The Gentleman Thief. Deborah Simmons

as I said, I narrowed it down to three likely candidates,” Georgiana explained, pleased to have the opportunity to expound upon her theories. “At first, I considered Ashdowne—”

      “Lord Ashdowne? The Marquis of Ashdowne?” Jeffries stopped to gape at her until Georgiana was forced to nudge him forward once more.

      When they were walking again, she continued. “I admit that he seems less likely now, but I cannot shake the feeling that he is up to something, for he is hardly the sort to frequent Bath. I ask you, why would a healthy man such as he claim to be in need of the waters?” Georgiana said. Immediately, she regretted her words as a blush climbed her cheeks. All too well, she recalled just how healthy—and hard and muscular-was Ashdowne.

      Jeffries, apparently mollified, smiled slightly. “It’s been my experience, miss, that it’s nigh impossible to figure out the ton and their doings.”

      Georgiana nodded, although she thought his admission a sad commentary on his skills, for it was his job to discover motivations and such. Still, a man so aware of his own shortcomings might be more amenable to assistance than someone more arrogant, Georgiana mused, and she stepped alongside him with increasing assurance.

      “Be that as it may, I have dismissed him as a suspect, for he became most interested in the investigation. He offered to assist me and is watching the culprit’s house even as we speak,” Georgiana said. Or so she hoped.

      “Did he now?”

      Georgiana thought she caught a sly grin on the taciturn man’s face, but she ignored it, not wishing to enter into any further discussion of the marquis. She had lain awake long enough last night thinking about Ashdowne and his kisses, and she had concluded that it was a good thing the Bow Street Runner had arrived to close the investigation.

      Her association with her one and only assistant would soon be at an end, effectively eliminating the need for any further contact with the incredibly handsome nobleman. Although Georgiana had to admit to a certain amount of pleasure in his company, he was just too much of a threat to her senses. Why, she could hardly think when he was near, and that would not do at all for someone who delighted in mental exercise.

      No. Ashdowne was too much of a distraction even now, Georgiana mused as she forced her errant thoughts back to the matter at hand. She held up three fingers and immediately ticked off one, then another. “I also had my suspicions about a certain Mr. Hawkins, late of Yorkshire,” she confided.

      “Did you now?” Jeffries asked, and Georgiana was pleased to note the Bow Street Runner’s increased interest.

      “Yes. He is in town looking for a new living, and—”

      Jeffries cut her off with a startled sound. “You’re accusing a vicar?”

      “Well, yes,” Georgiana admitted. “For the most part, I’m certain that those who choose a religious life are above reproach, but, alas, I am equally sure that some commit the same sins as lesser men. And Mr. Hawkins is no ordinary vicar,” Georgiana explained. “I have talked to him twice now, and his speech on both occasions struck me as most peculiar.”

      Georgiana leaned closer to her companion to impart her information more confidentially. “He harbors a grudge against the rich that cannot be put down to mere envy. And since he is looking for a new post, I would imagine he is in need of funds.”

      “You’re saying a man of the cloth sneaked into Lady Culpepper’s bedroom, stole the necklace and climbed out the window?” Jeffries asked, his expression dubious.

      “Why not?” Georgiana returned, straightening to her full diminutive height. “I tell you, he has something against the wealthy in general, if not Lady Culpepper in particular.”

      To her immense gratification, Jeffries turned thoughtful. “I see. But you have since changed your mind about him?”

      “Not really. It is simply that I have found a far more likely culprit,” Georgiana declared. Nodding to a passing couple, she inched closer to Jeffries and spoke in a low tone as she pressed upon her third outstretched digit. “On the night of the theft, I overheard two men plotting most suspiciously. One of them I recognized immediately as Lord Whalsey, and the other I have identified as a Mr. Cheever.”

      “Lord Whalsey?” Jeffries echoed with a groan. “Pardon me, miss, but must all your suspects be noblemen or churchmen? Don’t tell me! Let me guess. This fellow’s a bloody duke, isn’t he?”

      Georgiana was disturbed, not by Jeffries’s language, which was undoubtedly the cant of the streets, but by his accusation. She lifted her chin. “I assure you that I did not choose these men for their titles,” she said. “And besides, Whalsey is only a viscount with pockets to let, driving him to engineer the commission of a crime.”

      Jeffries shook his head, an unhappy look on his plain features. “First you accuse a marquis, then a vicar, and now a viscount. Miss, I do believe you have a most lively imagination.”

      Georgiana blinked in dismay, for she sensed she was losing him. “Are you suggesting that such persons never venture onto the wrong side of the law?” she asked.

      “No, miss,” he replied.

      “Then you must hear me out! I tell you, I did not search for Whalsey and his cohort. Quite by accident I fell upon them hatching their scheme.” And as precisely as she could recall, Georgiana related her experience behind the large potted plant, leaving out the calamitous entanglement with Ashdowne, of course.

      She was a bit disappointed that Jeffries did not take notes and resolved to suggest that course to him later, but in the meantime she was determined to convince him of the truth of her conclusions. And so she told him about her confrontation with the viscount in the Pump Room.

      They had nearly reached that center of Bath by the time she had finished, and she had the distinct pleasure of watching him lift a hand to rub his chin in contemplation. “It sounds bad, miss, but I can hardly march up to his lordship without more evidence.”

      “But surely you can question him at least!” Georgiana protested. The interrogative talents of the Bow Street men were legendary. “I am certain that he would confess in a thrice!”

      “I don’t know, miss,” Jeffries said, shaking his head again, and Georgiana was seized by a fit of temper. All her life she had been faced with skeptics and scoffers, but she had never expected this professional to doubt her. He was one of the best! He was one of her heroes! How could he not take her seriously?

      Georgiana turned on him, prepared to demand that he at least speak with Whalsey before it was too late. She swung her reticule back and forth, tempted to use it to knock some sense into his wooden head, but she was uncertain as to the penalty for striking an official of the law. Fortunately, she was saved from that desperate choice by the sound of her name.

      “Ah, Miss Bellewether. I see that you are busy already this morning.”

      Ashdowne! Never had Georgiana thought she would welcome the presence of the marquis, for she had accepted his assistance of necessity, but now…now she felt like throwing herself into his strong arms. Her happiness must have shown on her face, for he hesitated a moment as if startled by her enthusiasm, before smiling smoothly.

      “Ashdowne! I am so glad you are here!”

      “So I gathered,” he said, bending over her hand with a wry expression. “To what may I attribute this sudden delight in my company?”

      Ignoring the way he set her pulse pounding, Georgiana tugged her fingers free and gestured toward Jeffries. “My lord, this is Wilson Jeffries, a Bow Street Runner who is investigating the theft of Lady Culpepper’s necklace.”

      “Jeffries.” Ashdowne acknowledged the man with a nod. “But what is there to investigate? Surely you have given him the benefit of your expertise?” he asked Georgiana, lifting one dark brow.

      Georgiana was uncertain for a moment whether he was teasing her, but he appeared expectant. “Well, yes,