Page 95 of Too Scot to Handle
“That was usually my job,” Dickie said. “When I got too big to fit down the chimneys, I was the lookout, but I had to drink a fearsome amount of ale to do the job right.”
“Good point,” Lord Colin said. “What else?”
“Dress the part,” Tom said. “None of them pale knees flashing in the moonlight, sir, meaning no disrespect to your kilt. You wear decent clothes, not your Sunday best, but like for calling on your mother, and you wear dark clothes. Everything dark—not a cravat, not cuffs, not gloves, not a silver walking stick that can catch the light. Not cufflinks, even. Dark clothes can save your life.”
“Best if there’s not much moon,” John said. “You need a little moon, enough to see by, not enough to be seen by.”
“A reaver’s moon,” Lord Colin said. “You’re describing the best conditions for stealing cattle.”
“Wrap your boots in chamois, or go barefoot,” Dickie said. “And you need a plan for how we’re going to toss the joint.”
“We are not going to toss anything,” Lord Colin said.
Tom was tempted to kick him. “Then stick your handsome head in the noose right now, sir. The other rule you’re ignoring is to get in, get the goods, and get out as quick as you can. The longer you’re in that house, the more chance some footman, dog, or tippling maid will spot you. By yourself, you’ll take all night to toss a fine Mayfair house.”
Lord Colin shifted to prop an elbow on the mantel. “I’ll be quick, but the house will be occupied until the small hours of the morning. You boys need your sleep.”
“We need a place to sleep,” John shot back. “You’re being stupid. Da always said you can’t fix stupid.”
“Ma said you can’t fix arrogant,” Dickie added. “She usually said it to Da.”
“You have to let us help,” Tom said. “You don’t know a damned thing about being a thief, and we know everything. Did you try to tell Miss Anwen how to organize her card party?”
“Of course not. She was far better—it’s not the same thing.”
John let his chair crash back down to four legs. “Right you are, guv. This is serious, not a fancy charity do where nobody could get hurt. Whyn’t you take the help we offer, when the stakes are so high? You’ll be in Newgate, but we’ll have to explain to the wee ones why we weren’t allowed to watch over you. And to Miss Anwen.”
His lordship ran a hand through his hair and looked exasperated, but Tom couldn’t spare him any pity. He was being noble, and a fat lot of good that ever did anybody.
“Joe,” Tom said. “Make him listen to us.”
Joe rose and came around the table, then extracted a scrap of white fabric from his trouser pocket.
His lordship snatched the square from Joe’s hand. “Where did you get my handkerchief?”
“He nicked it,” John said, punching Joe on the arm.
“When he watered the fern.” Dickie’s grin was smug. “Joe’s out of practice, or we woulda never seen him do it, but he weren’t stealing. We know that. He were saving your bloody neck for Miss Anwen.”
Lord Colin slowly folded the white square into a tidy rectangle. He looked at the handkerchief as if answers might be embroidered on it, then studied each boy in turn.
“You can come with me, but nobody else goes in the house.”
“Have a seat,” John said. “Planning the job is half the battle.”
“True in any aspect of warfare,” Lord Colin said. “Where do we start?”
Chapter Eighteen
Anwen made it through supper without spilling her wine, but Aunt Esther sent her more than one concerned look. Charlotte and Elizabeth—bless them—carried the conversation by recounting anecdotes from the previous night’s entertainment. When the fruit and cheese had finally been removed, Anwen nearly fled the dining room.
“Don’t run off,” Elizabeth said, getting to her feet. “I wanted you to see some sketches I made from last night’s gatherings. Immortalizing your triumph, so to speak.”
“You haven’t shown me these sketches,” Charlotte said, joining them at the dining room door. “I hope at least one of them was of Mr. Pierpont’s face when Mr. Tresham delivered him a figurative beating at the piquet table.”
“Uncharitable,” Aunt remarked, “but then, Mr. Pierpont should not have chosen an opponent of so much greater skill. Moreland, I’m of a mind to inspect the roses, now that the garden has had a chance to dry out.”
“Of course, my dear.” Uncle Percy held Aunt’s chair, and they disappeared down the corridor, thank God and old Murray, who supervised the gardens.
