do-or-die sort of grin.
Oh. Bloody. Hell. He was in trouble.
And yet a part of him thought: I will of course excel at stealing whatever it is we’re stealing, because he refused to fail. Perhaps his father was right after all to attempt to rein him in, since clearly the promise of pearls could lead him so easily astray. The new things he was learning about himself lately were flowing thick and fast.
He imagined saying from Newgate, “Well, if you didn’t want to visit me here, you shouldn’t have cut off my allowance, Father.” It was one thing the Redmonds could hold over the Everseas—not one of them had yet been in prison.
“You’ll want to wrap your boot heels in a handkerchief or your cravat, by the way,” she added absently. “We shall need to be silent as cats.”
Surprisingly, he did as he was told without question.
Grosvenor Square was quiet. All the aristocrats were tucked up in bed or the houses shut up for the winter. They witnessed no comings and no goings. That could, of course, change at any minute. And suddenly Tommy thumped the ceiling, signaling the driver to stop.
Jonathan craned his head out the window and realized things had just taken a turn for the worse.
For he knew precisely where they were.
“This is Lord Feckwith’s town house.”
“Yes,” she said, sounding faintly surprised, as though he was stating the obvious. “Why don’t you pay the driver to wait for us and impress upon him the need for utter silence. And ask him to douse or cover his lamps. We shouldn’t be more than a minute or two. Any longer and . . .” She trailed off ominously.
Jonathan cocked his pistol, a sound that never failed to stir his blood, pushed open the carriage door, and swung down. He immediately swiveled and lifted Tommy to the ground before she could squeak a protest. She was remarkably easy to lift, not heavier than, say, a sturdy chair. She gave herself a little shake like a disgruntled cat and immediately darted toward the narrow passage that led to the mews.
After he had a brisk word with the driver, he followed her, his bandaged boot heels muffled on the stone, her slippers barely more than whisperlike scuffs. She ran like someone who was used to running silently. Like a wraith. Her cloak like something cut from shadow, billowing behind her.
They were eventually going to crash into things, he just knew it. No light reached them from the moon or through a lamplit window. The shrubberies in these gardens were usually treacherously low. If he tripped, he’d likely shoot himself or Tommy.
“ Tommy, ” he hissed.
She halted so quickly he crashed into her, sending her staggering and windmilling forward another foot. He grabbed a fistful of her cloak before she could topple onto her face. Apparently she didn’t precisely have the eyes of a cat, because she went no farther. Instead, the two of them pressed themselves against the wall of the house and waited. In short order, shapes came into focus in the darkness and became recognizable as a low round ring of shrubbery, the door leading to the kitchen, and what must have been a servant’s privy, tucked more or less discreetly behind another mass of shrubbery.
The hush was palpable. It was as if a dark cloak had been thrown over the whole world. He began to breathe more slowly, and on one breath he took in the scent of something sweet. Tommy uses French milled soap, he knew then. He leaned forward for another surreptitious sniff, wondering—
BAM!
They both shot a few inches skyward out of their shoes when the privy door banged open, releasing an unholy stench and a burst of light.
The light bobbed and weaved; it was a lantern. They heard heavy shuffling footsteps, as if someone large was having difficulty lifting his feet. A lantern carried by a staggering, likely inebriated servant.
Unfortunately, the swaying light threw a wayward beam right into Jonathan’s face.
Christ! Jonathan crammed his hat lower onto his face, seized
Oh. Bloody. Hell. He was in trouble.
And yet a part of him thought: I will of course excel at stealing whatever it is we’re stealing, because he refused to fail. Perhaps his father was right after all to attempt to rein him in, since clearly the promise of pearls could lead him so easily astray. The new things he was learning about himself lately were flowing thick and fast.
He imagined saying from Newgate, “Well, if you didn’t want to visit me here, you shouldn’t have cut off my allowance, Father.” It was one thing the Redmonds could hold over the Everseas—not one of them had yet been in prison.
“You’ll want to wrap your boot heels in a handkerchief or your cravat, by the way,” she added absently. “We shall need to be silent as cats.”
Surprisingly, he did as he was told without question.
Grosvenor Square was quiet. All the aristocrats were tucked up in bed or the houses shut up for the winter. They witnessed no comings and no goings. That could, of course, change at any minute. And suddenly Tommy thumped the ceiling, signaling the driver to stop.
Jonathan craned his head out the window and realized things had just taken a turn for the worse.
For he knew precisely where they were.
“This is Lord Feckwith’s town house.”
“Yes,” she said, sounding faintly surprised, as though he was stating the obvious. “Why don’t you pay the driver to wait for us and impress upon him the need for utter silence. And ask him to douse or cover his lamps. We shouldn’t be more than a minute or two. Any longer and . . .” She trailed off ominously.
Jonathan cocked his pistol, a sound that never failed to stir his blood, pushed open the carriage door, and swung down. He immediately swiveled and lifted Tommy to the ground before she could squeak a protest. She was remarkably easy to lift, not heavier than, say, a sturdy chair. She gave herself a little shake like a disgruntled cat and immediately darted toward the narrow passage that led to the mews.
After he had a brisk word with the driver, he followed her, his bandaged boot heels muffled on the stone, her slippers barely more than whisperlike scuffs. She ran like someone who was used to running silently. Like a wraith. Her cloak like something cut from shadow, billowing behind her.
They were eventually going to crash into things, he just knew it. No light reached them from the moon or through a lamplit window. The shrubberies in these gardens were usually treacherously low. If he tripped, he’d likely shoot himself or Tommy.
“ Tommy, ” he hissed.
She halted so quickly he crashed into her, sending her staggering and windmilling forward another foot. He grabbed a fistful of her cloak before she could topple onto her face. Apparently she didn’t precisely have the eyes of a cat, because she went no farther. Instead, the two of them pressed themselves against the wall of the house and waited. In short order, shapes came into focus in the darkness and became recognizable as a low round ring of shrubbery, the door leading to the kitchen, and what must have been a servant’s privy, tucked more or less discreetly behind another mass of shrubbery.
The hush was palpable. It was as if a dark cloak had been thrown over the whole world. He began to breathe more slowly, and on one breath he took in the scent of something sweet. Tommy uses French milled soap, he knew then. He leaned forward for another surreptitious sniff, wondering—
BAM!
They both shot a few inches skyward out of their shoes when the privy door banged open, releasing an unholy stench and a burst of light.
The light bobbed and weaved; it was a lantern. They heard heavy shuffling footsteps, as if someone large was having difficulty lifting his feet. A lantern carried by a staggering, likely inebriated servant.
Unfortunately, the swaying light threw a wayward beam right into Jonathan’s face.
Christ! Jonathan crammed his hat lower onto his face, seized
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