The Richmond Thief Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Also by the author:

  Murderers and Nerdy Girls Work Late

  Bombers and Nerdy Girls Do Brunch

  Kidnappers and Nerdy Girls Tie the Knot

  “Kept afloat by a plucky heroine, like a yuppie version of Stephanie Plum.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  And Hell Made Easy, the first book in the Trilogy from Hell

  For all of the Jane Austen fanatics in my family.

  CONTENTS

  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 Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Too much cannot be written about the frailties of the fairer sex. Among the many recognized by all educated societies, I must add a note related to the scientific method. It has been my experience, reinforced by rigorous inquiry, that females do not have the robust mental processes required for the hard labors of scientific investigation.

  —Lord Ephraim Randolph Booth, “Observations on the Scientific Method,” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, August 1809

  Despite Lord Ephraim’s learned observation, Althea leaned against the end of the old-fashioned settle, her head propped in her hand, reading the second volume of The Natural History of British Insects. Her sister-in-law, Jane, having succumbed to slumber after a very trying day, was gently dozing on the settle opposite her. This was how they usually spent their evenings in Dettamoor Park, and Lady Althea Trent did not see any reason why a freak spring snow, a broken carriage axle, and a forced refuge at a small shabby inn, incongruously named The Swan, should destroy their routine.

  Althea shifted her position, rustling the folds of her black bombazine dress. It was still damp from her unfortunate fall into a snowbank, but that was what she deserved for leaping out of the carriage without waiting for assistance. She’d caught sight of a rare warbler on a tree branch above her. The bird did not wait for her to extricate herself from the snow but flew off in haste in the opposite direction. Fortunately, bombazine appeared to be designed for reckless widows. No amount of abuse ever seemed to affect its matte gloom.

  Althea had been a widow for something over two years, but she hadn’t yet thrown off the somber dresses. Black bombazine allowed her the freedom to conduct her daily observations, to tromp over the muddy fields of the park, to sit on the grassy slopes for specimen drawing, and even to wade into the lake for aquatic experiments with perfect equanimity. Lately, she had begun an examination of the mating behaviors of the speckled green frogs that lived contentedly among the bulrushes. She also continued to work most diligently on a treatise of the life cycle of the flesh-eating beetles that had consumed the last days of her dying husband. And probably her husband as well, now that she came to think of it.

  It was Arthur’s fondest wish to see the treatise published, but illness took him too soon. Instead, his notes lay bundled together, ready to be recopied into Althea’s fine hand. If she were a man, she would be able to complete the work—or, better yet, improve upon her husband’s solid but uninspiring theses—and submit it to the Royal Society. However, it seemed a hopeless business for a member of the weaker sex. Particularly when powerful members of the Royal Society, such as Lord Ephraim, seemed set against the very idea that women were as fit as men for scientific inquiry. And yet Althea couldn’t put the idea entirely out of her mind. It gnawed at her until she knew that she must at least make the attempt. A fortuitous invitation from her husband’s cousin to visit the family in London had provided the perfect opportunity to try her luck.

  Besides, she could use a break from the seemingly endless number of men hanging around Somerset in search of a rich wife. How dear departed Arthur would have laughed to see her—the plain and studious Althea—a modern Penelope, beset on all sides by suitors. Unfortunately, no handsome Odysseus had yet appeared, so Althea had been forced to improvise all sorts of tricks to repel them.

  The widow’s weeds assisted her with this task. And she’d acquired a reputation for determined devotion to her lost spouse. A sigh and a pitiful look cast upward was usually enough to shame even the most ardent suitor. Although Squire Pettigrew, a ponderous young man whose sense of his importance went beyond what family prominence and ability should warrant, was without remedy.

  Fortunately, dramatics and black bombazine would likely not be required in the drawing rooms of the great metropolis. Although Althea had heard tales of the lengths to which some fortune-hunting men would go to secure a prosperous bride, she wasn’t beautiful or titled enough to tempt the fashionable men of Cousin Bella’s set. And she was sure that her cousins would prevent her from falling prey to the more unscrupulous characters. As she understood it, Bella had three sons: two on the town, the Earl of Bingham and Lord Charles Carlton, and one fighting in Spain, Colonel Augustus Carlton, who might return at any moment to the delights of society. Althea reasoned that with two, or perhaps three, such escorts, she might pass her time in London unmolested and free to pursue her quest for publication with the Royal Society.

  And dear Jane would always lend assistance. She was the ostensible reason Althea had thrown off her comforts to venture forth on a London expedition to the house of Arthur’s cousins. Jane fondly remembered her own years upon the town, before her brother’s ill health and scientific eccentricities had forced her into country retirement. Cousin Bella’s fortuitous marriage and present exalted position would ensure that Althea and Jane met only the best people—the noble and envied members of the ton. Bella could be counted on to live in a whirl of social activity, and it would be lovely to see Jane in the middle of it all, happy again.

  Althea closed the book, stood up, and shook out the folds of her skirt. She lifted a still-damp boot to the warmth of the fire. Then, leaning her slight frame against the mantel, she stared into the flames, wondering what Arthur would make of their journey. Although theirs was no love match, she had come to respect Arthur as a man as much as she’d always respected his alarming intellect. His judgment had been unerring, even in the unusual selection of the daughter of his physician to be the second Lady Trent.

  Althea longed for her husband’s steady guidance more than ever. And she did not just have herself to guide. Young Arthur, showing signs of precocious intelligence, had been sent to study with Mr. Pellham. Althea already missed him terribly. Perhaps when this London adventure was over, Mr. Pellham would spare him to visit Althea for a month’s vacation at Dettamoor Park. How lovely that would be!

&n
bsp; The door to the coffee room opened suddenly, and Althea jumped back.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” the stranger said, startled himself. He was a tall man, something beyond middle age, but still powerfully built. He was dressed in the manner of a country gentleman, with high boots, buckskin breeches, and a loose-fitting coat, with a rumpled drab greatcoat thrown over his shoulders. Powdery snow clung to his hair and clothes.

  Although Althea was naturally wary of men who arrived at shabby inns at night, she tried to disguise her fear. “No matter, sir. You’ve just caught me in a moment of reverie. Do come warm yourself by the fire. You must be fearfully cold after venturing forth on a night like this.” She grabbed the iron poker, just in case she would have to use it, and moved to stand by the settle where Jane continued her uninterrupted slumber.

  “I thank you kindly, madam. ’Tis a wicked night to be sure.” He removed his greatcoat, threw it over a chair pulled up to the round table on the other side of the room, and advanced to the fireplace.

  Althea walked back to the fire and made a show of sticking the poker in the flames. If he came near her, he would get a red-hot poker in the face.

  However, the man did not seem to be troubled by her actions. Instead, he gave her a short bow. “James Read, at your service.”

  Upon closer inspection, Althea could see a certain level of disorder in Mr. Read’s dress. His waistcoat was without a bottom button, and his breeches were not entirely free from mottled stains at the knees. He pulled on the cravat at his throat, loosening its wrinkled folds, and Althea pushed the poker farther into the fire.

  She bobbed her head in reply. “Lady Trent. And this is my dear sister, Miss Trent, who, as you can see, is quite the worse for wear this evening.”

  She studied Mr. Read another moment. Although disordered, his coat was clearly cut by an expert tailor. Such a tailor was not likely to be seen outside of London. This implied that he too was an unusual visitor for an establishment such as The Swan. Besides, the name struck her as familiar.

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Are you not Magistrate Read of Bow Street fame?”

  “I am magistrate of Bow Street. May I infer that your ladyship is a reader of the London periodicals?”

  Althea met his gaze squarely with her large brown eyes. “Only the most sensational ones, I assure you. My home is in Somerset, so we receive the Hue and Cry when it is rumpled and out of date to the rest of the world.” She left the poker and sat down, leaning back against the smooth wood of the settle. “Nonetheless, the exploits of Bow Street occupied many a fine evening. My late husband was particularly interested in the scientific aspects of criminal detection.”

  Mr. Read sat down upon the opposite seat. He picked up Althea’s book, a frown between his brows. “I see you have been occupied with more than just the periodicals.” He handed her the book.

  “Oh yes, I find the natural world fascinating. One can learn so much about the human condition by studying plants and animals.”

  “And insects?”

  Althea tried to repress a smile. “Most definitely. Take, for example, the bees. The queen manages the whole enterprise without once leaving her cozy throne. That is a metaphor for any number of women of my acquaintance.”

  “Is it indeed? But your ladyship is an unusual woman to draw the connection.”

  “We are not all of us flighty insubstantial beings, Mr. Read. My husband was a Fellow of the Royal Society, and although his health did not permit him to travel much, he was able to prepare quite a number of valuable monographs. I naturally assisted him with these efforts. Perhaps you have chanced to read A Comprehensive Study of the Beetles of Somerset or An Examination of the Toads of England?” Mr. Read shook his head, an amused smile playing about his grizzled mouth. “No? Well, they were both very fine in their way and quite worth the effort. I drew the illustrations, so perhaps I am not a fair judge, but several of the Society members were quite effusive in their praise.”

  “I’m sure the monographs are above reproach. Unfortunately, I am not a man of science and so may not be able to appreciate their worth.”

  Althea frowned. “I can see I am prattling on quite abominably when you are probably wishing to enjoy the warmth of the fire in peace.”

  “No, Lady Trent, nothing can be farther from the truth. I asked our good host before I came in here to bring me a hot rum punch and would like nothing better than to continue this conversation over a glass. Or perhaps a lighter beverage? A ratafia? Or wine? Although I can’t vouch for it being above vinegar in a place like this.”

  Althea wrinkled her nose. “We met with a series of vexing delays on our way to London, else we should not have stopped here. I gave Mrs. Nelson strict instructions about the airing of sheets, so I shall keep hope alive until the bitter end.”

  Mr. Read smiled. “Then perhaps the punch would be safest.”

  As if on cue, Mr. Nelson appeared with a bowl of steaming liquid. “Ah, Lady Trent,” he said in surprise. “I had thought you retired for the evening.”

  Althea held up the book. “I have been unaccountably detained, but please let your kind mistress know that Miss Trent and I shall retire shortly.”

  Mr. Nelson set the bowl on the table, all affability and obsequiousness. “Very good, Lady Trent. Shall I fetch another glass?”

  Mr. Read looked at Althea for confirmation. She nodded.

  “I won’t be but a moment now,” Mr. Nelson said earnestly, and he scurried out of the room.

  Mr. Read went to the table, and Althea followed. He moved the ladle around and around the liquid, seemingly lost in thought.

  Althea watched his profile for a moment and then said, “I think you must be working on some very difficult crime at the moment. Perhaps something in this vicinity, which takes you to undesirable inns? Whenever I have to wrestle with knotty issues, I always find that speaking aloud helps the mind fit the pieces into place.”

  Mr. Read looked up, surprised.

  Althea arched her brows, but said nothing.

  “Your ladyship is too quick by half. Here, madam.” He ladled a cup of the steaming brew into the glass and handed it to her.

  Mr. Nelson appeared with another glass on a tray and then disappeared just as quickly, walking backward out the door, doubled over in a bow.

  “That fellow will do himself a mischief walking like that.” Mr. Read poured a glass of rum punch and held it aloft. “To your ladyship’s health.”

  “Very pretty, sir.” She took a sip. To her great surprise, the punch was extremely well blended, sweet, and intoxicating.

  Mr. Read pulled out a chair and gestured for her to be seated at the table. She complied and then settled her black skirts and sipped her punch.

  He took the seat opposite her. “Indeed, madam, you are correct. I have been deep in thought.”

  “Given your dress, you have also been enjoying the delights of a country house,” she said.

  He nodded. “I ought to be closer to London by now, but I got a late start this afternoon, and the weather overset all my plans.”

  “And those plans are? Or perhaps you do not care to confide in a stranger?”

  “We had word that the Richmond Thief was to strike again at Lord Woolwich’s estate not ten miles from here. But either it was a false report or word of our intention must have leaked. There was no robbery.”

  “The Richmond Thief?”

  “If you have heard of Bow Street, you must also have heard of him. He is the most cunning, most devious jewel thief of our times.”

  “Despite my perusal of the Hue and Cry, I’m afraid the exploits of the Richmond Thief are quite unknown to me.”

  “Then perhaps I should not enlighten your ladyship. I would not want to worry you unnecessarily.”

  “No, sir, please do. I have never had the beauty to wear much jewelry, so I have no fear of thieves, even very clever ones.”

  Mr. Read smiled, causing deep wrinkles to form all the way up his cheeks. “The Richmond Thief steals
into houses and comes out again without leaving a trace of his presence. The jewels are simply gone.”

  “They cannot be traced? Although the settings may be changed, fine gems must always be recognizable.”

  “We think he carries them abroad for sale.”

  “Ah. Very difficult in these uncertain times, but then Mr. Bonaparte has an exquisite court to maintain.” She paused, considering the matter. “If the thief leaves no trace, then how can you be certain that it is the Richmond Thief? Perhaps there are several thieves working in tandem.”

  “It has been my experience that where there is more than one, they eventually come to blows. The Richmond Thief has successfully eluded capture these two years or more. It is the care with which he steals that marks his crimes. He is so very neat that there is no sign of entry, and nothing but jewelry is ever taken.”

  “A puzzle indeed. Why is he called the Richmond Thief?”

  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Richmond, was the first victim. A fine pair of ruby earrings, just purchased from the jeweler, went missing the night of a masked ball.”

  “Then she was a simpleton for leaving her jewelry box unlocked.”

  “Unlocked? No, no. The thief took the jeweler’s box as well.”

  “So he does take something besides the jewels.”

  Mr. Read nodded ruefully. “I stand corrected.”

  At that moment, Jane stirred and opened her eyes. She looked at the pair sitting cozily over the bowl of punch. Her eyes narrowed. “Althea, dear?”

  Althea recognized the beginning of a scold. “Yes, Jane, I know we should retire. I sent Sally up to prepare for us. Magistrate Read, may I present my sister, Miss Trent?”

  Jane struggled up stiffly out of the seat. She was a tall woman with a long straight nose and high cheekbones. Although still called handsome by her acquaintances, Jane’s fine features were somewhat counteracted by a piercing look and a sharp tongue that she had not sought to curb once marooned at Dettamoor Park.