The Gentleman Thief

“I was not meeting anyone,” Georgiana declared. When silence met her protest, she frowned. “Actually, I was listening and learning, a habit of mine, you might say, for you never know what interesting things you can discover.”

“Ah, gossip,” Ashdowne said in a tone of dismissal.

Georgiana stared at his neck cloth, determined to be able to speak to the man without swooning. “I am not concerned with rumor or innuendo, but facts only—facts, in this case, pertinent to the events of last night,” she said. “You see, I have a knack for solving mysteries, my lord, and I intend to lend my talents to the resolution of the theft that occurred here yesterday evening.”

Georgiana looked up in challenge, but Ashdowne’s expression was unreadable. He neither scoffed at her declaration, nor did he appear particularly threatened, and she had to stifle a surge of disappointment that her bold words did not result in his immediate confession to any number of misdeeds. He only tilted his head, as if to study her in that way of his which she found vastly insulting.

“And just how do you intend to do that?” he asked. His lovely lips curled wryly, and Georgiana suspected he was laughing at her. Unfortunately, it was an attitude with which she was more than familiar.

It was the curse of her appearance. If only she looked like Hortense Bingley, the spinster who haunted the lending library at Upwick, or Miss Mucklebone, a bluestocking who wore thick glasses and was known to brandish her cane at tart-tongued youngsters. Once, during her schoolroom years, Georgiana had borrowed a pair of spectacles from a classmate in an effort to be taken more seriously, but her parents had put a stop to that immediately upon her return home. And so she had to bear the scorn of those who took her at face value, including, apparently, the marquis.

“I intend to discover the culprit through simple reasoning, my lord,” Georgiana said, tossing her curls. She was so annoyed that she managed to eye him directly without feeling anything except contempt. “By studying the facts, eliminating all but the most probable of possibilities, and drawing a conclusion.” With a curt nod, Georgiana begin moving. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Good day, my lord.”

“Don’t hurry away,” Ashdowne said, and to Georgiana’s consternation, he fell into step beside her. “I find your comments most fascinating. Please tell me more.”

A sidelong glance at his restrained expression told Georgiana that he did not believe her capable of doing what she claimed. Few men did, but somehow his skepticism riled her more than usual. If he had so little faith in her abilities, why was he pretending interest? Georgiana scowled suspiciously. “I hardly think so,” she murmured, keeping to her pace.

“But I find these methods you spoke of most interesting,” he said. His blue eyes were suddenly intense as they met her own. To Georgiana’s relief, they had reached the front of house, where Ashdowne presumably was headed to make his call, and she seized the opportunity to escape that intent scrutiny.

“I fear I must be on my way, my lord. Perhaps another time,” she murmured, her hand trembling as it found the gate. And then, aware that she was acting rather rudely, but resentful of the way he seemed to be toying with her, Georgiana slipped away without a backward glance. As she hurried onto the street, she heard no steps behind her to indicate the marquis’s entrance into the house, and it took all of her will not to turn around to verify the speculative gaze she sensed was upon her.

It was only when she had reached the corner that Georgiana realized she had once more let pass a golden opportunity to question the man. Fast upon the heels of that discovery came selfcensure. Never before had she behaved like such a pea-goose with someone! Ashdowne, it seemed, had a most peculiar effect upon her.

The knowledge was decidedly lowering.

Georgiana stood in the Pump Room surveying the crowd and leaning on one foot in an effort to rouse her weary limbs. She felt as though she had been waiting here forever, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lord Whalsey, who usually made an afternoon visit. Indeed, everyone appeared at the social hub of the city sooner or later, on a daily basis, more often than not.

At least that’s what Georgiana told herself to strengthen a resolve that was sadly slipping. Although Whalsey would be wise to conduct himself in his accustomed manner, she knew that he might even now be racing toward London with his booty. It was a discouraging thought, for how was she to follow? Again Georgiana cursed the limits of her gender, which prevented her from pursuing her prime suspect wherever he might go.

Unfortunately, she could only look for him in the Pump Room, and she had to admit that she was becoming weary of her watch. Her sisters had long ago left for a walk in the Crescent and her other acquaintances dispersed to hillside climbs or carriage rides. Only Bertrand, content to do nothing, lounged in a corner chatting to a couple of young men she had tried her best to discourage.

Georgiana was able to turn them aside more easily than usual today because they, along with everyone else, were occupied with discussion of the theft, including wild conjectures as to the culprit. She had listened to the speculation with some impatience, for rumors were growing apace. Most of the dowagers were certain a group of ruffians had moved to Bath to terrorize the town, and it was all Georgiana could do not to scream in exasperation at such nonsense.

The theft was not the work of a gang, but one man alone, Georgiana thought, shifting to her other foot. A vision of Ashdowne as he had been last night, all in black, swam before her, and she dismissed it. Although he was certainly suspicious, she was here to concentrate on Whalsey and his cohort, who were the most likely candidates.

Blinking, she searched the room once again, and her hours of vigilance were rewarded when she caught a glimpse of the viscount. He moved through the crowd, greeting his favorites among the middle-aged widows, before finally settling down with a serving of the odoriferous water for which Bath was famous.

“Lord Whalsey! Good afternoon!” Georgiana said, stepping forward boldly. They had been introduced briefly a few days before, but she saw no recognition in his eyes, only a spark of interest as they focused eagerly on her bosom. Hiding her annoyance, Georgiana forced a smile. “I did not see you leave the ball last night. Did you depart early?”

The inquiry, innocent though it was, made Whalsey start, and his gaze moved up to her face in what could only be described as a most anxious manner. Georgiana felt a surge of triumph rush through her, though she held it firmly in check. “And what of the fellow who was with you? Mr. Cheever, wasn’t it?”

Whalsey, his mouth working silently, looked guilty as sin, and Georgiana wondered just how swiftly she could bring him to justice. “Look here, Miss…Miss…”

“Bellewether,” Georgiana answered with a confident smile. “You two seemed to be discussing something frightfully important, and I was wondering if—”

He cut her off with a choked sound, his face growing red and mottled. “I hardly think—”

“Did you accomplish all that you intended?”

With an alarmed expression, Whalsey rose to his feet. So eager was he to escape her probing that his hand swung from his side, knocking over the cup and sending the contents splashing up the front of Georgiana’s muslin gown. Shocked by the dash of hot water, she stepped back only to come up against a stand used by the orchestra.

For a brief moment, Georgiana teetered there before losing her balance entirely and crashing backward, taking the support with her. It struck the violinist, who fell into one of his fellows, and before long the musicians were all collapsing into each other like a set of dominoes. After a series of loud, wailing screeches that accompanied their downfall, the music came to an abrupt halt and silence descended as every head in the Pump Room turned toward Georgiana.

Her skirts entangled with the stand and one arm stuck through the bow of the violinist, Georgiana watched dejectedly as Lord Whalsey made a hasty escape. Blowing out a breath to dislodge the curl that had fallen across her face, she blinked when a gloved hand appeared before her. Glancing upward, she felt an odd sense of disorientation at the sight of Ashdowne, tall and handsome and collected, leaning over her.

“You, Miss Bellewether, are dangerous,” he said with a wary scowl. Nonetheless, he pulled her to her feet just as easily as he had the other night, and one look from him had the musicians rising without complaint to continue their concert. As if by decree, the other visitors turned back to their conversations, and Georgiana could only gape in wonder at a man who could wield such heady influence.

“Thank you. Again,” Georgiana mumbled as he led her away from the orchestra. “You have come to my rescue more than once.”

“I admit, Miss Bellewether, that you appear to have a penchant for mishaps, and I count it my ill fortune to be in the vicinity,” he noted with a wry grimace.

Was that an insult? Georgiana wondered as she struggled to discreetly pull the wet material of her bodice away from her chest. Although dampened muslin was rumored to be all the rage among the more daring London ladies, she had no desire to display her body so unerringly beneath the clinging fabric.

From somewhere, Ashdowne produced a shawl, which he dropped over her shoulders, but not before his blue gaze traveled the length of the front of her in a rather stimulating perusal that caused the tips of her breasts to stiffen in response. Curious. Plenty of other men had stared at her bosom without causing such a reaction, Georgiana thought, wrapping the shawl around her tightly.

It was a measure of her own flustered state that she did not note where Ashdowne had obtained the garment or that she did not find his rather intimate study annoying. Indeed, she knew a strange sort of thrill to have attracted his attention in that manner, which was only fair considering that the very sight of him usually reduced her to an unparalleled state of idiocy.

Ashdowne, however, looked none the worse for his brief display of interest. His expression was that of a man wearied beyond endurance, and Georgiana began feeling like a bug again. If only she could actually sprout wings and fly away…

“I suspect these disasters are all part and parcel of your unusual…pursuits, but I’m beginning to think that you need someone to keep you out of mischief,” he said.

Georgiana blinked. Surely a marquis would not bother himself to complain to her father about her? Nor, as far as she knew, were there any laws against accidents such as the one that had just taken place.

What could the man possibly do to her? Georgiana wondered. But then he smiled, his elegant lips moving into a positively decadent curve that well answered her question. Anything he wants, she thought with the last of her wits.

“And since I seem to be the one most affected by your antics, perhaps I should apply for that position,” he said, stunning her speechless.

Chapter Three

Johnathon Everett Saxton, fifth Marquis of Ashdowne, lifted one dark brow in surprise at the expression on his companion’s face. Over the years, he had received a wide variety of looks from the ladies, but never had one eyed him with anything bordering on alarm. As usual, Miss Georgiana Bellewether’s reaction was far from ordinary.

Perhaps his offer to act as a sort of keeper for the errant young woman was none too flattering, but her obvious dismay was not exactly what he had anticipated. The Saxon good looks and a certain rakish charm had assured Ashdowne of more than his share of the fair sex, while now, as marquis, he received far too much attention for his taste. Somehow the thought of being sought only for his title put a damper on his previous enthusiasm.

But Miss Bellewether could hardly be accused of chasing after his name, Ashdowne mused. Although the chit ought to be grateful for his attention, she appeared flustered, irritated and nearly panicked, as if she found him objectionable in some way. Apparently it was his misfortune that the only woman who was not inclined to be his marchioness was some kind of lunatic. A dangerous lunatic, he qualified grimly.

He had not suspected as much at first. Upon sighting her at Lady Culpepper’s ball, Ashdowne had been momentarily taken with the young lady, as would any normal male, for Georgiana Bellewether had a body that might cause a lesser man to drool into his neck cloth. With those lush curves, that mop of blond curls and the delicate oval face of an angel, she would have been toasted as a diamond of the first water in London, with offers flying at her head, despite her simple background. Or she could have reigned over the demimonde as the most sought after of cyprians.

Of course, all that success was dependant upon her silence—and her stillness, Ashdowne thought. Unfortunately, once Georgiana Bellewether began moving, all hell was inclined to break loose, for she was probably the clumsiest creature in all of Christendom. A veritable accident in the making, she had managed to knock him to the floor last night, an ignominious experience that still stung. Luckily the tumble hadn’t hurt anything except his pride, or else the evening might have gone awry in more ways than one.

But that episode was the least of it. Since then, she had hit him with the world’s heaviest reticule and single-handedly brought down an entire orchestra. Ashdowne would never view the words strike up the band in quite the same light again.

Not only was she disaster prone, but the young woman fancied herself some sort of investigator! Although nearly every man at the ball had a theory about the Culpepper robbery, few would claim themselves capable of catching the thief, and certainly no lady would admit interest in such things! Ashdowne didn’t know whether to laugh or ship her off to Bedlam.

And so he did neither, but watched her carefully. Long ago, he had learned to listen to his instincts, which were buzzing and hissing most alarmingly in connection with Miss Bellewether. Perhaps it was the physical danger she represented to anyone fool enough to get close to her, or something else. Ashdowne didn’t know.

He had to admit to some curiosity as to what disaster would next follow in her wake, so possibly his interest amounted to nothing more than the same bizarre fascination that drew people to public hangings. It was only human nature to want to witness calamity, and despite the past stifling year, Ashdowne still called himself human. Whatever the reason, like a man flirting with his own doom, he could not seem to ignore Miss Georgiana Bellewether.

She was diverting, to say the least, and barring the recent trouble with his sister-in-law, Ashdowne could not remember when he had last been so intrigued. It was startling to realize just how mundane his life had become since assuming the title. He had not set out to embrace a life of boredom. Far from it, for he had always held his stolid, conservative brother somewhat in contempt.

It was only after that gentleman had keeled over from apoplexy and the title had been thrust upon him that Ashdowne had realized what a tiresome business it all was. Of course, he could have refused the responsibilities that fell to him, but too many people, from farm tenants to servants staffing the family seat, depended upon him now. And so he had immersed himself in the business of being Ashdowne, and although he didn’t regret it, he felt as if he had been swimming for some time and had just now come up for air. Only to find himself in a fog induced by the young lady at his side.

“This, uh, really isn’t necessary,” Miss Bellewether said. She spoke in a breathless voice, as though she had barely recovered after her misadventure in the Pump Room, and certainly a dousing with Bath water could steal your breath away. Ashdowne knew his had been sadly short after just looking at her, especially when the wet muslin had clung so delightfully to her pert nipples.

He forced his thoughts in a different direction. Gad, he must have been too long without a woman if he could be stirred by this wretched female! “Let me at least see you home,” he said, smoothly stifling his wayward lust. “Where are you staying?”

Ashdowne listened with approval to her mumbled direction, though he knew her address already. He made it his business to learn everything that might impact upon him and his plans, and he had discovered all that he could about the bothersome Miss Bellewether, Lady Culpepper having proven quite helpful in that regard.

The outraged matron had complained at length about the impertinent young woman who invited herself in only to claim that she was going to solve the theft. And all through Lady Culpepper’s shrill diatribe, Ashdowne had struggled with his own incredulity. He knew that common citizens rarely bothered to intervene in a criminal case, let alone a genteel female. What was the chit about?

Ashdowne’s gaze traveled to the lady in question, though he found it difficult to equate the self-proclaimed investigator with those bobbing blond curls. He shook his head in wonder. Obviously Miss Bellewether had recovered herself, for she no longer clung fiercely to the shawl he had borrowed from a matron, but neither did she seem at ease. She was staring straight ahead, her chin lifted, as if prepared to make some pronouncement, and Ashdowne found himself leaning close to hear her next inanity.

“I appreciate your assistance, my lord, but I assure you that I am not singling you out for any sort of…”

“Torture?” Ashdowne suggested wryly.

Although he had not thought her capable of it, the little miss made a face that evidenced some backbone behind that beribboned and beruffled exterior. Tossing her gorgeous curls, Miss Bellewether gave him a mutinous expression that Ashdowne found oddly charming. He must be truly desperate for diversion. “But, tell me, how is the investigation going?” he asked, to deflect her wrath.

Miss Bellewether, however, did not look appeased. “It is going quite well!” she answered, as if daring him to dispute her. “In fact, I am quite certain of the identities of the perpetrators.”

“Perpetrators?” Ashdowne asked. “Then there is more than one?”

To his surprise, she slid him a suspicious glance, and Ashdowne wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Apparently, it was something that nobody else noticed, and the thought sent a shiver up his spine, as if someone were walking on his grave. Unnerved, he rolled his shoulders beneath his fine tailored coat as he awaited her answer.

But when it came, it was as astonishing as anything else she had ever said. “I do not feel at liberty to discuss the case,” she muttered, refusing to look at him.

Uttered with all seriousness, her words stunned Ashdowne from his pose of practiced charm into a startled stare. Who did this mop-haired minx think she was? For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or to strangle her. Unfortunately, they were in full view of several others who were strolling the streets, so the latter was not really an option, and the former would not further his cause.

With an effort, Ashdowne forced himself to swallow the sharp retort that came to his lips while he tried to appear humble. But since the pretense was not part of his usual repertoire, he was not too successful. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with your investigation,” he said smoothly. “Quite the contrary, in fact. Perhaps if I were to offer my help to you, as an assistant of sorts, you might feel comfortable speaking more…freely.”

His companion gave him a sharp look that told him she thought he was teasing her, but Ashdowne waited expectantly.

“Oh! I’ve never considered…” she began, only to trail off.

Ashdowne remained impassive as her blue eyes studied him, though it was a trifle difficult when he really wanted to get his hands on her neck—or perhaps lower, where an expanse of luscious white breast peeked above the edge of the shawl.

“That is, I have always worked alone,” she mumbled, gazing down at her toes.

It was a habit she had when with him. Although Ashdowne was not certain what it signified, he did not believe it had anything to do with modesty or deference, much to his regret. “Ah, but perhaps, as a man, I could be of some use,” he suggested.

She glanced up at him with a startled expression, a flush staining her cheeks, and Ashdowne felt an echoing interest in his breeches, along with an absurd sense of triumph. At least the chit was not wholly indifferent to him, if she thought he had offered to accommodate her in a purely personal fashion.

“I meant that I might be able to move easier than yourself amongst the male members of society, in places where you, for all your wherewithal, cannot be expected to go,” Ashdowne qualified. She stared up at him, and for a moment he felt transfixed by those blue eyes. They had stopped before her residence, and he stepped closer, an odd sort of anticipation buzzing in his veins.

It had been a long while since his last intimate encounter. Too long. And the young lady before him was a scrumptious delight for the senses, with her flushed skin and bright hair and mouth made for kissing.

“Georgie!” The call came from inside the house, destroying the moment between them and making Miss Bellewether wince. Was it the nickname that dismayed her, or the long minute they had spent mulling over the possibilities between them? Ashdowne had to admit that he was fairly dismayed himself to be attracted to the disastrous Miss Bellewether, no matter how briefly.

“I will consider your kind offer,” she said in what could be nothing but a dismissal. And then, as if she feared to look upon his face, she turned and fled, hurrying toward the house and leaving him standing outside like a tradesman.

At the sound of the door closing behind her, Ashdowne shook himself. He could not remember the last time he had been so summarily dismissed. Even as a younger son, he had moved in the first circles, his looks and charm and ready money assuring him a place at every party.

Rolling his shoulders, Ashdowne set off down the street. He was certain that more than mere shyness had sent her running inside, and the knowledge left him bemused. Although no angel, he was hardly the type of rake to instill terror in the hearts of young virgins. What, then, drove her away from him?

Ashdowne had an idea, but he planned to find out for sure. His instincts were twitching, and he had no intention of letting Miss Georgiana Bellewether do anything to disrupt his life more than she had already.

Lord Whalsey was nowhere to be seen! Georgiana stifled a groan of frustration. She had joined her family in attending this rout in the hope of cornering him again, but both he and Mr. Cheever were conspicuously absent. What was she to do now? Whalsey might very well be at the Pump Room or a concert, or worse yet, headed to London to sell the necklace!

Georgiana’s shoulders slumped as she wondered what course to take. She could present her observations to the magistrate, but experience told her that gentlemen on the whole were extremely dubious of her talents. Her evidence of an overheard conversation and a guilty reaction probably would not convince him, and then Lord Whalsey would escape with his ill-gotten gains!

Blowing away a curl that had plopped over her forehead, Georgiana leaned back against the balustrade behind the elegant town house. She had pleaded a headache when asked to dance and made her escape onto the balcony that overlooked the tiny garden. Here in the silence, she tried to concentrate on her next course of action, but her thoughts were interrupted all too soon.

“Ah, Miss Bellewether. What new disaster are you contemplating?” The question was spoken in a deep, familiar voice that made Georgiana whirl around in surprise.

Stifling a gasp, she blinked at the shadows near the doors, where she could dimly make out Ashdowne’s tall form. How long had he been there? It was rather frightening to think that, for all her skills, she had not noticed his presence, and Georgiana shivered, for the marquis was not the typical nobleman. He was unlike any man she had ever known.