The Theft (Thornton 2)

The bandit didn't reply. His steely gaze intensified, icy pinpoints glittering through the slits in his mask. "You have a buyer, I presume?"

"Are ye kidding?" Gayts's scraggly brows shot up. "If that's the Gainsborough, hell yeah, I got a buyer."

"One that's not on English soil," the bandit emphasized. "He's in the Colonies. And his collection is real private. No one will see it."

"And the money?"

"I got five thousand pounds of my buyer's money. I'm authorized to spend as much of it as I need to."

"You'll need to spend all of it and then some," the bandit returned calmly.

"What?"

"You and I both know how much Gainsborough's paintings will be worth one day. Also, how few of them are privately owned and, therefore … obtainable. I want ten thousand pounds. Tell your buyer to think of it as an investment in the future."

Gayts scowled, rubbing a sweaty palm over his face. "But I'll have to put up some of my own money…"

"You've got more than enough to do that—five times over. I keep you very rich and very happy." The bandit's glance flickered over Gayts's hand, which seemed to be inching reflexively toward the blade he kept in his pocket. "Don't think of doing anything stupid, Gayts. We both know which one of us would end up dead. And you have too good a life to let it be snuffed out so senselessly."

Gayts's fingers froze where they were. "Ye're backing me into a corner and bleeding me dry."

"I'm offering you a valuable painting for a fair sum. That's called business, not bleeding. You, in turn, will charge your buyer one thousand pounds more than I'm charging you, enabling you to buy several years' worth of liquor and women. That, too, is called business. So, what's your answer?"

A heartbeat of silence. "Fine," Gayts muttered. "Ten thousand. Let me see the painting."

The bandit slipped the Gainsborough from its casing, raising it up until it caught the light of the candle. "Satisfied?"

A careful study, then a nod. Gayts might be scum, but he knew his business. He could tell authentic from fake at a glance. "Yeah. Satisfied." Gayts reached behind him, opening his own bag and glowering into it. "I only got the five thousand with me."

"I'm not worried." The bandit leaned back against the wall, lounging in a deceptively calm stance. "I'll wait here while you go up to your room and get the other five thousand."

"Fine. And while I'm at it, I might as well take the painting with me."

"No. The painting stays right here at my side until you return with the rest of your payment."

Gayts cursed, slicing the air with an ineffectual palm. "Why is it I'm supposed to trust ye, when ye don't trust me?"

"Simple. I've got what you want."

"I'm the one who gives ye money."

"They're not exactly charitable donations, Gayts. As I said, you make a fortune off your customers when they buy my wares. So don't make yourself sound so bloody noble. Besides, if you're unhappy with our arrangement, you're free to end it whenever you choose. It will take me approximately ten minutes to find another fence who'd be delighted to handle my trade. Just say the word."

Silence.

"Well?" The bandit folded his arms across his chest, the painting propped against his leg. "Which is it going to be? Are you severing our ties? Or are you going upstairs to get those other five thousand pounds?"

A resigned sigh. "I'm going." Gayts moved, bag in hand, not toward the front of the alley but toward the back, taking the few steps that separated him from the rear wall. Flattening himself against it, he inched his way to the corner, then squirmed through a concealed opening—an opening the bandit knew emptied into a dilapidated side street that was a mere block away from Gayts's quarters.

Gayts disappeared, the thudding of his boots fading into silence.

Eight minutes later the thudding resumed and he reappeared, sweaty and winded.

"Here." He thrust both bags at the bandit. "Ye don't need to count it. It's all there."

A tight smile. "I never doubted it. You wouldn't swindle me, Gayts. You're too smart for that. Right?"

"Right."