The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“So what’d ye do?”

“I finally got up enough nerve to investigate on my own. I crept to the pond after dark, armed with the largest piece of firewood I could carry. My teeth were chattering so loud, I could scarcely hear a thing. But at last I heard my monster begin his terrifying chant. I was torn between confronting him and fleeing when, all at once, he jumped out at me. Or rather, they jumped out at me.” Daphne grinned. “My dreaded monster was nothing more than a family of frogs.”

Timmy let out a whoop. “Did ye feel dumb?”

“Very. It was the last time I allowed an animal to get the best of me. Although recently another came close.”

“When?”

“This past summer.”

“What ’appened?”

“Tragmore acquired a mysterious thief who, night after night, would emerge from the woods unseen, make off with all our berries, and disappear without a trace.”

“I guess, whoever ’e was, yer thief’s belly was full,” William chortled.

“Maybe ’e wasn’t eatin’ the berries. Maybe ’e was bringin’ ’em to someone who’s poor and hungry, just like th’ Tin Cup Bandit does,” Timmy suggested.

Daphne rumpled his hair. “A lovely thought, Timmy. But, in this case, untrue. The Tragmore bandit was very much a four-legged creature whose motives were not nearly as selfless as those of the Tin Cup Bandit.”

“Ye found out who it was?”

“I did. Actually, the berry thief found me. He was fleeing from a pack of hounds who were most anxious to hunt him down. I gave him sanctuary, named him Russet, and we’ve been fast friends ever since.”

“Is Russet a fox?” Prudence asked.

“Yes. He was a tiny cub when I found him, but now he’s nearly six months old and very independent. His home, as it turns out, is a well-concealed hole at the edge of Tragmore’s woods—a spot that happens to be near both my bedroom and the bushes with the plumpest berries.”

“Will ye bring Russet with ye the next time ye come?”

“I’ll try.” Daphne smiled. “Russet has very much a mind of his own. But, despite his arrogance and cunning, he is a most loving pet. For a bandit.”

“ ’ave ye ever met him?” Timmy asked, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Who?”

“The real bandit. The Tin Cup Bandit. Do ye know who ’e is?”

“No, Timmy. No one knows the identity of the Tin Cup Bandit. But, whoever he is, I think he’s wonderful.”

“My father says ’e’s smarter ’n all the blue bloods ’e robs.”

Daphne’s lips twitched. “Thus far, the bandit seems to be proving your father right.”

“ ’as ’e ever robbed ye, Daphne?”

“I? Well, no, I can’t say that he has.”

“Why not? Ye’re rich, ’ow come the bandit ’asn’t been to yer Ouse?”

It was a question Daphne had asked herself time and again, with a mixture of relief and disappointment, each time she read an account of the bandit’s most recent crime. Tragmore was indeed a likely place to strike, given her father’s wealth and blatant enmity for the poor and the bandit’s propensity for targeting both. Inevitably, the philanthropic thief would strike her home, and the prospect left her both terrified and exhilarated.

“Daphne?”

“Hmm?”

“Do ye think the bandit will rob yer Ouse?” Timmy repeated patiently.