*
Harry had tackledthe boy to the ground and wrestled the jewel case from his hands. As he’d hauled him up, it was no surprise at all that a crowd began to gather. There was nothing the citizenry of London liked more than a collaring of a thief.
Harry looked down at the boy, who looked up at him with round terrified eyes. He had a right to be terrified. If he were not hanged, the best he could hope for was a commutation. His life was, effectively, over.
“I’ll go for the magistrate,” a round-bellied tradesman said authoritatively.
Harry looked him over. The fellow’s middle was fairly bursting out of his waistcoat. He had very obviously never gone hungry, as the lad he’d just chased down most certainly had.
“I will take him,” Harry said.
“You’ll need some men with you,” the fat tradesman said, “lest he slip out of your grip. These young thieves are crafty.”
Harry drew himself up and counted on his air of a gentleman to manage the situation. “Thank you for your courtesy, but I require no assistance whatsoever. Stand aside.”
The crowd, not knowing he was only to be a lowly baron, rather than a duke, did step aside. Harry pulled the boy along as fast as he could, leaving the concerned citizens behind.
“This is what you will do,” he said to the young scoundrel. “While I retrieve my horse, you will make your way to 28 Bedford Square.”
The boy looked up at him slyly and said, “I am to takemyselfto the magistrate?”
“That is my address,” Harry said sternly. “Ask for Smith. Tell him Mr. Vance sent you and tell him to throw you in a tub. You had better do as you are told. This is your one chance in life. You will not get another.”
Harry let go of the waif. Seeing he was free, the boy looked exceedingly surprised. He tipped his cap and set off jogging. He was going in the right direction, but Harry had no idea if he would actually turn up or not.
Nor did he know what to do with the boy if he did.
For now, though, the duchess must have her unwieldy emerald and gold tiara.
Chapter Seven
Isabel had beenseated at the sofa next to the window, wishing that she would see the duchess’ tiara miraculously arrive to the house. She prayed that Mr. Vance had somehow managed to get it back. It seemed almost impossible. How could a man catch a fleet-footed and desperate young thief? Still, she must hope.
As for the duchess, her opinions had wandered all over the world. There were moments when the tiara was lost forever. Then by turns, perhaps it would somehow come back, no thanks to Mr. Vance. Then occasionally wondering how her duke would take it if she were to order another one made. And once even decrying the lack of it to make her point to Lady Featherstone.
What that point was supposed to be, Isabel was not at all clear on. That it had something to do with Lady Featherstone’s emerald brooch was clear enough. But what was the message? That the duchess had more emeralds?
She heard the clatter of hoofbeats come to a stop in front of the duchess’ house.
Isabel leapt up and pulled the curtains aside.
There he was. Mr. Vance. And he carried the jewel box.
“He’s got it!” she cried. “Duchess, Mr. Vance has got your tiara!”
The duchess hurried to the window to confirm the idea.
They both watched Mr. Vance dismount and hand the reins to a footman.
He had such energy! He’d just chased a thief for…how long? It might have been a half mile, or even more. And yet, he looked as if he’d done nothing at all.
Mr. Vance tucked the box under his arm and bounded up the steps. He disappeared from view.
The duchess hurried back to her place. “Do sit down, Isabel. We should not appear eager or as if we have been waiting for the gentleman to appear.”
Isabel did as she was told, though she nearly burst with laughter. Of course they had been waiting and of course they were eager. How could they have been anything else?
The poor duchess. She was so fortunate to get her tiara back. But now, she would have to thank Mr. Vance, which was bound to be a trial.
