Page 45 of Anastasia and the Duke
"He was killed for having sticky fingers," Hunter replied, with a wry smile, "We found some of Lady Jersey's stolen jewels hidden amongst his possessions, but only some. This led us to believe that our man was killed because he was suspected of trying to take a cut of the loot for himself, at the expense of the cause."
It was lucky that Oliver was a competent rider, for if not, he might have fallen from his mount with shock.
"So you're saying whoever carried out the theft at Lady Jersey's ball had links to seditious groups?" Oliver questioned, his mind drifting back to the soft-lipped thief he had shared a kiss with.
"Yes," Hunter nodded, "Though we can't say just who exactly is involved, mostly because our main suspects keep turning up dead. Whoever it is, shows no mercy to friend or foe."
Oliver's mind was racing, as he struggled against a dawning realisation. Everything made sense now, but he dearly wished that it did not.
"Have you ever heard of Sidney Pritchard?" he ventured, hoping he sounded casual enough.
"Why?"
Hunter's sharp reply and the searching glance he shot Oliver's way, let Oliver know that his attempts at nonchalance had failed miserably.
"He's one of London's most notorious criminals, is he not?" Oliver answered, smoothly, "Perhaps he is involved in it all?"
"Trying to take over my job, eh, Hawkfield?" Hunter laughed, believing that Oliver was merely attempting a little sleuthing, and not that he had a hand in the game, "If only it was so easy. Pritchard is as slippery as an eel; he never does anything himself, always gets others to do it for him. He's long been on our list of suspects, given his background, but we can never pin anything on him."
"And what background is that?" Oliver pressed, wishing that he could shake Hunter until he told him everything.
"He was part of a group of Covent Garden radicals who took themselves off to France to help bring down the monarchy," Hunter snorted, "He didn't last long; within a few years he was back in London and straight back into a life of crime."
For the second time that day, Oliver nearly fell from his horse.
"You're certain?" he pressed, "You're certain that Pritchard was in France?"
"Of course I am, it's well known," Hunter answered, staring at him in confusion, "Is everything all right, Hawkfield?"
"Yes," he answered, for though he suspected the worst about Miss Blackmore, there was still a glimmer of hope for her, "Excuse me, Hunt, I must dash. There's someone I must see."
Without another word, Oliver took off at a gallop, clearing the gates of The Green Park, out onto The Mall. From there, traffic forced him to slow to a gentle canter, until he reached Charing Cross, and the building which housed Mr Adams' small office.
"Your Grace," the investigator jumped from his seat at his desk--where he had been enjoying a beef-pie--as Oliver barged into the room without knocking.
"I have further need of you, Adams," Oliver panted, "I need to know everything there is to know about Sidney Pritchard, including his involvement with a red-haired young woman, who may or may not go by the name of Hannah."
"Er, yes, your Grace," Adams answered, though his eyes drifted down to his desk where the pie remained, only half-eaten.
"Take the pie if you must," Oliver sighed, "I will await your return, but you must go now, it is urgent."
For Oliver needed to know if Miss Blackmore and his thief were one and the same person--for if they were, Oliver had great reason to believe that he had found the missing Anastasia de Bonneval.
Chapter Thirteen
When Hannah rose the morning after her encounter with Sidney, she did so with a heavy heart.
This was to be her final day as Lady Lansdowne's guest; for better or worse, she would no longer be welcome by evening.
Whether she was to leave as a thief, or a woman condemned, Hannah had not yet decided, and the weight of the choice she faced hung over her like a cloud.
The night before, she had gone to bed, convinced that she would complete what she had originally set out to do--to steal Lady Lansdowne's treasures. But as she had tossed and turned all night, sleep had evaded her, for Hannah had realised there was another choice open to her--to do the right thing.
Such a choice would incur future hardship, as well as Sidney's rage, and no doubt, she and Nan would still have to leave London, and Lady Lansdowne would never forgive her. Nor Hawkfield, for that matter.
But it was tempting, far more tempting than stealing from the woman who had treated her as though she was family. And far more tempting than letting Hawkfield think that his trust in her had been misplaced.
Hannah dressed quickly and made her way down to the breakfast room, desperate for a cup of hot coffee to banish the cobwebs in her sleep deprived brain. She could not think clearly and all her senses felt dull. A heavy sense of grief filled her, due, she thought, to the knowledge that she would be leaving both Lady Lansdowne and Hawkfield behind her.
