Page 32 of Where the Heart Leads
In his mind he could hear his mother laughing riotously.
He had half a mind to retreat, to excuse himself and depart. From the way she held herself, slightly stiff by his side, and the quick sidelong glances she darted his way, that was what she expected him to do. To cut his losses and run.
But he’d already lost all he could that night; there was nothing more he could concede.
And the night was yet young; there would probably be another waltz or two, and in this style of gathering there were no sharp-eyed dowagers keeping track of who danced how many times with whom.
He glanced at Lady Calverton, still absorbed with Lady Cynster. Perhaps there was more he could salvage from the night; he might as well remain, and reap what benefits he could.
In that vein, the first order of business was to thaw the ice maiden by his side. Glancing at her clear profile, he asked, “Is Rigby always so pompous?”
She glanced at him, suspicious, but after a moment, she answered.
After that, courtesy of him paying close attention, enough to keep the reins firmly in his grasp, the remainder of the evening went his way.
“Good evening, Smythe.” The gentleman who called himself Mr. Alert—he prided himself on being forever alert to the possibilities fate sent his way—watched as his henchman, silhouetted against the moonlit night as he stood in the open French door, glanced around the unlit parlor.
The town house in St. John’s Wood Terrace had proved very useful to Alert. As usual when he met with his rougher associates, the only source of light in the room was the glowing embers of a dying fire.
“Do come in and sit down.” Alert clung to his fashionable drawl, knowing that it emphasized the distinction between himself and Smythe. Master and servant. “I don’t believe we need any great deal of light to conclude our business—do you?”
Smythe fixed him with a hard, direct, but carefully unchallenging glance. “As you wish.” A large, hulking brute of a man, surprisingly quick and agile for his size, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door carefully, then picked his way around the shadowy furniture to the armchair set opposite the one Alert occupied by the hearth.
Relaxed in his chair, legs crossed, the picture of a gentleman at his ease, Alert smiled encouragingly as Smythe sat. “Excellent.” He drew a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “I have here the list of houses to which we’ll need to gain access. Eight addresses in all, all in Mayfair. As I made clear at our last meeting, it’s imperative—absolutely essential—that we burgle all these houses in a single night.” He locked his eyes on Smythe’s. “I take it you and Grimsby have made suitable arrangements?”
Smythe nodded. “Grimsby is still a few boys short, but he says he’ll have all eight soon.”
“And you’re confident not only that he can supply the right number and style of boy, but that the training he provides will be up to scratch?”
“Aye. He knows the ropes, and I’ve used boys from him before.”
“Indeed. But this time you’re working for me. As I believe I’ve stressed, this is a game with high stakes, far higher than any you’ve played for previously.” Alert held Smythe’s gaze. “You need to be sure—indeed, you need to be able to assure me—that your tools will be up to the task.”
Smythe didn’t blink, didn’t shift. “They will be.” When Alert’s expression made it clear he expected more, he grudgingly added, “I’ll make sure of it.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“I know where he’s getting the boys. With the date you’ve given me, we’ve time to make sure we have the right number, and have them properly trained.” Smythe hesitated, as if—finally—considering the eventualities, then went on, “I’ll stop by Grimsby’s and make sure he understands how…serious we are about this.”
Alert permitted himself a small smile. “Do. I see no reason for us to find ourselves in difficulties because Grimsby didn’t adequately comprehend, as you put it, the seriousness of our endeavor.”
Smythe’s gaze dropped to the list in Alert’s hand. “I’ll need those addresses.”
The addresses were Alert’s primary contribution to their game, together with the list of items to be stolen—he prefered the term “liberated”—from each house. “Not just yet.” Lifting his gaze, he met Smythe’s frown. “I’ll hand it over in good time for you to do the necessary reconnoitering, but as you said, we’ve plenty of time.”
No fool, Smythe understood that Alert didn’t trust him. A moment passed, then he stood. “I’ll get moving, then.”
Remaining seated, Alert nodded a dismissal. “I’ll arrange our next meeting as I did this one. Unless I leave word otherwise, we’ll meet here.”
With a curt nod, Smythe retraced his steps to the French door, and let himself out.
Wreathed in shadows, Alert smiled. All was going according to plan. His need for money had in no way eased—indeed, courtesy of the visit he’d endured yesterday from the fiend into whose clutches he’d unwittingly fallen, and the latest arrangement for repayment to which he’d been forced to agree, that need would only escalate with every passing day—yet his salvation was at hand. There was, he’d discovered, a certain satisfaction—a thrill, in fact—in cheating fate, and society, through the simple application of his admittedly devious brain.
He had no doubt that with his knowledge and Smythe’s talents—and Grimsby’s tools—he would come about, and that handsomely. As well as freeing him from the shackles of London’s most notorious cent-per-cent, his scheme would significantly bolster his nonexistent fortune.
Fate, as he well knew, favored the bold.
Glancing down at the list of houses he still held, he considered it—and saw superimposed the other, even more important list that was its mate, the list of the items to be liberated from each house.
