, he couldn’t quite emulate the sound of someone who was born to it.

Tom had never been one to show his fear, though; indeed, he’d been told time and again that he was too cocky for his own good. He’d brazen it through; confidence was what swayed people. He stepped down from the Morelands’ town carriage—he had agreed with Con that it was the perfect touch to make anyone believe his status as a gentleman.

As it turned out, the doormen sent him through with a mere glance at his invitation. Inside he managed to glance around with casual interest, not gawking at the ornate chandeliers that lit the large room or the textured wallpaper or the intricate plaster moldings on the ceiling and the heavy red velvet curtains. The place exuded wealth to such an extent that it seemed almost a jest, a playful parody of pretension. Tables were all around, surrounded by men and a few women.

Tom strolled around the room, maneuvering to get a glimpse at each woman—was this one too tall, that one too curvaceous, or another too fragile—as he inspected the games and the participants. There weren’t many women, and none fit the description. He saw terror in eyes that were riveted to the roulette wheel and the wild avidity in another face as a man rolled the dice.

Servants passed with trays of champagne; two of the black-and-white clad servers were women. It occurred to Tom that this sort of occupation would be better suited to the intruder. He could see nothing suspicious about them as they smiled and offered drinks to the patrons, but then he doubted that his thief would be obvious. Like him, she would keep her inspections casual.

Smaller rooms branched off here and there, and in these were fewer tables, just one or two, and they were devoted entirely to cards. He paused in the doorway of the third secluded room, and his heart picked up its beat. There was a lone table in the room, though a number of other men crowded around behind the players, looking on.

The reason for the onlookers’ attention was clear: at one end of the table sat a woman in a cherry-red gown, the neckline wide enough to reveal her creamy white shoulders. Little puffs of sleeves left most of her arms as bare as her shoulders. A ruby teardrop dangled at the end of a silver chain around her neck.

In the soft golden light of the chandelier, her hair was the color of caramel, and it was done up in a puffy pompadour roll, soft wisps escaping at her temples to drift temptingly beside her face. The top half of her face was hidden by a mask of white and silver, a long white feather curling back over her hair. Below the mask, one could see a straight nose, firm mouth and rather determined chin. Her eyes inside the mask were light in color. She might not be beautiful, but she was utterly arresting. Tom could not look away.