19. Chapter 19
Charles Whittingham smiled as he set his niece’s missive on his mahogany desk.
He picked up his glass of wine, raising it in a toast to himself.
Emma was making preparations to steal the diamond necklace.
Her note had been brief, saying she was doing reconnaissance this week, and she would get back to him when the job was done.
The only troubling thing was her mention of taking a break from London.
Some blather about needing to disappear for the benefit of Lucy’s season.
He certainly would steer her away from that idea.
Emma was the most talented thief he had worked with in years—nimble, unafraid, with a natural penchant for the art.
His lips curved up. He would always remember the first time he had seen her pinch something.
It had been about six months or so after his brother Henry had died.
They had received endless invitations to teas and dinners so everyone could coo about what a tragedy the viscount’s death had been.
He and Emma had both been under scrutiny for different reasons.
His return after fifteen years abroad had caused much interest. The reason for his banishment had been mostly forgotten, and he enjoyed the opportunity to move in society again.
Emma had been the recipient of pity. Poor girl, they said, lost her fiancé and her father within weeks of each other. Tsk, tsk, what bad luck.
At one event, he had noticed Emma was missing.
He found her in the library, meandering along the shelves, looking at the titles while the other ladies chatted by the fire.
While he watched from across the room, her hand had darted out and snatched a golden paperweight in the shape of a small angel from a table nearby.
It had disappeared into her small silk purse in the blink of an eye.
“So is the angel still in your purse?” he casually asked later as they made their way home in the coach. Her hands had jerked in her lap, and she blinked rapidly as she stared across at him. He patiently waited for an answer.
Then she had squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head slowly side to side.
“No, I put it back. I always do.” When she opened her eyes, she pressed her hands against her cheeks.
“It’s…just that when I am upset, I can’t seem to help it.
Mama used to call it my sticky fingers problem.
She always made me return whatever it was.
I do, I always return the items.” She shrugged her shoulders.
He had reached over and patted her hand. “You have given me a brilliant idea, my dear. We’ll talk about tomorrow, I promise.”
Charles took another sip of his drink and set the glass down next to his inkpot on the desk. He’d worry about talking some sense into her later. He turned his attention to writing a quick note to Dorling.
Mr. Dorling,
Please note that I will be able to obtain the item we discussed for auction within the next few weeks. You may set up prospective buyers. I will be in touch soon.
W
Charles folded the note carefully. He melted a bit of wax over the flame of the taper next to him and dripped it over the seam to seal the letter.
He was about to ring for a footman to deliver the note when there was a knock at the door.
His butler, Greer, came into the room looking quite flustered.
This was some cause for alarm, as the man never showed an ounce of emotion.
“What is it?” Charles narrowed his eyes.
“Sir, there is a gentleman here to see you.” Greer glanced down at the card in his hand as though he was double-checking the name. “The Duke of Gilchrest, sir.”
“Well, don’t keep him waiting! Show him in.
” The Duke of Gilchrest calling here? That was a first. Didn’t the aristocracy usually summon those they wished to speak with?
Charles stood and put on his jacket. He had just enough time to straighten his cuffs before the man strode in, his presence filling the room.
His hard expression made Charles want to take a step back.
Instead, he made himself step forward, placing a friendly smile on his face. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Mr. Charles Whittingham? Are you the guardian for the children of the late Viscount Newton?”
“Yes, I am. Do you know them, Your Grace? Oh yes, of course, my niece did tell me your family was sponsoring Lucy this season. Please, come in, and have a seat.” He gestured to a chair by the fire. “Would you care for a brandy, Your Grace?”
“No, thank you.”
The duke sat down, one ankle across his knee. His expression did not soften. His piercing blue eyes were as brittle as ice chips.
Charles settled himself in the chair opposite.
He catalogued the possibilities as to why the Duke of Gilchrest was sitting in his study.
Was he here to ask permission to marry one of the girls?
He didn’t exactly wear the expression of a man with the intention of betrothal.
Maybe one of the children had insulted him?
Stolen something from his house? They were a bit of a handful.
“Your Grace, with what may I help you?” he prompted.
“To start, I would like you to stop encouraging your niece to a life of crime.”
Well, that had not been on his list. Luckily, years of cons had taught him to control his reactions. “I beg your pardon?” He raised an eyebrow as if he were confused.
The duke didn’t mince words. “I think you know exactly what I am speaking of. You are putting her at great risk.”
Charles steepled his fingers and put an expression of concern on his face. “I am sure my niece would not be involved in anything remotely criminal.”
The duke sighed. “So, we are sticking with denial.” He pulled out an envelope from his breast pocket. “And you? Are you not remotely involved in anything criminal? Because I have evidence here which would contradict that assertion.”
Charles narrowed his eyes. What was this man’s angle? What could he possibly know? In the next moment, his heart sank.
“It seems to me you left England quite in haste in ’93, Mr. Jones…
Mr. Barnabus Jones, is it?” The duke thumbed through the papers.
“Or perhaps it is Monsieur Blanchett, or…oh yes, I rather like this one, Adriano Escalanta. It has so much flair.” As he looked up, his smile vanished.
“You see, I believe the Home Office would be very interested in all this information about your various reincarnations. It seems they were very frustrated they could not pin down the Ghost before he disappeared fifteen years ago.”
Charles resisted the urge to pull at his cravat, which was suddenly too tight as he swallowed. How had this man dug up all his old identities?
“What do you want?” he choked out.
“What I want is for you to step away from Miss Whittingham and her siblings. What I want is for you to stop setting up opportunities for her to steal. Stop encouraging her.” With each syllable, the duke’s anger singed the air between them.
Charles composed his features. “I am their guardian. I have done the best I could to take care of them during a very difficult time.” He looked off into the fire. “I am rather fond of them.”
“You know, I almost believe you. But now I am going to take care of them. And I won’t need her to steal for me to accomplish the task.” His features were fierce and his voice possessive. “Now, what is your decision? A nice long trip to the continent, or a nice long chat with the Home Office?”
Charles glanced at the letter sitting on his desk.
It didn’t appear the duke had discussed his plans with Emma yet.
High-handed bastard. The sale of the diamond necklace would set them up with quite the nest egg, enough to take the whole family out of England.
There were rich nobs all over the continent ripe for the plucking.
With his contacts and Emma’s nimble fingers, they could make a fortune.
He would not leave without the proceeds from the auction. Nor would he give up Emma.
“Yes, well, perhaps I am tiring of London. It could be a good time for a trip abroad.” He sighed, trying to look defeated.
The duke nodded and then stood, slipping the papers back into his pocket. “Then our business is finished.” He patted his pocket. “Just make your exit quickly. This deal has a time limit. You don’t want to be around when I turn this information over to the investigators. Good day, Mr. Whittingham.”