The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,2
his to give!”
“That’s the bad news,” Chloe agreed. She affected an innocent expression. “The good news is that my ‘Jane Brown’ alias has an invitation to Miss York’s weekly ladies’ reading circle. I met her when I was on that mission at the dreadful school for girls. Philippa was visiting with a charity group and—you know what? It doesn’t matter. The important part is, I have access to the home where the painting will be. It’s our chance!”
Her brother pinned her with his too-perceptive gaze. “You accidentally bumped into the Duke of Faircliffe’s future intended and now have a standing invitation into her household? That’s a bit of good fortune.”
“Er…yes.” Chloe became suddenly enthralled by her tea. “A very lucky, completely random coincidence.”
It was definitely not because she read the same gossip columns as her brother and wanted to see for herself what kind of woman attracted the Duke of Faircliffe’s attention.
Chloe had passed by him any number of times—not that he noticed. He didn’t even acknowledge her when she’d placed herself in his direct path to demand the return of her family portrait. Barely a syllable had escaped her lips before he strode right past her toward something or someone he actually cared about.
Blackguard.
“Now that we know when and where to act, we can play the game and get the painting.” Chloe counted the Impossible Things on her fingers. “First, ingratiate myself with the reading circle. Achieved. Second, retrieve Puck & Family once Faircliffe delivers it. Third, replace it with a forgery so no one suspects a thing. It all happens on Thursday.”
Graham frowned. “Why would Faircliffe wish to interrupt a reading circle?”
“He doesn’t know he’s going to.” Chloe smirked. “The Yorks are surprisingly crafty.”
“Even a stiff, scowling duke like Faircliffe is a catch worth bragging about,” Tommy explained. “Mrs. York will want witnesses.”
“We don’t want witnesses,” Graham pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer to bump into Faircliffe on the street and ‘accidentally’ swap his rolled canvas for ours?”
“It would indeed,” Chloe agreed, “if Faircliffe happened to stroll through Grosvenor Square with a rolled-up canvas. But the painting is framed, and the duke will arrive in a carriage where the York butler will be watching.”
Graham lifted his tea. “There aren’t a lighter set of fingers in all of London, so I’ve no doubt you can nick the canvas. And we’ll ask Marjorie to create the forgery.”
All six Wynchester siblings were talented in their own ways. Marjorie was an extraordinary painter who could replicate any artwork to match the original.
Chloe smiled. “Marjorie finished ages ago. I just needed an opportunity to exchange canvases. And some way to smuggle it out without anyone noticing.”
She swapped Graham’s spoon with Tommy’s fork as she thought. Coins and keys were easy objects to palm, but a rolled-up canvas was much too big.
“Could you strap a tube to your leg?” Tommy asked.
“Perhaps if I walked very carefully…” Chloe mused, then shook her head. “I would have to lift up my skirts to strap on the tube, and being caught like that would be worse. What I need is—”
“Kittens.” Their rugged elder brother Jacob strolled into the Planning Parlor with a lopsided basket in his strong arms. “Most ladies love kittens almost as much as a good book. If you were showing off a new pet…”
Chloe tensed. Although hints of fur clung to Jacob’s ripped and patched waistcoat, she’d learned to be wary. The last time her brother had entered a room with a basket, he was trying his hand at snake charming. If she hadn’t been wearing her sturdiest boots… “Do you really have a kitten in there?”
“Ferrets,” he admitted, his dark brown eyes sparkling. “But I have the perfect solution out in the barn. Tiglet is the best of all the messenger kittens.”
“Messenger…kittens?” she echoed faintly.
“Like pigeons, but terrestrial,” Jacob explained earnestly. “More fur, less filth. The perfect cover. He can find his way home from anywhere. He’ll be a splendid distraction. Because where there’s chaos—”
“There’s opportunity,” Tommy finished, eyes gleaming.
Chloe held up a finger. “First rule of Three Impossible Things: No plan without a contingency.”
Graham brightened. “May I suggest—”
“Your acrobatic skills are awe inspiring, brother, but unnecessary in this instance.”
Graham’s shoulders caved. “When will it be my turn?”
“Whilst I don’t anticipate the need for trick riding on the back of a racing stallion,” Chloe assured him, “a driver would not be amiss. Just in case I must flee in too much haste to flag down a hackney.”
“No hack required.” Graham straightened. “We can’t