Chapter Sixteen

 

Nine Months Later

St. James Park, London

 

 

 

Juliet sauntered through the crowded park with a spring in her step and a glint in her eye. Dressed in a pale blue muslin walking dress, matching bonnet, and soft green shawl, she blended in perfectly with the ladies who had turned out in droves for their daily constitutional.

On the main thoroughfare curricles and buggies raced past one right after the other, pulled by energetic horses eager to stretch their legs after a long winter spent slogging through the snow and the slush. Children, their pockets heavy with breadcrumbs, flocked to the pond to feed the quacking ducks while their nannies struggled to keep pace.

The breeze that fluttered through the trees was warm. The sun was bright. The sky a clear, cloudless blue. It was a beautiful spring day. One made even more beautiful by the smell of old money and the sapphire necklace Juliet was following.

The necklace was attached to the Dowager Duchess Glastonbury, an elderly woman who'd recently lost her husband to old age and a weak heart. To add insult to injury, the lecherous old goat had been found arse up in the bed of his mistress. 

Word had it the dowager was so enraged and humiliated she planned on holding a public auction at the end the week to sell off all the jewelry the late duke had given her over the course of their long - and clearly tumultuous - marriage. It was a thumb in the face of a man who had prided himself on maintaining a perfect public image while indulging in all manners of sinful decadence behind closed doors.

Word also had it that among the things the dowager planned on auctioning off was a diamond tiara that had once belonged to Queen Anne, the last monarch of the House of Stuart. If that was true, it would make the tiara invaluable.

Although Juliet was fairly confidant she could manage to come up with a price for it.

If she could get her hands on the tiara before it went up for auction, she would never need to steal anything again. She and Bran could retire from their life of crime and spend the rest of their days traveling the world. She'd always wanted to see Spain and India.

Wherever they went, she already knew they would never be able to return to London. Or at least she wouldn't. Although she’d gone to great pains over the past nine months to stay out of trouble and keep her head down, she knew Grant was still out there searching for her. She hadn’t seen him with her own eyes, but there had been whispers of The Wolf prowling through the East End. Why, just last week little Johnny Reed had sworn up and down he’d seen the runner having a pint at The Lusty Mermaid. A story two barmaids had been only too happy to corroborate. 

Giving up her life of crime (even if just temporarily) had been one of the hardest things Juliet had ever done, but she had known it was either that or find herself in Newgate. For it hadn’t been a question of if Grant would catch her. It had been a question of when. And after their last encounter she hadn’t been willing to take any more chances. Especially when she couldn’t trust herself around him.

He brought out things inside of her she didn’t recognize. Feelings she didn’t want. Weaknesses she didn’t need. So instead of tempting fate a third time, she’d simply…disappeared.     

This was the first time she'd come out in the open since Blackfriars Bridge. She felt like a field mouse scurrying out into a farmer's field while a hawk soared in circles high above the clouds. Albeit a field mouse armed to its little buckteeth. If Grant swooped out of the sky, she'd be ready.

"Excuse us." A haughty voice interrupted Juliet's thoughts as a trio of women, led by a cool-eyed blonde with a pale, thin face, stopped in the middle of the walking path and glowered down their noses at her. "You are in our way."

Juliet blinked. There was plenty of room for the women to walk around her, but apparently they were of the opinion that the middle of the stone-covered path was reserved for them and them alone. Knowing a bully when she saw one - or in this case, three - she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, her gaze flicking to the lady on the left and the lady on the right before centering on the one in the middle.

"Perhaps you are in my way. Did you ever consider that?" she asked.

The blonde's mouth dropped open, drawing Juliet's eye to a distracting brown mole nestled just above her upper lip. "Who do you think you are?" she demanded haughtily.

"I know who I am. Who the bollocks do you think you are?"

The woman on the right let out a scandalized gasp. "Lady Ashburn, we should keep walking.” She looked quickly around. "People may start talking."

"Oh no." Juliet's eyes widened with exaggerated concern. "What do you think they might say?"

She'd never understood the nobility's obsession with gossip. They pretended to avoid it at all costs, but at the first opportunity they used it to tear one another to shreds. Like a pack of blood-thirsty wolves turning on each other.

Lady Ashburn's mole stretched to the side as her mouth curled in a sneer. "Do you think I don't know your type? Your dress is two seasons out of date and I wouldn't even make my lady's maid wear such a hideously old bonnet. You're nothing more than a grasping little opportunist looking for a wealthy man to sink your claws into."

"You got all that from my refusing to move out of your way?" Juliet slowly clapped her hands together in a mocking round of applause. "Bravo. You've pegged me, all right. That's why I came to the park today. Not for some fresh air, but to find myself a rich husband and - what was it? Ah, yes. Sink my claws into him." Grinning, she lifted her arms with her fingertips curled inwards. "Rawr." 

"Anna, Kate, come along. The poor thing is clearly deranged." Picking up her skirts, Lady Ashburn sailed past with her nose so high in the air Juliet wouldn’t have been surprised if it started spurting blood. Her companions scurried after her like two puppies heeling to their master’s side, leaving Juliet standing alone.

"Snobby bitches," she muttered under her breath. Adjusting the brim of her hideously old bonnet, she scanned ahead for a glimpse of the Dowager Duchess, but the older woman and her retinue were nowhere to be seen. They must have stepped into a carriage or gone down a different walking trail. 

Snatching the bonnet off her head in a fit of frustration, Juliet threw it down and ground it into the dirt with the heel of her boot. She needed that tiara. But to get to the tiara, she had to get to the Dowager Duchess first. And now, courtesy of a snide nabob with a mole the size of Hyde Park, all of her efforts had come to naught.

Eyes narrowing to thin slits of annoyed green, she turned and watched as Lady Ashburn and her two companions flounced away down the path. She’d promised herself – and Bran – she wouldn’t partake in any petty thievery. But surely a little robbery wouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, she needed to make certain her reflexes were still top notch before she attempted the crime of the century.

And Lady Ashburn had just given her the perfect target.

Lips curving in a secretive little smile, she continued walking. But she’d no sooner gone more than a hundred yards when the back of her neck began to tingle.

She kept moving at a normal pace, giving no indication that she felt a pair of eyes on her back, when she came to a sharp bend in the trail. Ducking swiftly behind a tall tree that had vines creeping up one side of its massive trunk, she drew a dagger out from beneath the folds of her shawl and held it at the ready. If Grant thought to get the drop of her, he was going to have to be a bit sneakier at it.

But when she jumped out from behind the tree, no one was there. The trail was completely empty. Frowning, she slowly tucked the knife away. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of someone watching her, and like a mouse scurrying back to its den after it saw the shadow of a hawk rippling across the ground, she promptly returned to the East End.   

 

Blood sprayed out of Hayworth’s mouth as Belcher delivered a powerful uppercut. The crowd roared as he staggered back against the ropes. For a moment it looked as though he was going to collapse, but out of sheer will and determination he managed to stay on his feet. Swaying drunkenly from side to side, he tried to land a blow to Belcher’s ribcage. With a taunting laugh his opponent danced nimbly out of the way.

“Come on you big bastard,” Grant said between clenched teeth, the fifty pound note he’d bet on the boxing match crumpled in his fist. “Get your balance. There’s a lad. Now lean in and – bloody hell.”

Hayworth struck with the strength and speed of a rampaging bull. Belcher’s feet actually left the ground as the punch to his jaw sent him sailing backwards. He landed flat on his back and this time made no attempt to rise. The umpire pried back his eyelids, tapped his cheeks, and when there was no response save a painful groan, jerked Hayworth’s arm in the air and declared him the winner by knockout.

“Son of a bitch.” Discarding his note in disgust, Grant fought his way through the chanting crowd. ‘Belcher, Belcher!’ they screamed, men and women alike clambering to get closer to the best boxer to ever come out of Bristol. The entire root cellar shook as hundreds of feet pounded the ground. Ale began to flow as entire kegs were rolled down from upstairs, and Grant helped himself to a frothy pint before he found the nearest exit.

Blessedly cool, fresh air greeted him as he stepped out into the alley behind Darby McCall’s, a renowned gentleman’s club on the outskirts of the theatre district. Every Thursday night the club hosted a boxing match that drew crowds from all over London. Although boxing was discouraged by the magistrates, the runners had unanimously agreed to turn a blind eye as long as no one was hurt – aside from the boxers themselves, of course.

For the larger matches Owen sent someone along to keep an eye on things, and tonight Grant had drawn the short straw. It wasn’t that he minded the blood sport. Hell, there was no denying it was entertaining. Watching two men pummel one another with their bare fists was appealing to his baser instincts. Also appealing to his baser instincts? A woman with curves in abundance and a sultry little smile.

“Lord Hargrave, you came.” Lettie Higgins, a comely barmaid he’d dallied with on more than one occasion, wrapped herself around him before he’d taken two steps through the door of The Pony, a small, noisy pub two blocks away from McCall’s.

“Not yet, love,” Grant said with a wicked grin as he wrapped his arm around Lettie’s slender waist and escorted her to an empty table near the bar. “But I intend to.”

“Oh!” she gasped, playfully striking his arm. “You’re so very naughty.”

Hauling the blonde into his lap, he skimmed his hands beneath her breasts before settling them around her waist. “I’ll show you just how naughty I am before the night is through.”

To his own ears the words sounded hollow. Forced. But if Lettie noticed she gave no indication, which was just as well because Hawke had arrived.

Lumbering up to the table, the large Runner gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he settled into his seat and glowered down at the table.

“Colin’s not with you?” Grant asked. They’d planned to discuss their dock case over a couple of pints. It had been almost a year since he’d questioned Captain Jim, and even though they’d made a few arrests, they’d yet to discover the man behind the operation. The one Jim had called Mallack.

Grant had an especially vested interest in finding the bastard after Jim had been hauled out of the Thames…with a knife sticking out of the middle of his back. The sailor had been as harmless as an old toothless dog, and he hadn’t deserved to die in the murky water he’d devoted his entire life to. Grant didn’t have any proof Mallack had been the one who had killed him. But he trusted his gut, and his gut told him the bastard was guilty as sin.

“No.” Hawke didn’t offer any further explanation and knowing that trying to get an answer out of him consisting of more than three syllables would be the equivalent squeezing gold out of a rock, Grant didn’t even bother.

“I guess it’s just us then.” He pinched Lettie’s hip. “Why don’t you be a love and go find a pretty face for our friend–”

“And Felix.”

“You invited Spencer? Why the hell would you go and do that?”

Hawke shrugged.

Perfect, Grant thought sourly as he slumped back in his chair. Just bloody perfect. First he’d lost fifty pounds on a bet he never should have made in the first place, and now he was going to have to share a pint with a common criminal.

He didn’t care how accepting the other runners were of Felix Spencer. In his eyes, a thief was a thief. Unless she had hair as bright as winter fire and skin as pale as moonlight…

No.

His jaw clenched as he forced his thoughts in a different direction. He may not have been able to stop himself from thinking about Juliet when he was asleep, but he’d be damned if he allowed her to take over his mind while he was awake.

Her complete and total disappearance infuriated him as nothing else ever had. Like a fox escaping into its den, she had gone underground and no matter where he looked or who he questioned, he couldn’t find her.

He told himself his anger stemmed from letting a criminal escape, something he’d never done before. But the truth – the truth he dared not admit even to himself – was that he feared something had happened to her. The East End and its rookeries were no place for a woman. Even one as vicious and cutthroat as Juliet. If she’d been harmed in some way, or worse…

“Ow,” Lettie exclaimed when his grip unconsciously tightened. “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry love.” He offered her an apologetic smile when she twisted in his lap to glare at him. Sweeping her silky blonde hair to the side, he nuzzled her neck. But the display of affection – once so natural – felt painfully forced, and frustration mounted within him when his cock failed to so much as twitch.

Ten bloody months. That was how long he’d been without a woman. Having one nestled on top of his crotch – especially one who looked and felt like Lettie – should have ignited his blood and sent him bounding for the nearest bedroom. But no matter how many pretty wenches he used to try to rouse his cock from its self-imposed hibernation, the damned thing remained stubbornly asleep.

He could come up with half a dozen reasons why his body had absolutely zero interest in Lettie, but he really only needed one.

She wasn’t Juliet.