A Heart Worth Stealing: A Proper Romance

by Joanna Barker

Genres: Religious & Inspirational; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

"Unique characters and a fast-paced mystery add flavor to this sweet romance.” —Publishers Weekly

"An excellent choice for readers who love both traditional Regencies and detective mysteries.” —Library Journal

Little Sowerby, England, 1802

Miss Genevieve Wilde—a magistrate’s daughter and independent heiress—is determined to meet life’s challenges all on her own, just as her late father had taught her. So when her father’s pocket watch is stolen, she will do anything to get it back, especially when the local authorities prove incompetent.

Upon reading an advertisement in the paper, she takes a chance and contacts a thief-taker to find the watch. It’s a choice Ginny regrets when former Bow Street officer Jack Travers arrives on her doorstep. He is frustratingly flirtatious, irritatingly handsome, and entirely unpredictable, and Ginny wonders if she’ll be able to resist such a man.

But after Ginny discovers that the missing watch is just a small part of a larger, more frightening plot against her, she needs Jack’s help more than ever. To protect her home and her reputation, the two enter into a risky charade—pretending Jack is her cousin so he can begin his investigation, starting with the household staff. As they work together to unravel the mystery, Ginny finds herself falling fast for her charismatic thief-taker, leaving her heart in just as much danger as her life.

 

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Release date: May 2, 2023

Publisher: Shadow Mountain

Print pages: 328

Sample

Chapter 1

My study had been overrun by men.

I sat on the high-back chair near the fireplace, hands gripping the scrolled armrests. Normally this room was a place of quiet refuge, with its dark paneled walls, wide and inviting windows, and high ceiling. Now, however, my study contained not only myself but three men—which was three too many.

Mr. Northcott examined the desk, moving aside an inkwell with care. His pale blue eyes squinted, long features arranged in careful concentration. The magistrate was hardly an expert on investigating home thefts, better suited as he was to judicial hearings, but he was the first—and only—person I’d thought to call upon. He’d arrived at Wimborne within an hour of my sending him a plea for help. Now he picked up a red leather-bound book and flipped through the pages.

“What is this?” he asked.

I shot to my feet. “You needn’t worry about that,” I said, hurrying to my desk and taking the book from his hands.

“My apologies.” His eyes lingered on my journal. I could only imagine his face if he read what I’d written about him inside.

A cough drew my gaze to Mr. Crouth, a parish constable. He halfheartedly inspected the area around the window, his rounded, red face and rough spun clothes reflecting in the surface. I’d never liked him when he worked with Father, and I liked him even less now as he rubbed a dirty boot on my rug.

Marchant, my butler, stood inside the open door and watched Mr. Crouth with a narrowed gaze, as if he thought the constable might break something. Marchant was no stranger to my study, of course. He’d served at Wimborne for more than a decade. But he had the tendency to hover over me, as if to ensure I was doing things properly, and that always made his presence feel a bit . . . much.

He would never have hovered over Father.

I took a steadying breath and turned back to Mr. Northcott.

“No matter,” I said, tucking my journal against my chest. “Have you discovered anything suspicious?”

“No, unfortunately not.” Mr. Northcott frowned and settled his walking stick beneath both hands. He always had it with him, though he hardly needed it. He was a perfectly healthy man of three and thirty years, with a full head of pomaded sandy hair that was never out of place. But I daresay he liked the feel of the cane, the authority of it. He’d adopted the affectation when he’d become the magistrate six months ago. Six long months ago.

“You are sure this is where you left the watch?” he asked, gesturing at my desk.

“Yes,” I said. “I always have it beside me as I attend to business.”

“And now it is gone.” Skepticism did a horrible job of hiding in his eyes.

“Yes.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “I arrived this morning to begin work for the day and noticed the watch missing. Marchant recommended we search the servants’ quarters and question the staff, but we found nothing.” I’d done this most reluctantly—my servants had never given me a reason to mistrust them. But I had to search out every avenue.

He offered a smile‚ which was meant to be kind but instead made me feel like a child. “Miss Wilde, is it possible you simply misplaced it?”

My back was already ramrod straight—lazy posture is a sign of weak character, Genevieve, my half sister Catherine often insisted—but I squared my shoulders as I fixed Mr. Northcott with a determined gaze.

“No,” I insisted. “It is not possible. I distinctly remember placing the watch beside that ledger before I went to dress for dinner.” I’d hosted a small dinner party last night, my first since ending my mourning for Father. Beatrice had attended, of course, with her parents, as well as the vicar and his wife. Mr. Northcott had come too. Though he was a decade older than my twenty-three years, he’d been Father’s friend—and mine, I’d thought. Our interactions had been strained in recent weeks, but surely he wouldn’t let our personal relationship interfere with what was clearly a criminal matter. Would he?

“I did not reenter the room until this morning,” I went on, “which means it must have been stolen during the night.”

Mr. Northcott lowered his voice. “Are you suggesting someone from the dinner party might have taken it?”

“Of course not.” As if Beatrice

or the vicar was a thief. “I simply wished to give you a span of time during which the theft was committed. I imagine the thief entered through the window.”

“The window,” Mr. Northcott repeated doubtfully. Mr. Crouth gave a snort, a sad effort at suppressing laughter. My jaw tightened.

“Yes,” I said. “The window was open when I arrived this morning. A catch must have been left undone by mistake, allowing the thief inside.”

Mr. Northcott eyed the gold candlesticks near the door. “And he took only the watch?”

Heat bloomed on my cheeks—a horrible combination of embarrassment and frustration. It did sound absurd when I said it aloud. What thief took a simple pocket watch but left so many valuables untouched? Yet I knew for a fact I had not misplaced Father’s watch. The logical conclusion was that someone had taken it.

Mr. Northcott’s narrow jaw softened as he regarded me. “Can you think of any reason why someone would steal the watch and nothing else?”

My thoughts flashed to the past few weeks—the missing sheep, the flooded irrigation channels. But those were just unfortunate events. They had nothing to do with Father’s watch, and if I told Mr. Northcott about my recent string of bad luck, it would cement in his mind that I was unable to run Wimborne, that I was incapable of protecting my house and land. He would pity me.

He would probably propose again.

“No,” I said. “I cannot.” And that was the crux of the matter. Why would someone take Father’s watch? It wasn’t elegant or valuable—at least, to anyone else. To me, its worth was incalculable. Just touching its smooth brass casing brought me a steadying peace, and since discovering it missing this morning, I’d felt uneven. Incomplete. Like I was missing one shoe or I’d forgotten my name—but only if either of those also made me feel like my chest had been torn into ribbons, reviving and inflaming my grief yet again.

A memory tugged at the edge of my mind—Father pressing his watch into my hands, his face pale, fingers trembling, eyes painted in a strange desperation.

I looked down, blinking to clear my vision. “Please, Mr. Northcott,” I said, my voice fragile. “I need to find it.”

He sighed, leaning forward onto his walking stick. “Of course. Of course I shall help. If there wasn’t this business with the highwaymen, I would make it my sole occupation.”

I bit my lip. Highwaymen had plagued the roads around Little Sowerby for years, but they’d grown bolder in recent months, their robberies becoming more frequent—and more violent. My missing watch paled in comparison.

“But I shall have my constables make inquiries,” Mr. Northcott went on. “I will do what I can. I promise.”

I’d thought his help would reassure me, but the heaviness in my heart did not abate. When Father had been magistrate, he had often grumbled about the relative uselessness of his constables. These men were private citizens serving as part of their civic duty, or often paid replacements for men who could afford such a thing. Their responsibilities lay in keeping the streets clear of vagrants and controlling crowds, not in investigation and detection.

“Perhaps we will be lucky and your watch will turn up,” Mr. Northcott said.

Turn up. As if my family heirloom had simply gone for a walk and lost track of the time.

I moved to the door. “Tha

nk you for sparing me a few minutes, Mr. Northcott. I know you are much occupied.”

He raised an eyebrow at my sudden dismissal. “Perhaps you might consider taking an advertisement in the paper,” he suggested. “Offer a reward for the watch.”

He was trying to make peace between us, but I didn’t feel particularly peaceful.

“Perhaps,” I said, clasping my hands. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Miss Wilde.” Mr. Northcott offered a bow. Mr. Crouth abandoned his pretense of an investigation and made for the door, giving me the slightest tip of his balding head. I tried not to frown at the odious man and only just succeeded.

Marchant saw the men out, giving me a sympathetic look as he closed the door behind him. I sighed and went to my desk. Mr. Northcott had left everything askew, and it would irk me if I did not set it right. I laid down my journal, straightened a stack of letters, and adjusted my inkwell. My fingers rested on the empty spot where Father’s watch ought to be, the polished wood of my desk gleaming in the morning light.

There was only one man who belonged in this study—not Mr. Northcott or the constable or Marchant. How easily I could picture Father here in his great leather chair by the fire, the dark, woody smell of his pipe filling the air. I’d so often come to him, crying over a scraped knee when I was younger, or wishing for his advice as I grew older. And always, always, he had his watch.

“This watch is my god,” he’d often joked, which earned him censuring looks if one did not know his favorite book was Gulliver’s Travels. Like Gulliver, Father rarely did anything without consulting his watch. It was a part of him. If ever a soul could be seen in an object, that watch was Father. Steady, sturdy, practical. Loved.

I swallowed hard. What if I never found the watch?

I’d expected something from Mr. Northcott’s visit, the discovery of a helpful clue or an insight into local thieves. Yet it was clear Mr. Northcott did not entirely believe me. It did not matter that I was certain I’d been robbed. My word—a woman’s word—was not evidence enough.

But someone had broken into my house. Someone had violated the place I felt safest and taken the item I loved most. My shock grew thin, fear greedily eating away at me. Though I had control of my own estate, I was just a single woman. How was I to keep my home safe? I had no one left to guide me. No mother since the day I was born. No sister since Catherine had decided I was a thorn in her side.

No father.

Tears burned in my eyes. I fought them back. I needed solutions, not a headache.

What would you do, Father? I’d asked myself that question countless times over the last few months. It had sometimes brought me comfort, clarity, but now the words simply sharpened the ache in my chest. Father could not answer me, and he never would.

I inhaled a stiff breath and set my jaw. As I saw it, I had two problems. One being the security of my home and all those who lived here, the other being the matter of my father’s watch. While the first required a bit more thinking, I needed to act now if I ever wanted to see the watch again. Mr. Northcott had proven less than helpful, and so I would take matters into my own hands.

 

Chapter 2

Beatrice waited for me outside the milliner’s an hour later, her blonde curls dancing in the April breeze, her bold yellow pelisse striking against the browns of the bustling crowd. My mouth tugged upwards in spite of myself. Only Beatrice Lacey could wear such a color and think nothing of it. I straightened my own skirts, a mourning gray. I would need to have new dresses made soon, though I kept putting it off. These days, my red hair provided the only spot of color when I caught my reflection in a mirror.

Holloway—my lady’s maid—made a sound of amusement upon seeing Beatrice. “Easy to spot in a crowd, isn’t she?”

“Thankfully.”

Beatrice caught sight of Holloway and me descending from the coach and hurried to meet us, her own maid, Mariah, following in her wake.

“Genevieve Wilde,” she scolded, amusement hiding in her voice. “There you are. I thought the highwaymen had gotten you.”

“I know, I know, I’m terribly late.” In truth, I nearly hadn’t come. After Mr. Northcott had left, I’d wanted nothing more than to retreat to my room and ensconce myself with a tray of tea and pastries—with my door firmly locked. But Beatrice and I had arranged last night at the dinner party to meet, and I did not want to leave her waiting. Besides that, I knew she would make me feel better.

She planted one hand on her hip, her netted reticule swinging from her wrist. “What happened? It must have been something dreadful. You’d be early for your own funeral if you could manage it.”

“I like to be punctual,” I said with a laugh. “It’s polite.”

“Haven’t you heard?” She grinned. “Politeness is no longer the thing. Men now want unpredictable, messy-mannered, free-thinking women.”

“Then you will make some fellow perfectly unhappy one day.” I smiled at the petite girl standing beside Beatrice. “Good morning, Mariah.”

She bobbed a curtsy, her eyes twinkling. “Morning, Miss Wilde.” As the housemaid assigned to keep Beatrice out of trouble, Mariah spent a great deal of time sharing in my exasperation over the things my friend said.

Beatrice waved a hand. “Never mind all that. What happened this morning?”

I sighed. “It is not what happened this morning but, rather, last night.”

I told her everything that had occurred since my dinner party, her face sobering with every word I spoke. When I finished, she simply stared at me. The morning crowd moved around us as we remained quite rudely in the middle of the walkway, but Beatrice paid them no mind. She took my hand. “Oh, Ginny, I am so sorry. I know what that watch meant to you.”

I squeezed her hand. Beatrice had been my closest friend as long as I could remember, and she knew better than anyone how much the last six months had cost me.

“In any case,” I said, swallowing against the lump in my throat, “since Mr. Northcott is no help at all, I am determined to do what I can on my own. Would you mind if we stopped at the printer’s before doing our shopping?”

“Of course not,” she said. “But what for?”

“Mr. Northcott suggested I place an advertisement in the paper,” I said. “He only said it to placate me, but perhaps he had the right idea of it. If the thief sells the watch, then a reward might tempt the buyer to return it to me.” Though that result was improbable—and naively optimistic.

“Or,” Beatrice said with narrowed eyes, “the thief might see your advertisement and return the watch himself for the reward.”

I did not much like that thought, coming face-to-face, even unknowingly, with the thief who had entered my home while I lay sleeping. But I raised my chin. “It is possible. Still, I should be glad to have my watch back, whatever the means.”

We walked to the print shop, where a few passersby had gathered before the broad windows, reading the latest caricatures and cartoons the owner posted in hopes of luring more readers to purchase the weekly paper, The Little Sowerby Review. It wasn’t much in terms of literature—political articles poached from the London papers, a bit of local gossip, weather reports. But it would do for my needs.

I was reaching for the door when Beatrice grasped my arm.

“Ugh,” she said. “It’s Catty.”

“What?” My head snapped up. She was right. My half sister was marching down the walkway, her eyes already locked on me. Drat and drat.

“Best of luck to you,” Beatrice whispered with a laugh, then slipped away to hide behind those gathered at the windows. Mariah shot me a look of apology as she followed after her mistress.

“Beatrice!” I hissed, but she was gone. Holloway still stood beside me, but my lady’s maid would be little help in escaping.

“Good morning, Genevieve,” came Catherine’s voice from behind me.

I squared my shoulders and faced Catherine Davenport. She wore a beautiful, red wool pelisse and a silk bonnet with white feathers, her dark hair curled about her face in tight ringlets. I hardly noticed any of that, too focused on the look of intent curiosity in her sharp blue eyes.

“Good morning, Catherine,” I managed. She was technically my half sister, her mother being Father’s first wife, but we’d never had anything resembling a sisterly relationship. One might think it was the fifteen-year age difference between us, but that was nonsense. She had simply always disliked me.

Of course, it did not help that Father had left Wimborne to me and not her. Her envy was absurd—she was married and settled in a house of her own, after all. She hardly needed Wimborne too. Just one of the many reasons Beatrice had dubbed her “Catty.”

“Have you business in the print shop?” Catherine arched one brow.

I forced a smile. It would be my luck if she discovered why I was here. “No, no. Simply looking at the prints in the windows.”

Since Father’s death, it seemed all of Little Sowerby—and Catherine in particular—had watched me closely, certain I would be unequal to the task of running Wimborne. I’d done well so far, aside from a few minor problems, but it wouldn’t do to have her learn about the theft that had taken place right under my nose.

“I see.” She craned her neck around me. “Was that Miss Lacey I saw with you?”

“Yes, it was,” I said.

“Hmm,” she said disapprovingly.

Even though I was vexed at Beatrice for abandoning me, I still felt that familiar protectiveness rise inside my chest. Beatrice wasn’t well liked by the women in town—she was too forthright, too brash—and there was the matter of her scandalous Season in London last year. But careful as I was with my reputation, I would never give up Beatrice. She’d visited me every day after Father died, forced me to eat and take walks. She held me when I cried. She was the truest friend I had, current abandonment notwithstanding.

“Do not let me keep you, Catherine,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve things to do. Good day.”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to provide another criticism, but I waved and tugged Holloway with me. We joined Beatrice and Mariah at the window.

“Has she gone?” I whispered, not daring to look over my shoulder.

Holloway looked for me. “You are safe, miss. She’s crossed the street.”

I shook my head. “You are a wretch, Beatrice Lacey.”

I expected a laugh and a jest. When she didn’t respond, I turned to face her. She was staring intently at a page of advertisements posted in the shop’s window.

“Beatrice?”

She tapped one finger on the glass. “This is what you need, Ginny. Right here.”

I stepped to her side and

read the block of tiny black print:

For hire

A man of certain talents being recently employed as a principal officer of Bow Street. List of services: recovery of lost property, investigation and detection, pursuit and capture of criminal persons, etc. Fee varies. Inquiries made to Mr. J. Travers.

“A man of certain talents?” Mariah said. “What does that mean?”

I crossed my arms. Beatrice could not be serious. “It means Beatrice would have me hire a thief-taker.”

“What is so wrong about that?” Beatrice asked. “That is their occupation, is it not? To recover stolen items? Capture the criminal?”

“They cannot be trusted, that is why.” I’d heard far too many sad tales from my father about thief-takers taking advantage of desperate folk. These were men who worked with criminals, who used whatever means necessary to gain their rewards.

“But look.” She jabbed her finger at the advertisement again. “He was a Bow Street Runner, not some footpad from Seven Dials.”

She had a point. It was no small thing to be associated with London’s Bow Street Runners, an organization of magistrates and officers responsible for policing the city. When I was perhaps seven years of age, Father had worked with a Bow Street Runner, a Mr. Townsend, while he pursued a murderer supposed to be hiding in Little Sowerby. Father had invited the man to stay at Wimborne during the case, and I still remembered the fine cut of his clothes and his elegant voice. He was nothing like the rough constables I was used to. He was respectable, well-spoken, and efficient. Might this Mr. Travers be the same?

Then again . . .

“‘Recently employed,’” I read again. “Why would he leave a reputable position at Bow Street? Does that not make you suspicious?”

“A man could have many reasons to change employment,” she said. “Besides, even if he is a scoundrel, if he can find your watch, does his character really matter? All he wants is to be paid.”

I considered that. I hadn’t any idea what “fees” this Mr. Travers might charge, but even if he demanded a hundred pounds, it would be worth the price to have Father’s watch back in my hands.

“Miss Wilde.” Mariah stepped forward. “If I may.”

“Of course.”

“Last year, my uncle was the unfortunate target of a pickpocket,” she said. “He lost some money, but besides that, he lost a snuff box, a wedding gift from his wife. My uncle decided to employ a thief-taker, who managed to track down the pickpocket and negotiate the return of the snuff box.”

“How did he accomplish that?” Beatrice asked, her voice colored with interest. Leave it to Bea to be fascinated by the workings of a thief-taker.

Mariah shook her head. “I haven’t any idea. But my uncle did indeed get the snuff box back, though he had to pay the thief-taker a hefty reward.”

I bit my lip. Hiring a thief-taker? It sounded so risky, so impossible, so . . . unlike me. If only I had Father to advise me. I looked at Holloway, who gave the smallest shrug of her shoulder. She’d been my lady’s maid since I came of age, and though she was as sweet as could be, she did not know what I should do any better than I did. It was my choice alone.

I raised my chin. I was p

erfectly capable of making decisions, as I’d proven time and again over the last few months. This theft had only rattled me, left me unsure, and—frankly—rather frightened. Mr. Northcott’s lukewarm response had not helped anything, either. I read the advertisement again, trying to picture the sort of man who would answer my call for help. Would he simply make my troubles worse?

“What will it hurt to write to him?” Beatrice asked. “See, his direction is in London. Write to him but also place your advertisement as you intended. Better to have more than one plan, don’t you think? I’d wager this Mr. Travers could be here in less than two days if there are no issues with the post.”

London was but a half day’s journey from Little Sowerby. Father had always said the first days after a crime were the most vital. Beyond that, the trail grew cold and evidence was corrupted. Speed was of the essence if I ever wanted to see my pocket watch again.

Which I desperately, desperately did.

And I admitted, if only to myself, I should like to see the look on Mr. Northcott’s face when I told him I’d recovered the watch without his help.

“Very well.” I gave a firm nod as if that would help settle my nerves. “I’ll write to him.”

“Excellent.” Beatrice’s eyes gleamed. Part of me wondered if she’d only suggested this course of action because of how exciting it sounded—employing a thief-taker to recover my family heirloom. But I pushed that aside. Even if she did think that, it did not mean that this was the wrong decision. A thief-taker would have connections I lacked, experiences and knowledge that not even Mr. Northcott possessed. This Mr. Travers was likely my best chance at ever seeing Father’s watch again. Even if he was a scoundrel of the worst sort, it would all be worth it.

I hoped.

 

Chapter 3

Over the next two days, I kept myself occupied for every minute of every hour, so that when night came, I would fall into bed already asleep. At least, that was the theory. I did indeed fall into bed every night exhausted from the day: meeting with a locksmith to discuss improvements to the security of Wimborne, working with my housekeeper to plan menus and approve purchases, and riding out with my steward to oversee repairs on a tenant house. I also wrote long, expansive entries in my journal in the evenings, hoping to tire my eyes.

But that exhaustion was never enough. I lay awake each night, watching the shadows steal across my ceiling, wondering if the creak I heard was the tree outside my window or the quiet step of an intruder in the corridor.

I hated feeling so vulnerable in my own home. Hated that I wished I had taken Marchant’s offer to station a footman at my door.

Finally, on the second night, when the clock struck two in the morning, I slipped from my room, crept down to the kitchen, and took a large knife. I placed it in the drawer of the bedside table, within easy reach, and then fell fast asleep.

I was shaken by gentle hands, the bright sun of morning slipping through my eyelids. “Miss Wilde.”

I threw a hand over my eyes to block the light. “A few more minutes, Holloway, please.”

“I would let you sleep all day, miss,” Holloway said, “but you’ve a visitor.”

I pried one eyelid open and squinted at the clock on the mantel. “It’s not yet eight o’clock. Who is here so early?”

“A Mr. Travers, miss.”

“Who?” I shook my head, foggy with sleep.

She lowered her voice. “The thief-taker.”

I sat up abruptly. “He’s here? Now?”

“In the parlor.”

I clutched my blankets to my chest, as if the man might burst into my room at that very second. That was foolish. Of course he wouldn’t. But how could he be here so soon? I certainly hadn’t expected him to land on my doorstep so unceremoniously. But he had, and now I had to manage. I relaxed my grip and threw off my covers. “Let us hurry.”

Ten minutes later, hastily dressed and my red tresses in a passable state, I approached the parlor. My heart thrummed inside me, as if damselflies had taken up residence in my chest. After I’d sent the letter to Mr. Travers, I’d regretted it almost instantly. How could I trust anyone who made his living as he did? This was what came from making such a spontaneous decision. I’d secretly hoped many times over the last two days that this thief-taker would not come. That the letter would go astray, or that he simply did not care about one woman’s lost watch when there were greater prizes to be had.

But he had come, and I needed to prepare myself. I would not be taken advantage of, no matter that I was a woman and young and admittedly a bit inexperienced. I was smart and resourceful and more knowledgeable than most, what with having a magistrate for a father.

I stopped at the parlor door and adjusted my fichu, my hands shaking slightly. Then I squared my shoulders. This was my home, and Mr. Travers was just a man. I opened the door and strode inside.

And came to an immediate stop. The parlor—decorated in pale blues and pinks, with delicate rosewood furniture and ormolu-framed paintings—was empty.

I spun in a full circle. Had Holloway said the parlor? I was quite certain she had. But where had Mr. Travers gone?

I hurried back into the corridor, intent on finding Marchant, who had surely answered the front door. But as I passed my study—door slightly ajar—I heard something. A rustling, then quiet footsteps. Who was it? I stepped closer and peeked inside. Through the sliver of open door, I saw a dark-haired man near the desk. A flame of fear licked up my spine. It was not anyone from my staff, 

which left only one option. The thief-taker.

He was . . . he was robbing me.

A sudden, ferocious anger gripped me. How dare he? How dare he enter my house under false pretenses and then rob me blind?

I did not stop to think. I was done cowering in my room, afraid of every shadow. I picked up a slender vase from a nearby table, marched to the door, and threw it open. “Stop at once!” I ordered, raising my vase like a cricket bat.

The man jerked upright from where he’d stooped over Father’s—my—desk. “What the bl—”

“Don’t touch anything.” I raised my vase higher. “Marchant!” I cried, hoping my butler was within shouting distance.

The man stared at me, as if I was the dangerous criminal breaking into his home. Then a look of understanding crossed his face. “I’m not stealing anything, miss,” he said in an amused voice. “Though your weapon of choice would certainly make me think twice.”

Of course he would say he wasn’t robbing me. “Marchant!” I called again, never taking my eyes from the man. He stepped out from behind the desk, and I shrank back. He stopped.

“My name is Jack Travers,” he said slowly, like I was a frightened horse on the edge of a cliff. “I was summoned here by a Mrs. Wilde to locate a stolen pocket watch. Would that be your mother?”

I barely heard his words, so loudly did my pulse echo in my ears. “Why are you in here? You were left in the parlor.”

“Yes,” he said, “but as it has been nearly a half hour since I was deposited there, and I really am rather a busy man, I decided to begin without my hostess. My letter from Mrs. Wilde said the theft took place in the study, and so I made an educated guess that this was it.”

My letter had mentioned the study. I glanced at the desk—books and papers and ink and pens. Nothing was missing or even out of place. I lowered the vase slightly. “Miss Wilde,” I corrected.

“Pardon?” His brow furrowed.

“The letter. It was from Miss Wilde.”

Something flashed in his eyes—which were a brilliant blue, I noticed now that I did not believe myself in immediate peril. Before he could speak, footsteps pounded in the corridor and Marchant burst through the open door. He came to a stop as he took me in, still holding my vase, and then stared at Mr. Travers.

“Miss Wilde?” Marchant’s chest heaved.

I lowered my vase, feeling every bit an enormous fool. “I’m sorry, Marchant. Everything is fine. Mr. Travers only startled me.”

“You wrote to me?” Mr. Travers asked, eyebrow raised. “You can’t be eighteen.”

“I am three and twenty, thank you very much.” I’d never looked my age and had always been told I would be grateful for it one day. Today was not that day.

I turned to Marchant, heat creeping up my neck. “I apologize for the alarm, but you can leave us.”

“You are certain?” Marchant eyed Mr. Travers, who held out his hands as if to show he was not hiding a weapon. “I can stay, miss.”

I hesitated. I should keep Marchant in the room, if only to calm my still-pounding heart. But I did not want to show any weakness in front of the thief-taker. “Yes, I’m certain. Thank you, Marchant.”

Marchant looked unconvinced. He pointedly pushed the door wide open and gave Mr. Travers one last look of warning as he left. “I’ll be down the corridor.”

I faced Mr. Travers. He crossed his arms, one corner of his lips pulled up in clear amusement. His clothes were rumpled and dusty, but well made—quality I’d expect from a gentleman rather than a thief-taker, especially one so unexpectedly young. He had a crop of ink-black hair, wild curls looking as if he had just run his hands through them, and a sharp jaw with the dark stubble of a man who had yet to shave. Thick brows perched above those blue eyes, balanced with a strong nose. He might have be

en handsome if not for that irritating, lopsided grin.

And he was absolutely not what I had pictured a thief-taker would look like.

My embarrassment faded, annoyance quickly taking its place. What sort of man went wandering about a house he’d only arrived at? Especially when he wasn’t a guest but a potential employee. He watched me, calculating, probably already counting the money he’d profit off my naivety. He assumed he had the upper hand here, that I was some silly girl out of her depth.

“Perhaps we might try starting out on a different foot?” Mr. Travers asked. “Since clearly that was the wrong one.”

“I . . .” I had half a mind to send him on his way, to pretend I no longer needed him. Everything about our meeting set me on edge. Dangerously on edge.

He bowed, a jaunty bend of his neck. “Jack Travers, at your service. I am sorry, truly. I tend to make terrible first impressions. I’m much better on the second go round.”

I blinked. I could not take this man’s measure. He dressed like a gentleman—albeit one in need of freshening up—yet snooped about my house and made quips as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“And you are Miss Wilde?” he prompted.

“Miss Genevieve Wilde.” I did not curtsy. I did not think I owed him that after the way he’d behaved.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Wilde.” He smiled then, a wide, disarming smile that only made me more wary. I would not be disarmed.

“Mr. Travers,” I said stiffly. “I shall be perfectly frank. Now that I have met you, I am not certain you are the right man for the job. I had expected someone with a bit more. . . .”

“Girth?” He patted his narrow stomach. “I assure you I am as good in a fight as anyone.”

That was easy to believe. Though Mr. Travers did not have the thick shoulders of Marchant or the towering height of Mr. Northcott, he carried himself with confidence, his movements full of bridled energy. It was clear to see he was in excellent form, evidenced by the pull of his jacket over his arms and chest.

I tore my eyes from examining his figure. “No, I was going to say experience.”

Mr. Travers couldn’t have been older than thirty, and likely a year or two younger. He didn’t seem offended in the slightest as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Ah, so you are allowed to criticize me for my age. I can assure you I am perfectly capable.”

I ignored his slight. “Yes, I did want to discuss your qualifications.” I still held the vase. I gathered what little dignity I had left and placed it on the edge of the desk. “You were a Bow Street Runner?”

“Yes, though I’ve never cared for the term,” he said offhandedly. “Runner is rather demeaning, don’t you think? Makes one think of a messenger boy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Might I inquire as to the reason you are no longer employed there?”

“Simply a difference of opinions,” he said. “Nothing so interesting as whatever story you’ve imagined, I can assure you.”

“And I can assure you,” I said, “that I’ve not had time to imagine anything, which is why I asked. I am curious why a man placed at Bow Street would then turn thief-taker.”

He grimaced. “I’m afraid I don’t much care for that term either. Some uncomfortable connotations

there.”

I fought to keep my voice level. “Then what, pray tell, would you call yourself, if not a runner or a thief-taker?”

“I am quite partial to ‘special investigator,’ if you please.”

I did not please. Was I truly thinking of hiring this man? I wasn’t stupid—he’d clearly avoided my question about why he’d become a thief-taker.

Mr. Travers had begun a slow circle about the study as we talked, but now he stopped in front of my father’s portrait, examining it.

“Robert Wilde,” he read from the inscription. “Your father?”

“Yes,” I said. “And the former magistrate.” I traced the edge of the desk with my finger. “He died six months ago.”

Mr. Travers inspected the portrait a moment longer, then his gaze flicked to me. “You have his eyes.”

I cleared my throat. I liked my green eyes for that very reason. But who was this man to make such an intimate observation within five minutes of meeting me?

“My father sometimes worked with officers from Bow Street,” I said, more to change the subject than anything. “I remember a Mr. Townsend in particular.”

Mr. Travers brightened. “Ah, Townsend. I haven’t seen him in an age.”

“You know him?”

“Most people in London do,” he said. “He’s more popular than Prinny himself. He was a mentor of sorts when I started at Bow Street. We used to drink at the Brown Bear across the street to celebrate a conviction, though we haven’t done that since. . . .”

He rubbed his neck as his voice drifted off, lost in a memory, I assumed. He came back to himself a moment later.

“Any more questions about my qualifications?” he asked, rubbing his hands together, as if we were discussing a book we had both read recently. As if I should blindly accept every nonanswer he’d given me and trot along to handing over my money.

I had more questions. Of course I did. But I swallowed them. What was the use? I needed him, as much as I wished I didn’t. And besides, he’d worked with Mr. Townsend, who I knew to be honorable and skilled. Father had followed the man’s career after he’d left Little Sowerby, often reading to me from the papers about his cases. If Mr. Travers was anywhere as competent as his mentor, then perhaps my cause was not so lost as I thought.

“No, I am ready to discuss details.” I sat behind my desk and gestured for him to take a seat. I felt better, more secure, with the large desk separating us.

“I suppose I might begin,” he said as he sat, “by asking if you simply wish to recover the watch, or if you also want to apprehend the thief. Your letter was unclear.”

That was because I hadn’t yet decided when I’d written to him. Did I want to be dragged into an expensive prosecution? The matter would no longer be private then, but gossiped about in every parlor in Little Sowerby. Yet, in the last few days since the theft, with my inability to sleep, my determination had increased. Rotten reprobates like this thief should not be allowed to roam freely.

“First and foremost, I desire the return of my watch,” I said. “If you should catch the thief as well, I would be perfectly satisfied.”

“And your reward would be adjusted accordingly?”

I nodded. “Ten pounds for the watch, and ten more if the thief is convicted.”

“Twenty pounds?” Mr. Travers raised an eyebrow.

I flushed. W

as it too high a number? Too low? “Is that agreeable?”

“It will do, I suppose,” he said. “Of course, there may be other expenses, if I need to travel or loosen someone’s tongue with a . . . consideration.”

“You mean a bribe.”

“Oh yes, it’s very common. Expected, really, among those I associate with.” There was a gleam in his eye. Was he teasing me? Or trying to frighten me?

I would not let him. I leaned forward and rested my forearms on the desk, lacing my fingers. “What is your rate?”

“A guinea a day, plus living expenses for room and board in town.”

I considered that. I had the money—Wimborne was as profitable as it had ever been. But I did not like to give in so easily.

“I will agree to that rate,” I said, “but you will give my case your full attention. No distractions. I’ll not be paying you to work for another’s reward.”

He sat back, tipping his head to one side. “Agreed,” he said finally. “Now, tell me about this watch.”

I exhaled. The difficult part was done. “It was my father’s. It’s been in the family for four generations.”

He nodded, listening closely. That blasted grin had thankfully disappeared.

“The case is made of brass, with a white enamel face,” I went on. “It has an inscription on the back, a favorite of my great-grandfather’s. Esse quam videri.”

“‘To be, rather than to seem,’” Mr. Travers murmured.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is translating Latin one of your ‘certain talents,’ then, Mr. Travers?”

“Hardly. It is simply an unfortunate side effect of my upbringing.” He leaned forward, eyes intent. “What else can you tell me about the watch?”

“I can show you, if you like.” I shuffled through a stack of paper. “I have a drawing of it.”

Beatrice had sketched it for me, since my own artistic talent could fit in a thimble. I slid the paper to him, a detailed drawing of Father’s watch as well as the watch chain and key. How easily I remembered Father winding his watch with that key at the same time every day. A familiar lump rose in my throat.

“What is this here?” Mr. Travers pointed at the watch chain.

“I made that watch chain for my father as a child. Red plaited silk.” It had gotten ragged as of late, but I’d wanted the drawing to be as accurate as possible. “I daresay it will help in identifying the watch, assuming the thief does not remove it.”

“Indeed.” He examined the drawing another moment, then folded it and tucked it inside his jacket. “What can you tell me about the night it disappeared?”

“Nothing more than I described in my letter, unfortunately,” I said. “It’s really rather baffling.”

His eyes moved to look behind me. “You said the thief must have come through the window?”

“Yes, this one here,” I said, gesturing at the window to my right, “though there were no signs of intrusion.”

“Hmm,” he said, standing and coming around the side of the desk to examine the window, standing too close beside me. I leaned away in my seat, though not before I caught the scent of his light cologne. I happened to like cedarwood, but here in my inner sanctum, anything different felt intrusive. I tried not to breathe overmuch as he inspected the casement with his hands.

“Certainly seems possible,” he said, returning to his seat. “The opening is large enough.”

It had been a rather cursory inspection. Likely he didn’t want me looking over his shoulder during his entire investigation.

“I’ve placed an advertisement in the local paper,” I said. “Asking for any information regarding the watch. I do hope—”

He sat up. “You did what?”

I pulled my chin back. “Placed an advertisement.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Of course you did.”

“And what is so wrong about that? I was advised by the magistrate to do so.”

Mr. Travers leaned an elbow on my desk, and I sat back, drawing my hands into my lap. “You’ve just announced to everyone who reads that paper that your home is a target.”

“I am in the process of adding additional locks and safeguards to the house,” I protested.

“Soon?”

“The locksmith said a week or two.”

“Not soon enough,” he said. “Not to mention the unsavory types that such rewards tend to bring out. I’ve no doubt you’ll be inundated by thief-takers soon enough.”

I narrowed my eyes. Clearly, he did not consider himself an unsavory type. “If you’re as good an investigator as you profess to be, you needn’t fear competition.”

“I don’t.” He spoke so flatly that I believed him. “But having too many in pursuit can muddy the waters.”

I pursed my lips. He had a point.

Mr. Travers sighed. “What’s done is done. I recommend you cancel the advertisement immediately and hope no one worrisome takes notice.”

I hesitated, loath to take him at his word. But logic won out in the end. I pulled a sheet of paper toward me, my already overwhelming list of things to do. My eyes wandered up the list, to where I’d written visit clockmaker. For weeks, my pocket watch had been sounding odd, and, though I’d wound it daily, the time was off ever so slightly. I’d thought to have it inspected. At least I would have one less thing to do now.

I shook off that thought and dipped my pen in the inkwell. Rescind advertisement, I wrote in my precise hand.

Mr. Travers bent over my desk. “I would suggest moving it to the top of your list. Perhaps there, above dress fitting.”

I moved my hand to block the rest of my writing, glaring at him. “I will thank you not to tell me what tasks should be prioritized, Mr. Travers.” There was no need to tell him that dress fitting had been constantly pushed back by more pressing matters.

I straightened my papers, eager to turn the attention back to him. “What will be your first step, Mr. Travers? I should like to be kept aware of your actions on my behalf.”

He sat back in his chair, resting his arms comfortably on the sides. He looked too at ease for my taste, as if he’d sat there all his life.

“I’ll start by interviewing your staff,” he said. “Anyone who was here the night of the theft is suspect, including your dinner guests.”

“Are you sure that ought to be the priority?”

“Why should it not?” He propped an ankle on his knee. “Have you a suspect in mind?”

“No, but I have already

questioned my staff, as well as searched their rooms. Besides, the watch isn’t worth enough to jeopardize their employment.”

“It is not always about the money, Miss Wilde.”

I ignored him. “My guests consisted of my closest friend, the vicar and his wife, and the magistrate. I can assure you that none of them had any reason to steal the watch either. It must have been an outsider.”

Mr. Travers sighed. “When you hear hoofbeats, look for horses, not a zebra.”

I blinked. “Pardon?”

He ran a hand through his dark curls, throwing them into casual disarray. “It is something I’ve learned after years of pursuing criminals. Reason dictates that it is generally the easiest, most obvious answer that holds the truth. Yet you insist it was a housebreaker in the middle of the night, taking nothing but a brass watch?” He shook his head. “I am sorry, but that is nonsensical.”

I gripped my pen so tightly I thought it would snap. Nonsensical, was I? He sounded like Mr. Northcott.

His face softened. “It is difficult to face the prospect that someone close to you is lying. But I assure you that the best path forward is to interview all possible suspects, compare stories and details, gather alibis. Only then can I begin to form a picture of what happened here that night.”

I exhaled through my nose. What he said made sense. I simply hadn’t expected someone like him to be quite so methodical.

“Very well, Mr. Travers. We will do this your way. For now. But know that I expect results.” I almost winced at how harsh my words sounded. I’d never spoken so in my life. But I had to be careful, firm, so this man did not take advantage of me. I stood, balancing my fingertips on my desk. “I want my watch back.”

He stood as well, his gaze direct and confident. “You shall have it.” He held out a hand to me.

That was quite the promise to make. I hesitated, then surprised myself by taking his hand. His grip was strong and warm, and heat rose in my chest. Had I ever held a grown man’s hand like this, save for Father? And here I was shaking hands with a stranger.

I’d hired this man, for good or for ill. If the churning in my stomach was any clue, it seemed to be a mix of the two.