Page 1 of Stolen By the Rogue
Prologue
London
September 1816
George Hawkins silently dropped from the top of the high brick wall and into the rear yard of the art gallery. His leather boots barely made a sound as they hit the ground. Crouching low, he glanced at the night sky and slyly grinned. The dark cover of a new moon was always welcome in his line of work. Tonight, was going to be good; he could feel it in his bones.
His enthusiasm ebbed just a touch as he caught a glimpse of light shining through the window of an upper floor. It was well past nine o’clock; the place should have been empty.
Come on. It’s late. Don’t you have a tasty supper waiting for you somewhere?
There was nothing worse than an over-efficacious security guard. Such men were the bane of George’s career. How was a master thief supposed to get his hands on a lovely piece of lucre if some poorly paid night watchman was too keen to do his job properly?
He shifted to a spot against the wall where it was a little darker and waited. Only a fool would risk taking a chance when an armed sentry was still on patrol. During one of his earlier reconnaissance missions, he had noticed that the guard in question had a pistol poking out from his jacket. Armed security at an art gallery—what was the world coming to?
“About bloody time,” he muttered, when the light finally moved away.
He could just picture the man, lantern in hand, methodically checking every exhibition room as he made his way downstairs toward the front door and finally out into Oxford Street.
Good chap. Scuttle off home to your wife.
Not long now and George would have the place all to himself.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he fingered the set of skeleton keys he kept on his person at all times. His father had given them to George as a jest on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday. How a man who sat in judgement of thieves every day at the Old Bailey could find such a thing amusing, George had never been able to fathom. But he had politely accepted the keys and put them to good use almost straight away.
As he had done on many another night, George pushed the thought of his honest magistrate father to the back of his mind and refocused on the job at hand. Being the secret black sheep of the family came with its own price. He couldn’t afford to suddenly grow a conscience when he was in the middle of a heist.
George gave it a respectable ten minutes before deciding it was safe to push off the wall and make his way to the back entrance. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances, keeping to the shadowy edges of the yard and only coming out into the open when he was close to the rear entry.
A quick dash and he was standing at the door, keys at the ready.
And time for a professional pause.
He took a deep breath, then listened. Craftsmen always measured twice before cutting, while master thieves checked to make certain that they were not going to be disturbed.
Confident that he was indeed alone, George set a key to the lock. He smirked as the first one he chose fitted neatly into the hole and gave a satisfying click as it turned.
Every time, you pick it just right. George Hawkins, you are a clever lad.
Pushing the door open, he froze as the squeak of a tired hinge disturbed the perfect silence of the night. He gritted his teeth.
Bloody hell.
If he were the owner of this building, he would be having a firm word with the person tasked to oil the locks and latches. His heart thumped hard in his chest. At this stage of the operation, any sort of surprise wasn’t a welcome one. He waited once more, carefully listening before stepping inside.
George closed the door behind him, wincing as it creaked again. He stilled, allowing his hearing to become accustomed to the little noises that the art gallery made. Buildings were living, breathing organisms with soft symphonies of their own. It took a special kind of mind to notice and understand them.
In order to become a successful criminal, a man had to develop both his hearing and his patience.
When he was certain that he was the only person in the building, George pressed ahead. One foot followed another as he made his way over to the wide oak staircase and began to ascend. Doing his best to ignore his racing heart, he slowly crept on.
Second door on the left. Far wall. Three frames over to the right. No need for a light.
He knew the painting well enough in the daylight, having visited the public showing on several occasions during the proceeding weeks. By attending during the busiest periods, he had been able to conceal himself within the crowded ranks of gallery visitors. It had also given George the chance to watch the guards while remaining out of sight of their prying eyes.
After entering the exhibition space, he crossed the floor then came to a halt in front of the third mounted painting. He stared at it for a time, then softly sighed.
Titian’sVenus with a Mirrornever failed to make him happy.
