Skirting the lawns, she headed for the front of the house — to the summerhouse at the edge of the trees facing the front facade, from the shadows of which Jonathon Kirby stepped.
She was breathless when she reached him. Without a word, she halted, caught her reticule, opened it, and drew out a slender cylinder. She handed it to Kirby, then glanced back, fearfully, at the house.
Kirby held the cylinder up to the fitful light, examined the intricate chasing, hefted its weight.
The young lady turned back to him. Drew breath. "Well? Will it do?"
Kirby nodded. "It'll do very well."
He slid the heavy cylinder, an antique saltcellar, into the pocket of his greatcoat. His gaze rested on the young lady. "For now."
Her head came up; she stared at him. Even in the poor light, it was obvious she'd paled. "What… what do you mean—for now? You said a single item from here would be enough to see Edward safe for some time."
Kirby nodded. "Edward, yes." He smiled, for the first time letting the foolish chit see his true nature. "Now, however, it's time for me to take my cut."
"Your cut? But… you're Edward's friend."
"Edward is no longer here. I am." When her expression remained stunned, Kirby raised his brows. "You don't seriously think I'm helping a whipstraw like Edward purely out of the goodness of my heart?"
His tone made the truth painfully clear.
The lady stepped back, her eyes wide, fixed on Kirby. He smiled, even more intently. "No — you needn't fear I've designs on your person." He ran his gaze over her, dismissively contemptuous. "But I do have designs on your… shall we say, light-fingered talents?"
Her hand had risen to her throat; she had difficulty finding breath enough to ask, "What do you mean?" She swallowed. "What are you saying!"
"I'm saying I require you to continue to supply me with little items, just as you have for the last several weeks."
Aghast, she managed a shaky laugh. "You're crazed. I won't. Why would I? I only stole for Edward to help him — you don't need any help."
Kirby inclined his head; the twist of his lips suggested he enjoyed her distress — enjoyed putting her right. "But the fact is, my dear, you stole. And as to why you'll continue to steal for me, that's very simple."
His voice hardened. "You'll do as I say, supplying me with select items from the wealthy homes you enter, because, if you don't keep me satisfied, I'll arrange for the truth to out — oh, not my part in it, but yours most assuredly — and that will cause a scandal of quite remarkable degree. You'll be banished from polite society for life, but even more, the entire Ashford family will be looked upon askance."
He waited for full understanding to dawn, before smiling. "Indeed, the ton has never shown sympathy for those who, however innocent themselves, sponsor thieves into its midst." The girl stood, so pale, so still, it seemed as if the rising wind might blow her over. It had already tugged her brown hair loose, left it lying in tumbled curls on her shoulders. "I can't—" She choked, backed away. Unmoving and unmoved, Kirby watched her, his gaze, his expression, granite-hard. "You will." He spoke with a finality that brooked no argument. "Meet me in Connaught Square, same time as before, the morning after you return to town. And" — he smiled, all teeth—"bring at least two worthwhile items with you."
Eyes like saucers, the girl moved her head from side to side, wanting to deny him yet knowing she was caught. Then she gulped, whirled.
Kirby stood in the shadows and watched her flee, cloak billowing wildly. His lips curved in genuine amusement; when she disappeared around the corner of the house, he turned and headed off through the trees.
The girl pelted around the house, sobs coming hard and fast, tears streaking her cheeks. Fool, fool, fool! The litany sang in her head. She stopped, quivering, hauled her cloak around her and hugged it about her, head bowed, trying to calm herself. Trying to tell herself i
t couldn't be, that her good intentions — born of the purest motives — couldn't have gone so wrong. Couldn't have turned out like this. But the words in her head didn't stop; on a choked sob, she raised her head. She couldn't stay out — someone might see her. With dragging steps, she forced herself on, toward the side door and the safety of the house.
High above, an old nurse stood at a dormer window, frowning down at the empty lawn where the girl had been. The nurse had been up for hours; her employer had had one of her bad nights and had only just fallen asleep. The nurse had just reached her room; with no need of light, she'd started to undress, then a movement outside — too quick to be the play of shadows — had caught her eye and drawn her to the window.
Now she stood, thinking of what she'd seen. The girl fleeing, clearly distressed. That moment of stillness, then the effort to move on.
The girl was in trouble.
Brown hair, quite thick, long enough to cover her shoulders. Slight build, of average height. Young — definitely young.
And so vulnerable.
The nurse had lived too long not to know the odds; there would be a man in the story somewhere. Lips thinning, she made a mental note to mention — at the right moment — what she'd seen. Her noble employer knew the girl, she was sure. Something would have to be done.
Mind made up, the nurse finished undressing, lay down upon her bed, and fell sound asleep.
Luc woke to the sensation of a woman's hands on him. On his chest, sweeping across the wide muscles as if in gloating possession, then sweeping lower, over his ribs, then lower still, fanning over his hips. The wandering hands paused, then swooped inward, closing, warm and alive, blissfully firm about his morning erection.