Toby took a small set of rooms at the Inn of the Three Kings off Davies Street, right in the heart of merry, Christmas-ing Mayfair. The cheerful, bustling inn was large enough to make him no more than another well-heeled traveler in the seasonal crowd, and provided him a comfortable, warm place to rest his head while the Runners stalked his cold farmstead.

He immediately wrote a note directing his housekeeper to close up his house, take down the knocker and take herself off on an extended Christmas visit to her sister’s in Norwich, which was sufficiently far away to seriously inconvenience the Runner who would most assuredly be assigned to follow her.

It was the little things that gave him pleasure.

Like his beautifully made skiff—Toby sent another note round to Grindle, asking him to store the boat until further notice. And then, he took himself off to a barber, followed by his tailor in Saville Street, so that the following day, Toby might join the well-dressed crowds in the galleries of Somerset House, where he parked himself in front of a gorgeous bronze by Verrochio, and waited until the Honorable Mr. Arthur Balfour made his nervous way across the parquet floor.

“I almost didn’t recognize you after the other day,” Balfour said by way of greeting, as he admired Toby’s beautifully cut bath superfine. “You have exquisite taste.”

Toby tried to school his expression into a smile. “Thank you.”

Balfour had the grace to color. “Not that I’m surprised.”

“And yet you are,” Toby concluded in the same wry tone.

“I am,” Balfour admitted. “I’ve never met someone of the criminal class with…” He let the thought lie unspoken.

“Such good taste?” It wasn’t the first time Toby had heard such a charge. “And you’re wondering how a man like myself—low born, and Scots to boot, would acquire such good taste, but you’re too well-bred to ask. Go ahead—ask.”

“Well, why did you take it up in the first place?”

“Farming? A man has to have a profession.”

“I meant”—Balfour lowered his voice—“jewel theft. You’re a man of obvious sense as well as taste—you must know that in the end, crime doesn’t pay.”

“Ah, but it does, my dear boy—ask any banker. But to answer your question, I took up theft to acquire this good taste that you are so obviously admiring—and which I admire as well—to afford the things that a crofter’s son could never dream of if he didn’t take shortest route off the moor.”

“And how did you get off the moor?”

“Strong legs and natural agility—I walked. And then by virtue of those same endowments, I joined a traveling circus to make my fortune. Unfortunately, the circus folded just before we reached London. I was destitute and hungry, and although such a state was hardly new to me, I decided to put my agility to a more commercially rewarding use.”

“So you stole.”

“I did indeed.” He would not deny that which had long ago been lawfully proved. “Very successfully.”

Arthur Balfour shook his head. “You claim your lack of scruples honestly.”

“If it helps your judgement of my scruples, I only stole from those whom I judged would never go hungry.”

“Ah, so you’re something of a present-day Robin Hood, are you, stealing from the rich?”

“But not giving to the poor,” Toby corrected him. “No. I kept every single thing I stole for myself—or at least kept the money from the sale. I admit I was a thief—just like you.”

“I am nothing of the kind, sir.” Balfour was all sudden effrontery. “My profession is to assesses risk and—”

“You make wagers on other people’s money—and sometimes with other people’s money. When you make a mistake, do you give the money back?”

“I work within the bounds of the law.”

“At the moment, I don’t have that luxury, because the law will condemn me no matter that I have not actually stolen anything in years. I paid my debt to society with my own blood—and the blood of other honest, true men—and I still have to prove my innocence every day of my life.” Toby took to his feet to exercise his feelings. “But it is a far harder thing to prove that you haven’t done something than to prove that you have.”

“But this is England, and the rule of law is fair.”

“Only if you can afford to make the rule of law work for you. The law shan’t be fair to me—the magistrate will condemn me by reputation alone, without any shred of actual evidence.”

“Yes. I suppose he will…” Balfour’s voice trailed off in a way that prompted Toby to take a closer look at him—the poor fellow looked a little too green around the gills.

“What is it? What is it you aren’t telling me.”

“I’m afraid I told the magistrate what you are planning to do.”

Toby would have sworn a blue oath had he not been standing in the middle of a public gallery. “Well, that is at least refreshingly honest. I suppose I ought to have expected it.” He really had been out of the game for far too long—he had gone soft. “They swore against me, I suppose?”

“No, actually, they thought it was a wonderful idea for me to set you up. They think you’re going to hand them the evidence they seek—they think they’ll catch you red-handed, as it were.”

Toby took that news with a dose of navy fatalism—there was no avoiding the coming battle, so a man had best make peace with the cannonballs. “They think it’s me anyway—though I thank you for the warning. And it may even prove a boon to have two sets of eyes watching the right places—mine and theirs. Perhaps their zealousness will be useful, after all. And speaking of useful—I’m being useful to you in trying to put a stop to these thefts, and therefore your losses. But you have yet to be useful to me—especially after you’ve ‘peached on me,’ as we of the criminal class would say.”

Balfour colored again. “I needed some assurance that you wouldn’t play me for a fool. So if the Runners do catch you stealing from these people I’m about to give you—”

So Balfour did plan on assisting him—the realization mitigated some of Toby’s annoyance. “My loyalty to your brother was your assurance. But I had hoped my word alone might have been.”

Balfour was apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t think I knew you well enough to take you solely at your word. As I said, you’re a rather bad risk.”

That was also refreshingly honest. “Enough weighing out of scruples. Give me your list or don’t, but decide now.”

Reluctantly, young Mr. Balfour reached into the breast pocket of his coat and withdrew a folded and sealed paper.

Toby felt the strange sort of anticipatory tingle he used to get before handling precious jewels as he broke the seal. “Very nice,” he said as he scanned the document. “Very thorough. Excellent.” He folded the paper away into his own well-concealed pockets. “Now, the second thing I require from you is an entrée into Society.”

“Me?” Balfour was all astonishment. “You mean you want to appear in public with me?”

“I am a former officer and friend of your step-brother you chanced to meet at Somerset House galleries. We struck up a friendship. Don’t worry—I shan’t embarrass you. I do know how to behave in polite society. Though I was only a warrant officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, your Captain McAlden saw that my training included the fine art of being a gentleman.”

“I see.” If Balfour objected to equating a warrant officer with a gentleman he kept it to himself. “Well, I do have family connections who aren’t too high in the instep, and who have not yet left for the country. I might be able to include you in one of their evening parties. But after that, receipt of any invitations will be entirely up to you.”

“Say no more.” Toby touched his hat in politesse. But young Balfour wasn’t going to be let off so easily—where would be the fun in that? “Thank you for such valuable information, though I must trouble you for one more thing—an introduction to that intriguing sloe-eyed blonde from the other morning.”

“Cally?” The poor fellow choked on his own breath. “I—”

Toby patted him solicitously on the back. “My dear fellow, take a good long breath—you look like you could use it before you accompany me to meet this Cally this evening.”