An Honourable Thief. Anne Gracie

Horse and master were pleasantly weary.

      He passed the homes of several acquaintances and cast a casual eye over the dark and silent buildings.

      Suddenly he stiffened. A shadow moved out of one of the tall mullioned windows on to a small balcony jutting from an upper storey of a large grey mansion nearby. There was something furtive, stealthy in the movement that attracted Hugo’s attention. He reined Sultan to a silent halt.

      It was Pennington House, the home of Lord and Lady Pennington. Hugo knew the family slightly: Lord Pennington was a member of the Government, a stern, slightly pompous man in his early sixties; Lady Pennington was a prominent member of society. Their son, Hugo believed, was an intimate of his nephew, Thomas.

      Shadowy figures ought not to be appearing from darkened windows of the homes of Government members at three in the morning, thought Hugo. This could well be a matter of national security. The war was over, but that did not mean there were no more Government secrets to be stolen and sold. There were always secrets.

      Hugo watched intently, his eyes squinted against the glow thrown out by the gas lamp in front of the house. He cursed it silently. The bright glare made it very difficult to make out the figure behind the lamp—all he could see was a silhouette.

      As he watched, the figure climbed on to the carved stone balustrade, paused for a moment and then leapt out into the air. Hugo’s breath caught—the thief would surely plummet to his death—but no. He clung to the next balcony like a monkey and climbed up. He was an agile little devil, thought Hugo.

      He ought to go and rouse the household, to pound on the front door until someone came. But by that time, the thief would be gone. No, he would try to catch the scoundrel himself.

      He watched as the miscreant shimmied skilfully up one of the shallow carved columns which graced the front of the house—not at all an easy task, as a man who had spent his boyhood climbing around the upper reaches of ships and masts well knew. He admired the agility and skill of the rascal, even as he resolved to foil him.

      The thief clambered onto a low roof and disappeared around a corner. Hugo followed, wincing at the slight clatter that Sultans hooves made on the cobbles. He hesitated, then slipped off his horse, tied him to a nearby lamp-post and ran into the narrow alleyway which bordered the house.

      It was difficult to see the scoundrel. There was only the occasional flickering of movement against the grey stone of the house, the faint scrap of a foot on a slate tile. Then a shadow moved swiftly and lightly along the roof that ran along the back part of the house and for a moment, the scoundrel’s silhouette was clearly visible in the soft golden glow the gas lanterns cast against the night sky.

      Hugo frowned at the silhouette; it was strange and yet somehow familiar. The intruder wore loose baggy clothing, shapeless pants and a baggy tunic. He wore some sort of cap on his head, and something flapped against his back. An elusive thread of memory twitched in Hugo’s mind, but he was entirely focussed on the thief’s actions and did not pursue the thought.

      The thief leapt lightly off the roof and landed cat-footed, on all fours, balanced on the high stone wall which surrounded Pennington House. He swung his legs over the wall and prepared to drop down.

      Hugo raced to intercept him. Just as the thief hit the ground, he threw himself forward in a tackle, catching the thief around the legs.

      “Aiee-ya!” The thief kicked out, hard, breaking Hugo’s hold.

      “Oof!” Hugo, winded, but determined, grabbed again at the intruder. They rolled on the filthy cobblestones and as he clutched at the loose baggy clothing, he caught a whiff of a scent: strong, foreign, familiar.

      The thief was wearing a black skull-cap pulled down over his head and dark muffler wrapped around the lower part of his face. All Hugo could see were his eyes, glinting fiercely in the gaslight. He caught hold of a skinny arm and—

      “Aiee-ya!” It was as if a blunt axe had landed on his wrist. Hugo swore and let go, and in a flash the thief pulled free, rolled away from him on the cobblestones and raced swiftly along the alley. A long black pigtail bounced lightly against his back as he ran.

      Hugo scrambled to his feet and gave chase.

      As he rounded a corner there was a flurry of hooves. He threw himself against a wall as a brown horse bore down on him, a small figure clinging nimbly to its back. Horse and rider passed under the gaslight and Hugo gasped in surprise.

      The thief was a Chinaman. The cry he had used was peculiarly Chinese. Hugo had heard coolies use it abroad. He’d not expected to hear it in London. And the clothes were unmistakable—the typical loose baggy dark indigo pants and tunic, a round black embroidered cap and most obvious of all, the long black pigtail hanging down the length of the thief’s back, bouncing and flying as the horse rounded a corner and disappeared.

      Of course! No wonder the silhouette had looked odd and yet familiar. And that was where he’d smelt that scent before—in a Chinese joss house! It was some kind of incense, sandalwood perhaps.

      But good God! What would a Chinaman want with the secrets of an English Government member?

      Panting slightly, rubbing his sore wrist and feeling rather foolish for having been bested by a man so much smaller and lighter than himself, Hugo limped back to the front door of Pennington House and braced himself to rouse the household.

      He glanced up at the gas lamps at the front of the house. They were supposed to reduce crime in London; all they’d done was make it more difficult for him. The scarf had hidden most of the rascal’s face, but those damned gas-lamps distorted everything. He’d caught a glimpse of the thief’s eyes—but in them he’d seen only the reflected blue flames of the gaslight and whoever had heard of a blue-eyed Chinaman!

      He gripped the knocker and pounded on the Penningtons’ front door.

      “Miserable blinkin’ weather. I’d forgotten about the miserable blinkin’ weather. That’s London for you!”

      Kit glanced at the sour countenance of her maid, who was peering gloomily out of the window.

      “Rain, rain all the blinkin’ time—and then, when it does finally stop, what do you get?—blinkin’ fog! However did I stand it when I was young?”

      Kit tried not to smile. “Never mind, Maggie dear, we need not stay here forever, you know.”

      Maggie snorted and picked up the woollen stocking she had been darning. “You can’t gull me, Miss Mischief. You’ve always hankered after a home of your own, and now we’re finally home in England—”

      “But that’s just it, Maggie,” Kit interrupted, frowning. “I’m not home. I wasn’t even born in England. I don’t belong here, any more than—”

      “What do you mean, you’re not home? O’ course you’re home!”

      Kit smiled a little ruefully. “No. I’m not. I have no family here—no family anywhere. I’m living amongst strangers here, just as I always have.”

      “Nonsense! No family? What about your auntie? Miss Rose is—”

      Kit blinked in surprise. “Maggie, I thought you realised.”

      Maggie frowned. “Realised what?”

      Kit pulled a wry face. “Rose is no aunt of mine. Papa had no kin. She is—or was—one of Papa’s friends. You’ve met a dozen of my ‘aunts’ before.”

      Maggie frowned. “I dunno, Miss Kit, Miss Rose doesn’t seem like one of those types. Your pa was always interested in more, more…”

      Kit smiled. “More glamorous females? Yes, but it has been more than twenty years since he last saw Rose. Much can change in that time and Rose may well have been quite a dasher in her youth—”

      Maggie stopped her with an emphatic gesture. “We’ll not discuss your pa and his hussies. Scandalous, it was!” She lifted a long white frock in delicate muslin and carefully laid it on the