The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“I know you’d prefer company,” Daphne acknowledged with a smile. “But I’m truly exhausted. Moreover, I already evaded Father once today. I don’t want to tempt fate yet again. You know how he feels about my nocturnal strolls. So, sleepless or not, I’d best go to bed. Now be off, and enjoy your explorations.”

The fox blinked his comprehension, then turned and sauntered into the night.

Thirty minutes later, Daphne slid between the sheets, knowing even as she did that sleep would elude her. It always did, no matter how tired she was. Night after night, she tossed and turned, her mind refusing to succumb to the blessed relief of slumber, fretting over the world and all its inequities.

And tonight, there was the additional lure of her unsatisfied curiosity.

Waiting only until her maid’s footsteps had disappeared down the hall, Daphne rose, lit a taper, and dragged the copy of the day’s Times from beneath her mattress.

The headline was just as she’d expected: “Notorious Tin Cup Bandit Baffles Authorities.”

The article went on to describe the robbery that had sent the Viscount Druige into a rage and reduced his viscountess to an attack of the vapors from which she’d yet to recover.

With an exasperated sigh, Daphne skipped past the silly details of the victims’ distress, focusing instead on what she found most enthralling, the bandit’s methods.

Evidently, he had entered the manor through the conservatory door, cutting a square of glass large enough to reach around and open the lock. He’d taken only the finest pieces of silver from the pantry, a strongbox containing five hundred pounds in notes and coins from the library desk, two heirloom bracelets with matching brooches from the viscountess’s dressing table, and, of course, her flamboyant necklace, recently purchased by the viscount for the enormous sum of one hundred ten thousand pounds. Nothing else in the manor was disturbed and no one in the household knew the crime had been committed.

Until dawn, when Viscount Druige awakened to find the symbolic tin cup upon his pillow—a cup containing the Earl of Gantry’s diamond cufflink, a remnant from the bandit’s most recent theft. And then, four hours later, the Worsley workhouse’s headmaster entered his office to find a tin cup containing five thousand pounds on his desk.

Leaning closer to read the final paragraph of the article, Daphne silently celebrated the fact that the authorities had no clue as to the bandit’s identity nor were they any nearer to unraveling the mystery than they were months ago. “As the ton’s outrage grows, so do the accolades of the working class,” the Times reported. “And through it all, the Tin Cup Bandit thrives, and no one seems able to predict where he will next strike, nor stop his series of extravagant crimes.”

With a heartfelt sigh, Daphne put down the newspaper and extinguished her candle, raising the unlit taper in tribute. Then, satisfied that her avenging hero was righting the world’s wrongs in a way she could not, she climbed into bed and closed her eyes.

Her final thought was of the beautiful doll she’d purchased before returning to Tragmore this morning—a doll that was now carefully concealed in her wardrobe. Somewhat appeased, Daphne drifted off to sleep, trying to visualize Prudence’s forthcoming joy.

And fervently wishing she could make it last.

The thin blade slipped between the window sashes, forcing back the catch. The jemmy followed, prying the decorative shutters open just enough to admit the hooded figure in black.

Noiselessly, the bandit lowered himself onto the parlor floor, his eyes gleaming as he surveyed the dark, deserted room. As was his custom, he waited, although, in this case it was mere habit that compelled him to do so. No one was about, and no scrutiny was necessary. After numerous nocturnal visits to these grounds in particular, he knew Tragmore’s late-night routine like a well-read book. The servants, the family, and the marquis would all be abed by midnight.

Ironic that he’d chosen this, of all homes, to invade, when everything in it already belonged to him.

Ironic, but infinitely appealing—for many reasons.

Slipping the jemmy and file into his coat pocket, the bandit swiftly removed his shoes. Then he lit a single taper and began his work.

The drawing room yielded no surprises, the only worthwhile items being a few pieces of silver plate and a silver soup ladle. Pilfering those, he made his way to the library.

The marquis’s desk offered not the slightest challenge. The expected cash box was there, although he hadn’t anticipated quite so much as he found: fifty pounds in silver and seventy-five pounds in gold. With a shrug, he reached to the back of the drawer, carefully feeling his way until he found the secret panel he sought. With a little help from his file, the panel came away, revealing a gold pocket watch, two antique rings, a dozen five-pound notes and twenty ten-pound notes.

For a destitute man, Tragmore was doing quite well.

Not for long, the bandit thought with a smile.

Deftly he stashed his booty in a sack he kept tucked inside the lining of his coat. Then he eased open the doorway and slipped into the hall. The corridors were dark. He crept to the foot of the stairs. Silently, he ascended, treading only on the inside edge of each step so as not to evoke even the slightest creak.

He reached the second-floor landing.

As always, he headed first for the mistress’s bedchamber.

The marchioness was deeply asleep, her door unlocked. The bandit worked swiftly, taking only the dressing case of jewels and the gold locket that lay beside it.

Closing the door behind him, he moved across the hall to the marquis’s room.

Gloved fingers on the door handle, the bandit paused, gazing down the corridor to the bedroom he knew to be hers. In his recurrent nightly scrutiny, he’d seen her light extinguished time and again. Hers was always the last room at Tragmore to lapse into darkness.

What was it that kept her awake? Was it a book? A worry? Thoughts of a man?