Chapter 6

C hapter 6

The next morning, I set out, determined to put my plan into action. It was two-pronged, as any worthwhile plan was. First: question my network of contacts to see if they knew my thief. Second: search the nearby pawnbrokers for the stolen valuables.

During my time working alongside Jack, I’d made dozens of connections among those in London’s less ... respectable professions. First on my list to question: the “incomparable” Wily Greaves.

Not that I called him that, of course. That was how he’d described himself the last time I’d seen him.

I had no address for him, and neither would he have ever given me one. But that was hardly a challenge. Within two hours, I was promenading through Hyde Park, looking for all the world like a young miss out to impress the ton . But my eyes were keen, inspecting all the paths that branched from mine. It would need to be a relatively private spot but public enough to make all the parties comfortable.

A flash of crimson. There. Not a dozen yards away, a man in a bright-red jacket strolled down a walking path that crossed into a small grove of trees. I followed after him.

I trailed him for a minute or two, watching to ensure he was alone. He wouldn’t be pleased if I interrupted a meeting with clients. Just as I decided the time was right, he rounded a curve in the path behind a stand of trees. I hurried to catch him, reached the curve, and—

He was gone.

I stopped short. Where had he gone? My eyes darted about. There weren’t that many trees, yet he’d vanished like a drop of water on a hot day.

“Dare I hope you were looking for me?”

My mouth twisted into a lopsided grin as I turned to face the man now standing on the path behind me, hands stuck in his pockets, mischievous eyes twinkling.

“One would have to be blind not to spot you,” I said. “Really, Wily, could you have a more conspicuous wardrobe?”

Wily snorted, straightening his jacket over the green-checked waistcoat he wore, both perfectly tailored to suit his wiry frame, though they’d been patched several times over. “Conspicuous? Surely you mean dapper.”

“Certainly,” I said dryly. “Dapper.”

He gave a little bow. “You are too kind, Miss Travers.” Then he squinted at me as if realizing something. “Now, then, how did you find me? I make it a point not to be findable.”

“I do not think that is a word,” I pointed out.

He waved that off. “I’m a fence, not a wordsmith. But apparently not a very good fence if just anyone can track me down.”

“I am not just anyone,” I countered. “I went to that tea shop you favor and asked around for you. A kind gentleman with truly terrible breath pointed me in the direction of your rented rooms. When the landlady tried to frighten me off, a few coins loosened her tongue, and she happened to recall you had a meeting today in the park.” I spread my hands wide. “And here we are. All in a day’s work.”

Wily whistled. “Well, don’t you rule the roost. I will, of course, be changing rooms immediately.”

My grin grew wider. Wily was a scoundrel of the first order, but I liked him.

“Now,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I do have a client arriving any minute, and I doubt you went through all the trouble of tracking me down for a bit of prittle-prattle.”

I almost asked who his client was, then decided it was best if I did not know. Working with those of Wily’s profession was a necessity when pursuing criminals, but a lady could pretend some ignorance.

I quickly explained about the theft two evenings previous and about my need to locate Elizabeth’s reticule with the letter inside, though I omitted her name. He listened with a furrowed brow, foot tapping incessantly as I described the stolen items.

“Have you come across any of them?” I asked hopefully. Wily was rather a good fence. If anyone were trying to sell the Harwoods’ things, he would likely know about it.

“No,” he said, “but with loot such as that, I’m not surprised the thief hasn’t spouted them yet. Likely waiting for his trail to cool.”

“I thought the same thing,” I said. “And I doubt the thief would bother to sell the reticule.”

“Right,” he said. “If it’s the letter you need, then you’ll have to find the thief. Assuming he hasn’t ditched it by now.”

I sighed. “That would certainly solve all my problems, but I must be sure.” I opened my own reticule and pulled out the folded drawing I’d worked on the night before, re-creating the image I’d given Mr. Denning to use. I held it out to Wily. “Do you recognize him?”

He sent me a scandalized look. “You know me better than that, Miss Travers. If I start snitching, no one will trust me with their business.”

I gave a short laugh. “Believe you me, this man is far beneath the notice of your associates.”

He looked unconvinced but took the paper and inspected it. He shook his head. “Never seen him. Even if I had—”

“I know, I know.” I held up one hand. “But it might interest you to know there is a reward of fifty pounds for the capture of the thief.”

Wily’s eyes sharpened. Ah, money. The true way to a fence’s heart.

“You don’t say,” he said, studying the sketch a little closer.

I tugged it back. “A reward that I would happily split with you if you were to prove helpful.”

“I’m always helpful,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

I hid a laugh as I folded the sketch and placed it back in my reticule. “So, you’ll ask around?”

He huffed. “Ask around. As if it’s that simple.”

I cast my eyes to the clouds above. “It never is with you.”

He winked as he tipped his hat, a sorry-looking black topper. “Give me a few days,” he said. “I’ll see what I can find.”

The bell above the door jingled as I entered the pawnbroker’s shop. My nose wrinkled immediately. This one smelled even worse than the last, which was perplexing. The shelves of the crowded shop teetered with items—broken lamps, hat boxes, walking sticks, clocks, dusty portraits—but nothing that ought to smell like something had died.

I’d visited a few other contacts in the area after Wily, including Tommy Rutkins, the butcher who collected Jack’s mail. But no one had any leads for me, either about the stolen goods or the face of the suspect I’d sketched. So I’d set my mind to searching the nearby pawnshops. It was quite as boring as it sounded, and this being my fourth shop, I was quickly wearying of the task.

A low counter ran along the back of the shop, displaying a variety of jewelry, snuff boxes, and silverware. A man with wild side whiskers and a thick neck stood behind it, polishing a gilded hand mirror with a cloth. He eyed me suspiciously as I approached.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked as he took me in. I’d worn my plainest dress, a simple straw bonnet, and no jewelry, but even if I looked like a tradesman’s daughter, generally tradesmen’s daughters did not frequent pawnbrokers.

Which was why I had not come unprepared. I pushed away my weariness and forced a smile to my face. “Oh, I do hope so.” I pitched my voice a touch higher than usual and added a dose of desperation. “I’ve lost something, you see, and I’m terribly desperate to find it again.”

The man frowned. “This ain’t a place for lost things, miss. Everything here is for sale.”

I waved a hand, the gesture almost wild. “No, no, of course not. But, you see, I borrowed my mother’s earrings without her knowing. They were her prized possession, and I was foolish to do it, but ...” I paused, leaning forward as if to enter him into my confidence. “I was so hoping to impress a man. The things a girl will do.”

I gave a slightly mad laugh, and the man pulled back, no doubt fearing my mania might be catching. I went on as if I hadn’t noticed. “But I lost the earrings. The posts must have been loose, for when I returned home, they were both gone from my ears.”

I allowed my eyes to fill with tears, and I sniffed, fishing about in my reticule for a handkerchief. I would never tell Mama how often I used the acting skills I’d learned from her—she would be unbearably smug.

“After all that, the man hardly even looked at me! Oh!” I dabbed at my nose, forcing a hiccup. “So you see, I must find the earrings, or Mama will be positively irate with me. I was hopeful someone might have found them on the street and brought them here to sell.”

It was a far-fetched story, one that would have given most people pause. But when added to my hysterics and crying, the man seemed to have no desire to prolong our interaction.

“Earrings,” he repeated, squinting at me. “What kind, then?”

“Pearl earrings,” I said. “The lightest shade of cream with gold settings.”

I’d meant what I’d told Mr. Denning yesterday. I had no attachment to my earrings—tiny things indeed, the gold fake and the make precarious. Mama had offered to lend me some of her jewelry to wear to the theatre, but I disliked the feel of baubles about my neck and wrists. I used the earrings now only because I thought they might be my best chance at a lead. Lady Harwood’s and Elizabeth’s jewelry was far more valuable, and most pawnbrokers would never touch it, not wanting to bring the law down upon them with such obviously stolen goods. But my earrings were different. If the thief was desperate, he might try to pawn my simple jewelry while using a proper fence for the more expensive items.

The pawnbroker gave a sigh of irritation. Clearly, he was busy, what with all the mirror polishing, but he gestured at the counter before him. “Do you see them here?”

I’d already given the counter a cursory glance and hadn’t seen my earrings. Still, I pretended now to inspect each item closely, moving up and down the counter.

“Oh, I don’t see them.” My voice rose in a slight wail. “Is there anywhere else you might have them? Please, sir, do help me.”

He looked as though he would do anything to escape me at the moment. “We—we might’ve bought some things yesterday but haven’t put them out yet. I could check in back.”

I clasped my handkerchief to my chest. “I would be most grateful. Thank you!”

He backed away and practically ran through the door behind the counter.

I dropped my act immediately, turning to inspect the shelves nearest me. I’d made my own list of the Harwoods’ stolen goods with Elizabeth’s help, and now I scanned the items as quickly as possible. The broker would return quickly, eager to be rid of me. I bent to examine a cravat pin, but it was silver, not gold like Sir Reginald’s.

“That was quite the performance,” came a voice from behind me.

I jolted upright, nearly smacking my head on the shelf. A tall figure stepped around a teetering longcase clock, hat tucked beneath his arm and dark eyes fixed on me.

“Mr. Denning.” The words came out incredulous, but it was Mr. Denning, looking far more at ease in this dusty old shop than he had any right to. What was he—

No, that was a stupid thought. He was doing the same thing I was, looking for the stolen goods. I just hadn’t imagined we might stumble upon each other, what with how many pawnbrokers there were in London.

He shifted his weight to one leg, eyeing me from head to toe. “And here I thought you did not care about your earrings. Your exact words, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh,” I said dumbly. “Yes, you see—”

Approaching footsteps announced the return of the pawnbroker. He stepped out from the back room, empty-handed.

“Sorry, miss,” he said. “We haven’t anything of the sort.”

I conjured a disappointed sigh. “Oh bother. What dreadful luck.”

Then the man’s eyes narrowed on Mr. Denning behind me. “You’re still here, then? Find anything?”

“Sadly not, Mr. Puce,” Mr. Denning said evenly.

Puce? An unfortunate name, indeed.

“I told you we don’t buy stolen goods,” Mr. Puce said doggedly, not bothering to mention the fact that there was hardly a way to tell if an item was stolen or not.

“Well, if you should come across any of the items I described to you,” Mr. Denning said, handing him a card, “I would be grateful to hear of it.”

Mr. Puce took the card. “How grateful?”

Mr. Denning smiled. “Enough to make it worth your time.” The pawnbroker grunted and began turning away, but Mr. Denning stepped forward to the counter. “Just one more moment, sir,” he said, withdrawing a familiar paper from his jacket pocket. “Have you seen this man before?”

The man gave the paper a cursory inspection. “Can’t say that I have,” he said. “He your thief?”

Mr. Denning folded the page. “Just let me know if you see him.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Puce said under his breath.

Mr. Denning turned back to me. “Are you leaving, miss? Might I hold the door for you?”

His expression was pleasant enough, but the glint in his eyes was anything but. I would not be escaping from him anytime soon. My stomach took a twirl.

“Um, yes, thank you.” Nodding politely at Mr. Puce, I followed Mr. Denning to the door.

As soon as we were outside, he took my elbow and pulled me out of sight of the pawnbroker. I should have disliked being manhandled, but he managed it with such finesse that my pulse actually leaped at his firm direction.

He released my arm and turned on me in the same instant. “Miss Travers,” he said, tone gravelly. “Care to explain what just happened?”

I had hoped that in the few minutes since he’d seen me, I would come up with some clever excuse for my ploy inside the shop, but as of yet, such brilliance eluded me. I had only the truth or denial.

I chose denial.

“What do you mean?” I said. “I was simply looking for my earrings.”

“And that story you concocted?”

I waved a hand. “Oh, I knew he would ignore me if I didn’t give him a reason to help me. No one likes a crying lady.”

“Shocking, to be sure,” he said. “But you have yet to explain why you were looking for your earrings.”

I tried distraction next. “Is that my drawing there?” I plucked the paper from his clasped hand before he could protest. I unfolded it, my sketch greeting me—the thief’s hooded eyes and hooked nose. “I’m glad you’re putting it to good use. A description can only go so far; a visual aid, though, jogs the memory a bit more than a list of banal characteristics.”

He tugged the paper back and slipped it inside his jacket. “Miss Travers, as amusing as this is, I’ve things to do. If you’ll not answer my question, I’ll wager a guess.”

“Certainly.” Perhaps he might do me a favor and provide an excuse I hadn’t yet thought of.

He crossed his arms, lowering his head to look me in the eyes. “You’ve decided to investigate this case yourself.”

I’d prepared a perfectly innocent expression, but it fell away immediately, overtaken by surprise.

He gave a slight smile. “I thought as much,” he said. “Drake mentioned that you sometimes aided your brother in his thief-taking cases. That, combined with your penchant for following criminals down dark alleyways, made it fairly simple to guess.”

I took a deep breath. He knew, and there was little I could do about it. “You don’t seem nearly as shocked as you ought to be, sir.”

“About what?”

I squinted at him. “Me being a woman, of course.”

His lips pulled to one side. “I’m afraid that fact was quite obvious from the moment we met, Miss Travers.”

I flushed, thinking of our tumble in the street. What had his first impression of me been?

I clasped my gloved hands before me. How to admit the truth without telling all of it? I couldn’t tell him about the letter. “Yes, you are right,” I admitted. “I am investigating the theft. I want to ensure no stone is left unturned.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The faith you have in me is astonishing.”

“Forgive me if I have little faith in Bow Street in general.” I’d meant to say it dryly—a joke—but there was too much bitterness in my voice for it to possibly be construed any other way.

“I see,” he murmured, glancing away for the first time.

I shifted my weight. “I am sure you are an excellent investigator. Drake and Rawlings vouched for you, and I trust their opinions. But Elizabeth asked me to—”

“Miss Harwood?” He sounded skeptical.

“Yes,” I said. “She knew of my work with Jack and asked that I make my own inquiries. I never imagined it would be a problem. Many hands make light work, as they say.”

“It is only a problem,” he said, “if I haven’t any idea there are other hands involved, or if I might unexpectedly run into said hands while doing my own work.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I know what I am doing, Mr. Denning.”

He shook his head. “Your abilities are not the issue here, Miss Travers. I was given this case, and I am determined to solve it as swiftly as I can. Your involvement will complicate matters.”

I crossed my arms. “You want to solve it quickly so as to return to the Winters investigation.”

He appraised me for a long moment, his eyes moving over every inch of my face.

“It is understandable,” I said. “Certainly, an unsolvable theft on Grosvenor Square is more interesting than a common street robbery.”

His brow bent. “How do you know so much of the Winters case?”

“I have a subscription to the Hue and Cry .”

If that surprised him, he hid it well. He eyed me closely. “Yes, of course I want to return to the Winters case. But thanks to your connection, I am saddled with this one, which only proves my point.”

His words cut me to the quick. He was right. Because of me—because Jack was my brother—Mr. Etchells had refused to allow Drake to take the case and had instead assigned Mr. Denning. It wasn’t my fault, not directly, but the result was the same.

“I wonder,” I said stiffly, “if you imagine I exhibit the same flaws in my investigative work as my brother did. Might I guess that you side with those who view my brother in a less than favorable light?”

“No,” Mr. Denning said shortly. “I have very carefully not formed an opinion on that matter.”

I looked up at him, my irritation softening to curiosity. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “All I’ve heard are the rumors. Who am I to judge a man I’ve never met?”

Oh. Well, now I felt a ninny. I looked across the busy street as I gathered my thoughts. “I ... I am sorry. I assumed you were of the same mind as Nettleton.”

“Rarely are Nettleton and I of the same mind.” He sighed and uncrossed his arms. “But this is all beside the point. I must ask you to let me do my job, Miss Travers. I understand that Miss Harwood is anxious for her things to be found, but there is a proper way to do this.”

“Proper or not,” I said quietly, “I promised my friend that I would help her. I shall do my best not to interfere with your investigation, Mr. Denning, but you haven’t any say as to whether I continue mine.” He stared at me, the midday sun above burnishing his red-brown locks a dark copper. “Now, if you’ve said your piece, I’ll be off.” I nodded in farewell, then moved around him.

His hand caught my forearm, stopping me. His touch was light—I could break away if I wished to. But his face was so very near mine, those brown eyes of his so focused, that I quite forgot I was trying to make a dramatic exit. My pulse tripped.

“Do be careful, Miss Travers.” He bent to speak in my ear. “I would hate for you to get in over your head.”

He smelled of lemon. Why did he smell of lemon? I tried not to breathe. “Is that an entreaty or a warning?”

He released me and stepped away. “Both. I’m a busy man. Despite what Drake might say, I have little time to rescue damsels in distress.”

I tried to collect myself. “A common occurrence for you, Sir Chivalry?”

“Be careful,” was his answer as he took several backward steps. “Please.” Then he turned and strode away, stealing the chance for me to have the last word.

Rude, indeed. Though it was difficult to feel too much annoyance, what with my heart still pounding like a war drum and my skin alive with heat.

I spun and marched away, determined not to linger on how decidedly unsettled I felt. Mr. Denning had surprised me in more ways than one, and all within the space of a single conversation.

And I could not help but wonder what else I did not know about him.