The Theft (Thornton 2)

This was almost too easy.

He tucked the burlap sack in the bushes that bordered the manor. Then he stood, flattening himself against the wall, and extracted a diamond from his pocket. Deftly, he proceeded to cut out a generous-sized pane of glass, taking the extra seconds to create a space large enough for him to crawl through—a prudent choice, given his own speed and agility. The alternative was less appealing: to cut a smaller opening just large enough to reach through to force the catch and ease open the window—hardly a winning gamble given that the window might stick or its hinges squeak.

With a flourish, the bandit completed his task.

Forty seconds from start t

o finish—an instinct he needed no pocket watch to confirm.

Excellent timing. No noise. Minimum risk.

The theft was as good as done.

Placing the extracted pane of glass on the grass, he hoisted himself into the gallery.

He slipped off his shoes, then lit a taper—but only for the brief instant it took him to locate the Gainsborough. Once he spied it hanging on the far wall, he extinguished his candle, reaching up carefully to lift the painting from its hook.

He didn't pause to admire it. He just retraced his steps, jerked on his shoes, then slid the painting and himself out the window to safety.

The canvas sack was right where he'd left it. In seconds, it held his prized possession, his fist tightly grasping the sack's open end, now twisted into a handle of sorts, as he made his way slowly, carefully, toward the front of the house.

The street was silent and empty.

Prowling along the sidewalk, he climbed into his carriage, tucked the sack beneath the seat where it was concealed from view, and took up the reins, easing his horse forward until the glow of the streetlamp just brushed his carriage.

He pulled out his timepiece, his eyes gleaming with triumph as he consulted its dial.

Just as he'd suspected, the entire deed had taken less than thirteen minutes.

Smoothly, the bandit slapped the reins and urged his horse into a trot.

The carriage moved off, melting into the night.

* * *

Forty minutes past two.

The bandit jammed his timepiece into his pocket and leaped lightly to the ground, assessing the area before hauling out the sack that held the Gainsborough.

The road was forsaken.

Clutching the sack, he crept forward.

The designated alley, just beyond London Bridge, was so narrow that even urchins bypassed it in their search for scraps of food. Not that they would have found any. There was nothing there but a broken path, missing bricks, and an occasional rat—and even those crept away hungry.

Slipping into the alley, the bandit gave a discreet cough, then gazed steadily toward the alley's far end. He waited until he saw the customary flare of a match, which was then extinguished, followed by the glow of a second match, this one remaining lit.

Making out Gayts's burly form—the thick muscles and squat frame that filled the alley's entire width—the bandit flattened his back against the wall and made his way forward, the sack kept close by his side.

Gayts's dark, heavy-lidded eyes assessed the bandit's approach with more than a touch of wariness. Then, reassured that his visitor was indeed the one he anticipated, he touched his match to the end of a candle, transferring its illuminating glow in order to provide enough minutes of light to accommodate their brief meeting.

He blew out the match and stood, unmoving, until the bandit halted a mere foot away.

"Don't ye ever sleep?" Gayts demanded in a rough voice.

"On occasion," was the terse reply. "I'm glad my message reached you in time. This particular job was unforeseen, but urgent."

"Ain't they all?"