The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

But the man he planned to destroy was her father.

Would that same compassion cause her to sympathize with the marquis? Would dutiful feelings for her father intercede on his behalf?

Based upon past actions, the answer was no. After all, hadn’t she helped Pierce rob her house? Hadn’t she protected him from Tragmore’s wrath?

No. She hadn’t. The man she’d aided was the Tin Cup Bandit.

Irrational jealousy surged through Pierce, and he clenched his fists to stem its flow. This was insanity. The man he resented didn’t exist, was but a fictitious hero Pierce himself had created.

That reality did nothing to appease him. For the first time Pierce found himself wishing his disguise weren’t quite so flawless, that he hadn’t been hooded, masked, swathed in black from head to toe when Daphne had awakened. He wished the hushed darkness of night hadn’t cast her bedchamber in shadows, that he’d employed more than the light of a single taper to illuminate himself. Perhaps if he’d touched her, held her, spoken to her in his own voice rather than a practiced rasp, she would have known.

Known? Pierce drew himself up short. Known what? An undisclosed truth he’d sworn never to reveal? A truth that would jeopardize everything he stood for, not to mention endangering the person who discovered it?

Christ, he really was losing his mind. If Daphne were infatuated with the bandit, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it—yet. Once she was his wife, once he had her in his bed—Pierce swallowed, feeling everything inside him go hard with desire. Once that happened, he’d make her forget all about her bloody champion of the poor.

Reflexively, Pierce stood, crossing the room to open his desk drawer. Reaching beneath the hidden panel, he extracted the small, perfect pearl he had pried from Daphne’s necklace—his souvenir from the Tragmore burglary, and his intended token for the next.

It began, that familiar restlessness churning inside him, this time magnified threefold by the emotional turmoil over Daphne. Whip taut with tension, Pierce rolled the pearl between his fingers, watching it catch the morning light in an incandescent glow. There was only one remedy for his fervor: to channel his energy into something useful, something to keep his mind off Daphne until he could go to Tragmore and claim her.

A burglary. The ideal distraction.

Now the question was who.

A slow smile curved Pierce’s lips as he contemplated the gem in his hand, recalled the vast assortment of jewelry he’d spied on every noblewoman attending the Gantry ball. Doubtless the jewels they wore were only a small sample of what remained behind in their respective manors. He distinctly remembered Hollingsby telling him that the party at Gantry’s would drag on for days, despite the fact that Tragmore’s foul humor had evidently compelled him to depart early. But the rest of the ton would be carrying on with the festivities. Leaving their homes blissfully short of occupants—And providing endless possibilities for the Tin Cup Bandit.

11

THE EARL OF SELBERT’S Mansfield estate was every bit as lavish as his countess’s dazzling jewels had suggested.

The bandit smiled, a self-satisfied smile, surveying the library’s costly sculpture and paintings by the light of his single taper. It had been worth the long ride from Markham, as well as the special provisions he’d been forced to make deferring his visit to Thompson’s store until tomorrow.

Under normal circumstances, an all-night journey wouldn’t trouble him in the least. His customary procedure right after each theft was to hasten to Thompson’s shop at Covent Garden, make his exchange, then, just before dawn, leave his tin cup in the night’s chosen workhouse and travel home in the morning.

But not this time. This time he needed to be home by dawn to reach Tragmore—and Daphne—by the first light of day.

Checking his timepiece, the bandit frowned. Seven after two. It had taken him ten minutes longer than usual to gain access to the manor. Clearly, the ton was taking extra precautions to prevent his intrusion, as was evidenced by the solid, newly installed catch boasted by Selbert’s drawing-room window. The catch would require a quarter hour to force back, even with his expertise. Accordingly, he’d improvised, cutting a pane of glass just large enough to accommodate him.

He’d have to make up the time.

On that thought, the bandit swiftly and methodically began to strip Selbert of his assets, helping himself to the generous stack of notes that filled the strongbox, the opulent silver lining the pantry shelves.

Making his way upstairs, he entered Lady Selbert’s empty bedchamber. It took mere minutes to discover that her gem collection, though horribly garish, was even more extensive than he’d hoped. Quickly, he pocketed the gaudy rings and flamboyant necklaces, pausing occasionally to grimace with distaste over a particularly ostentatious piece. A sudden image flashed through his mind of Daphne’s face were she to see these horrid jewels, and his lips twitched with amusement. His snow flame would shudder with revulsion if she stood beside him right now. Why, these trinkets made the Viscount Druige’s necklace appear refined.

He was still grinning when he made his way into the master bedchamber, placed Daphne’s delicate pearl into a tin cup, and left both on the earl’s pillow. Keenly aware of the time, he retraced his steps, careful to remain utterly silent, and eased through the hall, down the steps, and back to the drawing room.

A heartbeat later, he hoisted himself through the window, sliding the shutters into place so no one glancing at the manor could discern the missing pane of glass.

The first portion of tonight’s job was done.

Riding at breakneck speed, the bandit mentally added the fifteen hundred pounds he’d removed from Selbert’s strongbox to the two thousand pounds of his own money he’d brought. Three thousand five hundred pounds—a respectable sum for the shoddy workhouse he’d selected on the outskirts of Mansfield.

He was in and out of the workhouse in a quarter hour, the gleaming tin cup filled with notes just beside the headmaster’s door.

It was fifty miles back to Northamptonshire and less than three hours until dawn. There wasn’t time to stop in Wellingborough and secrete the jewels. He’d have to go directly to Markham and somehow evade the bevy of servants long enough to hide his clothes and his spoils, then prepare for the all-important excursion to Tragmore. Where Daphne would give him her answer.

“Good morning, Mrs. Frame.”

With a warm smile, Daphne sailed into the kitchen, bright and perky as if it were not still dark outside.