Chapter Eighteen

 

 

 

Stealing into Lady Ashburn’s house and nabbing her necklace had been disappointingly easy. After nearly a year spent twiddling her thumbs, Juliet had been craving a bit of excitement. But the robbery had gone off without a hitch. Now the only thing left to do was sell the necklace before it could be linked back to her, then come up with a foolproof plan to snatch the dowager’s tiara before it was sold at auction.

She could always wait until after the auction was over, but then she risked the tiara being sold to a foreigner or – even worse – an American. Juliet was determined, but she had no intention of chasing a piece of jewelry across the Atlantic.

Not matter how much it was worth.

Which meant she had exactly three weeks to figure out a way past the dowager’s ferocious wolfhounds. As tall as a pair of horses and nearly as heavy, the dogs guarded Glastonbury House at all hours of the day and night. They were even fed separately, so if one went in to eat the other was left to prowl the grounds, just waiting to sink its enormous fangs into anyone daring – or stupid – enough to climb the towering iron fence that wrapped around the outside of the property.

If she somehow managed to get past the wolfhounds with all of her limbs intact, she would then have to make it past half a dozen armed brutes that made the Queen’s Guard look like a litter of puppies. And that was just to get in the front door!  

It was a daunting task not for the weak of heart. One that even Bran, for all his daring, had tried time and again to talk her out of. But she refused to listen. If there was one thing Juliet had learned from being a thief, it was that anything could be stolen. It was just a matter of finding the right way in…and the right way out.

Adjusting the brim of her bonnet so it covered the upper half of her face, she glided past the heavy iron gates guarding the entrance of Glastonbury House and turned left onto Upper Brook Street, a quiet tree-lined avenue that led directly to Hyde Park. It was another bright, sunny morning, albeit a bit cooler than yesterday had been.

Sweet smelling blossoms detached from the cherry trees in a swirl of pale pink, one of them catching in her hair when she paused to pluck a small stone from her shoe. Straightening, she gently tugged the blossom out of her coiffure and twirled it idly between her fingers as she proceeded into the park.

Her mood slightly melancholy – though she didn’t know why – Juliet wandered down one of the lesser traveled paths, her countenance one of idle pensiveness as she pondered the task that lay before her.

It would be impossible to sneak into Glastonbury House in the dead of night. Not with the wolfhounds and the guards and who only knew what else. She had to hand it to the dowager; the woman knew how to protect her valuables and her security had only increased since a recent string of violet robberies had left the ton with a general feeling of unease and paranoia.

There was one other option, but it was so daringly reckless – even for her – that she’d not seriously considered it…until now.

On the eve of the auction the dowager was hosting an exclusive ball. Invitations had been sent out months in advance. Only the crème de la crème had made the cut, and more than one prominent family had been snubbed entirely. It was said to be the Event of the Season, and rumor had it all of the pieces that would be going up for bid were going to be on full display, including the tiara. There were even whispers that the Prince Regent himself would be in attendance and even though his presence had not been confirmed, just the idea that he might be there was enough to send the entire ton into a tizzy of speculation.

Suffice it to say, this was one ball where Juliet would not be able to slip in undetected. If she stood any chance of not getting caught, she needed to get her hands on an invitation. As well as a gown and a new identity. Her lips curved as she imagined presenting the butler with her name and title. ‘Miss Juliet of St Giles’ had a rather proper ring to it, but she had a feeling a jewel thief from London’s most notorious rookery was not on the approved guest list.

Would Grant be there? The unexpected thought stopped her in her tracks. She frowned as she tried to dismiss it, but like a fly in the dead heat of summer it kept buzzing around her head until she acknowledged that yes, he most likely would be in attendance. Not that it mattered.

Oh all right.

Maybe it mattered a little bit.

But not because she wanted to see him again.

“Hardly,” she muttered to herself, scuffing the toe of her boot into the dirt before she resumed walking, this time with a purpose, as if she could somehow outrun the traitorous direction of her thoughts.

Thoughts that kept returning to the color of Grant’s eyes….

And the wavy thickness of his hair…

And the weight of his mouth on her mouth…

She was so distracted that she didn’t notice the man following her. Intentionally dressed so to not attract attention, he kept a healthy distance, stopping often to admire a tree or a patch of daffodils. Anyone who happened to glance in his direction would assume he was merely out for a morning stroll. Only someone with Juliet’s experience would look at him and immediately know he was following a mark, but she was too busy trying not to think about Grant that she missed him entirely. 

“Will you just stop it,” she told herself crankily, speaking loud enough to draw the attention of two random passerby who stopped and stared, no doubt alarmed by the sight of a young woman talking to herself. An arched brow from Juliet and they hurried on their way, muttering under their breath about ‘riff-raff’ and ‘new money’ and ‘the square not being what it used to be’. She snickered under her breath when she imagined what they would say if they knew who she really was.

Then they were gone and the path ahead was empty, leaving her alone with her unwanted thoughts about a man she still secretly desired but could never have, while a man she had never desired continued to follow her.

 

Juliet was back.

Anticipation hummed beneath the surface of Grant’s impassive countenance as he sat beside Felix in the captain’s office and listened to Owen’s blistering reprimand as he lectured them on the importance of maintaining clients…something they’d failed to do when Felix had lost his damn mind and tried to strangle Lord Ashburn in his own parlor.

Owen had sent them to the viscount’s house to investigate the disappearance of his wife’s diamond necklace. Someone – and Grant had a very good idea who – had lifted the piece while Lady Ashburn and her husband had been at a dinner party. In the middle of questioning Felix had lunged at Ashburn with murder in his eyes, and it had taken Grant’s considerable strength to restrain him.

He’d suffered a bruised rib for his trouble, as well as the full force of Owen’s considerable wrath. It wasn’t often the Captain of the Bow Street Runners relinquished control of his temper, but when he did there was hell to pay.

And Grant and Felix were currently paying it. 

“I cannot even bloody look at the two you,” Owen snarled, blue eyes flashing before he turned and faced a wall of bookcases. The captain was a fastidiously tidy man, and every book was arranged by author and then size, a task which must have taken him a considerable amount of time. His desk was just as neat, with nary a single piece of paper out of place. Not too long ago the antique pedestal desk had been devoid of anything personal, but following recent Owen’s courtship – and consequential marriage – it now held a framed portrait of his bride, the stunningly beautiful Lady Scarlett Steel.

“Spencer started it.” Maintaining his air of nonchalance, Grant leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. “He would have clocked Ashburn out cold if I didn’t hold him back.”

Felix snorted. Of the two of them he looked by far the worse for wear with a black eye and busted lip, but his battered countenance didn’t hold so much as a sliver of remorse. “Ye didn’t hold me back, mate.”

“That purple bruise on your face says otherwise.”

“And what about that purple bruise on your mug? Oh wait,” Felix sneered. “That’s just your face.”

Grant barked out a laugh. “That’s bloody rich coming from the likes of you.”

“Do you find this amusing?” Owen’s voice may have been whisper soft, but it crashed through the room with all of the force of a deadly tidal wave. Their mouths settling into grim lines, Grant and Felix both straightened in their chairs.

“No Captain,” they said in unison.

“Is your job a joke to you?”

“No Captain.”

Owen lectured them for several more minutes before he ordered them both out of his office. At the last minute he called Felix back, and grateful it hadn’t been his name that had been spoken, Grant quietly shut the door behind him and continued on down the stairs.

Colin and Hawke were waiting for him in the drawing room. Hazel eyes bright with amusement and a shit-eating grin curling his lips, Colin yanked back a chair and gestured for Grant to sit down beside him.

“Captain didn’t sound none too pleased,” he said.

“He wasn’t.” Grant could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Owen that riled up. “Although I don’t know what he expected when he put Spencer and I together,” he muttered under his breath as he sat down and reached for the pitcher of coffee sitting in the middle of the table. Pouring himself a lukewarm cup of the bitter brew, he took a sip, grimaced, and then took another.

“Maybe he wanted you to finally put aside your differences?” Colin suggested.

Grant snorted into his coffee. While he preferred his own company when working a case, he didn’t mind having a partner from time to time. There wasn’t anyone on Bow Street he didn’t get along with…except for Spencer. Most likely because Felix Spencer wasn’t a partner, he was a liability. And no one would ever be able to convince Grant otherwise, not even Owen.

“This isn’t a bloody fairytale,” he said, kicking back in his chair. “Spencer and I aren’t going to start braiding each other’s hair and reciting sonnets to one another, no matter how many times the captain pairs us up.”

From across the table Hawke made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Or maybe he was just choking on his muffin.

It was hard to tell.

“Well I for one thing think you’d want Spencer’s help with your elusive jewelry thief,” said Colin.

“And why the devil would you say that?” Grant scowled.

Colin shrugged. “She’s from St Giles, isn’t she? Not many thieves with that type of talent. Especially not female ones. He must have heard of her, if he doesn’t know who she is outright.”

“Maybe,” Grant said, unconvinced. If Spencer did know something about Juliet that would prove useful, he certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about it…then again, why would he be? There was no love lost between them. Hell, they’d just gone after one another like two feral dogs. Guzzling the rest of his coffee in one distasteful swallow, he drummed his fingers against the table before he scraped his chair back and stood up.

“Where are you off to?” Colin asked.

“To have a word with Spencer.”

“Are we still patrolling the docks tonight? Word has it there’s a new shipment coming in, this one all the way from Bhutan. Mallack could be there.”

But he wouldn’t be. No matter what they did, the bastard always seemed to be one step ahead of them. Two months ago they’d staked out the docks round the clock for seventeen days. Grant had been so exhausted he’d started seeing double. There’d been no sign of Mallack or any of his cronies. Then two days after they’d left, a merchant ship carrying a small fortune of spices and silks from India had been stripped down to the hull.

“Take Hawke and Brentwood,” Grant ordered. “The lad could use the experience.”

Archer Brentwood was the youngest runner to ever serve on Bow Street, but his eye for detail and his uncanny talent for seeing things others missed was invaluable. Tall and lanky with a shock of red hair and a smattering of freckles that made him look even younger than he was, he spent most of his time pouring over evidence for clues. It was high time he got some experience in the field, and Grant knew that Colin would keep a careful eye on him.

He turned when he heard footsteps on the stairs and managed to intercept Spencer in the foyer before he could duck out the door. “I’d like a word with you.”

“That’s too bad, isn’t it?” Felix’s lips peeled back in a sneer. “Because I’ve nothing to say to ye. Sod off, Hargrave.”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the thief I’m after.”

“And I want ten thousand pounds and a thirty year old glass of scotch, but we can’t always get what want, can we? Move aside.” Felix tried to push past Grant but he held his ground, absorbing the not-so-small shove Felix delivered to his shoulder with only the faintest hint of grimace. 

“You have to know something about her,” he continued, green eyes sharpening on Felix’s face. “You’re about the same age. Mayhap a few years older. You would have run in the same circles at some point.”

Irritation sparked in Felix’s gaze as he crossed his arms and glared up at Grant. They squared off like two boxers, neither one willing to take a step back towards the ropes.  

“Aye, maybe our paths have crossed a time or two,” Felix said at last when it became apparent that if neither man said anything they were going to spend the rest of their day standing in the foyer glaring at one another. “But that was a long time ago. My memory’s a bit foggy on the details.”

Grant lifted a brow. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Information isn’t free, Hargrave.”

“We’re runners, you greedy bastard.” Distaste curled back the edges of his mouth. “We don’t hide things for one another, or pay for secrets.”

Felix tapped the end of his chin. “You’re right,” he agreed. “But ye don’t see me as a runner, do ye? To ye I’ll always be a slum thief from the East End.” His eyes narrowed. “Except now ye want something I have, so ye’ve decided I might be useful.”

“Fine.” As loathe as Grant was to admit it, Felix had a point. “What do you want? Money?”

“Nothing as simple as that. A favor, mate. I want a favor.”

“What sort of favor?” he said suspiciously.

Felix shrugged. “Dunno yet. But when I do, I’ll let ye know. Do we have a deal?” He held out his hand, and grinned when Grant reluctantly shook it. “That’s a lad. See? I knew we’d be best blokes eventually. I jest had to wear ye down with my wit and charm first.”

“This doesn’t make us friends. Now tell me what you know.”

“What does she look like, this jewel thief of yours?”

“I told you before,” Grant gritted out between clenched teeth. “She isn’t my jewel thief.”

“Whatever ye say.” Clearly enjoying himself, Felix rocked back on his heels and slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I still need to know what she looks like if ye want me to help ye. Does she have a name?”

“She calls herself Juliet, but I don’t if–”

“Little Jules,” Felix said softly, a flicker of surprise causing his eyes to widen.

Mrs. Wadsworth chose that precise moment to jump down from the window ledge she’d been sunning herself on and trot over to Grant. Sitting on her sleek haunches she tipped her head back and released a loud meow, little white fangs peeking out from beneath her whiskers as she demanded to be lifted. Never one to turn down a pretty feline, Grant scooped her up and settled the cat on his shoulder, his assessing gaze never leaving Felix. “So you do know her.”

“Aye, and I can’t help ye.” 

“Cannot or will not?” he pressed.

“Both. Ye want my advice?”

“Not particularly.”

Felix’s teeth flashed in a humorless grin. “Leave the lass alone. She’s never hurt anyone and she doesn’t take from those who can’t afford it.”

It was, word by word, nearly the same thing Juliet had said. He should have known Felix would side with her. They were, after all, both criminals.

“That doesn’t make her any less guilty. Someone is going to catch her sooner or later. The East End is a dangerous place.”

“Jules is a dangerous woman.”

Grant’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like Felix referring to his Juliet by a pet name.

Almost as much as he didn’t like thinking of her as ‘his’ Juliet.

She wasn’t his. She never had been his, and there was not any scenario where she ever would be his. Even if she wasn’t a thief and he wasn’t a runner, there were simply too many obstacles in their path. They were from two completely different worlds. Worlds that were separate for a reason. While Grant did not consider himself an elitist, he could not imagine ever introducing Juliet to his parents. When he married – if he married – he would not need their approval, of course, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t something he wanted.

He could just see it now…the entire family on holiday in the country, his brothers playing a rousing game of shuttlecock, his sister-in-law’s attending the children, his parents relaxing on the portico, and Juliet skulking about upstairs stealing the silver.                                                                                                                                

“Ye aren’t going to let this go, are ye?” Felix said as he studied Grant’s countenance.

“Have I ever let a criminal go before?” he said shortly.

“No, I suppose not.” There was a gleam in Felix’s eye that he couldn’t quite read. The gleam deepened when Felix said, “If ye have any chance of tracking Jules down, you’ll need to find Bran first.”

“Bran?” Grant’s brows drew together over the bridge of his nose. “Who the devil is Bran?”

“You’re the runner.” Felix lifted two fingers to his temple in a cheeky salute before he patted Mrs. Wadsworth on her head and opened the door. “You figure it out.”