The Thief Read online

  The Thief

  Bonnie Dee

  Copyright © 2020 by Bonnie Dee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Chapter One

  London, 1901

  “Awright, so he ain’t exactly a prince, but Lord Belmont is related to the royals and sure to have lots o’ blunt. With your fine face and clever palaver, you’ll pick him clean right quick.”

  “I got no way to meet ’im. He ain’t my usual sort of mark.” Jody passed a coin in and out between his fingers, making it disappear and reappear like magic. He must knock down Lassiter’s mad idea before the old man pressed him into doing something he’d regret. “Unless he visits the right sorta place, I’ve no excuse to bump up against him.”

  Lassiter gave a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Just so happens an old friend of ’is Lordship owes me a debt. Mr. Poindexter Alden will arrange a meeting. You charm the pigeon and pluck him.” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “Come, lad. Times is hard, and I ain’t gettin’ younger. This could be the job leaves us both rollin’ in clover and smellin’ like roses. Enough to last the rest of our days.”

  Jody no longer believed his teacher’s plaintive wheedle. “So you’ve said before. Ain’t no such thing as The Big One. One little step forward and a big slide back down—that’s life.”

  “Trust me, luv. Like I said, I got a fellow to get you in, but I need you to act the part. I sure as bloody hell can’t do it with this craven old face.” Lassiter stooped to become a crone with a cane and a cackle, and Jody couldn’t help but smile.

  Lassiter patted his arm with one twisted arthritic hand. “You’re my right hand. I rely on you. Just do this one favor, and I’ll not ask again.”

  Another promise Jody had heard before. But he couldn’t bear the everlasting whining and knew Lassiter wouldn’t stop pestering until he drew his terminal breath. “Awright, awright. Shut yer hole. I’ll talk to your inside man, then maybe I’ll give the job a try.”

  “There’s my good lad,” Lassiter crooned.

  God help him if the old man’s praise didn’t affect him even after all these years. Jody had once preened at being called Lassiter’s right hand, or his captain, or his head boy, the best of the lot. As a little lad, he’d fed on those scraps of praise more than sausage and beans. Old habits died hard.

  “I’m off. Got things to do.” Jody put on his coat and buttoned it.

  Lassiter hobbled over and tossed his own scarf around Jody’s neck. It reeked of onions and sweat. “Keep warm out there, and don’t get into trouble. We’re on the edge of makin’ our fortune.” His foul breath suggested any coin he earned should go toward a few tooth extractions. He clapped his hand against Jody’s chest. “Do as I say, dearie, and we’ll spend the rest of our lives in Greece. Blue water and white sand all around, how does that sound, eh?”

  “Like a kiddie’s fairy tale.” Jody stepped back and grasped the latch that would let him out of this smoky rathole he’d once called home. “Like the stories you used to tell before us lads went to sleep.”

  Before he closed the door behind him, he added, “What would you do with your bony old carcass in Greece anyhow? That’s as mad as a baboon wearing a bonnet.”

  Walking down the gritty Shoreditch streets with his oversized greatcoat flapping around him and a tall hat adding several inches to his height, Jody knew he looked like trouble. His clothing and stance protected him like a suit of armor as he marched forward, shoulders broad and expression fiercer than the gargoyles on a cathedral. I am lethal. Make way for me.

  “Dangerous criminal” was one of many roles in the arsenal of characters that helped him get by in this rough world. He was equally adept at “flirtatious coquette,” “naive country bumpkin,” “earnest schoolboy,” and “sultry seducer,” whatever the situation called for, really. He’d find his mark’s weakness and prey upon it like a crow picked at carrion.

  He needed to learn a little more about this Lord Belmont Lassiter wanted him to take. Mimicking a gent’s accent and manners was easy enough. Jody had always had a keen ear, and a high-born fellow who’d kept him for a time had also taught him proper social etiquette, among other things. But winning a man’s complete confidence was in the details. One must possess a certain something the mark craved more than safety or security.

  If the man was starved for male attention, it could be quite easy to get him to think a handsome lad like Jody was the solution to his loneliness. Jody could probably gain Belmont’s trust and cajole him into investing in a nonexistent scheme. If not, he’d at least have learned the layout of his lordship’s house. Later, he’d break in and steal his valuables.

  There’s always money to be had, Lassiter used to tell the boys. A river of it is flowing past. Just have to know how to dip your cup and take some.

  So why we always livin’ hand-to-mouth? Jody had once replied smartly and earned a cuff that made his eyes water.

  The peeling sign for the Bull and Bear caught his eye as he strode along. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten that day. Time for a pint and a pie.

  Jody stooped under the lintel as he entered the dimly lit public house.

  Sylvia had his glass and plate set out almost before he took a seat. “Hiya, luv. Got anythin’ for me today?” She smoothed her frizzy hair and adjusted her plunging neckline.

  “A kiss, darlin’, and a word.”

  She leaned over him to receive both.

  Jody pecked her lips and whispered, “Jealous Eyes to place in the fifth. Though I can’t vouch for the information.”

  Sylvia gave him a more lingering kiss, sour and unappetizing. But Jody didn’t pull away. Never knew when he’d need her goodwill for some reason. “Your tips paid rent this month,” she said. “Beer’s on me. Cheers, luv.”

  Jody lifted his glass in a salute. Sylvia sashayed back behind the bar, and he fell on his food. Even when he hadn’t missed a meal, he was always ravenous. He’d eat just about anything and lick the plate clean. Too many years going without for him to bear leaving a crumb.

  Of course, he couldn’t be gobbling while playing his part for Lord Belmont. The character Jody was embroidering, Mr. Tobias Wentworth, would have impeccable manners, irreproachable diction and, most importantly, be a perfect listener. That was the way to gain any man’s trust—listen earnestly. People would say or do almost anything if they thought someone actually cared about what they had to say.

  He drained his glass and pushed away from the table, exhaling a sigh as he realized Lassiter had reeled him in again. Despite Jody’s determination to strike out on his own and never look back, the old weasel had an invisible hold on him that kept him always attempting yet one more wild scheme. The Big One—a rainbow on the horizon that evaporated wh
en it seemed almost within reach.

  Jody stalked the dark street from one pool of lamplight to the next, pondering all the ways this shaky plan might explode, leaving him in pieces. The inside man, Alden, desperate to escape his debt to Lassiter, could be offering false information. Lord Belmont’s lineage would be easy enough to check, and once Jody met the man, he’d know if sexual proclivities would make him easy to seduce. But perhaps Alden planned to set up both Jody and Lassiter, then unleash the coppers on them.

  Mulling over these thoughts, Jody climbed a shaky staircase to a room no bigger than a closet and dark as a coffin until he lit a lamp. He was lucky to have a place he didn’t have to share, but, after years of larceny, it seemed he ought to have nicer digs and more money saved than the bit he kept in a tin under a floorboard.

  For too long, he’d given Lassiter the larger part of everything he earned while existing under the shelter of the moneylender’s wing. He’d also spent too much on gin and opium to dull reality’s bite. Jody had shed those vices some time ago, yet he was still a long way from where he wished to be. Perhaps this time, The Big One would be real, dosh in an amount large enough to get him out of here and into another life.

  What life that might be, he had no idea. He’d figure it out later. For now, he’d live as always, minute to minute, making decisions on the fly. If things got too sticky, he’d turn and take another direction. That philosophy had kept him out of jail when others were nicked. One whiff of the rotten-egg odor of trouble and Jody would be gone so fast, Lord Belmont would think he’d only imagined Toby Wentworth, a ghost who’d passed so quickly through his life, he may as well never have existed.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Teague. I appreciate all your years of service to the Belmont family. I hope this modest gift illustrates my appreciation. Naturally, I will provide a stellar reference.”

  Cyril winced as tears glistened in his housekeeper’s eyes. If she cried, he feared he would too, for Mrs. Teague had been the one constant in his life for as long as he could remember. She’d been the cook when there was a fully staffed kitchen to preside over. More recently, she’d been his housekeeper. The elderly lady was as dear to him as a grandmother might be, if he had any still living.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You may reside here until you find another position.”

  She clutched the potted orchid he’d given her to her ample chest as if it were a small child. “Don’t trouble yourself, Lord Belmont. I have a niece who’s invited me to stay any time. It isn’t me I’m worried about. Who will feed you after I’ve gone? Who’ll be there to give you a good brekkie to start the day and make certain you don’t skip your meals? You get so caught up with your plants, I fear you’ll starve to death before you remember to eat anything.”

  Cyril smiled as her kindness broke his heart. “I promise to take care of myself.”

  “The latest day maid is a sluggard and will not clean properly if I’m not here to keep on her. I could take over the cleaning, if that would help.”

  “A lovely offer, Mrs. T. One which I’m afraid I cannot accept.”

  He would not tell her he’d also sacked the hired girl. Mrs. Teague would declare he could not exist without servants. But Cyril believed, if he closed the unused rooms, he could keep the rest of the house tidy enough. Should unexpected company come, he would explain his lack of butler or housekeeper by saying it was their day off. It would not do to have word spread he was so poor, he couldn’t keep servants. Although, society being what it was, people probably already knew the Belmont heir was in dire financial straits.

  Mrs. Teague dabbed her reddened eyes with a handkerchief. “My dearest boy, I cannot bear the thought of you making do all by yourself.”

  “Please stop.” He reached out to touch her hand, rough from cooking and cleaning for over thirty years. “I wish you to enjoy retirement and being with your family.”

  “I shall very much enjoy spending time with my grandniece and nephew,” Mrs. Teague admitted. “But I am a cook. If I don’t have a kitchen of my own, I surely don’t know how I shall fill my days.”

  How wonderful it must be to know precisely one’s purpose in life. Cyril certainly couldn’t figure out his. He was a baron whose estate was in ruins, although not all of his own doing, to be sure. Most of the land had been sold and the country house crumbling long before Father decided to board it up and move the family permanently to London. Cyril couldn’t be held completely accountable for financial disaster, but neither had he been able to rebuild the Belmont fortune. He was a useless creature with no great skills beyond growing orchids.

  Thank heavens for those beautiful plants. The rare varieties he raised and sold kept body and soul together these days. So he might consider himself a horticulturalist, although he must keep his little business discreet. A royal relation, no matter how distant, must not be a tradesman. It was too disrespectable for a member of the peerage.

  Cyril clasped Mrs. Teague’s hand. “You are the finest cook in all of London. No. In all of England. You will find a position wherever you choose to go.”

  “Well, for now, I am here, and today, I will make a feast with all your favorites from when you were a lad. Remember how you’d sit on your stool in the kitchen and beg to help with the biscuits? There will be jam biscuits tonight at the very least.”

  “And I will appreciate every bite.”

  After Mrs. Teague left the study, Cyril sat gazing at the books in their case, the hunting dog painting which had been father’s favorite, the coals glowing in the fireplace, and the rain slipping down the windowpanes. Despite creature comforts such as a leather chair and brocade drapes framing the window, the den seemed a monk-like cell of solitude. Maybe he should take up praying and become a holy man, Cyril mused. At least monks had a monastery full of brothers—and God, of course, so they weren’t truly alone. What would it be like to live in a community of men? Hm. He probably couldn’t manage it without being tempted by forbidden fruit.

  A fantasy of brethren meeting in secret and reaching under each other’s brown robes to fondle and stroke occupied him for several moments. He shut down the salacious thoughts and returned to the letter he’d been composing before summoning Mrs. Teague. He asked his land agent to begin looking for a buyer for the country house and the few acres that remained of the once-vast Belmont estate.

  Those lands had once been home to tenant farmers, shepherds, woodcutters, and an entire village. Over the past hundred years, parcels had been sold off due to some profligate ancestors and a change in times as farming became less profitable and industry was crowned king. As a child, Cyril had been oblivious to the crumbling masonry, threadbare carpets, and moldy walls of the country house. He only knew he loved rambling in the woods. Now he must bid goodbye forever to the home he’d once loved.

  The sale, when it became known, would serve as an announcement that his branch of the Belmont family had withered and broken off. The family solicitor had encouraged Cyril to forestall ruination by heading to America to find a wealthy wife who desired a title—a match made in heaven. Cyril refused to do that, so by next year, the house would likely be sold.

  A knock at the door halted his self-indulgent moping. Mrs. Teague entered again, her complexion flaming and hair escaping from its bun to plaster against her sweating face.

  “Your lordship, you have a guest awaiting you in the parlor,” she panted, clearly out of breath from climbing the kitchen stairs to answer the front door. “Mr. Poindexter Alden. I hope it was right I let him in even though I’m not familiar with the man.”

  “Alden?” Cyril struggled to place the name.

  “An old school friend, he claims.”

  “Oh yes! I do recall him.” A dim memory of a sharp-nosed, bespectacled lad emerged. Pointy had been an obsequious follower of a group of popular boys. He had not been Cyril’s friend, nor had Cyril thought of the fellow in the fifteen years since leaving Eton. He wasn’t interested in talking with the m
an now, but could hardly ask Mrs. Teague to send him away. After years in the kitchen, she struggled with the authority of being a de facto butler.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Cyril smoothed his hair, put on his jacket, and went to meet his former schoolmate. He’d recently decided to attempt to be more social. This would be a good opportunity to practice that intention.

  Sitting very erect on the edge of a parlor chair, Poindexter Alden looked almost exactly as Cyril remembered except in a larger size. He possessed the same sharp features, long nose, and overly large eyes that protruded in an alarming way. When he rose to greet Cyril, he exhibited the fawning air that had annoyed Cyril when they were boys. Pointy was the sort who would be posted lookout while his chums carried out practical jokes. When his peers chose to tease or physically hurt an unfortunate boy, Alden joined in with gleeful spite. Cyril had never been the target of their harassment, but, like all the other lads, lived in fear of being chosen their next victim.

  But he should disabuse himself of schoolboy prejudices. Perhaps Pointy had matured into a fine man, someone with whom he might build a friendship.

  Cyril greeted his unexpected guest with a welcoming smile. “Alden, how good to see you once more.”

  “And you, Belmont. Sorry to visit without forewarning. I’ve only recently returned to London after traveling abroad and wished to get in touch with fellows from our old crew. Naturally, you were top of my list.”

  Naturally. Cyril’s smile froze. “Well, it certainly is good to see you again.” After all these years and when we were never part of the same “crew.”

  “Good to be back in civilization. I’ve been in India, of all places. Beastly heat, intolerable stench, and ignorant natives. I suppose that’s to be expected when one visits a far-flung corner of the Empire. But I had business concerns to oversee. One mustn’t disappoint the family when one is called upon, eh?”

  “Mm.” Cyril waited for his annoying guest to get to the point of his visit.