Page 2 of Stolen By the Rogue
It was a masterful representation of the goddess, naked while studying herself in a mirror. Titian had reached the pinnacle of his career with the use of rich colors and subject. When he caught a glimpse of Venus’s breasts in the dull light, George licked his lips.
Now there was a man who appreciated the naked female form.
And if the masterful work of the artist’s brush wasn’t enough, the fact that the painting was worth a small fortune was enough of a reason to make a professional thief smile. If George could steal it, and find a willing buyer, all his money problems would be over.
He leaned in close.
Forty-nine inches by forty-one. The perfect size for a one-man mission.
With one hand resting on the top of the frame, the other supporting its weight, he lifted the painting up and away from its mount before setting it gently onto the floor.
BANG!
He whirled round. Someone had slammed the front door. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.
“Bloody ridiculous. Fancy forgetting your dinner tin. She’ll have my guts for garters if I come home without it,” a low voice chastised.
“Bugger,” George muttered.
The potbellied guard had returned. If George remained where he was, the man would pass by the door on the way to the storeroom. He would surely see a night thief, priceless painting at his feet, and all hell would break loose.
Quickly abandoning the Titian, George made for the opposite wall, praying that if the guard did happen to step into the room, he may by some miracle be able to slip out behind the man and leave unnoticed.
The footsteps came closer. George’s heart beat hard and fast in his chest. All his worst nightmares were fast becoming reality. A large bead of sweat trickled down his spine.
Back pressed hard against the wall, he inched his way closer to the door, ready to bolt the second the watchman entered the room.
The footsteps stopped a mere yard or so away out in the hall.
“What the devil is going on?” said the man.
Bloody. Bloody. Bollocks.
George waited until his adversary had made it all the way into the room and was standing, hands on rounded hips, looking down at the painting before finally making his move. He took three deft steps to his left and bolted for the door.
“Hey! Stop, thief!”
He leapt down the staircase, dropping with a hard thud onto the first main landing before scurrying for the next set of risers. Footsteps thudded close behind.
A bullet pinged over his head and into the mahogany wood of the wall ahead of him. George didn’t stop to count his blessings. Instead, he focused his gaze and prayers solely on the front door.
“Sweet Lord let it be unlocked,” he muttered.
If the guard had secured the door behind him when he returned, George was going to be in serious trouble. Fighting his way out of the gallery would be his only option. The sound of the man’s footsteps grew louder as he closed the distance between them.
“Come back here, you villain. I’ll skin you alive!”
The angry guard was close on his heels when George reached for the handle. He almost wept for joy when it turned, and the door swung open. A gust of cold night air smacked him in the face, but he paid it no mind. Only escape mattered.
He raced out into the street, ignoring the foul curses and loud shouts coming from behind him. No, he wasn’t going to stop or come back, thank you very much. With legs pumping and arms swinging, he ran at full stretch along Oxford Street, darting out into the road when other late-night strollers impeded his progress.
At Argyle Street, he made a sharp right turn. The path ahead was clear of pedestrians. Digging deep into what was left of his energy reserves, George increased his pace.
He ran straight past the front door of his home and continued on at breakneck speed, only slowing to take the corner into Great Marlborough Street. After ducking out of sight into the doorway of a shop, he finally came to a skittering halt.
As he bent, hands on knees, and tried to catch his breath, he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the street. To his bone-deep relief, there was no sign of his pursuer.
George panted and wheezed as he sucked in one great lungful of air after the other. The adrenaline coursing through his body made him nauseous. If he hadn’t been in the middle of a London street, he would have given in to temptation and cast up his accounts.
