My Favorite Thief (26 page)

Either way, the outcome was the same.

“Tell me something, Inspector Turner,” Harrison began, still staring at the play of sunlight against the floor. “Was there ever a moment during your investigation in which you thought the evidence didn't quite make sense? Where you were faced with a number of apparent facts that didn't fit together?”

Lewis was careful to keep his expression composed. In truth, there were several elements of evidence that did not make sense to him. He thought back to Lady Pembroke's bedchamber, with its overturned furniture, the black woolen cap and mask left lying under the bed, and the fact that the bedcovers had been neatly rearranged despite the fact that the thief had not yet returned the jewelry chest key to its hiding place. All those things had bothered him. Despite the fact that he had finally solved his case, they still struck him as perplexing.

“Many investigations present evidence which at times can seem odd or conflicting,” he allowed. “It is the investigator's challenge to sift through it all and make sense of it.”

“And do you believe you have done that, Inspector Turner?” Harrison continued to study the floor as if it were a magnificent work of art. “Do you think that you have made sense of every scrap of evidence?”

“Not entirely,” Lewis admitted. “I still have some questions.”

“And that must trouble you a little,” Harrison mused. “Because you know I have the funds to hire the most brilliant defense lawyers in London, and if there are any holes or inconsistencies in your investigation, however small or insignificant they may seem, my lawyers will focus a great deal of attention on them. Which could be problematic for your case, and even a little embarrassing for the police.”

“You were found in black clothes and a mask in Lord Whitaker's study last night, trying to escape out the window. That is a fact.”

“One I don't deny.”

“And you broke into Lord Whitaker's safe with your safecracking equipment searching for the Star of Persia, all of which we have as evidence.”

“Now, that, I'm afraid, I do have to deny,” Harrison said. “I can quite honestly say that I have never broken into a safe in my life, although there have been times when the lock on my own safe has been a bit recalcitrant and I banged upon the door a few times.”

“Then you did a marvelous job of just pretending to break into the safe, given that you drilled a hole right through it and got the door open. You also struck me over the head with a jemmy and then shot me.”

“Did you actually see me shoot you?”

“Of course not! You knocked me unconscious first.”

“Forgive me for asking, Inspector, but if I knocked you unconscious, why on earth would I need to shoot you?”

“I don't know,” snapped Lewis, suddenly irritated. His leg was throbbing like the devil, he hadn't slept more than a few hours in the last few days, and he had no bloody patience for whatever game Bryden was playing. “I suppose because you were afraid I might identify you.”

“Could you have identified me?”

Lewis was about to assure him that he could, but stopped. Bryden had been wearing his cap and mask when Lewis came upon him in Lord Whitaker's study, he reminded himself. “No,” he reluctantly admitted.

“Why not?”

“You know very well why not. You still had your mask and cap on.”

“So if you didn't see my face and you were knocked unconscious, what could possibly possess me to shoot you?”

“Maybe because you are a bloodthirsty son of a bitch who enjoys killing people.”

“Maybe,” Harrison allowed. “That is certainly a possibility. But if I was so intent on killing you just for my own vile pleasure, and you were lying unconscious on the floor, how is it that I missed so completely and only managed to strike you in what I presume, given your limp and your reliance on a walking stick, was your leg?”

“I guess you are a very bad shot,” Lewis returned acridly. “Which is rather fortunate for me.”

Harrison lifted his gaze and regarded him seriously. “It was very fortunate for you, Inspector Turner, that whoever shot you did not strike you in the head, as might well have been the case, or in a far more vital area than your leg. What is curious, however, is that if this was the same man who shot poor Lord Haywood on the steps of Lord Chadwick's home from a distance of some twenty paces, it would appear that in actual fact he is a very good shot. Which begs the question: Why did he miss killing you? What interfered with his aim?”

“Constable Wilkins entered the room as you shot me. I suppose he distracted you.”

“Did Constable Wilkins tell you that?”

“He told me he came in and found you trying to climb out the window.”

“Then it wasn't him who distracted whoever shot you, was it? By his own admission, Constable Wilkins came in after the pistol was fired.”

“What the hell are you trying to say, Bryden?” demanded Lewis. “Are you asking me to believe that you are merely a concerned citizen who just happened to be in Lord Whitaker's study last night? Am I supposed to think that you're some kind of bored aristocrat who goes about at night in a mask trying to track down criminals, and that you were really there because you were trying to capture the Dark Shadow?”

“I'm only asking you to continue to look at the evidence,” Harrison replied seriously. “You're an educated man, Inspector. You have been trained to examine, to analyze, and above all, to ask questions—especially about things that don't make sense. And I know there are a number of things in this investigation that trouble you. Yes, I was in Lord Whitaker's home last night. Yes, I was wearing a mask. But I was there for the same reason you were. To find the Dark Shadow, and see that he was finally caught and brought to justice before he had a chance to steal or kill again.”

“How terribly noble. Forgive me for being somewhat incredulous, but why would you do such a thing?”

“The Dark Shadow is a menace to society. He needs to be caught.”

“Why not just let the police do it? That's my job, not yours.”

“I did let you do it, Inspector, for three months. But unfortunately, you failed. And as the Dark Shadow grew bolder, I realized you needed some help.”

“That was very generous of you, Bryden.” Lewis's tone was laced with sarcasm. “But that still doesn't explain why you were suddenly so interested in this particular case. London is full of thieves and murderers. Why not try to capture one of the thousands of other culprits threatening our citizens' welfare? Why was your interest exclusively in the Dark Shadow?”

“My reasons are not your concern.”

“I disagree. If you're asking me to believe that you're innocent in all this, that you are nothing more than an honest, law-abiding earl who was willing to go to the trouble of breaking into people's homes so he could help capture one of London's most notorious criminals, you need to tell me why. No one does anything without motivation, Bryden. Greed, lust, passion, fury, vengeance—take your pick. There's always a reason. Why would you go to so much trouble—not to mention risking your life—in order to capture a criminal who had nothing to do with you?”

“Sometimes we have to do things whether we want to or not. This was one of those times.”

“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I'm relieved you didn't have your brains splattered all over Lord Whitaker's carpet, Inspector, as might have been the case.” He turned away, fixing his gaze upon the shifting yellow bars of sunlight once again.

Lewis stared at him, angry and frustrated. What kind of game was Bryden playing with him? Did he honestly expect Lewis to believe that he was innocent? It was ridiculous. And yet some of the questions he raised were troubling. More, he didn't get the sense that Lord Bryden was lying.

While that was hardly evidence of his innocence, it was definitely unsettling.

He began to limp toward the door, then stopped. “By the way, this is yours, is it not?” He casually fished a linen square from one of his pockets.

Harrison barely glanced at the handkerchief in Lewis's hand. “Regretfully, no.”

“Why do you say ‘regretfully'?” wondered Lewis, watching him closely.

“Because I don't have a handkerchief here, and I could use one.” His tone was irreverent as he continued, “Despite Digby's heroic efforts to keep this place clean, I do believe some of these surfaces could benefit from a good dusting.”

“Then I'm sorry I can't give you this one. Unfortunately, it was found on the ground outside Lord Pembroke's house on the night his butler was killed, and therefore is evidence. I only thought it might be yours because it has the letter
B
stitched into one corner. Would you like to take a closer look at it? Perhaps you dropped it while you were—”

“It isn't mine, Inspector.”

“Of course.” Lewis stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “You have another visitor. Miss Charlotte Kent. She's waiting in one of the offices downstairs.”

Harrison was careful to keep his expression neutral. He could not permit Inspector Turner to think that he had any relationship with Charlotte, or her association with him might incriminate her.

“I barely know Miss Kent, Inspector. And while I appreciate her desire to visit, given her preoccupation with reforming criminals, I do not believe that Newgate is an appropriate place for a lady. Also, I do not find myself currently in the mood for a righteous sermon on morality and punishment. Kindly give her my regards and send her away.”

Lewis was impressed. But for the faint tightening of the muscle in Lord Bryden's jaw, he might almost have believed his performance. “I already told her she shouldn't see you. I warned her that people might misconstrue her desire to visit, which could be damaging for her reputation. Would you like to know what she said?”

Harrison sighed, as if he found the subject tedious. “She's obviously here because she thinks I'm the Dark Shadow, and she'd like to have a hand in reforming my black soul before it's too late. Tell her I'm not interested—”

“She said her reputation had already been in tatters for years, and that she'd been in jail before and didn't think there was anything in Newgate that she hadn't already seen,” Lewis interjected. “She was quite adamant that she wasn't leaving without seeing you, and she warned me that you would likely refuse her. She said to tell you that she didn't care if she had to wait here all night—she was more than prepared to do so.”

Harrison rolled his eyes, affecting an air that said he found well-meaning spinsters with the reformation of souls on their minds incalculably tiresome.

“Very well, Inspector,” he relented, masking the vortex of emotions surging through him beneath a cloak of patent indifference. “Send Miss Kent in if you must.”

Chapter Thirteen

D
ESPAIR GRIPPED
C
HARLOTTE LONG BEFORE THE ANCIENT
little warder named Digby finally appeared.

She had sat for nearly two hours in a bleak office on the ground floor of Newgate, waiting for Inspector Turner to make whatever arrangements he deemed necessary for her to be taken to Harrison's cell. The chamber was a waiting room for visitors, in which they were required to sign a book detailing the date and time of their visit, and the unfortunate prisoner they wished to see. After that they could choose between one of two hard chairs, and contemplate their surroundings. There was little to contemplate, other than a battered desk littered with papers and a shelf exhibiting somber facial casts of two of Newgate's most notorious murderers.

As the minutes dragged into hours, a terrible helplessness seized her. Her mind retreated to the prison governor's office in Inveraray, Scotland, where she had sat as a filthy, tattered child of ten and waited in terror to find out what was to become of her. Whatever it was, she had been certain it was going to be dreadful. She had heard stories of children being hanged for theft, or strapped to a whipping table and flogged until the pale flesh on their backside was broken and weeping blood. Someone had said they only did that to boys, but Charlotte wasn't sure if they meant whipping or hanging, or both. The judge she had appeared before a few days earlier had called her a disgrace, and had sentenced her to thirty days in prison, to be followed by three years in a reformatory school in Glasgow. Charlotte didn't know where Glasgow was, or what a reformatory school was, or if she was to be whipped once she got there. The woman who shared her cell had said it was just like prison except they forced the children to work night and day until they died from exhaustion—a blessing, the woman assured her, since living there was so unbearable. And as Charlotte had sat shivering, her injured leg stiff and pulsing with pain, her shoulders hunched against the damp cold that pervaded every inch of Inveraray jail, she had felt the same kind of overwhelming desolation that she felt now, some fifteen years later.

Except on that day, years earlier, the door had opened and Genevieve had walked in. She had taken Charlotte's grubby hands in her own clean ones, had brushed the matted tangle of her hair off her face, and had leaned down low, so that her gentle eyes met Charlotte's.

And Charlotte had felt the faintest flicker of hope, that maybe, just maybe, God was watching her after all.

“This is it, my lady,” said Digby solemnly after leading her through a miserable warren of grim corridors. Once again he sorted through an enormous ring of keys.

Charlotte bit her lip and waited as the warder held a heavy iron key up to the faint cast of leaden light filtering through the stone passage. He squinted at it, ran his gnarled fingers over its black contours, squinted at it some more, then rejected it in favor of another. He stared intensely at this one also, examining it with dark little eyes that nearly disappeared beneath the crumpled folds of his lids. Finally satisfied, he inserted it into the lock and opened the door.

“Miss Kent is here to see you, my lord,” Digby announced with a ceremonious bow.

Harrison turned from the disintegrating light from the window to see Charlotte appear at the entrance of his cell. For one long, frozen moment, everything stopped. All he wanted was to pull her into his arms, to feel her small, soft form pressing against him as he buried his face into the fragrant silk of her hair, losing himself to her gentleness and strength and hope, which was so at odds with the stark wretchedness of his surroundings.

Instead he remained where he was, affecting as indifferent an expression as he could muster.

“Good afternoon, Miss Kent,” he said politely, his tone cool and markedly formal. “I must confess, I had not expected the pleasure of your company in this desolate place.”

That remark was for Digby's benefit. Although he sensed the old warder actually liked him, he did not want to give anyone the slightest indication that his relationship with Charlotte went beyond anything than a superficial acquaintance.

“I must apologize for the austerity of my surroundings,” he continued mockingly. “Please do come in—would you care for some refreshment?”

Charlotte shook her head, bewildered by his indifferent gaze, his dry tone, his apparent utter lack of pleasure at seeing her.

“Oh, come now, you must have something,” Harrison insisted. “Mr. Digby, is there not something you could bring Miss Kent, to refresh her after what I am certain must have been a most tiring journey and wait? A little tea, perhaps, and maybe a sweet biscuit or two? I shall be able to compensate you handsomely for any trouble you go to when my barrister arrives later today.”

The mention of compensation made Digby's eyes swell from their voluminous folds. “I can boil tea,” he assured Harrison earnestly. “With milk, too, if ye want. I've biscuits as well—me own biscuits, that me wife makes for me tea.”

“Thank you, but no.” Charlotte's stomach was churning now. She thought she was going to be sick.

“The biscuits is fresh,” Digby added, trying to convince her. “With ginger an' currants. An' I'll be sure to find ye a nice clean china cup for yer tea, so ye needn't worry about that, miss.” He regarded her imploringly. It was clear he wanted to perform this task—whether for the money or because he enjoyed the sensation of appearing more a valued gentleman's butler than a detested prison warder, Harrison could not be sure.

“That sounds splendid,” Harrison said enthusiastically, as if the warder had offered to fix a spectacular feast for them. “Do bring it, Digby. I'm certain once Miss Kent sees your wife's biscuits she won't be able to refrain from trying one of them.”

“Yes, yer lordship.” Digby's mouth split into a grateful smile, revealing a pitiful jumble of yellow teeth. “I've got to go down to the kitchen, but I won't be but a few minutes.” He scurried out into the corridor, his weighty ring of keys jangling as he locked the cell door behind him.

Harrison waited until the sound of those keys had retreated down the stone corridor, past the opening and closing of the heavy oak door that sealed his ward off from the rest of the prison. Only then, when he was utterly certain that he and Charlotte were alone, did he permit the mask of his insouciance to fall.

“You shouldn't be here, Charlotte,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “I have told Inspector Turner that I barely know you, and suggested that you are only here in the interests of reforming yet another lost criminal soul. If you happen to come upon him, do everything you can to reinforce that impression.”

He began to pace, ignoring his overwhelming desire to touch her, speaking quickly as he ran through the list of things she needed to know.

“I have arranged for the money for your father. My barrister will have it delivered to you after he meets me here later today. I had originally planned that he would take it to you directly, but since you have come here, that is no longer wise. I can't be sure that Inspector Turner won't have him followed, and I don't want you to be associated with me any more than you already are. I will instruct my barrister to return to his office for the remainder of the day, and arrange to have a series of items delivered tomorrow to various addresses by a half dozen couriers instead. If Turner assigns just one man to watch him, which is most likely, by the time he sees the couriers departing it will be too late for him to summon assistance to have them followed as well. What is absolutely vital is that you do not under any circumstances try to give the money to your father on your own.” He raked his hand through his hair, feeling rushed and agitated.

“Since I cannot be with you, I want you to swear to me that you will enlist the help of your family. If you won't ask Lord Redmond to go with you, then take both your brothers, Jamie and Simon—and take old Oliver, too, just to be sure Buchan understands he is outnumbered. If your brothers are good with their fists, fine, but if they are not, then at least one of them should carry a pistol, even if they don't intend to use it except for show. Your father is a violent man, and he needs to be dealt with in a way he understands. Tell Oliver to bring that dirk of his as well. Finally, do not under any circumstances put yourself within reach of Buchan's grasp. Let one of your brothers give him the money. But don't let them give Buchan any money until after Flynn is safely restored to you. We don't want Buchan deciding to hang on to Flynn a little longer, thinking that maybe he could squeeze a few more pounds from you.” He stopped suddenly, hoping he had covered everything. “When Digby returns with the tea, tell him you have to leave immediately. You can't be in my company a second longer than necessary—it will only give people reason to talk. Do you understand?”

Charlotte stared at him in stricken silence, fighting the tears threatening to leak onto her cheeks.

Harrison regarded her helplessly, taking in the fragility of her stance, the paleness of her skin, the acute pain shimmering in her eyes. The sight of her suffering sliced into him like a blade, severing the cool rationality he had fought so hard to maintain from the moment she had stepped into his cell. His mouth was dry and his body was aching with the need to hold her, to feel the soft beat of her heart against his chest, and the coral silk of her lips against his mouth. Unable to bear the hopelessness that stretched between them, he closed the distance in two strides, wrapped his arms around her and crushed his mouth to hers, enveloping her in his strength as she clung desperately to him.

He tasted her deeply, exploring every sweet secret of her mouth as he plunged his hands into her copper-colored hair, drinking in her passion and her tenderness as he returned it with his own, trying to make her understand with his touch what he had completely failed to tell her with words.

I love you,
he said silently, running his fingers across her cheeks, down the smooth column of her throat, over the soft curves of her body.
And if I could, I would spend the rest of my life showing you,
he pledged, raining kisses upon her neck as he pulled her protectively against him, until they were molded together.
And I would never let a moment go by where you didn't feel it,
he vowed desperately, burying his face into the swell of her breasts, where he could feel the frantic pounding of her heart against his cheek. He raised his head to kiss her again, overwhelmed with desire coupled with excruciating sadness. He wanted to take her, to lay her down upon the hard gray bedding and lose himself to her beauty and courage, to let her rescue him from the misery of his surroundings and the wretchedness of his life. And in return, maybe he could make her understand the depths of his love for her, which had started the moment she pushed a silver hairbrush at him, looking at him as if she believed he were capable of taking on the world.

He had wounded her; he understood that. He could not be sure that he wasn't hurting her more by showing the depths of his feelings for her. He hoped not. But time was their enemy. And so he slowed his kisses, fighting to calm the desire within him, and that which he had roused within her. Easing his hold upon her, he gently moved his lips across her cheeks, her mouth, her eyes, until finally he could hold her without devouring her.

“I'm sorry, Charlotte,” he apologized, his voice rough. “If I could change all of it right now, I would. Except for one thing.”

Charlotte raised her eyes to his, feeling his rage and desperation and need fill the cell until there was no room for anything else. Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked, “What?”

“Meeting you.” His gaze was filled with tenderness. “That I wouldn't change—ever.”

“I don't see why you wouldn't,” she countered painfully. “If not for my asking you for money, you would not have been forced to do the terrible things that have brought you here.” Her voice began to break. “You would not have been compelled to kill—”

“No, Charlotte.” God almighty, did she honestly believe that she had turned him into a murderer? “You're wrong,” he told her flatly. “Everything I have done—there have been other reasons for it—things that had nothing to do with you. And despite what others may say, I didn't kill Lord Pembroke's butler that night his home was robbed—just as I didn't shoot Inspector Turner last night. You must believe me when I tell you that. I don't really give a damn what others think, but you—” He stopped suddenly and turned away, unable to face her. “I need you to believe that I am not a murderer.” His voice was laden with bitter regret as he finished, “The rest of the world can go to bloody hell.”

Charlotte stared at his rigid, towering form, which seemed so straight and powerful and beautiful against the barren gloom of the cell. And suddenly she was filled with an emotion she could not immediately identify. It surged through her, tightening her muscles until she felt like a coiled spring about to erupt. Heedless of her limp, she marched across the worn stone floor of the cell, grabbed Harrison by his shoulders, and turned him to face her. His surprised gaze met hers.