Chapter 1
Tiffany swung down off the roof, keeping her grip on the rope loop that was at the end of the thin line. Her friend, Davy, had the end of the rope snubbed around a chimney top, and played it out gently. Davy was good at rooftop work, but he didn’t have any skill at all with locks, so it was Tiffany who quietly eased down the side of the Northbury manor house and stepped onto the balcony outside the late Marquess’s bedroom.
If the rumors were right, the young Marquess slept on the other side of the house, and his parents’ former suite still had all their personal effects untouched. With luck, she should be able to find some unmarked items that would not be noticed missing for months.
Carefully, she caught the rail of the balcony with the toe of her boot, and pulled herself in. Silent as a downy owl, she dropped lightly onto the stone floor. Her handstitched hide boots whispered on the cold stone. She winced as she stepped on a pebble that poked through a thin spot. Even used leather was hard to come by of late.
A few seconds with a lock pick, and she had the lattice window that gave out onto the balcony undone, and she slipped into the darkened room. The furniture was covered with dusty Holland covers. No fire had been lit on this hearth recently, the chill of the room made that clear.
Tiffany pulled the thick drapes over the window and took out a stub of a candle. She lit the candle, set it in a convenient holder on the mantle, and set to work. What luck! There were two unburned candles on the mantle already! She popped one out and dropped it into her carry bag.
The dresser yielded little in the way of loot. The jewelry in the case was paste and glass, nothing of any great value. But the top drawer held a treasure-trove of gloves, handkerchiefs, and three fancy reticules. Those all joined the candle in her bag. On a whim, she peeked under the dust cover on the bed.
Oh, what jolly good luck! The bed was still made up with blankets, sheets, and a fine coverlet. The coverlet was too likely to be missed, but she whisked the blankets and sheets into the bag, took it to the balcony, fastened it to the rope and gave it a tug.
Checking the cushions of the wingback chair that stood beside the fire yielded a small pocket containing a few coins and an extremely linty sugar candy. The embroidered stool contained knitting and sewing gear, to her delight, as well as a traveling knitting bag. She quickly bundled its entire contents and the pocket into the knitting bag, and sent it up in the same way she had sent her carry bag.
She was just turning to give the room one last look, when she heard the call of a nightjar, repeated thrice. That was the signal to hide, someone coming. She shrank back behind the heavy window curtain, and listened. A door opened, and footsteps entered.
The candle! Oh, gods, I left the candle burning.
She simply stood still and held her breath.
“You were right, McClellan,” said a quiet male voice. “Someone has been here, and has even left a candle burning. I am surprised. There is nothing of value in these rooms. All of Mother’s good jewelry is locked away in the counting room. Only her fun pieces that she wore just because she liked them are here.”
Well! That explained the paste and cut glass in the jewelry boxes. But nothing of value? This room was a virtual treasure trove, with its petticoats, blankets, pillows, and more. Some people simply had no idea!
“Right bold of them, My Lord,” answered a modulated baritone. “But I don’t see anyone now.”
“The dust cover has been moved, McClellan. And look, the sheets and blankets have been stripped. We pay the servants a decent wage. Why would any of them take the bedding?”
“Indeed, My Lord. It hardly seems logical. But look, My Lady’s sewing stool has been opened, and all her needles gone.”
There were sounds of drawers being opened and closed. “And they took all her handkerchiefs. How very odd! A thief with a cold?”
McClellan chuckled. “Well, I’m sure thieves do catch cold, as has this one!” Dramatically, the curtain was flung back, and Tiffany stood revealed, flattened against the wall beside the window.
McClellan quickly grasped her by the shoulder and hauled her into the light. “Well, now, lad, what do you have to say for yerself?”
Tiffany knew what she looked like. Dressed in shabby trousers and a baggy coat, she deliberately cultivated the appearance of a young boy. “It’s my sister, my lords,” she whined like a youth caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “She’s sick, an’ we ain’t got no medicine for ‘er, nor warm blankets. Twarn’t nobody usin’ these. I din’ mean no harm.” Tiffany let her voice break and warble as if it was swapping back and forth from a child’s treble and a young man’s mature voice.
“That might be debatable,” said the owner of the other voice, stepping into the light. “If you had come to the back door and asked, the steward would have been likely to have given you help. Bring him down to my office, McClellan, and we will sort it out there. Snuff that candle if you would, please.”
“Yes, My Lord,” McClellan acquiesced, although he clearly thought better of it.
He hauled Tiffany with him in an iron grip, picked up a candle snuffer, and doused the light. “Should I call the Watch, My Lord?”
“No, not yet. This story of a sick sister has me interested. I would learn more about our young intruder. Besides, I could not sleep anyway, after that supper we had. I feel more than a little bilious. Perhaps his tale will be amusing and distract me from the rumblings of my stomach.”
“If your Lordship thinks so,” McClellan said, clearly conveying his disapproval.
“Oh, come now, McClellan. What could one half-starved child do to me? I’ll at the very least hear him out. The winter has been bitter. Did not Steward say that he’d had more than the usual applications for help?”
“He did that,” McClellan said grudgingly.
“Look you now at the lad. His appearance clearly bears out that part of the story at least. His coat is out at the elbows, and his pants are more patch than whole cloth. As for those shoes! No one should be out in this weather in soft house boots.”
“The better for sneaking about, My Lord. No one does second-story work in hard-soled workman’s boots,” McClellan avowed
