Petterils thief, p.1
Petteril's Thief, page 1
Petteril’s Thief
Lord Petteril Mysteries, Book 1
Mary Lancaster
Petteril’s Thief
All Rights Reserved © 2023 by Mary Lancaster
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
The small thief known as Ape froze in a sudden draught.
As though a window had suddenly blown open.
Abandoning the lantern and the calico bag into which he had been happily stuffing a roll of paper money and a few elegant sleeve buttons from the open safe chest, the boy crept out of the dressing room and into the main bedchamber. And his stomach seemed to lunge up into his throat.
One of the full-length French windows had indeed blown open, lifting the curtain and admitting a suddenly bright patch of moonlight. Through the glass, the thief could see the outline of a small, stone balcony and a man’s tall, slender back.
Gawd All Mighty! How did I miss that cove?
The only thing to do was grab the bag, get out as fast as he could, and face Lord’s temper at such meagre pickings. Except for some reason, there seemed more wrong here than an empty house that wasn’t empty at all. The man on the balcony looked well dressed like any nob, and his profile was that of a young man. Yet his shoulders were stooped like someone old and weary, and he seemed to be swaying.
Gawd’s bottom, is he bosky? Drunk enough to fall over the balustrade?
Heart in his mouth, Ape took a step closer, and then another. I must be dicked in the nob... He found himself almost at the window, but the man didn’t seem to see or hear him. Worse, Ape recalled that they were three floors up, and here at the back of the house, the flag-stoned yard directly below dipped even beneath the basement kitchen. If this drunken fool fell over, he would die.
And he was going to. He swayed toward the balustrade with such sudden force that Ape knew he would go straight over. Before he could stop himself, Ape dived out the window, grabbed the fellow’s hand and hauled him back.
The drunk didn’t even seem surprised. In fact, he seemed reluctant to turn his head, though he finally did, blinking at Ape as though not quite seeing him.
Well, if he’s that jug-bitten, perhaps he won’t remember me, Ape thought optimistically. For good measure, he hauled the man through the window, which he shut and locked.
The drunk, eerily illuminated in the shaft of moonlight through the glass, was still gazing at him, a faint frown forming between eyes that seemed to be gaining in focus. “Who the devil are you?”
“Who the devil are you?” Ape retorted, “Some drunk wandered in off the street? You want to go home, you do. You’ll have a head thick as a turnip in the morning.” Even as he said the words, it came to him that the man did not smell of drink. Nor, apart from the swaying, did he move like a drunk.
The man ambled past him, and Ape heard the sound of flint striking before the glow of several candles sprung up. Ape hadn’t even seen the candle sticks. They were probably silver. Lord would want those.
“What you doing up here in the dark anyway?” Ape asked in severe tones as he backed toward the door. “Never tell me you own this ken?”
The man, who was tall and thin, his clothes decent if hardly the first stare of fashion, blinked at him. His face was handsome enough with its high forehead, long nose and well-defined bones, yet it looked sad and bleak to Ape. His shock of curly hair, the colour of chestnuts in autumn, was dishevelled and untidy. Even the dark, dark eyes held a hint of desperation, although Ape didn’t know how they could give the impression of being both perceptive and utterly vague at the same time. The man turned his head, as though distracted, looking toward the dressing room where the lantern still shone on Ape’s bag of meagre loot.
Hell and the devil! He’d nearly forgotten it. Hastily, Ape changed direction and swaggered toward the bag. “Well?” he said aggressively, referring to his last question in the hope of distracting his unwanted companion.
The man appeared to think about it. “It wasn’t dark when I arrived,” he said vaguely, while Ape swiped up the bag. “And yes, apparently so.”
Ape knew better than to believe a word of it. “Well, stay away from windows till you’re sober,” he advised.
The faintest of smiles flickered across the man’s face without lightening it in the least. “I don’t suppose you found any brandy?” he said, nodding at Ape’s bag.
Ape stopped swaggering, noting that the man now stood between him and the door. “No,” he said brazenly. “Empty, dreary kind of place. Inhospitable.”
“True,” the man agreed. He held out his hand.
Ape looked at it, then at the man, sizing up his speed and strength. Not quick, he decided, not in this state, but definitely bigger than Ape. And in the way. “Split it with you?” he said hopefully.
The man said nothing. His hand remained steady.
With a sigh, Ape handed over the bag. “Lord’s going to kill me now.”
“The good Lord?” the man said, rummaging in the bag among the bits of lace, silk and linen without obvious interest.
“Nah,” Ape said and decided, reluctantly, to scare off the gentleman. “He’s a bowman prig, Lord is.”
“Prig,” the man repeated, more thoughtfully. “Thief? Burglar?”
“That’s it. Powerful mean he is, too.”
“You can’t like working for someone powerful mean,” the man observed.
“I don’t,” Ape admitted. “But a man has to eat.”
His unwanted companion looked up from his haphazard poking about in the bag and examined Ape with the first glimmerings of real intelligence. “A man,” he repeated. “How old are you?”
Ape shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“How’d you get in? Pick the lock on the back door?”
“Nah, we’re not on the dub lay. Trigged the jigger yesterday, like, to see the place was empty, then milled the glaze on the pantry so I could wriggle in through the bars.”
The gentleman regarded him with some fascination. His lips even twitched and there might have been some light in those bleak eyes. Ape felt ridiculously pleased.
“You didn’t pick the lock,” the man guessed. “I’m going to ignore the jigger and guess you broke the pantry window. You were sent inside to do the work while your Lord snoozes outside.”
“He don’t snooze,” Ape said. “He looks out for the Watch, or anyone coming home.”
“Slim pickings.” The man let the bag dangle from his slender hand. “What’s your name?”
“Ape. Won’t do you no good. They’ll never find me.”
“Who won’t?”
“The Watch! The Runners! Mister, are you dicked in the nob?”
Again, his lips twitched. “That one I know, and yes, probably.” Unexpectedly, he tossed the bag to Ape, who only just caught it, and stepped aside. “Shab off, then.”
Ape could not believe his luck and stared at the gentleman. He hadn’t even taken the money from the bag, or the gold cuff links.
“Shab straight off,” the man clarified.
“What are you going to do?” Ape blurted.
“Sleep,” the gentleman said, and actually lay down on top of the bed.
Ape blinked at him owlishly for a moment, then went and blew out the candles before collecting his lantern and hurrying away. In the passage, he felt moved to close the door, and glanced first at the still, dark mound on the bed. He might already have been asleep.
Totally dicked in the nob. But he’d saved Ape a thrashing and so Ape would tell no one about his presence.
Piers Withan, fifth Viscount Petteril, woke slowly and reluctantly to daylight which pierced his eyes though not the blackness within him. Turning his back on the light, he closed his eyes again. Only, then he heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing.
The front door, by the sound of it.
Unlikely to be the return of the small burglar or even his “powerful mean” master. The footsteps on the stairs were stately but hardly stealthy, and he was sure he could make out the rustle of silk gown.
Piers swore beneath his breath and sat up. He was fully dressed but cold since he hadn’t even pulled the dusty coverlet over himself. Stiffly, he eased himself off the bed and dragged his fingers through his hair.
At least he was standing when the interloper sailed into the room and came to an abrupt halt at sight of him. A rare squeak of alarm even escaped her lips.
The Dowager Viscountess Petteril was a severely handsome woman of middle years, as always dressed in the first stare of fashion without a hair out of place. She had a small, distinctive mole an inch from the corner of her mouth, which resembled the beauty patches worn by previous generations.
“Piers!” she uttered, her gloved fingers flying to her throat in alarm. “What on earth are you doing he re?”
“Apparently, I live here. Among my other residences.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Piers. I mean you gave no one any warning you were coming. The house is hardly ready to receive you.”
“The house and I are never likely to be ready for each other. Did you want something, aunt?”
A brief struggle waged across her face, then her chin came up. “Yes. I came for the Petteril necklace. I want Augusta to wear it next week at the Amberly ball.” She looked down her nose at him, which was quite a feat when she stood a good ten inches shorter than he. “If you have no objection.”
“Gussie?” Piers repeated in surprise. A vague memory of a lively tomboy child passed through his mind. “Is she out?”
“She is seventeen,” Aunt Hortensia said sharply. “Of course, she is out. This is her first Season.”
“Oh. Where is this necklace?”
“In the safe, of course.”
There was no of course or indeed safe about it. No one had been living here for months and there had been at least one thief in here. On the other hand, there had been no necklaces in the child’s bag of pilferings.
Piers waved her through to the dressing room and watched as she knelt by the empty safe. She found the spring without difficulty and opened the secret compartment, in which the true valuables had always been stored. Some fine pearls, an antique ring.
“Where is it?” Hortensia demanded.
“I don’t even know what it is.”
“Three strands of rubies set in gold! You will have seen me wear it several times.”
“Then perhaps you still have it.”
She glared at him with withering contempt. “They belong to the Petteril estate. Not to me.”
Piers thought of the thief. It looked as if he hadn’t found the secret compartment in the safe, for he hadn’t taken the pearls or the ring. On the other hand... It was possible his master stole to order, and the order had been for the Petteril ruby necklace. Which would explain why there wasn’t much else in the bag. Perhaps it had just been for show and quite unimportant. After all, the boy had almost left it behind.
“You know where it is,” Hortensia accused.
“Perhaps. If I find it, I’ll send it to you.”
“You must find it. It is a valuable antique, a gift to the first Lord and Lady Petteril from Charles the Second, part of the estate that you will pass on to your heirs.”
“I look forward to it.”
Her sharp eyes narrowed. “I have never been sure you are not an imbecile, Piers. How in the world did you pass the entrance examinations to Oxford? I suppose your uncle spoke for you.”
“I suppose he did,” said Piers, who had not only two first class degrees but several years university teaching behind him.
Hortensia sniffed. “I must go. Don’t forget.” She spun on her heel, then turned back frowning. “You can’t live here like this. There are no servants. You must stay at a hotel or somewhere while the house is made ready.”
Piers dredged up his memory, for he had no intention of staying at a hotel. “What happened to the housekeeper? And the butler who used to be here? Harris? No, Herries.”
A tinge of colour crept into Hortensia’s perfect, pale skin. “They chose to come with me.”
Piers smiled. “Of course they did. Leaving the house entirely unoccupied.” Except by thieves.
Hortensia’s nostrils flared. “I’ll interview some servants for you and send them round within a day or so. You should stay at Grillon’s until then.”
“Please don’t. I’ll find my own servants.”
She looked him up and down with weary scorn. “Piers, you can’t even find your own clothes.”
“Good day, aunt.”
She looked slightly surprised by that, but since she obviously had nothing else to say and was indeed on her way out, she simply nodded curtly and walked away.
Piers watched her go without regret. He had never cared much for her, and she clearly despised him all the more for his recent elevation to her late husband’s title. After all, if life had been fair, her son would have inherited. One of her sons. It would have been better for everyone, but life was rarely fair.
Most of his mind had already returned to the small thief. He even had a name, if only Piers could recall it... Monkey? Ape, that was it. There seemed to be very little reason in nicknames. But there had been intelligence and guile in that smooth young face with eyes as old as the hills.
Last night was mostly blackness for Piers. He doubted he’d have any chance at all of recognizing his thief, even if he found him among whatever slums or rookeries sheltered him. Dangerous places to go. But God knew Piers needed a purpose to get through the darkness and right now he didn’t much care which end of that darkness took him. He would try.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, and after a few moments emitted a small, harsh laugh. Why not? Why in hell not?
Hortensia, Dowager Lady Petteril, left her old home rather faster than she had entered it so blithely only minutes before. Unaccountably ruffled by her encounter with her husband’s nephew, she was conscious largely of grief and alarm.
Since she had not troubled to take the carriage, she walked straight round to Mount Street, where resided her elder, married daughter Maria, Lady Gadsby.
Maria was discovered writing letters in the morning room, though she looked up quickly when her mother was announced. “Mama. You are abroad early.”
“Not early enough,” Hortensia said grimly. “Where is Jeremy?”
“In bed. He never rises before eleven.”
On a good day. “Did he take the necklace?”
“What necklace? Take it where?”
“The Petteril necklace, of course.”
There was a short silence. “Don’t be silly, Mama,” Maria said impatiently. She had already returned her attention to her letter.
“It’s gone,” Hortensia informed her. “And Piers is in residence.”
At that, Maria’s pen paused. Her back was rigid with disapproval. She placed her pen in the stand and finally turned in the chair to face Hortensia. “Is he indeed? I expect he took it then. Why do you care? It’s his now, and it’s not as if any of us actually likes it.”
“It is worth a fortune.”
Maria stared at her in sudden indignation, her colour suddenly high. “So you assume Jeremy took it? Perhaps he staked it in a casual card game!”
Annoyed, Hortensia felt a faint flush rise to her own cheeks. “You have grown sarcastic since your marriage. It is not an attractive trait. Of course, I did not imagine anything of the kind, but if he has borrowed it for any purpose, I need to know.”
“How could he even get in? The house is locked up and I gave you the keys back days ago. If you really think someone broke in and took it, try my cousin Bertie. It is he who bears quite the grudge about Piers inheriting the title.”
“Perhaps I shall send a note round to him,” Hortensia said thoughtfully, for though Bertie was the son of her husband’s youngest brother, he was several years older than Piers, the son of the middle brother. And Bertie resented the fact, quite vocally on occasion. “Call this afternoon and we shall discuss it. Bring Jeremy.”
“I can’t this afternoon, Mama. I’m promised to Caroline Jeffries.”
Hortensia frowned. “I cannot like Mrs. Jeffries. I wish you would not spend so much time with her.”
“Don’t be silly, Mama, she is received everywhere. You would like her if you had ever met her.”
“Oh, I have met her,” Hortensia said. She had to bite her lip, to remind herself that there was really no crisis. Even the necklace was Piers’s problem and yet stupid tears threatened. Nothing had gone right since poor John’s death in Portugal. Since then, she had buried her other son and her husband, and it seemed that only anger kept her alive.
“I have not laid eyes on Piers in five years or more,” Maria said, deliberately changing the subject, Hortensia suspected. “What is he like now?”
Hortensia curled her lip. “Just the same. Stupid. Helpless. Annoying.”
Maria smiled. “Mama, he cannot be stupid—”
“In any sense that matters to us, he is,” Hortensia maintained. “Completely lacking in understanding, social grace, manners, quickness of wit...”
“I remember him being quite quick,” Maria said, frowning as though in an effort of memory. “And funny, actually. There was one day we were all at Petteril House, dressing up in the attic and rehearsing this silly play we had made up. Piers actually seemed to turn into his character, had us all in stitches...” Her smile faded. “Until George realized he wasn’t the centre of attention and the play got lost.”
