A Dangerous Deceit (Thief-Takers) Read online

  “One can be charmingandhonest.” Mrs. Harmon scooted forward in her chair and adopted a hopeful expression. “Did he charm you?”

  “I was charmed by the offer of fifty pounds.”

  Mrs. Harmon snorted with amusement. “Is that all?”

  Jane wasn’t going to admit that she liked his rakish, secretive smile and forest scent. “It was kind of him to take down the chair in the front hall. Charming, even.”

  “Never mind, dear.”

  Jane fiddled with the handle of her cup. “You’re not disappointed, are you? That I wasn’t overcome with admiration for the man?” Or willing to admit a bit of interest.

  “Of course not.” Mrs. Harmon reconsidered. “Perhaps a little. But there’s always tomorrow.”

  Jane took a sip of her cooled tea, and wondered if she would see Sir Gabriel again so soon. “How long it will take him to secure a solicitor, do you think? He won’t find any in Ardbaile.”

  “Yes, he will. Mr. Felch set up office above the emporium. Didn’t I mention?”

  “Who?”

  “Carol Felch’s husband. She used to be Carol—” Mrs. Harmon gave a quick shake of her head. “Oh, I don’t suppose you’d know her. She married and moved to London before you were born. But she returned two months ago, retired husband in tow. A fortnight later, he was setting up office again.”

  “Is there sufficient business in the village for him to earn a profit?”

  “There is these days. The town has grown, Jane. But I imagine the only profit Mr. Felch seeks is time spent apart from Mrs. Felch. Frightful woman. Didn’t I tell you about the scene she caused at the butcher’s? No? I can’t imagine how it escaped my mind. Mrs. Archibald told me all about it last week. She was there. She saw itall…”

  It was Mrs. Harmon’s habit to wiggle in her seat at the start of a story. Jane had never been able to ascertain if it was excitement that made her do it, or if she was merely getting comfortable in anticipation of a long sit.

  Either way, the funny little custom never failed to make Jane smile.

  No one told a story like Mrs. Harmon.

  Jane had come to live with the Harmons at Twillins Cottage at the age of ten and had spent the first week in bed, recuperating from the dubious care of her previous guardians.

  She’d expected no better from Mrs. Harmon. Though the woman had previously been employed at Fourgate Hall, Jane could only remember meeting her twice before, and only in passing. The Ballengers had taken great pains to keep their strange little daughter isolated, even in her own home. But Jane had dared to hope for the best at Twillins, which, in her experience, meant regular meals, the absence of treatments, and the luxury of solitude.

  Mrs. Harmon had fed her, but she’d not left Jane alone. Instead, she had entertained.

  Every moment Jane had stayed awake had been spent playing games, talking, and best of all, listening to Mrs. Harmon tell stories. Sometimes she read from a book, other times she told tales of her own, but always she put on a show. She narrated in a booming voice and with lots of dramatic gesturing. Dialogue was delivered in silly voices. She acted out scenes of tragedy and action using whatever props were at hand—the fire poker, a pillow, a set of pots filched from the kitchen.

  In the beginning, Jane had found it difficult to follow the story amongst the noise and movement, and had simply enjoyed watching her cheerful, exuberant caretaker act out a play. But over time, Mrs. Harmon had altered the way she performed. She’d separated action from narration, took pains to speak while facing Jane, and avoided the heavier accents. Eventually, Jane was able to appreciate both the antics and the accompanying tale.

  Mrs. Harmon had even dragged her reluctant but adoring husband into the act, casting him as villain and hero alike. He’d been spectacularly awful, and not the least ashamed of it. He’d laughed at himself, and Mrs. Harmon, and even at Jane when she’d proved to be equally unskilled. But there’d been no judgment in his amusement, no insult or disgust, and she’d found herself laughing right along with him.

  Jane had always thought that if such a thing as true love existed, then it existed there, in Twillins Cottage. And it had been born the day Mr. and Mrs. Harmon had reminded a frightened and lonely ten-year-old girl that people could be trusted, words could be fun, and everyone should laugh at themselves now and again.

  “I love you, Mrs. Harmon.”

  The words popped out of their own accord, right in the middle of Mrs. Harmon’s story. But it wasn’t the first time Jane had been moved to offer the spontaneous sentiment, and she hoped it wouldn’t be the last time she saw Mrs. Harmon’s eyes grow misty in response.

  “I love you too, Janey.” She leaned forward and took Jane’s hand in her own. “And now that you’re smiling again, I don’t mind telling you…”

  “Telling me what?”

  “You might want to look in the mirror, dear.” Mrs. Harmon’s lips curved up. “And fetch a little soap. You look”—she waved her hand about her face—“a bit mad.”

  Chapter Three

  Upon seeing Miss Ballenger standing outside in the late afternoon sun, Gabriel’s first thought was that Twillins Cottage was well suited to its owner. The weathered stone structure was small, pretty, and somewhat out of sorts. Its shutters required a fresh coat of paint. The thatched roof would need to be replaced soon. The drive was rutted. And there was no garden, which, now that he thought about it, was a little odd. Every cottage had a garden—a wild, romantic, overgrown-on-purpose sort of garden that looked as if it might house fairies and gnomes.

  But this cottage, like its mistress, was essentially unadorned.

  She stood a distance from the house, on the very edge of the thickest woods, and watched him as he approached from the stable. She’d left off the apron and changed into a simple gown of pale blue. It was cut in a more contemporary fashion, and proved he’d been right about the lush figure. The bodice, while hardly indecent, was cut low enough to draw a man’s gaze in appreciation.

  As he drew closer, he noted that she’d washed the grease and dirt from her face, but her hair remained the same with its halo of fuzz about the crown.

  Suddenly, his gaze couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to settle on the charming tiara of wispy hair that tempted him to grin, or the subtle display of curves that made him wish for candlelight and a soft bed. Or, barring that unlikely possibility, a stiff drink.

  He settled for smiling amicably. “Good afternoon, Miss Ballenger.”

  “Sir Gabriel. I was not expecting you to return so soon.” She ran a smoothing hand over her hair, as if aware of the general direction of his thoughts.

  He was vain enough both to appreciate the sign of nerves and to be annoyed that he felt the need to follow suit. There was nothing amiss with his appearance. He made sure of it. Always. Mostly because he still remembered what it had been like to feel filthy, but also because a fine appearance served as a mask and shield. People rarely bothered to look deeper when they were satisfied with what they found on the surface.

  “I’d not planned to return until tomorrow,” he replied. Or lied, if one wished to be precise. He’d had every intention of returning to Twillins as soon as possible. “But I thought you might like to know that I heard from Renderwell. He’ll be expecting your telegram. And I hired a Mr. Felch to handle our contract.”

  “All right.” There was a slight pause before she added, “Thank you.”

  The gentlemanly response at that point would have been to say something along the lines ofit was my pleasure, orthink nothing of it.

  “It was what you requested,” he said instead. Because he wanted to see how she would react, and because Mr. Felch was a pompous twit. It hadn’t been a pleasure at all, and it hadn’t been his idea to hire a solicitor in the first place.

  She didn’t appear the least offended, but merely eager to be done with the conversation. Her gaze flicked to the left, where a wide path led into the forest. “Indeed.”

  “Are you going somewhere?”
>
  She pointed to a steep, tree-covered rise behind the house. “To the top.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I like the view.” She shuffled a little closer to the opening in the woods, clearly impatient to be on her way.

  He shuffled a little closer as well. “It appears a challenging climb.”

  “Only from the front.” She took a step back. “There’s a gentle slope on the side.”

  He took a step forward. “The path leads there, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then…” He eyed the path, the hill, her closed expression, and the charming little wisps of hair about her head. “Let’s go,” he decided, and took off down the path at a clipped pace.

  “What? No, wait. Sir Gabriel!”

  He neither slowed his step nor looked back. “Come along, Miss Ballenger!”

  Again, the rudeness was deliberate, and a risk. She might react badly to presumptuous behavior, but he’d not know until he tried. One could learn a lot about a person by watching how they dealt with discourteous individuals. And if she took particular exception to his poor manners, he could always fall into the role of the well-meaning but simple-minded gentleman who didn’t know any better.

  Also, it was the only way he could be certain she’d walk with him. She’d obviously not intended to issue an invitation, and he suspected a direct request to join her would have been rejected.

  She didn’t immediately follow, however, and he wondered for a moment if she would simply ignore him and walk away. Then he wondered if that would leave him obligated to hike to the top of the hill alone. He sincerely hoped not.

  Finally, he heard the crunch of her hurried footsteps behind him. “Sir Gabriel, please, slow down.”

  “Was I walking too fast?” He slowed his pace once she reached his side. “My apologies.”

  “I don’t require an apology. Only…” She cleared her throat. “I had intended for this to be a solitary walk.”

  He heard patience layered with frustration in her voice, but no anger. “Do you often take solitary walks?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Harmons don’t accompany you?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the rapidly disappearing sight of the cottage. “No.”

  “What, never?”

  “Rarely.”

  “I prefer strolling in the company of others.” In truth, he had no preference one way or the other. “The combination of fresh air and lively conversation is a fine restorative.”

  She sighed once. It had the distinct air of resignation to it. “I don’t require a restorative.”

  And nothing about their conversation was even remotely lively, so she’d not be disappointed.

  Perversely, the less she said, the more he wanted to make her talk. About anything—the weather, the trees, what she had planned for dinner. But she refused to cooperate. Every overture he made was met with a brief, nearly monosyllabic reply.

  “Do you always walk the same trail,” he tried, “or are there others?”

  “There are several.”

  “Does Mr. Harmon maintain them?”

  “Yes, with help.”

  He noted that, despite her apparent disinterest in conversation, she continued her habit of looking at him as if he was enormously interesting. Each time he opened his mouth to speak, she took her eyes off the trail andstared at him. “Do you have a particular favorite?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you choose this one this evening? Do you rotate—careful for the tree roots.” He reached out and caught her arm before she tripped over a particularly large one. “You should watch where you place your feet.”

  “I do.” A line formed between her brows, but whether it was one of confusion or annoyance was impossible to tell. “Ordinarily.”

  “But not now. Because of me? Is my conversation distracting to you?”

  Annoyance. It was definitely annoyance. “I can walk and talk at the same time.”

  She withdrew her arm with great care and continued on her way without another word.

  This time, he was left hurrying to catch up. “I didn’t mean to cause offense.”

  “I’m not offended.”

  Perhaps not, but she wasn’t pleased either. He’d pushed her far enough, he decided. A typical woman might think nothing of a brief visit in the morning and a short stroll in the afternoon, but Miss Ballenger was, by all accounts, a recluse. Two visits in one day was probably two more than she cared to have in a month. Add in a spot of teasing, the occasional offense, and the fact that his visits had come without warning or invitation, and it was something of a wonder she was speaking to him at all. If he wasn’t careful, she’d leave the business of their contract to the Harmons and be done with him.

  And that, he thought with glance at her pretty profile, would be a great pity.

  He stopped in his tracks. “It has occurred to me that I was rude in inviting myself along. I apologize for the intrusion.”

  She spun about to face him. “You’re not… Are youleaving?” She sounded surprised, and unless he was mistaken, rather disappointed. He had to be mistaken.

  “You had planned on a solitary walk,” he reminded her.

  “Well, yes. Initially. But…” She looked about, as if searching for inspiration, then pointed at the trail ahead. “You’ve not seen the view. It would be a shame to come this far and not see the view.”

  Was she trying to convince him to stay, or was she putting up an argument just to be polite? Why the devil was it so hard to tell what the woman was thinking?

  “Is the view really worth the climb?” he asked carefully.

  “Yes. Unless…” She took a step toward him, her expression worried. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s worth it.”

  Evidently, she wanted him to stay. The realization brought a smile to his face. “It must be spectacular.”

  “Well, no,” she admitted. “It’s merely pretty. But it’s a very easy climb.”

  A very easy climb for a merely pretty view. How could he resist? “Then shall we, Miss Ballenger?” He offered his elbow, and was inordinately gratified when she accepted after only a brief hesitation.

  They continued on at an easy pace, but despite her apparent desire for his company, she still displayed no interest in conversation. He made several more attempts to draw her out, inquiring after the Harmons, her plans for Twillins Cottage, and her impression of the villagers, but nothing seemed to work.

  After a while, Gabriel was forced to accept that, if it was not annoyance or offense that kept her from engaging, then perhaps it was simply a preference for quiet on her strolls.

  He could oblige her that much. He could walk with her in companionable silence for the duration of their short trip.

  No, he decided as they started up a gentle slope. No, he could not.

  Much like his meticulous appearance and the finely tailored clothes on his back, he was accustomed to using conversation as a weapon and a shield. A man didn’t set his shields aside on a whim. A wise man didn’t set them aside at all.

  He brushed away an overgrown branch and glanced at her. “You should know that there will be men in these woods tomorrow.”

  Ah, nowthat got a proper response. She came to a quick stop. “In my woods? Whatever for?”

  “Initially, to keep an eye on the cottage and its occupants. When the time comes, they’ll pack and escort your brother’s things to London.”

  “How many men? Who are they? Where will they sleep? Why would—”

  “No more than half a dozen. They’re former police officers, mostly. They’ll sleep in the woods and stay out of sight until it’s time to move Edgar’s things. You won’t even know they’re here.”

  “Of course I’ll know they’re here. You just told me they’ll be here.”

  That was a fair point. “It’s for the best.”

  Slowly, she withdrew her arm from
his, and took a full step back. “And who areyou to decide what is best for Twillins Cottage?”

  He addedterritorialandindependent to his growing list of Jane Ballenger’s traits. “Allow me to rephrase. I requested the men because I thought it might be the best way to ensure your safety and the safety of the Harmons.”

  As he expected, the worst of her annoyance dissipated at the mention of her friends. “Do you really think someone else will come here for Edgar’s things? Someone dangerous?”

  “It’s merely a precaution,” he replied. He wanted her to be careful, not frightened. “It’s unlikely someone will think to seek you out immediately.”

  “Why not?” She tilted her head, her wide amber eyes bright with curiosity. “Why didn’tyou think to seek me out immediately?”

  “Your brother had other friends and associates with whom he might have shared the location of a secret warehouse. You weren’t the most obvious choice among them.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t be. But it became obvious to you at some point.”

  “It was convenient. I was going to speak with a gentleman in Sheffield. You were on the way.”

  “I see.” She thought about this a moment before continuing. “You should probably still speak with him. It’s possible whatever paperwork you’re looking for was shipped separately to someone else.”

  “Entirely possible, but I’ll not leave it to chance.”

  A small brown boot peeked out from under her skirts and he watched, oddly fascinated, as she quietly pried up a loose rock from the soil and kicked it off the path in a mild fit of pique. “I don’t like this idea of strange men lurking in my trees.”

  “They won’t be lurking; they’ll be keeping guard. And they’ll not be strangers once you’re introduced.”

  “You know them well?”

  He’d handpicked every one of them. “I’ve worked with them before. They’re good men. Mr. Alexander Fulberg will be leading them. He’s a particular friend of mine.”