Toby kept his eye on the warehouse as he rowed away, diverting his mind from his imminent peril with the sight of the beautiful young woman who had appeared out of nowhere on Grindle’s quay. There was something about her, besides her beauty. Something strangely familiar.

Behind him, in the forward seat, Betty seemed determined to turn his attention with chatter. “So, are ye gonna flee off to the continent to escape the beak of Bow Street, for ’e’ll surely give ye the noose?”

“No.” Of this Toby was certain—he would not abscond like the biblical thief in the night. He had worked too hard to earn his good name, his parole, and his comfortable, calm life to give them all up now.

The girl sighed with the melodramatic fervor of young women who want to appear older than they are. “Always wanted to go to the continent meself. Ye should take me with ye. I can keep house right good, and I know how to keep my gob shut good and tight.” She smiled at him. “And I can fence yer stolen bits and baubles with no one any little bit the wiser.”

Toby faltered at the oars—why on earth would a girl of no more than five and ten know how to peddle jewels to a fence? Unless Grindle, or the men at the warehouse, like her father, were doing something other than supplying the taverns, inns and coffee houses of London with drink at market rates?

It was something to think about. But so too, was the more pressing problem of his current situation. “I have nothing to fence—because it isn’t me.”

She scoffed. “O’ course it is. ’Oo else could it be?”

“Is that really what you and the rest of them think? That I would betray you all for a few bob?” It offended his scruples to find that with friends like the Bolters, he had a ready-made set of enemies.

“O’ course.” Young Betty cared nothing for his scruples. “But I’m not angry at ye like them, even if ye live out there in the country in the lap o’ luxury while we all work like navvys for our crust of bread.”

“Your father should talk to Grindle if he works him too hard, not to me.” But Toby also felt compelled to make another point. “And I do not live in the lap of luxury—I work, too. I farm.”

“Sell me another one, darlin,’” she drawled. “Yer never a farmer—yer a gentleman wot owns a farm, is wot you are, living out there in Islewerff with all the baronesses and earls.”

“There are no baronesses and earls at my farm,” he assured her. “And I’ve earned my peace honestly—I paid my debt to society.”

“Yeah, big hero in all the broadsheets. Must be nice.”

It had been nice. It had been lovely and peaceful and rewarding. Until someone started imitating his former technique, and leaving him to take the blame.

He had no scruple in abandoning Betty at Three Cranes wharf, where Vintner’s Hall was located. Toby used this wharf fairly often, as it gave him close access to the financial heart of the City, where he hoped to find that which he yet lacked—information.

He slipped through the Vintner’s elaborately wrought iron gates, and headed north up College Hill toward Cheapside, and the Royal Exchange.

Toby liked the narrow hodgepodge of honest streets of the old city, with their names that meant exactly what they did—Poultry Lane, Cloak Lane, Cowgate Hill. No grand pretension here, though hidden behind the modest brick walls might be an ancient abode just as replete with porcelain, plate and gemstones as any Mayfair mansion-come-lately, but without the crass desire to show off that characterized the newer West End. Which was why he had never, even at the height of his powers, stolen from the richer denizens of the ancient City—he had too much respect for the honest labor that had gone into building the businesses and enterprises that dwelt there.

Toby walked purposefully into the chilly shaded courtyard of the Royal Exchange where syndicates of investors gathered to insure such different commercial enterprises as maritime trade and personal property. And where the Honorable Arthur Balfour, third and final son of Viscount Balfour, kept offices in the Society of Lloyds.

Like all the best things in Toby’s life, the navy was responsible for this acquaintance—his superior officer and eventual commander, Captain Sir Hugh McAlden, had seen Toby working relentlessly to better himself, and had done all he could to assist Toby’s rise. Even after he had been invalided out of the navy, it had been the captain who had introduced Toby to his step-brother, Arthur Balfour, who was now Toby’s man of business, and the reason he could afford a farming estate in bucolic Isleworth instead of toting casks in Grindle’s warehouse.

Toby applied to the porter to have a note sent up—and just in case the law was about, his note asked the young gentleman to meet him at a discreet coffee house near Exchange Alley where he knew the lay of the land—a good thief always knew three ways in and five ways out of any room.

In a very few minutes, the young gentleman appeared in the coffee house. “Mr. McT—”

“If you please.” Toby held up his hands to keep Balfour from publicly divulging his identity. “I won’t waste your time, Mr. Balfour—I am in a pickle not of my own brining, and I require assistance to see my way out of the barrel.”

“The press—”

“Yes, the press. The broadsheets are in the business of selling stories, not in making sure such stories are necessarily reflective of the truth.”

“But the magistrates—”

“The magistrates find me the most expedient answer to a vexing question—the fact that I am not the correct answer is both inconvenient and immaterial to them.”

“I must say, I am relieved to hear it. Not that I believed the stories,” Balfour hastened to add. “But my opinion is not the one that matters.”

“To me it does.” It was a balm to Toby’s battered and abused scruples to know at least one person didn’t think the worst of him.

“Thank you. Now how can I be of any assistance?”

“By helping me to stop this thief who is impersonating me—therefore helping the Society of Lloyd’s by preventing any further loss of property of the gemstone and jewel variety.”

“How can I help you do that?”

“As I am no longer in the business of knowing who has jewels worth stealing, I require two things—the first is information.”

Balfour visibly paled. “You want me to entrust to you the names of our clients—”

“Not their names—just their addresses, and their basic worth, and the general description of their jewels, so I can judge for myself.” Toby smiled to mitigate his gall. “If you don’t mind.”

“Good Lord.”

Toby didn’t know if it was the baldness of his request, or his brass in asking for it in the first place that struck young Balfour so. But he didn’t have time to flatter or massage the information out of the man—his cravat felt enough like a noose as it was.

“We have a common interest, Mr. Balfour—you and I both want to see these robberies ended. We need to work together or we will both surely lose—you will lose business and money. But I, Mr. Balfour, will lose my life.”

“When you put it that way…” the young man hedged. “But you are, if you don’t mind my saying so, what we would call a bad risk.”

“So I am.” Toby accepted the fact calmly. “But I’m a safer risk that doing nothing.”

“Perhaps,” Balfour hedged.

“And if I am able to find the real thief sooner, rather than later, there is a greater chance that I can recover some of the stolen jewels.” It was, in actuality, a rather slim chance—a good professional thief would have, to use young Betty’s words, ‘fenced them with no one the wiser.’ But Toby would use every last bit of leverage he could pry into the Honorable Mr. Balfour. “And you’ll get the all credit.”

“Well yes, I suppose that would be nice—rather a boon to one’s prospects.”

“Indeed. So think about putting your hands on that information I need.” Because Toby already had other things to think about—a constable was peering through the window at the front of the coffee house. And behind him, damn her sneaky eyes, was the very young woman with whom he had rowed downriver. Betty had peached.

Who said there was honor amongst thieves?

Toby immediately stood to take his leave. “Good afternoon, Mr. Balfour. My second requirement will have to wait, as I’ll be making a timely exit through the back.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” The cool voice belonged to an astonishingly beautiful young woman who stepped between their table and the window, blocking the constable’s line of sight.

“Hello, Arthur.” She smiled at Toby even as she greeted Balfour. “What interesting friends you have. But as I was saying, you’d best find another means of escape unless you mean to meet the Runner lurking in the shadows of the alleyway. And I can’t imagine that should end well.”

It was the strangely familiar woman he had glimpsed on the quay as he had escaped Grindle’s. But what she might have to do with either Grindle, Betty—who was clearly everything petty and thorough, exactly like her father—or Balfour, Toby could not fathom.

He only knew good advice when he heard it. “Thank you kindly. I believe I’ll head for the roof. And hope to hell the drainpipes aren’t frozen over.”