You Had Me at Heist (Wimpole Street Widows Society #2)

Prologue

Mrs. Iris Rumford stood in the doorway of her mother’s study, unable to cross the threshold.

It was not because she feared entering, or had ever been barred from this room.

A good portion of her life had been spent within these walls, after all, working alongside her mother, helping to bring her incredible brilliance for botany to the world stage.

No, the reason Iris’s feet were rooted to the spot, refusing to budge an inch, had everything to do with the vast emptiness of the place.

Not literally, of course. It was still packed to the beams with books and illustrations and specimens and all the accoutrements that her mother’s profession had required.

And yet it felt empty. No wonder, really, as the person who had given the place its soul was now irrevocably beneath the ground she had so loved to work.

For a moment tears threatened. But her eyes, which had been crying buckets in the week since her mother’s death, could not seem to produce a single tear just then.

She had stayed away from this room ever since that horrible day, when her mother’s weak lungs had been unable to recover from their most recent attack.

Now, mere hours after laying that woman to rest, Iris missed her so desperately she had come here, hoping to find a bit of comfort in it.

But there would be no comfort, she realized as she gazed at the carefully organized chaos of the place.

How could it bring her comfort, when the very sight of it made her realize that her mother would never enter these walls again?

She would never hum cheerfully while she flipped through one of her many reference books, would never again bend industriously over her desk while she carefully wrote out the contents of her brilliant mind, would never exclaim her excitement as she opened the flower press and extracted her newest preserved specimen.

But though the room reminded Iris of what she had lost, she nevertheless forced her feet to move.

She walked in a trance to the desk, opened the largest drawer, reached within.

And there they were, those notebooks and papers her mother had been diligently keeping for nearly a decade.

With a shaking hand she traced the cover of the top notebook, her fingers trailing over the familiar gilt leaves on a green leather background.

Her mother had finally concluded her research into the hybrid plant not a week before her death, had been about to compile all the data and publish her work.

It was going to be her legacy, her gift to the world.

Yet she would never complete that work, would never see the influence it had on the botanical community.

Again those tears burned her eyes, though this time they managed to spill over, tracking down her cheeks in unending rivulets.

Taking up the top notebook, she hugged it tight to her chest, fingers curling around it in quiet desperation as grief broke over her head in waves.

Her mother had been the one constant in her life, there for her through every up and down, her love and support never wavering.

How could she go through the remainder of her life without her?

Suddenly warm arms wrapped about her. For one brief moment she imagined it was her mother comforting her. But then a voice broke through the haze in her mind, putting a stop to that desperate wish.

“I know it hurts, darling,” Sylvia Lutton, Lady Vastkern, murmured thickly, her own tears evident, reminding Iris she was not alone in her mourning.

The viscountess had been her mother’s dearest friend, was her own godmother, and had not left her side since arriving shortly after her mother’s death.

She had helped with the funeral arrangements, had made certain Iris ate, had comforted her through the worst of her despair. As she was doing even now.

“I’m sorry,” Iris managed, even as she pressed her face into Sylvia’s neck.

“Silly thing,” Sylvia whispered. “You never need apologize to me.”

“I still cannot believe she’s gone—” Her voice hitched on a sob and she gripped the notebook tighter to her chest. “I’m going to finish her work, Sylvia. I’m going to make sure it’s published, so everyone can see how brilliant she was.”

“I know you are, darling,” the other woman said gently, rubbing her back. “And I will assist you in any way I can. But in order to do that, you need to rest. Today was hard on you. Come, let us get you to bed.”

Iris nodded. Pulling away, she tenderly laid the notebook back in its drawer with the others, giving them one last long look before closing it up tight. Then, giving Sylvia a watery smile, she linked arms with her and allowed herself to be led up the stairs and to her bed and a fragile sleep.

A sleep that was shattered some unknown hours later as pandemonium erupted within the bowels of the house. Jolting upright in her bed, heart pounding, she barely had time to register the desperate cries and the bone-jarring clanging of a bell before a frantic pounding started up at her door.

“Fire, Mrs. Rumford!” someone called from the hall. And then the door was thrown open, crashing against the wall, and Sylvia stood there beside a cowering footman.

“Now is not the time to wait for her to admit you,” she snapped at the man as she hurried into the room. “Iris, darling, we must get out. Now.”

But Iris hardly heard her as the pungent smell of smoke reached her nostrils.

Fear set in then, pushing back her confusion.

Though the fear was not for herself. No, it was centered on one thing and one thing alone.

“Sylvia, my mother’s work,” she gasped. Then, before the woman could respond, Iris was out the door.

And almost stopped in her tracks as the smoke-filled hall came into view.

But her faltering was the matter of a mere moment before panic set in, crowding out her fear.

Ignoring Sylvia’s cries behind her, she raced through the hall, down the stairs, into the west wing.

All the while the smoke became thicker, filling her lungs, burning her eyes.

Holding her arm over her mouth and nose in a desperate attempt to protect her airways, she sprinted into her mother’s study.

The smoke was even thicker here, making it hard to see.

All but for the orange flames licking up the curtains, climbing like poisonous ivy to the ceiling.

Coughing, eyes streaming, she blindly made her way through the almost unbearable heat to the desk that held her mother’s most precious work. She yanked the drawer open and?.? .? .

Nothing. It was empty, every paper and notebook gone. In desperation she reached in, fumbled about. But no, it was devoid of even a scrap.

Suddenly hands were on her arms, yanking her back through the room. “No!” Iris cried, trying to get back to that empty drawer. “My mother’s work!”

“Nothing is worth your life!” Sylvia yelled above the rushing and crackling of the flames. Something crashed, sparks flying. In the shock, Sylvia was able to pull Iris from the room. And then more arms, more desperate voices as they were hauled from the house.

Iris had not realized how bad the smoke had been until the moment fresh night air filled her lungs. She drew in a deep, desperate breath, coughs wracking her body a moment later.

Sylvia was before her then, her face drawn tight with anger and fear, soot smudging her beautiful skin. “What were you thinking?” she demanded, her voice a mere croak that did nothing to take away the wild worry in it. “You could have been killed.”

“My mother’s work—” Iris managed.

“Yes, I know,” Sylvia snapped. “But you should not die for it.”

“No,” Iris said, shaking her head in frustration. “You don’t understand. It was gone. My mother’s papers were gone.”

Sylvia finally understood that there was something more at work here. She stilled, eyes going wide, the orange of the flames reflected in them. “What do you mean gone ?”

“I mean the drawer was empty. Someone has taken them.”

Sylvia’s mouth worked silently for a moment before she said, with little conviction, “Perhaps a servant has taken it upon themselves to save them.”

But Iris knew that was a mere dream. No, in the hours between her retiring and the fire beginning, someone had stolen her mother’s work.

Heartsick, she turned to look at the house.

All about her, people were calling to each other, carting buckets in an attempt to put out the fire, crying softly in huddled groups.

But though Iris moved like an automaton helping where she could, she knew in her heart it was all in vain.

And as dawn broke and the full destruction of the night was made clear, Iris stood and looked out over what used to be her safe haven, watching with a numb spirit as her mother’s dreams turned to literal ash before her eyes.