A Dangerous Affair Page 2

  She thought so. Or at least as much as a young girl could understand such things. “That’s what Sam is now? A–” she had paused as she searched for the right word “–lady of the night?”

  “Aye.”

  She’d chewed on her bottom lip while she had mulled it over. “But what if I want to stay here, with ye and Bran and Eddy? What if I want to be a thief?”

  “If that is what ye want, that is what ye can do.” Yeti hadn’t said in so many words that he was pleased with her decision, but she’d known by the approving light in his gaze that she had made the right one. “I’ll make ye the best thief the East End has ever seen, lass. Mark me words.”

  That was the last night she’d slept beside Bran and Eddy. From that day forward she had her own cot, and whenever she left the flat Yeti made sure her hair was tied back and her breasts, small as they’d been at the time, were bound flat to her chest. He called her Jules, and instructed everyone else who knew that she was really a girl to do the same.

  She had been pretending to be a boy for so long that sometimes even she forgot she was a female. But now, standing before the stranger with his dark wavy hair and lean, muscular build, there was no doubt in her mind as to her sex.

  Even without having a clear glimpse of his countenance she knew he was handsome. One of the handsomest men she’d ever seen. Just as she knew that he was trouble, and the sooner she put as much distance between them as possible the better. Unfortunately, the stranger had over ideas.

  “Closer,” he commanded, beckoning her forward as if she were a dog and he her master. But Juliet answered to no one, not even if they were holding a pistol, and instead of obeying his order she bared her teeth.

  “Bloody hell,” she snapped. “Do you want me to climb up on your lap, then? Because if you’re looking for that type of service there are a few gents around the corner who would be happy to oblige. But I’m not one of them.”

  His husky laugh did the oddest thing to her belly. The muscles in her abdomen clenched tight and then slowly released, her insides quivering as though she’d swallowed a mouthful of butterflies. Annoyed by the distracting sensation, she shifted her weight to her toes and fixed the stranger with a fierce glare.

  “What’s so amusing?” she demanded.

  “Your pitiful attempt at diversion. If I was after a good tupping I’d head to the nearest whorehouse. I want the necklace you stole, lad.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” The side of his mouth curved ever-so-slightly, as if he found her deceit amusing.

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “Then let me refresh your memory. Lord and Lady Munthorpe reported someone broke into their townhouse four nights past and stole Lady Munthorpe’s ruby necklace.”

  Not by a single flicker of an eyelash did Juliet betray her guilt. Being a good thief involved more than squeezing into small spaces and taking things that did not belong to you. It meant being a good liar, and she was one of the best. Lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug she said, “Maybe this Lady Munthorpe merely misplaced the necklace. Did you consider that?”

  “It would be easy enough to do, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “Given how much jewelry she has.”

  “Precisely my point.”

  “But that doesn’t explain the brooch taken from Elm Street or the sapphires that disappeared from a safe in Highland Manor, does it?”

  Juliet hid her surprise behind a quick blink. How could he possibly know all that? Unless…

  “Runner.” She hissed the word as though it was a curse, which for her and her ilk it might as well have been.

  Comprised of nearly a dozen men, the Bow Street Runner’s patrolled all of London and its surrounding roads and villages. Emboldened by the Crown, they were worse than thief takers and bounty hunters combined because they could not be bribed.

  A thief taker you could reason with. A bounty hunter you could slip a bit of blunt to and be on your way. But a runner…a runner wasn’t satisfied until the magistrate pounded his gavel. And this one in particular seemed more determined than most, for only a very brave runner – or an incredibly stupid one – would dare venture this deeply into the rotting bowels of St Giles.

  Her eyes narrowed. How was it he had managed to do what all the others hadn’t? She’d had a few close calls over the years, but she’d never been caught. Not by one of them. How long had he been following her?

  Long enough to know what her last three takes had been. Bloody hell, she hadn’t even told Yeti about the sapphires. Did he know about her other jobs? Or where she lived? Her chest tightened at the thought even as a surge of anger left a bitterly metallic taste in her mouth.

  Damn the runners. She wasn’t hurting anyone. Yes, she was stealing, but only from those who could easily afford to lose what she took. What was one lonely ruby necklace to a woman whose husband had three carriages? Or a brooch to an estate that was nearly half the size of the East End? She could have wiped their coffers clean and there would have been no one to stop her, but she had restrained herself, hadn’t she? One piece from one house; that was her golden rule. The runner shouldn’t have been trying to arrest her. He should have been thanking her. And then going on his way to catch the real criminals. The murderers and the rapists and the brothel owners who employed girls as young as twelve and thirteen.

  “You have no proof I stole shite,” she spat.

  He made a tsking sound. “Ah, but I do. You yourself just admitted to stealing the necklace, and as you did not deny taking the brooch I can only assume you stole that as well. You’ve been rather busy, haven’t you lad?”

  “Bollocks!” she cried. “I didn’t admit to anything because there’s nothing to admit to. I’m innocent.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye.” She gave a defiant toss of her head and met his stare for the first time. Emeralds, she realized, momentarily thrown off guard when she found herself glaring into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. His eyes are the color of emeralds. “You – you have the wrong person.”

  Bloody hell Jules, she thought in self-disgust when she stumbled over her own tongue. Pull yourself together. Green eyes or not, this bounder is about to haul your arse down to Newgate if you don’t think of something quick.

  “How old are you, lad? I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he went on before she could reply. “You’re young yet. If you come in quietly I’ll put in a good word for you with the Magistrate. He’s a fair man. You’ll only serve four, five years at the most. When you get out you’ll still have your entire life ahead of. You can turn things around. Take an apprenticeship or better yourself through education. It’s not too late.”

  Why did everyone think she wanted something different than the life she had? First Yeti, now this green-eyed runner who would have done well to keep his thoughts to himself. She liked her life. She liked what she did. She liked waking up every morning never knowing what the day would bring. Given the choice, there was nothing she would change. Given the choice, she would be a thief until she died. Which, given her current circumstances, could be any minute now.

  “I’m telling you, you have the wrong person.”

  “I don’t think so.” Keeping the pistol pointed at her with one hand, the runner used the other to unclip a pair of iron manacles from his belt. “Step lively now, I’ve other places to be that do not include an alley in the middle of St Giles.” His nose wrinkled. “Especially one that smells like piss. Honestly. How do you stand it?”

  Eyeing the manacles as a wolf would a steel trap, Juliet started to edge backwards. “You can take those shackles and shove ‘em up your arse, you bleedin’ ratbag bastard. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Come now, lad. Is that any way to talk to your betters?” He sighed when her hand darted down towards her waist and the pistol that was strapped to it. “Be reasonable. There’s no need for violence.”

  “Bugger off,” she said between clenched t
eeth. “I said I’m not going anywhere with you, and I meant it. You’ll have to shoot me dead first.”

  His countenance softened. “No one is going to be shooting anyone. I’m not in the habit of harming children.”

  Well in that case…

  Spinning around, she bolted out of the alley as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels.

  Chapter Two

  Grant considered himself to be in excellent physical condition. He never drank or ate in excess. He upheld a rigorous training schedule that included horseback riding, boxing, and lovemaking. One might not think lovemaking was exercise, but that just meant they weren’t doing it properly. He could lift a full-bodied woman clear off the ground and hold her pinned up against a wall with one arm if the occasion called for it.

  And the occasion often called for it.

  But despite his strength and considerable endurance, he found himself struggling to keep up with a boy who had yet to see his first whisker. It was bloody embarrassing. And humiliating. And he was damned glad Spencer wasn’t around to witness it.

  Peeling off his waistcoat, he let it fall to the ground before he followed the boy up a rickety set of stairs that led to the third floor of a crumbling tenement building. Leaping over a drunkard sprawled across the top step, he hit the hallway in a full sprint, but when he reached the end of it his quarry was nowhere to be seen.

  Lungs burning, nostrils flaring, Grant stopped short and braced his hands on his knees.

  “Bloody hell.” Had he known the lad was going to give him this much trouble he’d have brought one of the Ferguson brothers along. Although maybe it was better he was doing this alone. If word got out that a child had run circles around him he would never hear the end of it. Not from Spencer. Not from the captain. Not from any of them. He’d be willing to bet even Hawke would have a good chuckle and the thought of that behemoth laughing at his expense was all the motivation he needed to force himself upright.

  No one bested Grant Hargrave. Least of all an arrogant pup who needed to be taught his place. The lad could count himself lucky he was so young, for if a full grown man had spoken to Grant with the same careless disregard he would have found himself sprawled on his arse spitting out blood and teeth before he knew what had happened.

  During his eight years as a runner, Grant had taken down some of London’s deadliest and most ruthless criminals. He had plenty of scars to show for his troubles, but he’d never backed down. Never flinched. Never cowered. And he’d never given up. Once he caught scent of his prey he did not stop until he’d run it to ground.

  The boy would be no exception.

  “Come now lad,” he called out in a friendly tone that was at direct odds with his clenched jaw and narrowed gaze. If not for this business he’d be at The Pony right now, a frothy pint of ale in his hand and a squirming wench on his lap. “Best turn yourself in. You’ve nowhere left to go.”

  There were only five doors between the end of the hallway and the stairs. Which meant there were only five places the lad could be hiding. When he was met with silence, Grant transferred the pistol to his right hand and opened the first door with his left.

  Unlocked, it swung inward, revealing a room devoid of any furniture save a broken chair. Moonlight streamed in through a cracked window, its silvery light allowing him to do a cursory search of the walls for any closets or hidden openings. Satisfied the room was empty he moved on to the next. It was empty too, as was the third and the fourth. Left with the fifth and final door, his mouth curved smugly when he tried the knob and it was locked.

  “All right lad. Good on you for leading me on such a merry chase. But the chase is over. Time to come out and give yourself up.” He punctuated his command by striking the door with his fist. And while the force of the blow rattled the door on its hinges, the boy refused to emerge.

  “Damned stubborn little bugger,” Grant muttered under his breath even as part of him couldn’t help but admire the boy’s courage. He was a fighter, that was for certain. Not much of a surprise given that he had managed to survive in St Giles for so long.

  If the East End of London was a cave of dark, treacherous deeds then St Giles was its den. There was no place for the weak here. No shelter for the timid. The law of the land was kill or be killed. And stronger, tougher, older men than the boy had met untimely, gruesome ends at the end of a knife or the smoking barrel of a pistol.

  He lifted his own pistol and drew back the hammer as he angled his shoulder at the door.

  “I’m coming in so you better stand back,” he warned. “Unless you want a mouthful of wood.”

  Grant usually wasn’t so accommodating of criminals, but there was something about the boy that made him feel almost…protective. Perhaps it was because he knew the lad’s life couldn’t have been an easy one. Or maybe it was his age. He didn’t look much older than Grant’s nephew, a bright-eyed, mischievous boy who had just celebrated his tenth birthday. Either way, he didn’t want to hurt the lad. At least not any more than was absolutely necessary.

  One hard blow and the door broke open. Weapon drawn, he charged into the room.

  And found it completely empty.

  “What the devil,” he breathed, scratching the side of his neck. He’d been certain he had finally run his prey to ground. In fact, he would have been willing to bet ten pounds on it. But unless the boy had jumped out the window – doubtful, given they were three stories up – he had, for all intents and purposes, vanished into thin air.

  Bemused, Grant turned in a circle…and caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his right eye as his quarry made a mad dash for the doorway. The pesky little brat had flattened himself against the wall closest to the door and had just been waiting for Grant to step further into the room so he could make his escape.

  “You there!” Grant bellowed, making a wild lunge forward. “Stop!”

  The lad ignored him. Leaping over the drunk who was still passed out at the top of the stairs, he jumped up onto the wobbly wooden banister. It groaned beneath his weight and Grant uttered a savage curse.

  “Get down,” he ordered, furious that the boy was heedlessly risking his life. He knew that he didn’t want to go to prison. No sane man did. But surely a few years spent behind bars was better than a broken neck. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

  “And do your job for you?” The lad peeked back at him over his shoulder. As he did the hood of his cloak slipped back. “I don’t think so.” Straddling the banister, he pushed off and slid down it in one fell swoop. Before he’d even reached the bottom and taken off at a run Grant knew he was gone. At least for tonight. But that wasn’t what had him scowling.

  Maybe it had been a trick of the moonlight…but when the boy had glanced up at him he could have sworn the lad was really a lass. Which was so impossible it did not even bear thinking about.

  A female thief? Ridiculous.

  Boys could have long, thick lashes as well. And tip-tilted eyes that made them look like a cat. And lush red lips that instantly made a man think dark, wicked thoughts. It may have been uncommon, but it was far more probable than the alternative. Although it bloody well didn’t explain the sudden surge of heat in his loins.

  Sliding his pistol back into its holster, Grant scrubbed both hands down across his face. He was clearly exhausted and seeing things that simply weren’t there. Something that was bound to happen after going two nights without a wink of sleep.

  While some may have thought the life of a Bow Street Runner was exciting and thrilling, the truth of the matter was that it was more often tedious than it was dangerous. Not that he hadn’t encountered his fair share of danger, but he’d also spent countless hours wading through paperwork and preparing cases for trial and crouching behind crates of rotten fish waiting for a piece of incriminating evidence to exchange hands. That was where he’d spent last night, and how he had known where to look for the jewel thief he’d been chasing for the better part of three months.

  Lord
knew the lad was always careful never to leave any evidence behind. Grant had searched the houses that had been robbed high and low, but he’d never been able to find so much as a muddy footprint or a sliver of hair. So instead of trying to track the thief he’d tracked the jewelry, which had ultimately led him to a dark little corner of the East End where – by a sheer stroke of luck – he’d quickly found the lad.

  And lost him just as fast.

  “I need a damn drink,” he muttered into his calloused palms.

  “Did someone say drink?” Woken from his stupor by all the commotion, the drunk struggled to his feet. Swaying slightly side to side, he grinned toothlessly at Grant and held out a half empty bottle. “I’ve some gin if ye want. Five pence.”

  “Here.” Slapping a handful of coins into the drunk’s hand that amounted to far more than five pence, Grant took the bottle of gin and tipped it back to his mouth. It tasted like the devil’s own piss, but at least it kept the night from being a complete loss.

  Tucking the bottle under his arm, he walked slowly down the stairs and out into the night.

  Juliet did not sleep. Staring up at the cracks in the plaster ceiling above her bed, she remained awake until dawn broke out across the sky in a somber spill of muted pink and the nest of starlings in the eaves began their incessant chirping.

  The birds had moved in two weeks ago. The feathery little buggers did not pay rent and she would have been well within her rights to get a broom handle and knock down their nest, but she didn’t have the heart. They’d move on soon enough and when they did she’d make sure to nail up a board so they couldn’t return.

  Rolling off the lumpy mattress, she washed her face and hands with cold water from a porcelain basin. Like the rest of the furnishings in the small room, the basin was old but functional. Given her line of work, she could have easily afforded new things. Prettier things. Fancier things. But everything in the bedchamber held sentimental value to her, including the wash basin. As plain and nondescript as it appeared, it was one of her most prized possessions, having been the first thing she had ever stolen all on her own.