Prince of Swords Page 3

  “Oh, you’re absolutely right. I’ll have her at my next soiree. It will all be very mysterious—I’ll request all the guests wear black, there will be no gaming or music, and all will be very eerie and subdued.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “The rest of society will follow your lead.”

  “Of course.”

  “But where did you find such a fascinating creature?” he murmured with just the right amount of casual interest. “I’ve never seen cards like the ones she used. And it’s rare to find an Englishwoman of common lineage so adept at the arcane arts.”

  “Common lineage?” Isolde echoed with a rough laugh. “That’s what you think, my boy. Her family... well, that’s none of your business. Nor is it any of your concern where I found her. She’s my little secret, and I intend to use her most wisely.”

  “You might not have realized what a treasure you had if I hadn’t pointed it out to you.” Alistair let none of his irritation show through. He never let anyone be privy to his emotions. He even did his absolute best to avoid recognizing them himself. Emotions were foolish, weak, and tiresome. He disliked them intensely.

  But Lady Plumworthy was a skilled reader of people. “There’s no use trying to cozen me. She’ll remain a secret. If you have some particular interest in her, then you’ll simply have to exercise patience, a trait you’re not overfamiliar with. You’ll see her soon enough.”

  Alistair was not a man who believed in violence or in exerting himself unnecessarily. He simply stared at the smug, toadlike face of Lady Plumworthy and wished absently for a lightning bolt to strike her. But fate had always proven deaf to his desires.

  He bowed low over her hand, brushing his lips against her diamond rings with true reverence. There was no chance in hell he could remove them—the flesh was swollen tightly over the gold bands. “Always the flirt, my lady,” he said gently.

  “I would do more than flirt, Alistair,” she said with an arch laugh.

  “And break young Calderwood’s heart? I couldn’t do it to him. He was looking for you in the gaming room.”

  In actuality he was hiding from her in the gaming room, but Alistair had no mercy when it came to saving his own hide. Isolde was far more interested in a perfect twenty-year-old than a jaded thirty-two-year-old, for which Alistair could only thank God. He watched as she hastened in search of her young prey, then cast a mocking glance at Hawkins.

  “You see, Hawkins,” he murmured. “Your conscience is clear. Not only did you do your best to obey your mistress’s instructions, but you were saved the odious duty of hurting an innocent young lady.”

  “I rejoice, sir,” Hawkins said in a sullen voice.

  Alistair strolled past him. “I suppose you’ll simply have to find some other young woman to hurt, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hawkins said, and his eyes shone with chilly malice. “It shouldn’t be too difficult, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes,” Alistair murmured, “but you might have to bed her as well, which wouldn’t be half the fun.”

  “Not necessarily, sir. In London you can find anything for a price.” He lifted his head, staring up at Alistair with cool effrontery.

  With another man Alistair might have admired his substantial self-possession. But there was about Hawkins an air of evil so sour that it failed to entertain Glenshiel. “Very true,” he said in his most gentle voice. “But if you go anywhere near Miss Brown again, I’ll cut off your hands.”

  Hawkins’s expression didn’t change. “Yes, sir,” he said politely.

  She’d left, of course, and not in a sedan chair. He shouldn’t have been surprised—Miss Brown was far too enterprising a creature to wait tamely while two aristocrats decided her future.

  He supposed he should fear for her safety. The streets of London were scarcely safe for a decently bred young woman carrying a comfortable sum of money, particularly in the middle of an autumn night.

  But Miss Brown of the fascinating eyes was far from an ordinary young woman, and he had no doubt whatsoever that she’d be able to get herself home safely. For all he knew, she might live just across the square, a governess in one of the grand houses nearby.

  She didn’t look like a governess. She didn’t look like a witch either, apart from those eyes.

  But she’d known far too much about Lady Plumworthy’s emeralds. She hadn’t seemed to connect him with their disappearance, but he was curious as to whether hers had simply been the kind of educated guess most fortune-tellers employed or whether she really was gifted.

  It was his safety and livelihood at stake. The sixth Earl of Glenshiel survived, nay, thrived, by taking the jewels of the wealthy and distributing the proceeds to the poor, just like Robin Hood of old.

  The difference was that he characterized the poor as himself, and the proceeds went nowhere but into his own increasingly deep pockets.

  And he really didn’t give a damn whether Miss Brown could see into the future, into his past, could delve into his secrets. He simply wanted to delve beneath her skirts.

  First, however, he had to find her.

  It was just before dawn when Jessamine finally reached the safety of her bed. She could hear her mother’s noisy snores echoing through the tiny house, while her sister, Fleur, lay in the big bed she shared with Jessamine, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

  Jessamine stripped down to her chemise before giving in to temptation and opening the pouch. It was all worth it—the stupid self-absorption of the guests, the threat of search and heaven knew what else from that evil majordomo. It was even worth the most unsettling part of the evening, the presence of that man, whoever he might be. He of the topaz eyes, the pale, hard hands, the faint air of mockery, and something else, something far more personal and an even greater threat than Hawkins’s rough treatment.

  There was enough to pay the butcher, the landlord, the greengrocer, and have quite a bit left over. Perhaps enough to hire a servant for the heavy work. And it might even run to a new dress for Fleur and Mrs. Maitland.

  “Where were you?”

  Fleur was sitting up in bed, her golden-blond hair tumbling around her perfect shoulders, her china-blue eyes dazed with sleep. Jessamine smiled at her affectionately, once again wondering how fate could have put together such a gorgeous creature as her sister. “Right here, dearest,” she said, shoving the coins back into the little pouch.

  “I woke several hours ago and the bed was empty.”

  “I couldn’t sleep—I went for a cup of milk to help me,” she said, the lies coming far too easily. She hated having to lie to Fleur and her mother, but she could see no other choice.

  “Your side of the bed wasn’t touched.”

  “I’m a neat sleeper,” Jessamine said.

  “You’re a clever liar,” Fleur murmured softly. “Won’t you tell me what you’re doing, Jess? You shouldn’t have to bear the burden alone.”

  “Not that clever a liar,” Jessamine said with a wry smile. “And no, I won’t tell you what I’m doing. There’s no need for you to know. Trust me enough to know that I would never do anything wrong.”

  “I know that!” Fleur said hotly. “I worry about you, Jess. I should be doing my part....”

  “Your part is waiting for you, dearling. You’re only nineteen. As soon as we get enough together to make a small entry into society, you’ll be bound to attract the attention of some fabulously wealthy, devastatingly handsome, astonishingly kind young man who’ll marry you and make you deliriously happy. And he’ll be more than willing to take care of your indigent sister and mother as well.”

  It was an old story, one she wasn’t sure she had much faith in anymore, but Fleur managed to produce a dutiful smile. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it?” She sighed, leaning back against the pillows.

  “It will be heaven, Fleur,” she said firmly, willing herself to believe it. She climbed into bed beside her sister, sinking down on the soft feather bed.

  “But what about you, Jess? Will you change your mind
after all? Shall we find you a handsome, rich young man as well?” Fleur murmured, drifting off toward sleep again.

  Unbidden, the memory of Glenshiel came to her, he of the cool eyes and hard hands. She struggled for something to say, then realized it was unnecessary. Fleur had fallen asleep, untroubled by the cares of the world.

  Jessamine lay awake, wide-eyed, as she thought about the events of the previous evening.

  She didn’t need the cards in front of her to do a reading. In truth, she was too bone-weary to even attempt such a thing, but in her worn-out state the pictures danced in her mind even as she tried to banish them.

  Marilla had warned her that would happen. Marilla had warned her of the many ways she would have to pay the price for nurturing her gift, not the least of which was abandoning any hope for a happy future, a family, a man to love, or the children she wanted so dearly.

  She had made her choice, years ago, and she would make do with Fleur’s children. She would be the best sister, the best aunt, that had ever lived. She would know worlds that most people could seldom even begin to comprehend. But she would be locked out of what most people took for granted.

  She’d been too young to make such a life-altering decision. Scarcely eleven years old, trusting, gifted, and not wise enough to run when Marilla had given her the choice. And in the end they’d both known she’d really had no choice at all.

  Who would have thought the comfortable nursemaid from Berkshire would have more talents than the wildest Gypsy? Who would have thought the dark arts were alive in one wicked pack of cards that told too much?

  And who would have thought Jessamine Maitland of Maitland Hall would be inexorably drawn to those cards, with a gift for divination that put her mentor in the shade?

  It was too late now. Marilla’s cards were hers and Marilla’s gift was hers as well, tenfold. She could look at the cards and see the past, the future, and the present. She could see things she never wanted to glimpse—death and disaster. Though she could see joy as well, there were times when she wished she could simply toss the well-worn pack with its velvet wrapping into the fire.

  But the cards would haunt her. As they did then. She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, but the cards floated in her head, shifting, spilling outward. And every face resembled Glenshiel’s.

  She didn’t want to attempt to understand. Why this man should haunt her sleep was a question too threatening to contemplate. She squeezed her eyes more tightly, trying to think of the audacious burglar and the cards that had told her of his presence in Lady Plumworthy’s house.

  But all she saw was Glenshiel.

  Three

  Robert Brennan was a thief-taker. One of Sir John Fielding’s men, more often known as a Bow Street runner, he was uncommonly reliable, honorable, and compassionate despite his sternness. Sir John himself counted him among the best of all his men and the majority of his fellow runners considered him a very good soul indeed.

  Except for Josiah Clegg. If Brennan was Fielding’s right-hand man, then Clegg was his left. Clegg’s success at tracking down thieves and pickpockets surpassed even Brennan’s, and his thief-taker’s share enabled him to live in surprising luxury. If anyone had doubts about Clegg’s scruples, or the number of thieves who died while trying to escape, then they kept those concerns to themselves. After all, a thief was inevitably sentenced to hang. If Clegg dispatched him more promptly, then who was to complain?

  Robert Brennan kept his eye on things as best he could, but his path seldom crossed Clegg’s. Perhaps Sir John knew of his misgivings, or perhaps Clegg himself was wise enough to steer clear of the one man who distrusted him. All Brennan could do was watch from a distance when his own duties allowed him the time.

  Right now his duties were particularly tasking. He was determined to find the latest scourge of lawful harmony. The Cat, that daring thief who insinuated himself into the very heights of society and sauntered off with a fortune in jewels, had transformed from an irritation to an obsession for Brennan. No one had the faintest idea who the criminal might be, and none of his elegant victims seemed particularly eager to help a member of the lower classes bring the perpetrator to justice.

  Silly, stupid, useless twits, Brennan thought with more annoyance than his phlegmatic temperament usually allowed him. They’d rather be robbed blind by one of their own than do anything that would brand them a traitor to their class.

  Brennan had very strong feelings about class, none of them particularly sanguine. He’d grown up in the Yorkshire dales, and his broad accent proclaimed his yeoman status as much as his large, untidy body, his shaggy hair, and his big workman’s hands. He was no gentleman, not even a bourgeois, and there was no way he would ever aspire to be one. He’d been put on this earth to make the place a little bit safer for the innocents of the world, and he had accounted himself well pleased if he could make even a bit of a difference.

  But things had changed recently. He was thirty years old, he’d been in the business of thief-taking for a good eight years, and there were times when he longed for the peace and straight-forward hard work of his parents’ farm near Robin Hood Bay. He was mortally tired of twelve-year-old prostitutes being murdered by their pimps, weary of fourteen-year-old apprentices hanged for running off from their masters with a few pieces of silver in their knapsacks, and worn to the soul knowing that he couldn’t save the twelve-year-olds, and that his efforts sometimes brought the fourteen-year-olds to the gallows.

  The Cat was a different matter. There was no question in Brennan’s mind that he was a gentleman born to wealth and privilege. There was no way a lesser soul could get away with such outrageous crimes, could mingle with the aristocracy, and no one would even blink. For the Cat, Brennan had no sympathy, just a steely determination to bring him to justice.

  The thief-taker’s share on such a felon was high indeed. Brennan could take that moiety, along with the rest of the money he’d husbanded so carefully over the years, and leave the wretched city he’d come to a mere decade earlier, filled with ambition and dreams. He’d go back to Yorkshire, to his parents’ farm perhaps, or buy a place of his own, and sooner or later wash the stink and horror of the city from his soul.

  Of course, he wasn’t the only thief-taker in London who planned on apprehending the Cat. Every Bow Street runner had just that goal in mind, including Josiah Clegg. And Robert Brennan knew that if he were the decent man his parents brought him up to be, he would simply rejoice that the villain had been apprehended, never mind who took him.

  But Robert Brennan was far from perfect, as well he knew. He was as troubled as the next man by lust, envy, and desire. He just fought harder against those all-too-human sins.

  With a man like Josiah Clegg, Brennan couldn’t seem to rise above his base feelings. It had little to do with Clegg’s recent string of astonishing luck in apprehending a record number of felons. Instead, it seemed more connected to Brennan’s deep misgivings about Clegg’s way of doing things. There were times when Brennan wondered whether Clegg wasn’t worse than some of the villains he apprehended. But Clegg was no more than a distraction, and Brennan wasn’t a man to be distracted easily. Not when Sir John himself had recently brought a most interesting piece of information to his attention.

  The robbery at Lady Plumworthy’s was almost a duplicate of similar robberies perpetrated by the Cat over the last two years. Sometime during the evening someone had made himself free with his hostess’s bedroom and jewelry.

  As expected, the victim refused to divulge her guest list to Brennan, offended that official suspicion might fall upon one of the upper levels of society. “It had to have been one of the servants,” the old harridan had insisted, eyeing him as if he were some creature crawled up out of the gutter. “Do you think I number thieves among my acquaintance?”

  “I think you must, your ladyship. You say there were no strangers here last night,” Brennan had said politely.

  “Insufferable,” her ladyship had muttered, and Brennan ha
d little doubt she was referring to his studiedly polite manner and not the robbery.

  If he weren’t already certain it was the Cat, he would have been more than happy to blame Lady Plumworthy’s majordomo. The haughty creature who ushered him out of her ladyship’s august presence was everything Brennan despised, from his small, cruel eyes to his malicious tongue. Robert Brennan had a real gift for summing up a person in just a glance, and Hawkins was a bad ‘un through and through.

  “Her ladyship must have forgotten the Gypsy,” Hawkins said as he opened the front door for Brennan. Robert had little doubt the man would have showed him to the servants’ entrance, but there were occasional gestures of respect that he insisted on. He was not about to use the servants’ entrance like a dustman.

  “The Gypsy?” Brennan murmured. An upper servant such as Hawkins would want a fair amount of blunt for his information, more than Brennan usually had available. “There was a Gypsy here last night?”

  For some reason Hawkins didn’t seem more than casually interested in remuneration, and when Brennan’s hand didn’t dip toward his pocket, he simply shrugged and continued. “ ‘Course, she didn’t call herself a Gypsy. Acted more like she thought she was a real lady, but if someone nabbed the sparklers, it must have been her.”

  Hawkins’s knowledge of thieves’ cant was even more interesting. Brennan nodded encouragingly. “And who was she?”

  “Some old acquaintance of her ladyship’s, I think, fallen on hard times.”

  “Then she could hardly be a Gypsy, could she? Not the sort to mingle with the aristocracy.”

  “Lady Plumworthy ain’t exactly aristocratic, if you know what I mean,” Hawkins said with a coarse laugh. “She’s risen high, she has, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t still know where she came from.”

  “What was the Gypsy doing here?”

  “What else do Gypsies do? Tell fortunes and rob you blind,” Hawkins said with a sneer.

  Brennan reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, pulling out a sheaf of paper and a carbon pen. “And what is the name and direction of this Gypsy?”