Page 3 of Stolen By the Rogue
Several minutes passed before his heart rate finally returned to normal. His days of being a champion athlete at school and the resultant muscle memory had saved him tonight, but it had been a near-run thing. His fitness wasn’t anywhere near as good as it had once been.
Thank God that guard couldn’t fire a pistol to save himself, let alone stop an art thief.
In all his years of thieving and smuggling, he had never come this close to being caught. Or shot.
I must have missed something or not waited long enough. Heavens, am I losing my touch?
After a quick wipe of his face with a handkerchief, George straightened his attire and made ready to go home. There was little point in wasting any more time standing out in the street. All his careful planning and preparation had come to naught. The Titian would never be his.
You escaped with your life. Be grateful for that large blessing.
He checked at the corner of Argyle Street and found it was clear. The overweight and unfit guard hadn’t been able to keep up with him.
That was too bloody close for anyone’s liking. What if he had been a better shot? I might well be dead.
He took in a deep, calming breath and straightened his shoulders.
By the time George Hawkins reached his home at number 45 Argyle Street, his pace had dropped to that of a leisurely saunter.
Only a fool would come tearing in the front door of his father’s house as if the hounds of hell were hot on his tail.
He nodded at the footman who answered the door, giving him a friendly grin as he stepped inside. But George’s self-assured smile froze on his lips when his gaze settled on the crowd of people who were gathered in the foyer and main ballroom of the Hawkins family home.
Everywhere he looked there was a senior member of the London judiciary. Magistrates, barristers, and even a smattering of King’s Counsels stood shoulder to shoulder, drinking and laughing.
Hell, and the devil. I forgot the legal soiree was on tonight.
The sick, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach returned. If things had not gone his way just a few minutes earlier, he may well have found himself being hauled up in front of one of his father’s friends and made to face judgement.
And I would have been found guilty.
His mother appeared from out of the crowd. She took one look at him, frowned, and hurried to his side. “George, my sweet boy, you don’t look at all well. Are you coming down with something?”
“No, I just . . .”
Before he could stop her, Mrs. Hawkins had placed a hand on George’s brow. She shook her head and tutted. “Definitely warm and a little sweaty. Maybe you should head upstairs to bed. An early night might be in order. Just remember I am having Lady Dodd and her daughter, Petunia, over tomorrow afternoon, and you did promise to stop by and give them your regards.”
Not another matchmaking attempt, Mama. Please. I don’t need you to find me a wife.
“Perhaps I should make it an early night. Though if I am still not right in the morning, you may have to give Lady Dodd my sincere apologies,” he replied.
Anything he did to avoid having to take tea and cake with yet another young miss on his mother’s ever-growing list of potential brides was worth it. A good son shouldn’t lie to his mother about being ill, but George had told so many untruths to his parents over the years that they rolled off his tongue without a second thought.
I really am the worst of the family.
He was about to make good on his promise to head upstairs when the Honorable Judge Hawkins hailed him from the doorway of the ballroom. “Ah! George, I was wondering if you were going to make it home in time for my little gathering. Good to see you, son.” He hurried over.
Mrs. Hawkins turned to her husband. “I think George is unwell. I suggested he should turn in.”
The look of disappointment on his father’s face put a swift end to George’s plans for a speedy exit. He hadn’t done the expected thing and followed his father and brother into the legal fraternity. And while Judge Hawkins made obvious attempts to hide his feelings, it was clear to George that his sire still hadn’t come to terms with his youngest son’s rejection of the family calling.
“I am certain I could manage one drink,” replied George.
His father’s demeanor changed in an instant. “Excellent. Grab a glass and come and say a quick hello to the Lord High Chancellor. Lord Eldon was just about to tell us the story of a wicked jewel thief they executed at Newgate Prison this morning. I am sure you will find it fascinating.”
If caught, I would have been sentenced. And I would have been hung.
A reluctant George took a brandy from a footman and followed his father into the ballroom. He could just imagine how it would feel to be a condemned man taking his final steps on the way to the scaffold.
