A Dangerous Deceit (Thief-Takers) Read online

  “Not yet,” she lied. “Edgar sent an annual allowance.” An allowance that was down to its last two pounds, but that was no one’s business but her own.

  “How long ago did the last payment arrive?”

  “Less than a year. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he echoed with a twitch of his lips. “And did you plan on immediately pawning everything?”

  “Of course not.” She couldn’t hope to obtain the prices she wanted from a pawnbroker. “But we will likely sell a few common items straightaway to hold us over while we search for individual buyers for the more unusual pieces. I can’t allow you to take everything.”

  He cocked his head at her, his eyes narrowing in speculation. “Miss Ballenger, do you understand that I am here on behalf of the government?”

  “Yes.” He’d just told her as much. Did he think her dim-witted?

  “And you imagine you can refuse them?”

  Hedidthink her dim-witted. But why? Had there been a misunderstanding earlier? Had she misheard something else? Responded inappropriately? Damn it, this sort of thing was exactly why she didn’t go to the village, and why she should have called for one of the Harmons to answer the door. And why she should never have allowed himin.

  Shealways managed to get something wrong.

  Frustration and nerves had her twisting her fingers in her lap, but pride kept her chin up. Well, pride and the fact that understanding was sometimes facilitated by watching a speaker’s lips.

  “I’m certain I can’t refuse them,” she said carefully, “but I suspect I can make the process very difficult for them. Potentially embarrassing as well. Would the government want it known it was forcibly removing personal belongings from the cottage of an impoverished family?” The very idea of creating a public scene made her feel ill, but she would do it if necessary. She would stall and distract while she hid or sold everything she could. Such an effort might land her in significant trouble, but the Harmons would be cared for.

  He was quiet a moment before speaking. “It would be best for everyone involved, particularly you, if the whereabouts of your brother’s belongings remained unknown.”

  “It’s rather late for that,” she returned. “The entire contents of his home were packed up, shipped across continents, and unloaded here by half a dozen men. It’s hardly a secret.”

  “The individuals who packed them had no knowledge of where they were headed, and the men who shipped and unpacked them had no knowledge or interest in where they came from.”

  “The man who arranged for the shipping—”

  He gave a quick, subtle shake of his head. “So far, it doesn’t appear as if he’s told anyone.”

  “Well he must have. You knew Edgar’s things were here.”

  “I didn’t,” he admitted. “Not until you opened the front door. The assumption has been that they were shipped to a warehouse. I came with the hope you might know where to find it. This”—he indicated the room with a quick twirl of his finger—“was something of a surprise.”

  She really ought to have insisted on that walk outside, and Sir Gabriel’s refined preferences be damned. “You can’t be certain the man won’t tell someone where Edgar’s things have gone.”

  “You’re right. I can’t. But since no one else has shown up at your door, I suspect he has kept quiet. For now.”

  The way he saidfor now sounded almost ominous. “Who are you afraid he’ll tell? Why would anyone else be interested in paperwork you claim holds no value?”

  “It holds no value to you. You can’t sell it.”

  Not to a pawnbroker, perhaps. But if Sir Gabriel wanted it for his employers, he’d have to pay for it.

  She wished she could lean back and imitate his relaxed, confident posture, but the pile behind her refused to give an inch. She had to settle for adopting what she hoped passed for a nonchalant tone. “The Foreign Office, sensitive paperwork, and secret warehouses. This is all starting to sound very cloak-and-dagger.”

  Expecting a denial, she was shocked when he studied her closely for a moment, then said, “Would you be surprised to learn your brother was involved in such work?”

  “Espionage? Yes.” For any number of reasons, but mostly because the Edgar she’d known had been exceedingly lazy. “Doyou know if he was?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I think you’re lying.” She had no idea if he was lying, but she hoped the blatant accusation would startle him into giving something away. Something obvious, if she had any hope of catching it.

  But he just smiled at her again. It was that slightly rakish smile of earlier, but this time, the solicitousness was gone, replaced by a hint of mystery. And Jane discovered in that moment that a slightly rakish, faintly secretive smile from a handsome man who smelled of the forest was a very powerful thing. It made her feel singled out, as if he’d invited her to join some exclusive game. And, clearly, it made her feel reckless. Because despite having no idea what the rules, or even the name of Sir Gabriel’s game, might be, and despite knowing that every second she spent with him endangered her own secrets, she still wanted to play.

  “As I said,” he returned calmly. “I’m not familiar with the details of your brother’s work.”

  Momentarily forgetting she was trying to be nonchalant, she leaned forward in her chair in eager fascination. “Doyou work in espionage?”

  “No.”

  She sat back with a huff. “I don’t suppose you would tell me if you did.”

  “I don’t suppose I would. But deceit isn’t necessary under the circumstances, and the truth is easily verified. I’ve merely been hired to retrieve Edgar’s personal effects.”

  “Is that your profession? You retrieve things?” Was there a word for such a man? If so, it escaped her.

  “In a manner of speaking. I’m a private investigator. On occasion, I am called on to retrieve items, people, information.”

  That didn’t completely remove the possibility that he was involved in espionage. It had to be assumed that such persons took on aliases or retained secondary professions to cover their less savory work. One couldn’t very well haveSpy Master Extraordinaire printed up on a calling card.

  But Sir Gabriel’s occupation and the nature of Edgar’s work, however intriguing, were not her greatest concerns at present. And the temptation to play a potentially dangerous game with a secretive man was best ignored. She had Twillins Cottage and the Harmons to consider.

  “In this case,” she said with a hint of coolness, “you’ve come to retrieve a woman’s inheritance.”

  And there was that smile again. “Miss Ballenger, I only want to borrow it.”

  Chapter Two

  There were few things in life Gabriel enjoyed more than a good mystery, especially when it was a woman.

  He’d done his research before coming to Twillins Cottage. He’d gathered every scrap of public and private information available on Jane Ballenger. Both had proven surprisingly elusive. She was twenty-seven years of age, and the only child of Mr. Daniel Ballenger and his second wife, Elizabeth. She’d lived in the Ballenger ancestral home a few miles to the north for approximately eight years, then spent two years somewhere on the coast recuperating from an illness before coming to Twillins Cottage. She had resided there with the older Mr. and Mrs. Harmon for the last seventeen years. She’d never been to London, never participated in a season, and reportedly rarely left her property to visit the nearby village.

  The few locals who claimed to know her expressed varying opinions and theories about the woman. None of them were flattering. She was an ill-mannered snob. She was a sweet girl, but not at all clever. She was impossibly rude. She was dreadfully shy. Her family kept her hidden away because she was mad as a hatter, or deaf as post, or illegitimate, epileptic, or an imbecile.

  Gabriel had given up after the innkeeper’s wife suggested Miss Ballenger might be a witch, and had come to the cottage with the notion of taking stock of the situation for himself. He would implemen
t one of several possible plans once he had a firm grasp on the sort of woman with whom he was dealing.

  He was still struggling to obtain that grasp.

  Miss Ballenger defied description. There was a rudeness about her, certainly. She was a terrible hostess. She’d failed to invite him inside and failed to see to his coat and hat. She’d sat him next to a pile of shoes, made no excuses for the lack of refreshments, and openly accused him of being a liar.

  And yet she was quite possibly the most attentive listener he’d ever come across. She stared at him when he spoke, as if every word out of his mouth was more fascinating than the last, as if she were afraid of missing even a single syllable.

  Clearly she wasn’t shy, and yet she was twisting her fingers in her skirts like a woman riddled with nerves. She appeared to be in full possession of her faculties, and yet she’d become distracted and turned around in her own house. When she spoke, it was with great care, enunciating each word like it was a step in a complicated dance. But some of her responses were decidedly strange, as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to play the role of world-weary lady, plain-spoken country lass, or befuddled spinster.

  Her appearance offered little insight. She was of average height and indeterminate weight. There was a fullness to her face and mouth that hinted at a lush figure, but her actual shape was impossible to ascertain beneath her enormous, pocketed apron and high-necked, loose-fitting gown of unrelenting gray.

  Her hair, that undecided shade between dark blond and light brown, was devoid of ribbons, seed pearls, or jeweled combs. In fact, her entire person was without ornamentation. She wore not a single piece of jewelry. There wasn’t a scrap of lace or a mother-of-pearl button in sight.

  There was, however, quite a lot else going on with Miss Ballenger’s appearance. She was a mess. Her apron and gloves were covered in dust and what he assumed was the grease of trunk hinges. The cuffs of her gown were visibly worn. There was a halo of frizzy little hairs adorning the crown of her head, and there was a smudge of dirt down her cheek, another across the bridge of her nose, and one more at the top of her forehead.

  With her big eyes, dull plumage, and direct stare, she put him in mind of a small, rumpled owl.

  She was just so…odd. Delightfully so.

  The surprise of her piqued his interest. The mystery of her presented a unique challenge. He did his best work through manipulation, but it was difficult to manipulate someone you couldn’t quite grab hold of. It was impossible to know what persona he should adopt for her benefit, what manner of act he should put on to gain her trust and cooperation. Would she work better with a charmer, a businessman, or a scholar? Was she the sort of person who needed to feel in control of every situation, or did she prefer to be given direction?

  It would take time and effort to unravel the mystery of the woman before him, and he was looking forward to the task.

  “You can’t simply borrow it,” Miss Ballenger said after a moment, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. “But perhaps we might come to an arrangement that would suit us both.” She released her hold on her skirts to tap her finger against her leg in a thoughtful manner. “We’ve not yet opened all the crates and trunks, but we’ve found several that are filled exclusively with paperwork. For a price, you could take those with you today, and I’ll promise to send along any others we find.”

  He shook his head. “Everything needs to be searched, and by someone who knows what he’s looking for.”

  “Then buy everything,” she suggested.

  “Name your price.”

  “Ten thousand pounds.”

  “Ten?” Was she mad? “I’ll not pay a fraction of that for a house full of items that may or may not have value.”

  “They have value.” She pointed at an uninspired oil painting featuring two cherubic children playing with a spaniel. “That’s worth forty pounds at least.”

  “Only to the three people on earth who could stand to live with it.”

  “Your employers want it, else you wouldn’t be here. There’s a telegraph office in town. Why don’t you inform them of my offer and see what they have to say?”

  Because they’d not be able to reply for all the laughing, Gabriel thought. Ten thousand pounds was absurd. “Why don’t you consider my counteroffer instead. Fifty pounds—”

  “Fifty?” she cried, nearly coming out of her chair.

  “If I may finish?” He waited for her to settle back in her seat. “Fifty to borrow your brother’s possessions. I suspect you’ll have them back directly, but in the event the process drags out, I’ll agree to pay fifty pounds in two-month intervals.”

  “Every… Did you say every two months?” Her eyes had grown even larger at the offer. At a guess, her allowance from Edgar had been far less generous.

  “I did.”

  She scooted forward in her chair, dislodging a book that had become stuck between her hip and the armrest. It tumbled unnoticed to the floor and landed with a thud. “Your employers will agree to such terms?”

  Never, but he had no intention of informing them. He would pay the first fifty pounds and make certain the items were returned to her in a timely matter. “Absolutely.”

  She worried her lip for a moment, then announced, “I want a contact.”

  A contact? That was an odd request. “Someone at the Foreign Office?”

  “To sign it, do you mean?” She looked faintly confused by the idea. “Well, yes, I suppose that might be best.”

  Sign it…? Ah. Acontract. “I beg your pardon, I misheard you. I could sign a contract, but I’d rather avoid the delay. I’ll give you my word as a gentleman.”

  She waved the suggestion away the way one might a gnat. “That won’t do. I insist on a written contract. And references.”

  “References?” She couldn’t be serious.

  “Certainly. You’re offering me fifty pounds in exchange for items worth thousands. A binding contract will do me little good if you’re John Smith the confidence trickster and not Sir Gabriel… Er… Gabriel…” Her expression turned sheepish. “I’m sorry, I can’t quite recall…”

  “Arkwright.”

  “Right. If you’re not Sir Gabriel Arkwright, then…” She trailed off, then tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Notthe Sir Gabriel Arkwright?” She blinked twice, then snapped her head straight. “Well, I suppose you must be. Unlikely to be more than one, isn’t there? I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection sooner. My Goodness, I… Oh, wait!” She leapt up from her chair suddenly, dislodging another book and two unmatched gloves. “Wait right there.”

  He rose from his seat as she hurried from the room. Minutes later, she was back, holding an oversized, yellowing piece of paper in her hands.

  He scowled at it. “Is that…?” Stepping closer, he peered over the top of the paper. “Good God, it is.”

  It was an old broadsheet bearing his likeness, along with the image of his two friends, and fellow police officers at the time, Lord Renderwell and Samuel Brass. More than a decade ago, the three of them had become national heroes for rescuing a kidnapped duchess from a violent gang of criminals. Renderwell had been made a viscount. Gabriel and Samuel had been knighted. The papers had dubbed them “The Thief Takers,” and for years—even after they’d left the police to become private investigators for England’s elite—their daily lives had been a subject of great interest to the entire country.

  “Where did you get that? It has to be eight or nine years old at least.”

  “Nearly eleven,” she said absently. She frowned at the picture, then at him, then back at the picture. “Well, you’ve aged a bit…”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replied with such oblivious sincerity that he found himself smiling. “It does look like you,” she decided after another moment. “But I’d like to be certain. I’ll have Mr. Harmon contact Lord Renderwell and Sir Samuel directly.”

  “Samuel is out of the country and unreachabl
e for the time being. Lord Renderwell has retired.”

  “Are neither able to vouch for you?”

  “Lord Renderwell could, but he doesn’t know I’m here. If you insist on this reference, I’ll have to send a telegram ahead of yours.”

  “Of course I insist. Why shouldn’t I?”

  He flicked the edge of the broadsheet by way of answer.

  Her mouth formed a thoughtful moue. “The fact that you were a sensation a decade ago doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a man to be trusted now.”

  “I was a sensation, and I was knighted, for my part in rescuing a kidnapped woman,” he reminded her.

  “It wasn’t exactly a selfless act, was it? You were paid to do it.” She went back to studying the broadsheet. “It was your job.”

  He addedcynic to the short list of traits he could attribute to Jane Ballenger. “Why do you have that?”

  “It was Rebecca’s,” she said absently.

  “Rebecca?”

  “Hmm?” She glanced up for a brief moment. “Oh. Miss Rebecca Hitchens. Or Mrs. Monroe now,” she corrected. “Mrs. Harmon’s daughter with her first husband. She stayed with us briefly some years ago. Lovely girl. She was absolutely fascinated by you and your friends. She collected every accounting of your daring deeds that she could find. She had atendre for you in particular. Until she met a handsome shopkeeper two villagers over.”

  “Fickle woman.”

  “What?” She gave him her proper attention once more, along with a scowl. “Did you just call her fickle?”

  “I—”

  “She’s not. She wasn’t. She had a silly infatuation with you as a young girl, that’s all.”

  He scratched offcynic, and added,possible romantic. Also,not adept at detecting humor.

  “I was jesting,” he informed her.

  “Oh.” She cleared her throat and nervously rubbed her cheek, adding a bit of grease to the streaks of dirt. “Yes, of course you were.”

  He tapped the paper once more. “Why do you still have this?”

  “Mrs. Harmon kept a few out of sentiment after Rebecca moved with her husband to Philadelphia.” She gave the sketch, and him, one more look before setting the paper aside. “Have you agreed to my terms, then?”