Chapter 2

Tabitha had attended a number of social gatherings since she had joined the Merry Robins, but tonight felt different. Perhaps it was simply nerves at knowing she and her friends would be scouting a real prize, or maybe it was something else. Whatever it was left her on edge as she descended from Hannah's private coach and followed the other guests. Everyone queued on the steps leading up to the entrance of the Duke of Helston's residence.

As Hannah had explained, the dowager duchess had a dower house for her own use on the family's country estate, but since her grandson the duke was as yet unmarried, she lived most of the year with him in the Helston townhouse and acted as his hostess for formal events. She was a well-respected, powerful but fair and kind woman. According to Hannah, Helston's relationship with his grandmother was the only good thing about him.

"It's unlikely Helston himself will be here this evening. He adores his grandmother but rarely attends such functions. You needn't worry about running into him," Hannah explained.

"She should be relieved," Julia replied. "The pompous, arrogant?—"

"Julia," Hannah warned, but Tabitha saw Hannah hide a smile as she hushed her friend. Tabitha quite liked Julia's intensity. She refused to be a lady if it meant letting anyone walk over her or those she cared about.

But despite their reassurances, Tabitha was inexplicably afraid that the duke would be there, that he would instantly see through her fa?ade and she and her friends would be tossed out—or worse, arrested. It was nonsense, of course, yet her mind would not let go of the idea.

The three of them provided their invitations at the door as the butler gave them entry. It was a grand townhouse, grander than Hannah's home. They followed the guests ahead of them into a small ballroom that had been transformed into a concert hall with about thirty chairs lined up in front of a Byzantine piano. A string quartet accompanied a woman seated behind a harp, forming the rest of the musicale display. A table with refreshments sat off to one side with a fleet of footmen in attendance.

"Don't forget to smile," Hannah whispered to Tabitha. "And breathe."

Breathe. She inhaled deeply as she reminded herself to do just that. This was no different than any other day. They weren't here to steal the diamond tonight. They only wanted to see it and get a sense of the house. Just simple reconnaissance. She lifted her chin and smiled at several women as they reached the refreshment tables and took glasses of punch from a footman. She could do this.

Then everyone turned as a beautiful, proud-looking woman in her twilight years stood by the piano and addressed the crowd. The dowager duchess had arrived.

"I'm delighted to present Mademoiselle Lynette from Paris to sing for us tonight. These fine musicians will accompany her." The dowager's austere beauty softened as she looked at the musicians. "Thank you for entertaining us tonight with your talents. My grandson will be sorry to miss this performance as he is such a lover of music."

Tabitha relaxed. The beautiful bastard would not be here this evening after all. Not that she was afraid to meet him. Of course she wasn't.

"Enjoy tonight, and thank you for coming," the dowager said before she began walking through the crowd and greeting the guests. She paused when she reached Tabitha, Hannah, and Julia. Her two friends dropped immediately into gentle curtsies and bowed their heads. Tabitha rushed to do the same, but it did not escape the old duchess's notice that she hesitated for an instant. Blast.

"Mrs. Winslow, who is your companion? I've not had the pleasure of meeting her."

"This is Tabitha Sherborne, a distant cousin of mine from Yorkshire," Hannah supplied smoothly.

"Welcome, Miss Sherborne. I hope you enjoy the music." The dowager continued to study her, but it was not the look Hannah expected. She saw no derision, no judgment, only curiosity. The tiara the duchess wore had a large egg-shaped diamond in the center. The diamond that she'd often boasted she was gifting to her grandson for the moment he took a bride. The diamond they planned to steal.

Admittedly, the duchess was not someone Julia or Hannah would have ordinarily considered a target. She was a proud woman, but never cruel. Her grandson was another matter, Tabitha knew, and it was only through his grandmother's tiara that they could teach him a lesson.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Tabitha replied, her throat strangely tight as the old woman fought off a smile.

"It's a pity Fitz misses these engagements. Such interesting ladies he could meet," she said, half to herself, before she walked away.

"Interesting?" Tabitha echoed to Hannah and Julia. "What on earth does she mean by that?"

"Well, you are rather interesting, Tabitha. You are so pretty with such delicate features, yet those same features seem to be full of fierceness."

"What she means is you look like a lioness, not a kitten," Julia added. "Men expect kittens. But you have faced the hardships of life like no one else here. That strength shows in your face."

Tabitha reached up to cover her face with her hand, wondering how awful she must look. She didn't have Hannah's graceful looks or Julia's sharply intense beauty. What did strength look like? A collection of sharp angles and gaunt shadows upon her face? A hardness to her features that made her look as though she'd been cast in stone?

"You must stop seeing yourself in such a harsh light," Hannah said, catching Tabitha's hand and pulling it away from her face. "You're stunning to look at."

Tabitha glanced at Julia, needing the more honest of her two friends to give her the unvarnished truth.

"She's right. Courage and strength are beautiful and interesting."

Hannah got the other two back on track. "We should take our seats. Tabitha, once the first song is over, slip outside and tell the servants you need to visit the ladies' retiring room. Take your time and examine as much as you can of the house. Note any promising points of access we can use at a later date," Hannah said.

Tabitha gave a nod to indicate she'd heard the instructions as the three of them sat in the back row.

A pretty Frenchwoman in a pale-rose bustle gown festooned with flowers around her neck took a position by the pianist, and the concert began.

The first song was a pretty tune, one full of teasing, amusing lyrics with a quick tempo. After the first song ended, Tabitha stood and excused herself from the ballroom. A helpful footman gave her directions to go to the floor above to reach the ladies' retiring room.

She purposely missed the correct door and began to slip in and out of each room in the corridor. She opened each door, assessed what was inside, and moved on. When she came back to the landing at the top of the stairs, she heard a slow, mournful melody as the concert continued below. One of the servants must have left the door open because the music now carried through the entire house. She placed her palms on the railing and listened. The notes and words burrowed deep into her soul.

My lord was a handsome man,

With laughing eyes and a warm smile,

He was mine, he was mine,

The wind and rain would not keep him away,

No storm could hold him at bay,

He was mine he was mine,

But my lord fell ill with fevered dreams,

And his laughter died, his smiles faded,

But he was still mine, he was still mine.

His last breath was carried by a bitter wind,

And on his cold grave my heart did rend,

But he was still mine, still mine.

Tabitha closed her eyes, feeling the woman's loss, sensing her heartbreak on such a deep level it was as though she'd lost a lover herself. Tears escaped her eyes and she sniffed, wiping her face.

"Lovely, isn't it?" a deep voice asked from behind. She stiffened and fought to compose herself. She must have disturbed one of the footmen. She turned to see who, and her heart stopped.

The tall man standing close to her was handsome. Too handsome. Everything in his features conveyed strength, and for once she understood what Hannah had said when she'd mentioned strength showing in one's face, but she felt in that moment that it was far more attractive on this man than it would be on her.

His jaw was square, and his eyes were a dark blue and full of turbulent storms. His mouth was full, and the hint of a cleft in his chin was softened by the gold blond hair that fell boyishly into his eyes. He sported no beard or mustache despite society's dictates with the current trends. His shoulders were broad, and his waist narrowed to muscled but slender hips. The evening suit he wore was perfectly cut to his muscled physique.

It took Tabitha a moment to remember he had spoken to her. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed her a handkerchief, his gaze still fixed on her face.

"I shouldn't say a woman is pretty when she cries, but damned if you aren't a beautiful creature." For some reason that made Tabitha laugh, even though the sound came out watery.

"It is such lovely music," she agreed, answering his earlier question.

He joined her on the landing at the top of the stairs and braced himself on the railing with his forearms. The song continued to float up from the floor below, dancing in the air around them. Each swell of the strings and the descending patter of piano notes filled her mind with memories of her childhood.

She saw her mother lying in a sickbed. It was an old memory, one that had begun to fade more each year like a photograph left out in the sun. Memories of her father, grieving the woman he loved while raising a child on his own. Her father had never let her feel unloved, despite his own broken heart. Fresh tears sprang to Tabitha's eyes, and her throat tightened as she thought of him.

"What does this song make you think of that you feel so much it brings you to tears?" the gentleman asked. His voice was quiet, an emotion she couldn't quite name layered in his words.

"My father," she answered. "He would cry sometimes at night when he thought I was asleep. He never remarried after my mother died. A love lost like that destroys you. This music makes me feel it, but somehow I can see it through his eyes now, not the child I was. I can't explain it." She used his handkerchief to wipe her eyes again. "Does it make you think of anything?"

"Strangely, it makes me think of my father as well. But his story is a little different than yours." The man stared down at the open door to the ballroom. "My father was in the Crimean War. I was but a child when he fought in the Battle of Balaclava."

The name of the battle was familiar to Tabitha. She'd heard it somewhere before, but she couldn't remember where or when she'd learned it.

"What happened?" she asked.

"The British, French, and Ottoman forces were besieging the naval base at Sevastopol. The Russians tried to break through on horseback, but a Highland regiment of foot soldiers were ordered to hold them off. My father was among them. They had no horses. All they could do was form two lines to face down three thousand Russians on horseback. They called it the battle of the Thin Red Line, because of the uniforms they wore. The phrase now means a military unit spread thin but holding the line against attacks. It's a badge of courage, but to my father, it was the worst day of his life, watching his friends and countrymen die. But they held the line." The gentleman was quiet a long moment.

Tabitha moved closer, her arm touching his as they stood side by side. She had the strange urge to touch his face and comfort him. She had never wanted to do that with anyone before.

"Tennyson wrote a poem about that battle. I remember my father weeping once when he heard it spoken after a dinner. Some man deep in his cups recited it to the men while they had their brandy and cigars. My father came home, tears still in his eyes, and wouldn't speak to anyone for hours."

"Do you remember the poem?" she asked.

He flashed her a rueful smile. "I couldn't recite it all from memory, but I do remember one part."

When our own good redcoats sank from sight,

Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea,

And we turn'd to each other, whispering, all dismay'd,

"Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's Brigade!"

"Heroes and fools on the field that day," the man sighed. "That's what my father used to say. But it's been years since I thought of that." His sensual mouth still held a hint of a smile.

"Is your father... still alive?"

"No, he died about ten years ago. My mother passed a year later." The gentleman turned her way. "What of your father?"

"He died when I was thirteen."

"So young." She saw grief and empathy in his face. "You had kind relatives who took you in?" His gaze swept over her fine evening gown. Of course he would assume that she was well-off. He never would have guessed that six months ago she was little more than a pickpocket.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about growing up on the streets, about learning early how to steal, but that was a secret she could not share, even if she wanted to. That sudden impulse to unburden herself was so strong it shocked her. She never liked to tell anyone anything about herself or her life. The only two people she could trust with her past and the truth about her life were Hannah and Julia.

"Yes, my aunt Cecile took me in," she lied. "I'm visiting my distant cousin. She's been kind enough to let me experience the excitement of the city."

Applause followed the end of the haunting melody downstairs, and the sound drew Tabitha's focus back to her mission. She had wasted too much time talking to this man. She needed to get back to her friends, lest anyone wonder why she had been gone so long.

She stepped back to escape him. "I should go. I mustn't let my cousin worry."

He caught her hand briefly as it trailed past him on the banister.

"Thank you for this evening," he said, and for a moment she wondered if he would draw her close and dare to kiss her, such was the intensity of his gaze upon her.

"For what?" she whispered in the darkened corridor.

"For reminding me of the past. I so often keep it at bay, but the pain of it tonight wasn't as sharp because I shared it with you, just as you shared your tears with me."

His frankness stunned her. This man, this complete stranger, was making her feel things she wasn't used to feeling, things that threatened to destroy her very small and carefully controlled world. She blinked as her eyes burned.

"I really must go," she gasped and pulled away from him, their hands separating, and in that moment she saw the wall go back up on the man's face. Whatever vulnerability he'd revealed in the dark, it was hidden once more as he stepped back from her.

With only one foolish glance back at him, she hastened down the stairs and ducked back inside the ballroom to resume her place beside Julia and Hannah.

"How did it go?" Hannah asked.

She nodded in response, unable to trust her voice at this moment. She did not mention the gentleman, nor the foolish way she'd unburdened herself to him.

It was only long after the musicale ended, as she undressed in her room, that she discovered she still had his handkerchief in the pocket of her skirts. She removed the finely woven cloth and traced her fingers over the dark-blue initials upon it: F. S.

She had never even gotten his name. Was he a Frank? Perhaps Frederick? Ferdinand? Whoever he was, she knew his voice and his stunning eyes would haunt her as much as the melody of the song would. It was the first time she had felt seen, somehow, in a way she could not explain. The gentleman had gazed into her soul and hadn't looked away at whatever he'd seen there.

She climbed into bed and pressed the handkerchief to her nose, taking in the faint scent of the man's cologne that still lingered upon it. As she felt sleep creeping in that a new question presented itself in the darkness.

What had the man been doing there? She hadn't seen him among the other guests earlier that evening. And where had he come from? Because she'd checked every room before returning to the stairs and all the rooms had been empty.

If she hadn't still held the handkerchief in her hand as proof of his existence, she could easily believe it had been a dream she'd manifested into reality. Who was he, and how had he come to be there? The mystery tangled itself in her thoughts long into the night.

* * *

Fitz watchedthe beautiful mystery woman flee, her discomfort at the intimacy of what they'd just shared apparent. The moment had been more powerful than a kiss. He hadn't expected to find anyone upstairs during his grandmother's musicale. No one ever missed a song when she hired a talented singer to perform. Yet there she'd been, a vision in an evening gown of blue-and-cream plaid. Her bustle created a waterfall of silk from her lower back down to the floor, and was accented with two-tiered pale-blue silk revers that framed the plaid fabric. She looked like a colorful sweet from the confectioner's shop, and he'd always loved a pretty gown on a woman.

There was nothing more enticing than watching the bustle on a woman's backside sway with her hips as she moved. It reminded him how much fun it would be to take his time to slowly remove her elaborate outfit. He thought of a dozen ways to seduce her, but then he'd heard her make a soft, distressed sound and he'd realized she was hurting. As he'd come home earlier that evening, he'd heard the music whilst in the kitchens stealing a bit of food from the cook since he was famished. It had drawn him up the servants' stairs to a better spot to hear it. The music had also moved this woman. He'd wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss away her tears even before he had glimpsed her face.

It had been a long time since he'd been affected by someone else's emotions. Perhaps it was the music. His grandmother always chose the most wonderful singers and musicians. Fitz, like her, also had a soft spot for music. It could reach him despite every barrier he'd built to hide his heart from the world. He didn't like to feel pain because so much of his childhood had been full of it. His father had once said that all of life was simply moving from one moment of pain to the next.

Despite his wealth and station, Fitz had always felt the truth of his father's words. One could have everything that mattered and yet find that none of it truly mattered.

His father had swallowed the end of a pistol after nightmares of the war had left him too long without peace, and his mother had died of a broken heart soon after. Fitz wanted none of that in his carefully controlled world. Yes, he now lived a damned hollow existence, but it was without pain, at least most of the time. He would take feeling nothing every day over feeling too much.

But the moment he'd spoken to that woman, it was as if his fortress was nothing more than mist. Her pretty tears had slipped straight through that misty barrier, and she'd beat her fists against his heart, making it come alive, if only for a moment.

Why her?He could have any woman he wanted. He'd had mistresses who knew every way to please a man, but this woman... Christ, he did not even know her name, and yet she was like no one he had ever met before. They'd had said little, and yet what they'd shared had been of such deep things. She had unearthed his heartache in mere seconds, all because she'd shed tears at a mournful tune.

He closed his eyes, burning the image of her face in his mind. Cornflower-blue eyes that held an unquenchable fire, a mouth that trembled as though she dreamt of his kiss, and a faint rose-colored hue in her cheeks that reminded him of paintings of Persephone—a fragile spring goddess stepping into the underworld, the taste of pomegranate upon her lips. He wanted to pull her into his darkness, to kiss her as though he were Hades, claiming this woman's soul for all eternity.

Puzzled by his own reaction, Fitz remained on the landing above the stairs observing the guests' departure, hoping to spy the mystery woman once more. He caught a glimpse of that blue-and-cream plaid gown as a flock of lovely ladies moved toward the front door. He waited until the butler, Mr. Tracy, gave a heavy sigh of relief as he closed the door for the last time that evening. Fitz's grandmother stood beside the butler, cleaning her spectacles.

"Well, that was quite an evening," the dowager duchess said to Mr. Tracy.

"Indeed, my lady. Indeed," the butler agreed before he went down the kitchens to see to the downstairs staff.

Fitz descended the stairs, and his grandmother spotted him. Her eyes first brimmed with joy, then darkened with disapproval.

"Fitz, dear. I thought you were out this evening, yet here you are. You came back early and refused to meet our guests?"

He kissed his grandmother's cheek and chuckled. For as long as his parents had been gone, his beloved grandmother continued to teach him the art of being a duke.

"I had a meeting at my club. I'm sorry to have missed the musicale."

"You should be," his grandmother huffed. "There were some lovely young ladies here this evening."

"Indeed. I saw a few pretty ladies as they left. Tell me, who was the woman in the blue-and-cream plaid silk gown?" His grandmother would have to know who the mystery beauty was. She kept detailed guest lists, but she often extended extra invitations to her friends to bring others to events like these because she so loved sharing her love of music. Still, she would have made sure to introduce herself to any guest she didn't previously know.

"Blue-and-cream plaid... ah yes. Mrs. Winslow's cousin, if I remember correctly. Tabitha Sherborne. Beautiful creature. Tell me you're finally taking an interest in marriage, dear boy. Your father was already married and had you at this age. You are positively ancient now."

Fitz couldn't help but laugh. "I'm not even thirty. Men marry and father children well into their dotage. Age is of little concern to a man."

Her gaze narrowed, preparing for the coming battle. "That may be true, unfortunately, but think of the ladies, Fitz. No young woman should have to marry a man three times her age. Be fair. You are young and handsome now. Marry while you can attract the best woman as a wife. A happy wife leads to?—"

"A happy life," he finished. "Yes, I know. But I do not feel the call to marry."

"That is your first problem. Marriage isn't simply a calling. It's a duty."

Fitz was enjoying this verbal sparring. "But Grandmother, you always said marriage is about love, like you and Grandfather."

"It is about love. You have a duty to find the right woman to fall in love with and marry."

Blast, she had him there.

"Then perhaps I need to host a country house party to revive my spirits in regards to love. Will you act as my hostess? Invite everyone on this list to a house party at Helston Heath, including Miss Sherborne and her cousin." He removed a list of guests from his pocket and gave it to his grandmother. She studied the list, still clearly suspicious.

"You must have some scheme in mind, Fitz. What are you up to?"

"No scheme, Grandmama," he assured her with a smooth smile. But she knew him too well. She had helped raise him, after all.

"You are up to something. That charming smile you're giving me has only ever brought trouble down on your far too handsome head, my boy. I will not invite anyone unless you tell me why."

"Very well, it's about your diamond tiara," he said as he nodded at the circlet that rested in her silvery hair.

She reached up and touched it self-consciously. "Yes?"

"I'm worried someone might try to steal it."

"Steal it? Whyever would they do that?" she demanded.

"Haven't you read the papers, Grandmama? There is a gang of jewel thieves robbing the rich of their best pieces. You're wearing one of the most famous diamonds in England as part of that tiara. The center stone alone is worth a fortune, let alone all the other smaller diamonds surrounding it."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that," his grandmother said loftily. "The Merry Robins wouldn't steal from me."

Fitz narrowed his gaze on his grandmother. Did she know something he did not? "And why is that?"

"Because it's clear those thieves only target the worst sort of people."

"Rich people," he clarified.

His grandmother sighed dramatically.

"No, dear. They steal from cruel people. Have you not examined the list of victims? I have. I can't think of a single person on that list whom I actually like."

Fitz stared at his grandmother. "You mean all the victims have something in common aside from money and influence?"

"Yes, of course, haven't you realized that?" She appeared stunned that he hadn't made the connection. "And to think I thought you were clever," she teased him.

"Wait a moment." He left her waiting in the corridor while he retrieved a newspaper from the day before that listed the victims. He pointed out the name of a gentleman to her once he rejoined her in the corridor. "What has Lord Blotten done?"

She adjusted her spectacles for a better look. "He bankrupted a decent family by convincing them to invest poorly. He knew they would lose everything. He then bought their property for next to nothing."

"And her?" He gestured to a woman's name that was next on the list.

"She had a Crimean War veteran tossed into Newgate for begging near her townhouse. The man was missing a leg and had no other way to earn a living."

He gestured to the third name on the list. "Him?"

"He took advantage of an upstairs maid. The girl died in labor with his child."

"This one?" He pointed to yet another name.

"She spread wretched rumors about another young lady that were entirely unfounded. It cost the young woman an advantageous match."

"Are all of these things public knowledge?" he asked his grandmother.

"Not all of them. Many are things that occurred behind closed doors. In some cases, not even the servants know. I only happen to know about this because I've made inquiries on my own."

"You have?" He couldn't imagine his grandmother skulking about seeking information like some silly Scotland Yard detective.

"Of course. Someone is targeting my level of society, and I wished to understand why. Now that I do, I commend the thieves. They are striking out in revenge for those who can't defend themselves. I think it's rather noble."

"Nobility aside, someone must get to the bottom of this. Perhaps it's a servant."

"Impossible. Many of the thefts occurred when no servants were present," his grandmother supplied.

"Or so we are led to believe," Fitz countered. "But assuming you are right, who would have access to all these victims?"

His grandmother laughed. "I should think that was quite clear. It's one of us, dear boy. It's a good thing you do not own any jewels or you might well be next."

"What?"

She shrugged. "You broke up that friend of yours last year, Louis Atherton, with that darling young woman he was in love with, simply because you didn't like the girl's father. You said he was an old blustering fool who'd schemed his way up the social ladder. It wasn't as if he was to become your father-in-law. I told you not to interfere, but like always, your pride was too much to leave things alone. Now they've sent that poor young woman to America. Her family has been publicly embarrassed because of you, and her father won't show himself in society. It's rumored that he's trying to drink himself to death."

This part was news to Fitz, and his eyes grew wide.

"I adore you, my boy, but your pride will be the end of you. You are nearly thirty. You cannot keep making the sort of mistakes that far younger men would make. Louis put his faith in you and believed you when you convinced him that his marriage to that girl would reflect poorly on his social standing, to the detriment of his business interests. You never once asked what marrying a woman he loved would provide him that business successes would not."

Fitz's collar was suddenly too tight. He slipped a finger under the stick collar and tugged a little. Even at his age, being chastised by his grandmother was an unpleasant experience.

"If I were a jewel thief with a social vendetta, I might come after you for that. I love you, Fitz, dear, but damned if you aren't a prideful fool sometimes. Thank heavens all the jewels of note in this house are still mine. At least for now." His grandmother pressed a kiss to his cheek and went upstairs to retire for the evening.

Fitz stood in the hallway, mulling over his grandmother's words. She had spoken the truth, but Christ, he couldn't imagine Louis and that woman's father getting along. The man was a nuisance. Always saying the wrong thing, embarrassing everyone. He'd done Louis a favor, hadn't he? He'd have only dragged poor Louis down with him and...

Fitz leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he glared at the portrait of an ancient Duke of Helston. It had been months since he'd spoken to Louis, let alone seen him. Fitz had been as close to Louis as he was to Evan and Beck. Was Louis avoiding him? Surely not. Louis had thanked him for his help. Told him he had saved him a lifetime of regret. And yet... Fitz shook off the feeling of guilt and directed his focus back onto his mission.

If his grandmother was right, the thieves wouldn't target the diamond because it technically still belonged to her. But they might target him because of what he had done. So he had to make it clear that the diamond was to be his legacy, make a public display of its importance to him, perhaps. That might entice the thieves to pursue the gemstone. It might work.

He would host a country party at Helston Heath and create a whisper in society that he was taking his grandmother's tiara with him to the country. He would invite all the people who had been present at the thefts. He, Evan, and Beck had narrowed the potential suspects down to a list of twenty people. And those were the names on the list of guests he had handed to his grandmother. One of them had to be one of those damnable Merry Robins. And he, like the Sheriff of Nottingham, would set a trap to catch the fellow.