Chapter Two

 

 

 

Grant considered himself to be in excellent physical condition. He never drank or ate in excess. He upheld a rigorous training schedule that included horseback riding, boxing, and lovemaking. One might not think lovemaking was exercise, but that just meant they weren’t doing it properly. He could lift a full-bodied woman clear off the ground and hold her pinned up against a wall with one arm if the occasion called for it.

And the occasion often called for it.

But despite his strength and considerable endurance, he found himself struggling to keep up with a boy who had yet to see his first whisker. It was bloody embarrassing. And humiliating. And he was damned glad Spencer wasn’t around to witness it.

Peeling off his waistcoat, he let it fall to the ground before he followed the boy up a rickety set of stairs that led to the third floor of a crumbling tenement building. Leaping over a drunkard sprawled across the top step, he hit the hallway in a full sprint, but when he reached the end of it his quarry was nowhere to be seen.

Lungs burning, nostrils flaring, Grant stopped short and braced his hands on his knees.

“Bloody hell.” Had he known the lad was going to give him this much trouble he’d have brought one of the Ferguson brothers along. Although maybe it was better he was doing this alone. If word got out that a child had run circles around him he would never hear the end of it. Not from Spencer. Not from the captain. Not from any of them. He’d be willing to bet even Hawke would have a good chuckle and the thought of that behemoth laughing at his expense was all the motivation he needed to force himself upright.

No one bested Grant Hargrave. Least of all an arrogant pup who needed to be taught his place. The lad could count himself lucky he was so young, for if a full grown man had spoken to Grant with the same careless disregard he would have found himself sprawled on his arse spitting out blood and teeth before he knew what had happened. 

During his eight years as a runner, Grant had taken down some of London’s deadliest and most ruthless criminals. He had plenty of scars to show for his troubles, but he’d never backed down. Never flinched. Never cowered. And he’d never given up. Once he caught scent of his prey he did not stop until he’d run it to ground.

The boy would be no exception.

“Come now lad,” he called out in a friendly tone that was at direct odds with his clenched jaw and narrowed gaze. If not for this business he’d be at The Pony right now, a frothy pint of ale in his hand and a squirming wench on his lap. “Best turn yourself in. You’ve nowhere left to go.”

There were only five doors between the end of the hallway and the stairs. Which meant there were only five places the lad could be hiding. When he was met with silence, Grant transferred the pistol to his right hand and opened the first door with his left.

Unlocked, it swung inward, revealing a room devoid of any furniture save a broken chair. Moonlight streamed in through a cracked window, its silvery light allowing him to do a cursory search of the walls for any closets or hidden openings. Satisfied the room was empty he moved on to the next. It was empty too, as was the third and the fourth. Left with the fifth and final door, his mouth curved smugly when he tried the knob and it was locked.

“All right lad. Good on you for leading me on such a merry chase. But the chase is over. Time to come out and give yourself up.” He punctuated his command by striking the door with his fist. And while the force of the blow rattled the door on its hinges, the boy refused to emerge.

“Damned stubborn little bugger,” Grant muttered under his breath even as part of him couldn’t help but admire the boy’s courage. He was a fighter, that was for certain. Not much of a surprise given that he had managed to survive in St Giles for so long.

If the East End of London was a cave of dark, treacherous deeds then St Giles was its den. There was no place for the weak here. No shelter for the timid. The law of the land was kill or be killed. And stronger, tougher, older men than the boy had met untimely, gruesome ends at the end of a knife or the smoking barrel of a pistol.

He lifted his own pistol and drew back the hammer as he angled his shoulder at the door.

“I’m coming in so you better stand back,” he warned. “Unless you want a mouthful of wood.”

Grant usually wasn’t so accommodating of criminals, but there was something about the boy that made him feel almost…protective. Perhaps it was because he knew the lad’s life couldn’t have been an easy one. Or maybe it was his age. He didn’t look much older than Grant’s nephew, a bright-eyed, mischievous boy who had just celebrated his tenth birthday. Either way, he didn’t want to hurt the lad. At least not any more than was absolutely necessary.

One hard blow and the door broke open. Weapon drawn, he charged into the room.

And found it completely empty.

“What the devil,” he breathed, scratching the side of his neck. He’d been certain he had finally run his prey to ground. In fact, he would have been willing to bet ten pounds on it. But unless the boy had jumped out the window – doubtful, given they were three stories up – he had, for all intents and purposes, vanished into thin air.

Bemused, Grant turned in a circle…and caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his right eye as his quarry made a mad dash for the doorway. The pesky little brat had flattened himself against the wall closest to the door and had just been waiting for Grant to step further into the room so he could make his escape. 

“You there!” Grant bellowed, making a wild lunge forward. “Stop!”

The lad ignored him. Leaping over the drunk who was still passed out at the top of the stairs, he jumped up onto the wobbly wooden banister. It groaned beneath his weight and Grant uttered a savage curse.

“Get down,” he ordered, furious that the boy was heedlessly risking his life. He knew that he didn’t want to go to prison. No sane man did. But surely a few years spent behind bars was better than a broken neck. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

“And do your job for you?” The lad peeked back at him over his shoulder. As he did the hood of his cloak slipped back. “I don’t think so.” Straddling the banister, he pushed off and slid down it in one fell swoop. Before he’d even reached the bottom and taken off at a run Grant knew he was gone. At least for tonight. But that wasn’t what had him scowling. 

Maybe it had been a trick of the moonlight…but when the boy had glanced up at him he could have sworn the lad was really a lass. Which was so impossible it did not even bear thinking about.

A female thief? Ridiculous.

Boys could have long, thick lashes as well. And tip-tilted eyes that made them look like a cat. And lush red lips that instantly made a man think dark, wicked thoughts. It may have been uncommon, but it was far more probable than the alternative. Although it bloody well didn’t explain the sudden surge of heat in his loins. 

Sliding his pistol back into its holster, Grant scrubbed both hands down across his face. He was clearly exhausted and seeing things that simply weren’t there. Something that was bound to happen after going two nights without a wink of sleep.

While some may have thought the life of a Bow Street Runner was exciting and thrilling, the truth of the matter was that it was more often tedious than it was dangerous. Not that he hadn’t encountered his fair share of danger, but he’d also spent countless hours wading through paperwork and preparing cases for trial and crouching behind crates of rotten fish waiting for a piece of incriminating evidence to exchange hands. That was where he’d spent last night, and how he had known where to look for the jewel thief he’d been chasing for the better part of three months.

Lord knew the lad was always careful never to leave any evidence behind. Grant had searched the houses that had been robbed high and low, but he’d never been able to find so much as a muddy footprint or a sliver of hair. So instead of trying to track the thief he’d tracked the jewelry, which had ultimately led him to a dark little corner of the East End where – by a sheer stroke of luck – he’d quickly found the lad.

And lost him just as fast. 

“I need a damn drink,” he muttered into his calloused palms.

“Did someone say drink?” Woken from his stupor by all the commotion, the drunk struggled to his feet. Swaying slightly side to side, he grinned toothlessly at Grant and held out a half empty bottle. “I’ve some gin if ye want. Five pence.”

“Here.” Slapping a handful of coins into the drunk’s hand that amounted to far more than five pence, Grant took the bottle of gin and tipped it back to his mouth. It tasted like the devil’s own piss, but at least it kept the night from being a complete loss.

Tucking the bottle under his arm, he walked slowly down the stairs and out into the night.

 

Juliet did not sleep. Staring up at the cracks in the plaster ceiling above her bed, she remained awake until dawn broke out across the sky in a somber spill of muted pink and the nest of starlings in the eaves began their incessant chirping.

The birds had moved in two weeks ago. The feathery little buggers did not pay rent and she would have been well within her rights to get a broom handle and knock down their nest, but she didn’t have the heart. They’d move on soon enough and when they did she’d make sure to nail up a board so they couldn’t return. 

Rolling off the lumpy mattress, she washed her face and hands with cold water from a porcelain basin. Like the rest of the furnishings in the small room, the basin was old but functional. Given her line of work, she could have easily afforded new things. Prettier things. Fancier things. But everything in the bedchamber held sentimental value to her, including the wash basin. As plain and nondescript as it appeared, it was one of her most prized possessions, having been the first thing she had ever stolen all on her own.

Before you can steal something small, Yeti had told his trio of eager pickpockets, you need to learn how to steal something large. Then he’d set them loose in Mayfair, a tidy district of middle class homes and businesses just outside of Grosvenor Square.

Bran had nabbed a flower vase.

Eddy had returned with a pair of riding boots.

And she’d brought back a wash basin.

Muffling a yawn with the back of her hand, Juliet pulled out a collared shirt and a pair of brown trousers from the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed. After a cursory glance at the door to ensure it was still closed and locked, she stripped out of her nightdress, shivering slightly as the cool air stirred against her naked flesh. It may have been the first month of spring, but winter wasn’t quite done with London yet.

Every morning the ground was covered in a layer of cool silver and chimney smoke continued to darken the sky. The tree branches were still skeletal and barren, although if she looked close enough she could just see tiny green buds beginning to emerge.

Spring was one of her favorite seasons, if only because it meant summer was soon to follow. Town was not a particularly pleasant place to be when the sun burned hot and the smell of unwashed bodies hung heavily in the air, but it meant empty houses and easy makes as the Ton flocked en masse to the country.

She already had a few pieces of jewelry in mind. One bracelet in particular. But she wouldn’t be doing any stealing with a runner hot on her trail. Which meant she had to shake him loose and go about it quickly, as she didn’t have the luxury of sitting idly by with her heels up.

A scowl darkened her countenance as she wondered how the runner had managed to track her down. Someone had to have tipped him off. She was willing to bet her life on it. He may have been good – there’d been a moment where she’d genuinely feared he was going to catch her – but he wasn’t that good. No one was. And she was always very, very careful.

There was a reason she’d never spent so much as a night in Newgate. It wasn’t enough just to know how to steal. A good thief also needed to know how not to get caught. Which was why she always planned out every take down to the last, tiniest detail. She never made any impulsive decisions. Never let herself get greedy. And she never, ever told anyone what she planned to steal.

From an early age she’d discovered she worked best alone. Both in her work and out of it. It was simply easier that way. To rely on herself instead of someone else. To trust herself and no one else. It was the American inventor Benjamin Franklin who had said that three could keep a secret if two of them were dead, and it was a phrase she’d always abided by. Yet despite all of her precautions, the runner had known precisely where to find her. More than that, he’d known about her last two jobs. Which meant someone was spilling secrets.

And when she found them they were going to pay dearly for their mistake.

Before Juliet pulled the shirt over her head she bound her breasts with a long, sturdy strip of cloth. Truth be told there wasn’t much to bind. She was a naturally slender woman, her body long and willowy slim. But there could be no questions as to her sexuality, and so wrapping her breasts had become as much a part of her daily routine as washing her face or brushing her hair.

She’d just pulled her shirt over her head when a fist rapped against the door. Quickly yanking on her trousers, she grabbed the knife she kept on her writing desk – one could never be too careful – and padded silently to the door, her bare feet barely touching the floorboards.

“Who is it?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. Her roommate knew better than to bother her before noon. Only a stranger – or someone with a death wish – would come knocking before she’d had her first cup of coffee. For an instant she imagined it was the runner from last night…and the same queer, fluttering sensation filled her belly as she rose up on her toes and peered out the small hole she’d cut in the middle of the door.

“Bran.” Rolling her eyes, she fell back onto her heels with a heavy thud and unlocked the door. Opening it, she beckoned him into her room with a quick, irritated flick of her wrist. “What the bollocks are you doing lurking about? Shouldn’t you still be in bed with one of your whores?”

Smirking, Bran strolled past her and dropped his rangy body onto a velvet settee. A tall, strikingly handsome man with the face of an angel and the heart of a devil, he was Juliet’s brother in every way but blood. Aside from Yeti, there was no one she trusted more. Although she could have done without the constant parade of strumpets marching past her room at one in the bloody morning.

“Jealous much?” His eyes, the icy blue of a frozen lake in the middle of winter, flashed with amusement.

“Of your venereal diseases?” she snorted. “I think not.”

“I’m clean, love.”

“And I’m the Queen of England.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Bran? Besides a swift kick in the arse. Do you’ve any idea what bloody time it is?”

“You’re awake, aren’t you?”

Only because I never went to sleep, she thought silently. She knew she needed to tell Bran about what had happened and she would…eventually. But first she needed to find out who the runner was, and who the devil had tipped him off.

She knew it wasn’t Bran. He would never betray her. But he kept company with all sorts of unsavory characters; ones who would sell their own sister to a brothel if it meant a few extra coins in their pocket.

“Well?” she said instead. “What are you doing here? And be quick about it. I’ve better things to do with my time than spend it looking at your sorry mug.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

“I kill flies. I don’t catch them.”

His husky laugh filled the room. “And Yeti wonders why more men aren’t knocking at your door. You’re a tough one, Jules.” His expression sobered. “I’m here because of the runners.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “What about them?”

“They’ve been a pain in the arse ever since that Steel bloke took over. Do ye know they caught Remy last night? He’s sitting in a cell in Newgate as we speak. And last week they pinched Holloway right out of his bed.”

She’d heard about Holloway. “What should we do about it?”

“What the bollocks can we do?” Shoving his thick mane of disheveled blond hair out of his eyes, Bran strode to the nearest window and stared out through the dingy glass to the alley below.

Their townhouse was at the end of a long, narrow row of tenements. When they’d acquired it – in a card game, no less – it had been chopped up into tiny flats, each one hardly bigger than a closet. After extensive renovations, the majority of which they’d managed to do themselves, it was now one of the finest homes in all of St Giles. Not that anyone would know from looking at its shabby exterior of crumbling brick and cracked plaster.

They’d left the outside untouched on purpose, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to their little safe haven. As far as anyone walking by on the street was concerned it was just another rundown tenement infested with beggars and rats.

“The smart thing to do would be to lay low for a while,” he said without looking at her. “Let them spend all their time and energy gathering up the small bait. They’ll get tired of coming to the East End eventually, and when they do we can resume our…activities.”

“Lay low?” If she hadn’t known for certain that Bran was deadly serious, she would have laughed. Instead she settled for another snort. “It was only a matter of time before those two green head’s got themselves caught. They don’t have a full working brain between them, and I for one am not going to roll belly up just because of a couple of runners.” 

“I knew ye would say that,” Bran muttered.

“Then why bring it up in the first place?”

“Because,” he said, glowering at her over his shoulder, “I thought for once ye might listen to bloody reason. But I guess that was expecting too much.”

“I’m a thief,” she said flatly. “It’s who I am. It’s what I do. Don’t ask me to change that.”

“No one’s asking ye to change who ye are. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” A bit of Irish slid into his voice as he shook his head in exasperation. Unlike Juliet, Bran knew who his parents were. Or at least who they had been.

The bastard son of an English lady and an Irish blacksmith, he’d lived in Ireland until the age of seven when his grandfather, an earl, had tracked down his daughter and dragged her back home. She’d insisted on taking Bran with her, but after she died of consumption Bran’s loving grandfather had tossed him aside like a bucket of unwanted scraps.

“Jest keep your head down for a little bit,” Bran continued. “We have enough blunt to tide us over without ye needing to crack any new houses. Have a nice rest, Jules. Go on a holiday. Ye deserve it.”

“We both know what you would do with your holiday,” she said, her gaze dipping derisively to his nether regions before snapping back up to his face. “What the devil would you have me do?”

“Bollocks if I know.” His rugged shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Whatever it is women do. And ye are a woman, whether ye like to admit it or not. Take up embroidery for all I care.”       

Juliet had heard enough. Tucking her hair under a wool cap, she swung her black cloak over her shoulders and headed for the door.

“Where are ye going?” Bran called after her.

She cast him a withering glare over her shoulder. “To find some sewing needles.”

 

The Bow Street Headquarters had once been the private residence of Henry Fielding, a prolific author, magistrate, and founder of the runners. With the support of the Duke of Newcastle, Henry convinced the Crown to give him a yearly stipend of two hundred pounds to support the hiring of six men who he used to bring law and order to London and its outlying highways and villages.

When Henry passed his brother John took over and grew the runners to a force of nearly two dozen men, but over the past five years a decline in crime and the rise of the Metropolitan Police force had seen that number diminish by over half.

Upon his retirement, John attempted to make Grant his predecessor. Given that he was noble born with military experience he was the obvious choice, but much to John’s frustration and general annoyance Grant declined the offer and so it went to Owen Steele instead, a commoner who had fought alongside Grant on the bloody battlefields of France.

During his first year as captain, Owen had proven himself to be the correct choice. He was a hard but fair man, with the patience Grant lacked to deal with all of the bureaucratic shite that came along with the position.

Mrs. Wadsworth greeted him as he stepped into the foyer. A sleek black feline, she’d lived in the three story brick house for longer than anyone could remember. Her chest rumbling with a throaty purr, she allowed Grant to pat the top of her head before she jumped down from the windowsill and trotted off towards the kitchen in search of a nibble.

Following the low murmur of masculine voices, Grant pulled off his great coat and hat as he walked into the drawing room. A fire crackled in the hearth, warding off the chill of a gray rainy morning. Draping his coat over the back of a chair, he gave a cursory nod to the two runners sitting on either side of a long wooden table.

Running the length of the room and cluttered with a hodge podge of papers and various pieces of evidence, the table was where they conducted the majority of their meetings. In addition to the drawing room and the kitchen, there were two smaller rooms which were used mostly for storage and clerical work. Upstairs was the captain’s private office and flat, as well as three more bedchambers that were used on a rotational basis depending on who was manning headquarters overnight.

“Is the captain back yet?” Grant asked, eyeing a steaming cup of coffee sitting in the middle of the table. Without asking whose it was he picked it up and took a liberal sip just as Felix Spencer strolled into the room.

“Oy,” Felix protested, sharp amber gaze narrowing on Grant. With his brown hair slightly long and unkempt and the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, he looked like exactly what he was – a thief turned Bow Street Runner. “That’s my bloody coffee. Get your own, ye lazy bastard.”

There were not many people who would dare speak to Grant in such a fashion. As the captain’s lieutenant and the third son of a duke, he commanded respect wherever he went. From the ballroom to Bow Street no one ever dared challenge his authority.

No one except for Spencer.

Suffice it to say that while the two men managed to maintain a civil working relationship – most of the time – there was no love lost between them. Were it up to Grant, Spencer would be rotting away in Newgate. But for reasons that baffled Owen had seen something in the thief and instead of locking him up and tossing away the key he’d offered him a job instead.

Grant would be the first to admit – albeit grudgingly – that Spencer had thus far proved himself to be an asset. As a former criminal, he had an insight into London’s dark underworld that no one else did. But that didn’t mean Grant had to like him.

And he certainly didn’t trust him.

“Get another cup if it means that much to you,” he said before he slowly and deliberately took another sip, causing Felix’s eyes to narrow and his jaw to clench. Their gazes met and held, neither man willing to give quarter. They would have likely stood there all morning had Archer Brentwood not entered the room. A recent graduate of Eton, he was the youngest runner on Bow Street and it showed in both his enthusiasm and naivety. It also didn’t help that his shock of red hair and smattering of freckles made him appear far younger than his nineteen years. But he had a brilliant head for numbers and the uncanny ability to see what others missed, making him a valuable part of the team.

“Good morning,” he said brightly. “A bit rainy out, isn’t it?”

Still holding Grant’s stare, Felix gave an amicable shrug before his teeth flashed in a mocking grin. “Drink up, then. My gift to ye.” Sitting down on the other side of the table, he tipped his chair back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Ye look like ye need it.”

Belatedly sensing the tension simmering in the air, Archer stopped short. “Did I miss something?”

“Here.” Having lost his taste for coffee, Grant shoved the cup into Archer’s hand. “Is the captain in his office?”

“He got in just before you,” answered Ian Ferguson. He and his brother Colin had joined the runners around the same time as Grant. They were both broad-shouldered, strapping young men with brown eyes and dark blond hair, but that was where their similarities ended. Ian, the more serious of the two, was a man of the law whereas Colin, an affable sort of fellow who was never without a smile, preferred to dance right on the edge. “Although I don’t think he’s after seeing any visitors. Went straight upstairs without so much as a hello.”

As if on cue a door slammed above their heads, causing Archer to wince.

“Does this have anything to do with the stiff you two found in the theater district?” Grant asked Felix.

“Hell if I know. But I’ll tell ye this much – the captain’s in a right pisser of a mood. I wouldn’t go up there if I were ye.”

Grant’s mouth stretched in a flat, humorless smile. “Don’t worry, Spencer. You’ll never be me.”