The Gentleman and the Thief (The Dread Penny Society #2) - Sarah M. Eden Page 0,9

dog.”

Fletcher brushed that off with a smirk.

“She’s sure the bracelet was stolen during the musicale?” Hollis pressed. “It seems more likely she simply thought she’d put the bracelet on but didn’t. It’s probably at her house.”

“She says it ain’t.”

“Where does Mrs. Sudworth live?” Fletcher asked.

“Portland Place.” Hollis was not merely their resident party attender, he was also their address book of the influential.

“And where did we last track our little thiefling?” Fletcher asked.

“Marylebone,” Stone said.

In near perfect unison, they all nodded. Portland Place happened to be in the Marylebone area.

“We have to find that girl.” Fletcher never sounded more worried than he did when fretting over one of his urchins.

“Getting more notice?” Stone asked.

Fletcher nodded. “My urchins are calling her the Phantom Fox. Slipping in and out of even the busiest fine houses, making off with jewels and silver snuffboxes. Never gets caught. Never even gets seen. The baby girl’s good, but she’s frying fish too big for her pan, and she’s going to get burned.”

Stone motioned ahead of them with a jut of his chin. “Our mark.”

Huddled beside a fishmonger’s cart, a ragged urchin, likely not yet seven years old, sat with his head hung, not looking at anyone who passed. They’d heard, thanks to the gossip of a few different muffin-wallopers and tea-talkers, that he was being starved and beaten by the monger who’d obtained him as an unpaid work boy. The law let masters treat their apprentices as badly as they chose. The Dreadfuls allowed no such thing.

Stone wandered down a side path, serving as lookout. Fletcher browsed the flowers on a nearby cart. Hollis approached the fishmonger, assuming an air of importance and prosperity. He eyed the fish with a critical eye.

“I’ve a fine catch this morning,” the man said, motioning to a collection of river eel too slimy to have been caught within the last twenty-four hours. Hollis would be making no purchase, and not merely because his purpose in the mission was to distract the man.

“Anything other than eel?” he asked. “I’m not certain I trust eel from the Thames. It always seems to leave me green around the gills, as it were.”

“Not my eels, guv’nuh.”

“Tell me about them.” It was not a request. Until he’d been required to “play” the role of fine gentleman, Hollis hadn’t realized what a collection of puffed-up peacocks his fellow rung dwellers really were.

Beside him, Fletcher had hunched down next to the ragged child, completely hidden from the fishmonger’s view. Fletcher had a way with the children. He had once been an urchin himself, after all. If Hollis kept the boy’s master distracted long enough, Fletcher would slip him away. Stone would hang behind to make certain they weren’t followed. Hollis would depart in a different direction.

While the scraggly man, whose odor rivaled that of his goods, waxed oddly poetic about his putrid fish, Hollis kept track of the others. Fletcher made off with the little boy during the portion of Hollis’s eel-choosing lesson that covered the importance of bait. Stone followed their path as Hollis was learning about the man’s theory on keeping fresh-caught fish fresh, the efficacy of which was called into question by the contents of his own cart.

“I will consider it.” Hollis dropped the disingenuous remark—he’d also come to a harsh realization of how dishonest upper-class people could be—and went on his way. He’d every intention of exiting the market and doubling back to headquarters to debrief with Stone since Fletcher would be gone for a while taking the little boy to one of their safe houses.

But he didn’t get that far. Randolph along with his wife, Cora, and their children, Eloise and Addison, were standing among the flower carts directly between him and his path out. It was a good thing Hollis was alone. His brother knew of and grudgingly accepted his friendship with Fletcher but had made clear his preference that his wife and children not be “exposed” to Fletcher’s less-than-pristine manners and style of speaking. Heaven only knew what his reaction would be to Stone. Hollis didn’t particularly care to find out.

He slipped a coin to the first flower seller he passed and purchased a small handful of pansies. With quick and quiet step, he managed to sneak up on his eight-year-old niece. Bending low enough to be nearly eye level with her, he offered the flowers. “For you, my dear.”

“Uncle Hollis!” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I asked Father ‘Do you suppose we’ll see Uncle Hollis at Covent