The Gentleman and the Thief (The Dread Penny Society #2) - Sarah M. Eden Page 0,14

chicken or two for a reasonable price. With her basket heavy laden, she made her way down once-familiar streets, followed at every turn by memories and regrets. If any of the residents of the increasingly fine houses she passed recognized her, none said as much nor stopped her for a bit of reminiscing.

She reached the faded blue door on St. George’s Road that she had once walked through every day and, using the old brass key she kept with her, let herself inside. The parquet floors in the entryway were dull and covered in a thin layer of dust. The faint trail of footsteps were hers, ghosts from a previous visit. She closed the door behind her and turned the bolt. Light filtered in through the dingy, arched transom window.

The doors she passed as she crossed the entryway were closed, as they had been for years. She climbed the once-carpeted stairs to the first-floor landing. It too had suffered the ill effects of neglect. The beautifully carved molding no longer drew the eye or elicited admiration. The house had once been a jewel; now it was a shell.

Ana stepped through the first door at the top of the landing, the only room still in use other than the kitchen. A tall, broad man at the far end of fifty sat in a straight-backed chair near the empty fireplace. He looked up as she stepped inside. He rose and crossed to her, took the basket of food, and left the room. The interaction was well known to them both.

She continued to the window seat, where another man, younger but more gaunt than the first, sat on the cushionless bench, looking out over St. George’s Road.

He wore a tattered dressing gown over his threadbare clothes, several years out of fashion. His hair stuck out in all directions, clean but unkempt. He’d not shaved that morning, likely not the morning before either. His eyes were wide, anxious. A less charitable person might have insisted there was madness there. Ana knew better. He was not of unsound mind. He had simply given up on life.

“Good evening, Father.”

“Mr. Thompson has been out at all hours. Up to nothing good. Society’ll forgive him though, mark my words.” His voice didn’t hold quite the flavor of Mr. Walker’s, but he’d never fully mastered the accent of the upper class. Mother had been better at that, and she’d insisted Ana behave and speak properly.

“Mr. Thompson doesn’t usually garner your notice.” Ana crossed to the small bedside table in the corner. It had once resided in Mother’s rooms, its drawers proving a convenient place to store baubles. “What has our neighbor done differently today?”

“Not just today. He’s in and out at all hours.”

“Yes, you said that.” She opened the top drawer and pushed aside a few folded handkerchiefs and light wraps. They had been Mother’s more serviceable ones. Her finer silks and embroidered linens had been lost when Father’s company faltered. “Many ladies and gentlemen are out late attending balls and soirees and such. No doubt, the Thompsons are simply doing the same.”

Father stood and leaned closer to the window, his forehead nearly touching the glass. “He stumbles in. I’d wager the bruiser’s drunk.”

That was strange. Ana had known Mr. Thompson during her growing-up years. He was not a bounder nor a drunkard. Indeed, she’d always admired him, considered him an example of the sort of gentleman she would like to someday have as a permanent part of her life. She hoped he was not actually involved in anything disreputable. She’d been disillusioned enough the past three years.

“I attended a musicale two nights ago,” she said as she pulled a small box from the back of the drawer to the front. “I played my violin.”

His bushy brows drew together. He watched her a moment, as if sorting out what she’d said. “You were engaged as an entertainer?”

She often dug through this particular drawer. Father neither seemed to notice nor worry about it. “No, Father. I was there as a guest. Most Society musicales call upon the guests themselves to provide music.”

He turned from the window, but his gaze wandered around the room rather than settling on her. “Were you looked down on?”

“No. I cannot say anyone was beside themselves with excitement to see me, but I was not treated poorly.”

Father rubbed a hand over his forehead, leaving behind a smudge. “It wasn’t my fault—you losing your place among them.”

“I know. Mr. Darby says Society is fickle. I think he