Fortunately for Elliott, trapped in the horse stall, it was not a long wait at all. The footmen who had tied him so securely to the stable post had scarcely left through the front door before a small shadowy figure slipped into the mews.

Feebles looked like a bundle of rags washed up in a sewer drain, but he was actually the greatest pickpocket the Liar's Club had. His weathered face grinned briefly at Elliott before he ducked his head and tugged at his cap with his usual unassuming air. “Will y'be wantin' that little rope problem taken care of now?”

Elliott sighed. Relief warred with chagrin. He really didn't want to stay here all night, nor did he wish to go through a great rigmarole with the magistrate. Still, he could not help but flinch at the hell he would catch back the club for not only being soundly defeated by a mere slip of a girl, but in ending up tied like livestock between a gelding and a nanny-goat.

“If you would, please.” Might as well strive for a bit of levity.

Feebles, being Feebles, made no more remark as he whipped a small blade from a worn boot and sliced through the heavy rope as if it were string.

Elliott rubbed his wrists as the two of them slipped out of the mews into the dusk. There was no guard. Well, it was just a house, albeit a very fine one, not a military post. They took the wall rather than chance the gate again. The bracing run through the back alleys of London did much to cool the heat of Elliott's mortification.

They picked up Rigg on the way, the other Liar who'd been posted at a pawnbroker's to watch for the red-haired thief.

It was only then that Elliot thought to ask Feebles how the diminutive pickpocket had known where to find him.

“Oy, ye went right past me. I seen you following the lady and then I seen her give you what-for.”

Elliott was sorry he asked.

Entering the club was synonymous with coming home. After the chill day, a fight in the snow, and a long dash back with frost crunching beneath their boots, it was almost miraculous to step into the light and warmth and delicious scents of Christmas baking.

Elliott's spirits lifted instantly. He was going to get his share of ribbing over today's loss, and he didn't look forward to making his report to the spymaster, but in the end this was his family. This was his home. Eventually, he would be forgiven. That was the Liar way.

On his way to face the music, Elliott sauntered past the room with the best fireplace, the one that had been taken over by the children as well as the evergreen tree. He poked his nose and grinned as the tiny flaxen-haired girl of no more than four slipped a hand into a jacket pocket draped over aspiring dummy and pulled out a handkerchief without setting off a single jingle-bell warning.

Elliott clapped and entered. The band of wee monsters gathered around him and he picked up the curly-haired tot to allow her to wave her hard-won handkerchief in high triumph.

“I did it, Uncle Elliott!”

“That you did, my candy-apple queen!” He swung her around until she shrieked and giggled, then he set her neatly back on her small booted feet. “I see your Jack has a jingle-bell on every pocket.”

The oldest boy, Robbie, string-bean fellow of the great age of twelve-ish, folded his arms with a smirk. “There's eight pockets, including the weskit. I've got six down.”

“Well done!” Elliott strolled around the dummy who wore an odd fashion of purple silk weskit, formal black dinner jacket only a bit ripped at the seams, and a lady's bonnet festooned cheerfully with holly and pinecones. He stretched his arms forward and cracked his knuckles with a show of warming up. “Shall I have a go?”

Robbie's eyes lit up. “I wish you would. Mother won't show me anything, for fear of encouraging me. And Father is afraid of Mother.”

Robbie had been adopted a few years ago by James and Phillipa. He'd changed a great deal from the stunted chimneysweep child who had saved Simon Raines's lady wife in a moment of great peril.

Still, although Elliott understood the parental urge to preserve Robbie's childhood, the boy had never really had one, had he? Picking pockets was a damned useful skill for a Liar, and best learned young.

Elliott turned his back, made a grand gesture of crooking one arm over his eyes and started counting slowly backward from ten. There was a great rustle, pierced by shrieks and giggles and thudding little feet, as the assembled offspring filled the sparring dummy's pockets once more.

“—three, two, one!” Elliott whirled and took two steps to the dummy. In eight quick motions, his hands moving the same time, he emptied eight pockets in half as many seconds. Not a single bell sang out.

The assembled circle of children made appreciative noises. Elliott flourished a deep theatrical bow. “Thank you, thank you.”

Robbie was gazing at him narrowly. “I saw what you did. I can do seven now, I think.” He stepped forward.

“Only for Crown and Country, eh, old man?”

Robbie nodded seriously. Elliott made way for the master-to-be, and left the room with a cheerful wave. “Carry on, ye sticky beasties!”

It was silly and perhaps a bit pathetic, but his success with the jingle-bell dummy had put the jaunty back in Elliott's step that had been stolen by his grand, and now probably very notorious, defeat.

He wasn't angry with his opponent. If he was to be truly honest with himself, he'd enjoyed nearly every moment of their contest.

She really was quite astonishing...

* * *

Despite the fact that he truly had nothing to be ashamed of, Elliott felt like a naughty schoolboy called on the carpet in front of the spymaster. Dalton stood there by the small fireplace in his office with both hands braced on the mantle. His head dropped to gaze at the glow of the coals.

Elliot wasn't one to look too deeply into his loyalties. When he encountered someone new he rather quickly sorted that acquaintance into one of two categories: those he believed in and those he didn't. His masters at the spy academy had tried to drill logic and analysis into his head, but when in the thick and the dark, Elliot always fell back to on instinct. As yet, he had never been proven wrong.

“So what did your precious gut tell you about your lady thief?” Dalton remained where he was, his attention apparently absorbed by the glow.

Elliot let out a great long breath. “She is…” Beautiful. Exciting. Tempting. And if he was not much mistaken, she was also quite sad.

He had no inkling of why she should be so bereft, so he said nothing. His shrug did not seem to satisfy Dalton.

“Hmm.” The man sent him a sour glance. “She bested you.” It wasn't a question.

Elliott lifted his chin. “She's a good fighter. But no, she didn't beat me. I won the day. Until she outsmarted me.”

Dalton shook his head, as if shaking off some inner memory. He sighed. “It happens to the best of us.”

Elliott wasn't sure if the spymaster was referring to being beaten, being outsmarted, or being beaten and outsmarted by a woman. Considering Dalton's own clever and talented wife, Lady Clara, Elliott had the notion that his superior was speaking of the latter.

“You got lucky with the pawnbroker, but she's onto you now.” Dalton straightened and turned to Elliott. “You need to widen the net.”

“Agreed.” Elliott nodded crisply. “If I may request more copies of the drawing of our target to pass around the club, we can ensure she sees no familiar faces. And I've had a better look at her now, so I believe I can give Lady Clara a few more details.”

Dalton nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the petite brunette sitting at the large desk that dominated the office. “More copies, Clara?”

Clara looked up from the political cartoon she was working on and brushed back a lock of dark hair that had fallen over her brow. “Certainly. Lord Elliott, pull up a cushion. Dalton, darling, would you mind sending one of the children down to the kitchen? The scent of Kurt's baking has been wafting the halls for hours. I'm absolutely perishing for a biscuit.”

Dalton frowned. “He's being very territorial about his kitchen at the moment. I'd better do it myself.”

Elliott gazed ferociously at the carpet between his boot tips and struggled not to chuckle. One of the most dangerous men in the world nodded to his pretty little wife and scuttled off to fetch her a treat.

When he was gone, Clara gave Elliott a fond glare. “There is no need to laugh. You just wait, Lord Elliott. There will come a day when a woman will flutter her lashes and you will find yourself fetching her pretty floral pincushion from across the house.”

Elliott bowed with an old-fashioned flourish. “That day is now, my Lady Clara. What may I fetch you? A cup of tea? A stool for your feet? Shall I mop your brow as you labor so hard?”

“Idiot.” Clara rolled her eyes. “He could be standing right outside the door, you know.”

Elliott smiled, but he did stop his carrying on. Flirting with the ladies of the club was a dangerous hobby of his. He certainly meant no harm by it. Rather, it was a means of staying in character. Most of his assignments were undercover in the ballrooms and gaming tables of the rich and bored. He fit very well into foppish and useless society. After all, it was from whence he came.

He pulled up a chair and settled next to Clara, who opened a drawer and pulled out her original sketch of the red-haired thief. Seeing it again, Elliott realized he'd done little justice to the lady's snapping eyes and determined chin.

He continued to describe her from his new perspective of wrestling her down into the snow, a story which Clara enjoyed very much. However, she tweaked him ferociously when he began to wax eloquent about emerald eyes and fiery hair streaming across white snow.

“You're allowed to respect her fighting ability, Lord Elliott. But I don't think Dalton would enjoy knowing that you are, well, a bit smitten.”

Elliott made a gentle scoffing noise. “Nonsense. Not possible. Absolute rubbish.”

Damn. He couldn't even convince himself. Smitten.

At best she was a clever criminal. At worst, a dangerous enemy. Now he truly had to find her. It was time to figure her out, for good and all.

* * *

Amie should have felt safe when she at last entered the Jackham house. After all, she'd gone to enormous lengths to lose any possible tail. She'd walked for hours, running from doorway to doorway, dashing through shops. She'd even traded her warm brown coat for a thin blue one from a woman who seemed surprised but willing.

It was her last good coat, blast it. Ruby had her old one, for her sister had outgrown everything in the last year. Now Amie ached with cold and terror. With only part of her attention she caught the sweet smell of Christmas cooking and...what was that? Pine?

“Evergreen,” Emma said as she looked up from the bowl she was whisking. “Apparently it's all the rage in fashionable circles to cut down a tree and bring it into the house to shed needles everywhere and then to drape bits and bobs all over it.”

“According to whom?” Her voice sounded faint even to her own ears.

It was enough to make Emma look at her more closely. “Where did you get that coat? You didn't go out like that.” She hustled forward. “Why it's naught but thin canvas! Oh, you must be freezing!”

“Who's freezing?” Ruby bounced into the room. There were pine needles in her hair. “Amie! You're white as a sheet!”

Amie let them coddle her. The fire and the hot tea helped enough that her hands stopped shaking and she could feel her aching feet again. However, it did nothing for the knot of fear that sank like cold lead deep in her belly. She took another sip of tea, hoping to melt that worrisome lump.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “This is actual tea.” She looked up, glancing around the kitchen. Belatedly, she noticed a ham on the table and a bowl piled high with potatoes and leeks. There were sacks by the stove that looked to be flour and even sugar. Oh, no. “You bought food.”

Emma looked at her a bit sideways. “We thought we might as well. After all you were selling the jewelry today and...well, it's Christmas. I just thought we could have a few things the way we used to, like a ham and mince pie.” She lifted her chin. “I should probably tell you now that there's a goose hanging in the larder. And I purchased a crock of redcurrant jelly. A small one. Well, fairly small.”

Jelly. In winter. It was a mad splurge, to be sure. Amie blinked and her gaze slid to her youngest sister. “And we have a tree in the house?”

Ruby squirmed a little in her chair, her clasped fingers rubbing together in her lap. They looked to be sticky with pitch and bits of colored paper. She had several lengths of faded old hair ribbon draped over her wrist.

“I’ve seen— I've heard that other people have them in their houses. I remember hearing about it when I was little. Papa told me he saw one in a duke's house. It's ever so pretty, and it smells so nice. And I just thought— No, I should've gotten a simple garland.” Ruby's face, usually so cheerful, took on a crestfallen frown. “I should have asked first.”

“Ruby got it on credit. With a discount. I think she could talk a cat into swimming the channel!” Emma stood up briskly. “Yes, we went a bit round the bend. There's nothing to be done for it now. And what's the harm? You sold the jewelry, didn't you?”

Amie reached into her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief-wrapped bundle. It was all too small and far too light. Pinching a corner of it, she let the contents roll out onto the table. Her sisters leaned forward. There were a few guineas, a bit of silver, but mostly coppers gleamed in the candlelight.

“Oh.” Ruby's voice was very small.

“Did you try Connors? And Becket?” Emma shook her head quickly. “No, of course you did. Those blasted old thieves!”

She'd failed so miserably. Amie's breath caught in her throat. “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”

At her broken tone, her sisters swept her into their arms and held her close, petting her hair and murmuring denials. It felt good to be surrounded with reassurance, very good to be forgiven. It would likely feel even better if she could forgive herself.

There was still more. She hesitated. There was nothing they could do about it tonight. She could keep the real problem under cover just a little longer, and let her sisters enjoy the feast and the silly tree.

But the burden was too much to bear alone. And they should know. They should be prepared. They would be frightened, but they would be together and they would figure something out. Together.

She lifted her head. “It gets worse.” Her voice was flat. “I was shadowed…by a Liar.”

The fire still crackled. The oven still baked. The chill that swept the room had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with dread.