Chapter Six

 

 

 

“Are ye sure ye want to do this now?” Standing in the middle of Juliet’s bedchamber with his arms crossed, Bran scowled at her as she tried to figure out which weapon would fit best under her gown.

All of them, she decided as she propped her bare foot on the edge of the bed and started to pull up her skirts. “Do you mind?” she snapped, glaring at Bran over her shoulder.

He snorted. “As if ye have anythin’ worth looking at. I’ve seen curvier thighs on a chicken.”

But he averted his gaze as she strapped two daggers to her left leg and a small pistol to her right. Tightening the leather straps to ensure nothing would come loose, she dropped her foot and shook her out skirts.

Stolen from a house in the fashionable Wayfair District, the sea green evening gown was trimmed with white lace and pearls. It was pretty enough, she supposed, although when she’d put it on she’d felt as though she were stepping into a cage. One with puffed sleeves and a soft muslin overlay, but a cage nevertheless.

“You can look now.” Sticking her hands on her hips, she squared her shoulders expectantly. “Well, what do you think?”

An ominous line appeared between Bran’s wheat colored brows as his gaze swept her from top to bottom. “I think this is a bloody bad idea.”

After Juliet’s close call with the runner yesterday morning, she’d told Bran everything. Once he had finished shouting at her, he’d demanded she lay low until the imminent threat of danger had passed. But Juliet had no intention of sitting on her arse. She wasn’t going to let a near brush with Newgate or a handsome runner dictate her actions. Not that she thought of the runner as handsome. In fact, she’d hardly thought of him at all since their little run-in at the bookstore. 

Well, maybe a few times.

Or every five minutes.

Try as she might, she could not forget the green sharpness of his eyes or the way she had trembled in response to his touch. She knew it was ridiculous. She knew it was dangerous and stupid and reckless. But knowing something and feeling it were two very different things. Her body craved what her mind knew she could never have. It was a troubling contradiction; one she intended to solve by doing what she did best: stealing.   

“It will be an easy make. Are you saying I can’t do it?” she dared Bran with a challenging tilt of her chin. The thief muttered a curse under his breath.

“I know ye can,” he said between gritted teeth. “But I don’t see why ye are. Ye have a runner hot on your heels. And not just any runner. You’ve the bloody Wolf after you!” His eyes flashed. “The bastard is relentless, Jules. He won’t give up until you’re locked up in Newgate. The best thing you can do is keep your damn head down and pray he forgets about you.”

Juliet had a talent for drawing, and after she’d sketched out a rough profile of the runner in question, emphasizing his thick brows and strong jawline, Bran had immediately known who he was.

He’d revealed that her pursuer was none other than Lord Grant Hargrave, third son of the powerful Duke of Readington. In the back alleys of St Giles he was known as The Wolf for his tenacity and vicious bite. It was said that once he caught someone’s scent they might as well turn themselves in because he wasn’t going to stop until he had them in irons. But she wasn’t afraid. Not of him, not of any man. And she was going to prove it.

“Keep my head down?” she said with an incredulous snort. “I’d rather cut it off. I am not going to stop doing what I am best at just because of a runner.”

“Not jest any runner,” Bran reminded her. “The Wolf is second-in-command.”

Her mouth curled in a sneer. “He could be the bloody magistrate for all I care and it wouldn’t make a difference. You said he catches every thief he goes after?”

“Aye,” Bran said curtly.

“Well, I was right under his nose and he didn’t catch me.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on stockings and a pair of sturdy leather ankle boots. No flimsy silk slippers for this damsel. Juliet may have been attending a ball, but she had no intention of dancing.

“At least let me go with ye.”

“No,” she said without bothering to look up.

“Why not?” Bran demanded.

“Because one woman by herself isn’t going to attract attention, but a great big bounder trying to look down the dress of anyone with tits will.” Standing, she made certain her skirts were long enough to cover her unconventional choice of footwear before she went to the floor length looking glass in the corner of the room and studied her reflection with a critical eye. “What do you think? Think I’ll pass as a lady?”

She’d managed to tame her unruly locks into a twisted chignon on the top of her head, leaving the slender line of her neck exposed. The cut of the gown was modest, allowing only the smallest hint of bosom to peek out above the lace-trimmed bodice. Small pearls swung from her ears and a matching necklace enclosed her throat.

She had more scandalous dresses. Flashier jewelry as well. But she wasn’t trying to stand out, she was trying to blend in. And to do that she needed to look like every other forlorn wallflower sitting dejectedly in the corner of the ballroom.

“Ye don’t look terrible,” Bran conceded after a long pause. “But I still think drawing attention to yourself is a ruddy bad idea. A ring isn’t worth a lifetime of sitting behind bars pickin’ maggots out of your food.”

She met his gaze in the mirror’s silvery reflection. “It is when it’s worth two hundred pounds.”

“Emerald?”

“Ruby.” She waited a beat. “With diamonds.”

Bran rocked back on his heels and whistled. “Rubies are fetching the most blunt down on James Street. Ye have a buyer in mind?”

“Two,” she said smugly. “They’re bidding against each other as we speak.”

“Ye always were a clever girl.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Turning away from the looking glass, she poked a finger into the middle of his chest. “I’ll be fine, Bran. I know what I’m doing.”

“Aye,” he muttered under his breath as she swung a velvet lined cloak over her shoulders and sauntered out of the room. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

 

A light drizzling rain fell from a dark and starless sky as footmen dressed in matching livery struggled to direct a long line of carriages that wrapped all the way around the block. One at a time the carriages pulled up to the front of a large brick townhouse in the middle of Berkley Square and men and women, dressed in their evening best, were quickly escorted inside under the cover of oversized pink umbrellas.

It was quite a sight to see – the umbrellas bobbing and weaving, the ladies trying to cover their hair, the lords slipping and sliding on the wet pavement – and Juliet bit back a snicker as she observed the organized chaos from behind a large marble pillar.

She’d arrived before the first carriage and chosen her lookout spot with care. The narrow portico tucked around the side of the house gave her an excellent vantage point of the front walkway. When the first strains of a dignified waltz flowed through the open door, indicating the ball had finally begun, she slipped out from behind the pillar and stepped seamlessly into a chattering group of five young debutantes and their chaperones.

“Wonderful night, isn’t it?” she asked a freckled-faced brunette.

“It’s raining,” the brunette replied plaintively.

“So it is.” They had nearly reached the grand foyer where the butler was looking at invitations. Keeping her head turned slightly to the side, Juliet smiled engagingly at the brunette and said in an exaggerated whisper, “Have you heard who is going to be here tonight?”

“No,” the brunette whispered back, her eyes widening. “Who?”

Juliet’s gaze darted left and right. “I don’t know if I should say it.”

“Say it!” The brunette clutched her arm just as they reached the butler. One of the chaperones, an older woman with stern lines around the edges of her mouth, thrusted a handful of invitations at him.

“I’m really not sure…”

“Please!” the brunette begged.

“Oh, very well.” She peeked at the butler. He was furtively trying to match each invitation with a chaperone and her charge, but with a quick glance at the long line of disgruntled peers waiting to be let in he gave up and gestured them all inside with a flustered sweep of his arm.

“Finally.” Lifting her chin, the elderly matriarch and apparent ringleader of the group sailed past him and into the foyer while her little ducklings, including Juliet, waddled obediently behind.

“Well?” the brunette hissed in her ear as they were directed down a candlelit hallway and up a set of stairs. “Who is it? The Earl of Averley? The Duke of Haversham?”

They reached the top of the staircase to discover a massive set of double doors guarded by two footmen. At the matriarch’s curt nod the footmen opened the doors to reveal the ballroom, a massive space with glittering chandeliers, polished wooden floorboards, and dozens of guests swirling about in a myriad of pastel colors.

Chairs filled with dejected looking wallflowers lined one long wall and tables overflowing with a veritable feast of pies and sweets occupied the other. A quartet of musicians played on a raised stage in the middle of the room and at the far end a series of glass doors framed by potted miniature orange trees led out to a stone terrace.

It was clear the Dashwood’s had not spared a single expense. Candles glowed in every window. The stage was draped in red velvet. Even the floor was decorated in elaborate swirls of chalk. Juliet had to blink twice when she saw a peacock go strutting by, its feathered tail proudly fluffed into a blue and green crown.

“You know, I’ve quite forgotten.” Her stomach rumbling when she spied a platter of fruit tarts, she brushed past the brunette without a second glance. Walking along the wall in order to avoid the couples who were dancing, she nabbed a flute of champagne off a passing tray and sipped the bubbly golden beverage as a slow, satisfied smile curled her lips.

Well, she thought silently. That was bloody easy.

Most thieves preferred to work under the cover of darkness when the house was empty and everyone was asleep. Felix had been the one to teach her that it was actually easier to steal when everyone was wide awake…and distracted.

If anyone caught her where she wasn’t supposed to be – in Lady Dashwood’s dressing room, for instance – all she needed to say was that she’d gotten turned around on her way to powder her nose. No one would think her unusual or suspicious. If everything went according to plan, no one would think of her at all. By the time Lady Dashwood realized her prized ring was missing, Juliet would have already sold it.

“Pardon me,” she said politely as she stepped between two young debutantes on her way to the refreshments. Just because she’d come to the ball to steal a priceless piece of jewelry didn’t mean she could not enjoy herself while she was here. A ring was a pleasing enough prize on its own, but a ring and a blackberry tart?

Heaven.

Picking the biggest, juiciest tart of the whole bunch, she wrapped it in a cloth napkin to avoid getting crumbs on her dress and wandered over to a far corner where she had an unobstructed view of the festivities. The first waltz was just ending and the lords bowed to their ladies before they went off in search of their next partner.

As she nibbled on the end of her tart, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live a life of such extravagant leisure. Trivial and boring, she decided as she watched a trio of young women eagerly awaiting their knights in shining armor to glide up and save them from a fate worse than death: an empty dance card.

Didn’t they ever grow weary of the monotony of it all? Juliet had snuck into enough balls to know that every one of them was exactly the same as the last. Chaperones presented their charges like fish thrown up on the docks, debutantes preened and batted their lashes, and arrogant nabobs in desperate need of a dowry to save their crumbling estates fought over the best of the lot while the rest sat on their rumps looking positively miserable.

Why anyone would willingly subject themselves to such a torture was baffling. Even more baffling was the fact that they did it week after week, month after month, season after season. More money than they knew what to do with and this was what they spent it on. Fancy tarts and pretty peacocks and fountains of champagne.

Not that she was complaining about the tarts.

Or the champagne, for that matter. 

“I’ll take one more of those, thank you.” Plucking a crystal flute off the tray of a passing servant, Juliet brought it to her lips and took a slow, measured sip. The bubbles rested on her tongue before sliding down her throat in a delightfully frothy wave.

She would wait another half hour or so – just long enough for the rest of the guests to arrive – before she went looking for Lady Dashwood’s dressing room. She didn’t anticipate it being hard to find. All the townhouses in Berkley Square had been built within five years of one another, and beneath the wall hangings and the curtains and the paintings each house was almost exactly the same. Once you’d robbed one, you’d robbed them all.

Content to stand in the corner, drink champagne, and finish her blackberry tart, she leaned back against the wall and muffled a yawn. Maybe she should have allowed Bran to come, if only to provide entertainment. She still didn’t know why he had been so concerned for her welfare. He knew she was the best thief in all of London. Even better than him, though he’d rather cut out his tongue than admit as much out loud. Did he really think she was going to let herself be caught by a runner? The bastards had been after her for years and this one wasn’t any different than the rest, no matter what they called him.

The Wolf.

She rolled her eyes. After how easily she’d evaded him in St Giles, the runner was more akin to a slow lumbering bear than a savage beast. Although he did have the eyes of a wolf. Sharp and cunning, with just a sly hint of sensual promise. The rest of his body was wolfish as well. Rangy and muscular, with a broad chest that tapered down to a flat abdomen and…

Champagne sloshed over the edge of the flute and ran down her knuckles in a frothy spill of white when her hand bobbled.

“Blast and damn!”

Stealing the ring was supposed to distract her from the runner but here she was, thinking about him yet again. At least she’d gone longer than five minutes this time.

Her loud curse had turned more than a few heads, but they quickly snapped back around when she bared her teeth. Stuffing the rest of the tart into her mouth, she tossed back what was left of the champagne and stalked away, ignoring the volley of stares that were burning a hole in the middle of her back.

So much for remaining inconspicuous. Young ladies of good breeding didn’t randomly shout out swear words. Although she was willing to bet these sort of events would be much more entertaining if they did.

Deciding enough time had passed, she cut a random path through the middle of the floor, turning left and right to avoid being trampled by overenthusiastic lords trying to impress flush-faced ladies. She’d nearly made it to the other side when she suddenly felt a weight dragging on her left elbow. Glancing down, she stopped short when she saw a large hand wrapped around her upper arm.

Annoyed that some hoity nabob had the gall to touch her without permission, she whirled to face him, a scathing insult burning the tip of her tongue…only to have it turn into a gasp of surprise when she looked up and found herself staring into a pair of glittering green eyes. A pair of very familiar glittering green eyes.

“Miss Juliet. What an unexpected pleasure.” Lord Grant Hargrave, also known as The Wolf, also known as her enemy and the very bane of her existence, grinned down at her as the grip he had on her elbow tightened ever-so-slightly. “I did not realize you were an acquaintance of the Dashwood’s.”

“Y-yes,” she managed to croak. “I am.”

Blast and damn, she repeated silently as her mind raced and her shoulders stiffened. What was he doing here?  Did he suspect she was the thief he was looking for? Had he come to arrest her? To drag her down to Newgate and toss her in a cell and throw away the key?

She was one breath away from yanking up her skirts and brandishing her pistol when she happened to note the cut of his black jacket and the gold buttons on his waistcoat. The hard knot of tension between her shoulder blades unraveled as relief coursed through her. Why, he wasn’t here as a runner at all! He’d come as a peer. A sinfully handsome one wearing a snowy white cravat, double-breasted silk waistcoat, and fawn colored breeches that fit his powerful thighs like a glove…

Swallowing, she yanked her gaze back up to his face and felt the unfamiliar heat of a blush spreading across her cheeks when the amused glint in his eye revealed that he’d caught her staring.

“Like what you see?” he murmured, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“No.” She tried to pull her arm free, but his grip – while not painful – was unyielding. He had long, elegant fingers that ended in neatly trimmed nails. Given the way he was dressed one would think he had the soft hands of a gentleman, but she could feel the brush of a callous against her sensitive skin.

Despite his finery, Grant Hargrave was as much a gentleman as she was a lady. They’d both come to the ball with parts to play…and when the curtain fell across the stage she was determined to have the final bow.

“You ran away from me yesterday.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One he punctuated with a subtle lift of his brow. “Did I do or say something to upset you?”

She gave a careless shrug. “I recalled an appointment I was late for.”

“It must have been a very important one,” he said, the dry tone of his voice indicating he didn’t believe her for a moment. Which was perfectly fine. He did not have to believe her. But he did need to let her go. She couldn’t exactly sneak into Lady Dashwood’s bedchamber with a runner in tow! 

“It was.” She looked pointedly over his shoulder. “In fact, I have just recalled another appointment I am late for.” But when she tried to walk past him he drew her back with a husky laugh that made her grit her teeth even as heat pooled in her belly. 

“You’re not getting away from me that easily.” His hand slid slowly down her arm until his fingers closed around her small wrist. “Dance with me, Juliet.”

She tried to yank her arm away but he held fast. Jaw clenching, she glared up at him. “Let me go.”

“Dance with me first, and then I will.” A wicked gleam darkened his gaze. “Maybe.”

Her eyes widened. “This is not a negotiation. Release me this instant!”

“Or what?” he challenged with an insolent smirk.

Or I’ll stab you in the thigh, she thought silently.

No, she couldn’t do that. His thighs were so muscular her knife would probably bounce right off. The same with his abdomen. And his chest. She gritted her teeth. Bugger it, she might as well just shoot him and be done with it. Except she couldn’t. Not unless she wanted to buy herself a one-way note straight to Newgate. Which meant she had no choice. She had to dance with him.

But she didn’t have to like it.

“Fine,” she said between clenched teeth. “But just once, and then you have to promise to leave me alone.”

“You know,” he said conversationally as he led her back towards the middle of the ballroom, “not to appear arrogant, but most women would jump at the chance to dance with an eligible bachelor. Particularly one who still has all of his teeth.” Flashing her a grin, he tapped a nail against a shiny white incisor. “See?” 

Juliet’s mutinous gaze dropped to his mouth and then jerked back up to his twinkling green eyes. “I’m not most women.”

“I can see that.” He shifted closer as the quartet began to play, forcing her to take a step back less she wanted her breasts to brush against his chest. Which she definitely did not want them to do. Not at all. Not even a tiny bit.

Well, maybe a teensy tiny bit.

“What are you doing?” she asked warily when he slid his arm behind her waist.

“Waltzing,” he said simply as he joined his right hand to her left. All around them couples were striking similar poses, although none of them – with the exception of a dainty blonde and her dark-haired partner – were standing so close together. 

Her eyes narrowed. “This is not a version of the waltz I am familiar with.”

Knowing it would come in useful at some point, she’d paid a doxy five pounds to teach her how to dance. The lessons had been rudimentary at best, but Juliet had always been quick on her feet and she’d been able to piece together whatever steps Abigail – a governess who’d fallen on hard times – hadn’t been able to remember.

But in all their lessons she couldn’t recall any type of waltz that required a gentleman’s hand to rest quite so familiarly on the small of a woman’s back. A few inches further down and Grant would be cupping her arse!       

“It’s all the fashion in France,” he said with a roguish wink as he expertly navigated them around the room.

“You’ve been to France?” she said, unable to keep the envy out of her tone. Having never been outside of England – or London, for that matter – she yearned to see more of the world.

“I was stationed there for a brief period of time after Napoleon’s defeat.”

“You fought in the war?” she asked, surprised by the unexpected admission. What sort of lord risked life and limb in a war he did not have to be a part of, and then returned home to work for the Bow Street Runners? It didn’t make any bloody sense. Nothing about him did. The more she came to learn about him, the more she discovered how much of a contradiction he was. 

“Yes,” he said curtly, the tick of muscle high in his right cheek indicating he did not care to pursue the topic any further. 

What a mystery you are, she thought silently. A mystery she wanted no part in solving. Whatever Grant’s reasons for going to war, it did not change the fact that he was a runner and she was a thief. They were sworn enemies and were it not for the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea who she really was, he’d have her clapped in irons within the minute. Something she would do well to remember the next time she gazed deeply into his eyes and felt a keen stirring of lust.

Rather like she was doing right now.

Blast it all, Jules! Pull yourself together.

Thankfully the waltz was coming to end. As the music swelled and then faded away, Grant let go of her waist but kept her hand clasped firmly in his. Lowering his chest in a deep bow, he brought her fingers to his lips.

“A conversation for another time, my lady.”

Flustered by his kiss and the warmth rapidly spreading up her arm, Juliet yanked her hand away. “If you recall, there will not be another time. I gave you your dance. Now you have to leave me alone.”

“Do I?” he challenged.

“If you are a man of your word.”

“Let it never be said I am any less than that.”

Their eyes met for the length of a heartbeat, and in that moment Juliet quite simply forgot how to breathe. Mesmerized by Grant’s emerald gaze, she felt the same pull deep inside that she felt when she looked at a priceless jewel. A sort of desperate yearning that came from the very depths of her soul. She wondered if the runner felt it as well, and was given her answer when he gently cupped her chin, his arrested stare never leaving hers.

“Juliet…” he began huskily. 

“I’m sorry. I – I have to go.” Wrenching free of his grasp, she turned and bolted into the crowd. Keeping her chin down, she all but ran to the far end of the ballroom, fighting the entire time not to look back over her shoulder, afraid if she did she would be no better off than the woman who had turned to salt. 

But when she reached the double doors she couldn’t help but glance behind her. Chest rising and falling with the force of her breaths, she searched for Grant’s tall frame amidst the crush of ball gowns and black tailcoats, but he must have stepped out onto the terrace for he was nowhere to be seen.

Good, she told herself firmly as she straightened her bodice and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. No matter how handsome or charming he was, the runner remained just that – a runner. He was a dangerous distraction she could ill afford, and it was high time forgot about him and focused on what really mattered.

“Pardon me,” she said pleasantly to the footman standing beside the door. “Could you be so kind as to direct me to the lady’s dressing room? I need to powder my nose...”