The Rogue You Know (Covent Garden Cubs) (3 page)

The boys soon grew tired of watching the butterfly and went to play other games. Susanna immediately released the poor creature, but by then it was too fatigued to fly out. Even when she dumped it on the grass, the butterfly did not move. It had given up.

She’d tried to be the perfect daughter. She’d tried to do everything her mother asked of her, but nothing was ever good enough. She didn’t speak loudly enough or she spoke too loudly; she walked too slowly or too quickly; she ate too much or too little; her hair was too long or not long enough; she was too fat or too thin. Susanna felt like cowering, as she was now, every time she saw her mother, because she never knew what she would be criticized for next.

She was tired of fighting. She wanted to give up, lie down, fall asleep, and never wake up again. The weight of her exhaustion pressed down on her, and she leaned against the side of the desk, giving in to it.

Scrape.

Susanna stopped crying and listened.

* * *

“Very good, Edwards,” Dorothea said when her lady’s maid had taken her wrapper and assisted her into bed. The cool sheets felt good against her swollen feet. She’d spent too much time on them at the garden party. She’d had to search the entire house before she’d found Susanna in the music room, of all places.

But thank God she’d found her. Dorothea’s heart had thumped wildly when her daughter hadn’t been in the retiring room and no one could remember having seen her.

Edwards held up the compress. “Here you are, my lady.”

“That is perfect, Edwards.” She settled the compress on her forehead and closed her eyes.

After a few moments, Edwards turned the compress over. “Feeling better, my lady?”

“No, Edwards, unfortunately I am not. I do not think I shall be well until I see Susanna married and married well.”

Edwards’s mouth turned down sympathetically. “The girl does seem to put you out of sorts.”

“Yes, she does. Did I tell you she disappeared at the marchioness’s garden party today?”

“You did, my lady.”

Dorothea eased herself back down onto the pillow and closed her eyes. “I worry about her. She resents it when I try to protect her. Am I not a mother? Should I not keep my daughter safe?”

“You love her, my lady.”

“Of course I do. I love all of my children.”

Edwards turned the compress again. “I have always sensed Lady Susanna was special to you, my lady.”

Dorothea opened her eyes. “She is, Edwards. She is very special. I do not think she even knows how special she is to me.”

“You should tell her, my lady.”

Dorothea closed her eyes again. That was something she dared never to do.

* * *

Scrape.

In the library, Susanna went still. There it was again.

The town house was old and had a tendency to creak and groan. But then she heard it again, and this time she knew it was not the house. It sounded like…a window. There were two windows behind Dane’s desk, and both looked out upon the small garden. One was directly across from where she sat huddled on the floor. The draperies were closed, and nothing stirred behind them. Was she imagining the noise, or was something or—God forbid—
someone
trying to enter the house?

She peered around the corner of the desk and stared at the opposite window. Her breath caught when the draperies rustled with the breeze. The window had definitely
not
been open before. It had been cold enough in the room without allowing the night air inside.

Susanna jerked back, hidden on the far side of the desk again. Everyone knew London was rife with housebreakers, but would the thieves be so bold as to try and enter a house when the family was home? She heard a thump and trembled.

Apparently, the rogues
were
so bold. What would they do to her if they found her? Kill her? Rape her? Kidnap her for ransom?

She must escape, but how?

She peered around the desk again and saw two legs standing in front of the window. It was too late to run. The thief was already inside. She did a quick inventory of herself. She had nothing, absolutely nothing that would protect her from a ruffian.

She could hear the thief breathing now. He was breathing hard, as though he’d been running. She pressed her back against the oak of the desk and craned her neck. She spotted the shadow of a candlestick on the edge of the desk. She hadn’t lit the candle in it. If she could pull it off the edge without the thief noticing, she could use it to protect herself.

She felt the edge of the desk with her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she stretched her fingers until she touched the cool silver of the candlestick. She eased her fingers around it and tugged it soundlessly over the edge of the desk.

The candlestick shook in her hands. The weight was more than she was prepared for, but she caught hold of it and clutched it to her chest just in time.

The thief clomped into the room. He wasn’t worried about being quiet. She could hear him now. He lifted books and replaced them. She knew the sound the binding made when lifted and released. That meant his back was to her.

Her heart thundered so loudly she feared he could hear her, and she was at risk of swooning at any moment. She dug her fingers into the ornamentation around the candlestick until the silver cut into her palm.

She must be strong. She must be brave.

It didn’t appear as though any other thieves were entering after this one. She could hit him with the candlestick and prove to her mother that she was an independent, capable young woman who should be allowed to go to Vauxhall Gardens—or anywhere she pleased!

Susanna trembled as she moved to her knees and slanted her eyes up and over the desk.

There he was!

He looked every inch the dangerous rogue! He was tall and powerfully built and had dark hair covered with a cap. And he was indeed pawing through her father’s books. She had to stop him.

She ducked down and scooted along the edge of the desk until she reached the side closest to the shelves. She was exposed now. If he should but move a little to his left, he would see her. She forced herself to slide slowly and with exaggerated care until her back collided with the sharp edge of the far corner of the desk.

She could smell the thief now. She’d expected him to smell of something rank and evil, but he smelled of the night air and something else, perhaps sandalwood?

This close, she saw the rough hew of his clothing. The dirt on his boots. He did not belong here, and his actions left no question as to his intent. She grasped her skirts in one hand to keep them from tripping her, and held the heavy candlestick in the other. Soundlessly, she rose. He seemed to sense her movement, but right before he could turn, she rushed him and slammed the candlestick onto the back of his head.

With a groan, he went down, the cap tumbling from his head.

She’d done it! She’d really done it.

She gave a small gasp of surprise and horror when she saw the trickle of blood on his neck. Oh God. Had she killed him? What would happen to her if she’d killed him? Would she go to Newgate?

She wanted to wake Crawford, but she couldn’t call the butler if she’d killed a man. He’d be forced to summon the magistrate. Better to ensure the thief was alive before calling for anyone.

Tentatively, she knelt down, and her hand wavered over the thief’s neck. She’d seen her mother’s physician touch the dowager’s neck at this point to check her pulse. Susanna had never tried to check a pulse, and she’d never touched a man other than her father or her brothers. Her hand hovered above the man’s neck, until finally she shut her eyes and forced herself to touch him.

He was still warm. His head was turned away from her, so she couldn’t see if her hand was in the right position, but she didn’t feel a pulse. She moved her fingers a fraction of an inch.

Still nothing.

She moved them again, and he groaned.

She snatched her hand away and scrambled backward. The man tried to rise, lifting his shoulders off the floor and cupping the back of his head. He groaned again and turned his head to look at her, just as she was about to raise the candlestick again. He raised his hand to ward off the blow, but she’d paused anyway.

His eyes held her. He faced the hearth behind her, and she could see the pain in his eyes but also the color.

They were green, a vivid, beautiful green that reminded her of forests and glades and the serenity of the country. And so she paused.

Later, she would come to realize that small hesitation had been a mistake.

Later, she would realize that was the moment everything had gone wrong.

But as she sat with the candlestick held aloft, the thief staring at her, all she could think was that he was beautiful. That she wanted to sketch him; that it would be impossible to find the right color for his eyes.

“Lady Susanna?”

“How do you know my name?” she asked.

At least he thought that was her question. His head throbbed loud enough to wake the dead. What had she hit him with? That glim-stick?

Shit.
She could have killed him.

She brandished the glim-stick again. “I said, how do you know my name?”

He sat back on his haunches, almost toppled over. He was stronger than this. He’d been soundly chafed more times than he cared to remember.

“Because I know you.” His tongue felt thick and fuzzy.

“How dare you speak to me?”

He winced. Her voice was a knife cutting through his brain.

“
You
asked me a question,” he answered. “Twice.”

“How do you know me?” She pointed the glim-stick at him as though it were a tilter, and rose to her knees. Her eyes, dark and owlish in her small face, studied him like a wary animal might. She shook like a small, terrified animal. He’d seen his share cornered. She had the same look of fear.

“Because Marlowe’s my crony.” As soon as it was out of his mouth, he realized how the words made him sound. Lower class. “I mean, me and Marlowe are acquainted.”

“Marlowe?”

The glim-stick lowered.

“You and Marlowe?”

He held out a hand. “I’m Gideon.”

She jerked the glim-stick high again, shaking it. “I will use this.”

His head throbbed in sympathy. “I know.”

“What are you doing here?” She scrambled to her feet, still waving the glim-stick. “Marlowe and my brother aren’t in residence at the moment.”

This was news. “Where are they? If you send for her, she’ll vouch for me.”

“I can’t. They’re at Northbridge Abbey.”

That was a wrinkle. He rose to his feet.

“Stay back!”

He wanted to snatch the glim-stick from her hand and toss it out the window—or, seeing it was silver, stuff it in his coat. Instead, he held up his hands.

“I won’t hurt you. If Marlowe’s not here, I’ll be on my way.” Keeping his hands raised in defense, he took three careful steps back and paused by the bookshelf where he’d stashed the bag with the necklace.

“What are you doing?” She was a pretty little thing but definitely a nob. Giving orders came naturally to her.

“Taking what’s mine.” He felt for the bag, his fingers grazing it when he heard the growl. There, in the window behind him, panted that mongrel dog. Its paws rested on the casement, and its devil eyes stared at him as though he were dinner.

How the hell had the buffer found him here?

“Shoo,” he said, waving his hand at it.

It bared its teeth.

“Is that your dog?”

“No.” If he’d had a dog, it wouldn’t block his escape route. “If you don’t mind, I’ll exit through the front door.”

“You stay right where you are. If you even—” She cocked her head. “Someone is coming!”

“Damn,” he grumbled. He had the dog at his back, a daft mort with a glim-stick in front, and now someone else would join the party.

Gideon took the only recourse available at the moment: he dove under the desk.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

He poked his head out. “Don’t tell them I’m here.” And he ducked back again just as the door opened.

Hiding was a gamble. He had no reason to trust the mort. She’d probably snitch on him, but he’d grasped at the chance, small as it was, that she wouldn’t. Maybe the odds were in his favor tonight. He’d managed to lose Beezle and the other cubs, not to mention Mother Cummings’s thugs. The damn dog was still on his heels, but he could deal with the buffer quickly enough. With that thought, he peered out at the window. The mongrel had disappeared.

One less wrinkle.

“My lady, is anything the matter?” It was a man, and he spoke like a slavey. His consonants were crisp, whereas Gideon’s were woefully soft. The butler?

“Crawford! Hello.”

She sounded nervous as hell. He bet she looked like she was ready to jump out of her skin.

That was it. He’d be in the iron doublet before morning.

“I thought I heard a sound.”

“A sound?” Her voice was shrill and false. “I didn’t hear anything.”

The butler, Crawford, cleared his throat. “It sounded like yelling. Is anyone in here with you?”

“No. I was—I was talking to myself.”

There was a long stretch of silence, and Gideon imagined the slavey debated whether or not to believe her. If he didn’t believe the girl—and with pitiful deception skills like hers, who would?—this Crawford had to decide what he would do about it.

“Shall I call for your mother? I fear you might be too much alone at times, my lady.”

Gideon twisted his face in disbelief. The slavey thought she might be lonely? He’d believed she’d been talking to herself? This gentry mort must really lack for friends.

Gideon had no idea what that would be like. He was never alone. He’d lived all his life in cramped quarters, first at the orphanage then in the flash ken with the rest of the rooks he knew. Why, the space under this desk was more room than he usually had to himself.

“Oh, no, no. I’m fine,” she said. “In fact, I will select a book and then retire.”

“Very well, my lady.”

“Good night, Crawford.”

“Good night, my lady.”

Gideon waited until all was silent again, and then he poked his head out. His trained gaze had already picked out everything of any real value in the room. The silver glim-stick she insisted on using as a weapon would fetch a pretty penny, but the ormolu box on the mantel and the Sevres porcelain dish on the table by the door would be lighter to carry and just as easy to fence.

The necklace was worth ten times all that cargo.

“All clear?”

“He’s gone,” she said. She’d set the glim-stick on the desk, but she lifted it again now.

“Then I’ll be on my way.” Another glance at the window told him the dog was still gone. Now was his chance. He crossed to the bookshelf and reached for his cargo, but his hand came away empty. His heart jumped into his throat, and every last bit of air whooshed from his lungs. Gideon shoved books aside, toppled several on the floor.

The necklace was gone.

He rounded on the girl. Her face told all. She couldn’t lie if her life depended on it.

“Where is it?” He advanced on her.

She brandished the glim-stick, but he was done playing games. The necklace was all that mattered. It was his life.

Gideon had choused Beezle. He’d be cargo for the Resurrection Men if he stayed in London, and he couldn’t leave London without blunt.

“Don’t come any closer.” She clutched the glim-stick.

“Where is it?” he asked again, keeping his voice low. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you don’t tell me what you did with it.”

“It’s hidden, and you’ll never find it.”

His gaze flicked over the room. A large vase on the table behind her made the most obvious hidey-hole.

“It’s in that vase, isn’t it?”

She would have made a pitiful rook. She dashed to the vase, dug the bag out, and stuck it into her bodice.

“If you wanted me to rip your clothes off, you only had to ask.” He took a step forward.

“Touch me, and I’ll scream so loudly I’ll wake the whole house.”

Gideon took another step forward. “You didn’t tell the slavey I was hiding here. You won’t scream.”

She raised the glim-stick again. “I will. I promise I will.”

He looked in her eyes. Damn it.

She didn’t bluff. She was terrified, and if he touched her, he’d end his short, sad life dangling by the neck at the gallows. Either that or on one of the prison hulks. He didn’t know which was worse.

Gideon crossed his arms. He could negotiate. He excelled at negotiations. Added to that, he had a way with women. He’d give her one of his charming smiles, and she’d be all his. He hadn’t met a woman yet whose clothes didn’t practically fall off when he gave her The Look. Gideon glanced down then back up, giving her the most potent form of The Look he could muster.

She glared at him. “Do not touch me,” she said.

Gideon choked on his surprise. Why wasn’t she melting? He must have done it wrong. He tried it again.

“What is wrong with your face?” she asked. “Your mouth looks odd.”

“Damn!” The Look didn’t work on the bloody mort. He clenched his hands to keep from shaking her. “What the devil do you want?”

“I want to go to Vauxhall Gardens.”

“Vauxhall?” he stammered.

It was not the strangest request he’d ever heard, but he’d not been expecting it. Not from this rum duchess.

“Then go. What does Vauxhall have to do with my cargo?” He gestured to her chest. He could see the black velvet of the bag peeking out from between her cleavage. Under other circumstances, he might have even been interested in that cleavage. Right now, all he wanted was the cargo.

“I can’t go,” she said in a tone that implied this should be obvious. “I need someone to take me. I want
you
to take me.” She said the last as though it were an order, not a wish.

Gideon raked a hand roughly through his hair. “I’m no jehu. Give me the bag, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

He reached for her chest, but she batted his hand away with the glim-stick.

“Ow!” He snatched his hand back, checking it for fresh bruises.

“I’ll give you the bag after you take me to the pleasure gardens.”

This was what the swells called
an
impasse
. He stared at her, willing her to back down. She pressed her lips together in a show of stubbornness he had not expected.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I turn this”—she gestured to the bag—“over to my brother. You do know Sir Brook Derring?”

Oh, he knew Sir Brook. The man was a bloody thief-taker. One of the best in the city.

Gideon wanted to hit something. He wanted to howl in frustration. Instead, he ground his jaw together.

“Fine,” he finally spat. “Let’s go.”

She would see him killed and do herself in along the way. Hell, if she wanted to go to Vauxhall Gardens, they’d go.

“Fine?” Those owl-like eyes narrowed with suspicion. Or had they gone sharp now she’d settled on her prey? “You’ll take me?”

“That’s what I said.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the window, but she dug her heels in to the carpet.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I want my cargo. I take you to Vauxhall, you give me the bag, and we part as friends.”

She was shaking her head. Damn and hell!

“What
now
?”

“I can’t wear this.”

“What?”

The white gown with the blue sash was sweet, if one liked that sort of thing. He supposed the rich swells did like that sort of thing. They wanted their women untouched and pure. This one certainly looked that.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s an afternoon dress. I must change into evening wear.”

“No, no, no.” Gideon slashed a hand between them. This was not happening. Time was the enemy.

“You look fine. We leave now.”

But she was already inching toward the library door. “It won’t take me but a moment to change.”

He didn’t believe that for a second. When he and Marlowe had been cronies in Satin’s gang, he’d helped her dress more times than he could count. Women’s garments were notoriously difficult to manage.

New tactic. “Fine. Go change. I’ll wait here with the bag.”

“I don’t think so,” she said with her hand on the door handle. “I’m keeping it with me.”

“It doesn’t leave my sight.”

She waved the order away. “You can trust me with it. Besides, if I give it to you, you’ll run away as soon as I step through this door.”

He gasped in mock astonishment. “I beg your pardon. I would do no such thing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “That hurts. Where is the trust?”

She patted the bag nestled against her chest. “Right here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

And she was gone.

Gideon swore at the closed door for a good three minutes and then kicked the desk. It hurt his foot more than it hurt the desk, and he didn’t feel even marginally better.

Vauxhall Bloody Shithole Gardens!

Why the hell did she want to go there?

The better question was how he would get her there without any of Beezle’s cronies seeing him. They’d be all over London now, searching every last nook and den for him. Gideon needed to leave the city, not take a stroll through its popular pleasure gardens.

On the other hand, no one would expect him to go to Vauxhall. Maybe he’d be safe there for a little while. And maybe he could lift the necklace off her without her even noticing. He was a good diver, not as good as Marlowe had been, but he could take a bag off a nob.

He’d have to be close to her to reach into her dress. She didn’t seem too keen to have him touch her.

Still, the night was young. His odds might change.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the low growl Gideon heard from the open window.

The blasted dog was back.

“Shit,” he muttered as the beast jumped through the window and lunged at him.

* * *

Susanna’s heart beat so fast she could hardly catch her breath long enough to choose a gown. She would go to Vauxhall Gardens!

She would go with a thief who made her legs weak with terror, but she would go.

Her mother would kill her.

She might be dead with her throat slit in a dirty alley before her mother even noticed she had gone.

Her heart thudded painfully.

She couldn’t think like that. The man was one of Marlowe’s friends…who happened to be a criminal.

A criminal she’d outwitted.

She set down the candlestick and pulled the black bag from her bodice. He’d wanted it back rather desperately, but she’d managed to obtain the upper hand. She scooted closer to the lamp and pulled the bag open. Inside, something sparkled. Holding her breath, Susanna reached into the soft velvet and pulled out a diamond-and-emerald necklace.

She stared at the piece for a full minute. If the jewels were more than glass and paste, the necklace was worth a fortune.

She held the bauble to the light. That was no paste.