Page 25 of Wanted: Rogues and Bards

Dick.

With his shoulder braced against the side of a building opposite of old Cartwright’s place, Fenric rubbed his chin as he looked things over. The sun was still setting, the sky shifting from pale blue to a shade of purple and grey. It had been ten minutes or more since someone had last come down this street. Most people in the area had already returned home and settled in for their evening meal. Sounds of foot traffic and casual chatter had dulled and grown distant.

Cartwright was so cheap he kept only two servants at the house—a stable hand who also doubled as a handyman and butler, while the cook also took care of the cleaning. From his little hiding place in the shadowed alley, Fenric had watched Cartwright’s carriage trundle down the street with the stable hand driving, heading toward the special dinner at the squire’s house. He hadn’t seen the master and mistress climb into the carriage, and the curtains had been tightly drawn, not allowing a glimpse inside. Yet, with Cartwright so eager to show off his wealth and new bride, it was safe to assume the only person left in the house was the cook. Fenric had thoughtfully left an almost full bottle of rum on the back step for her to discover a few hours earlier. While he wasn’t sure if the cook was a drunk, he could imagine working for someone like Cartwright would drive any sane person to drink. With her master out of the house and knowing she had the night off, the cook should be passed out in the kitchen by now, or at least in the process of getting sloshed.

In short, the house was empty and likely to remain that way for well over an hour. Plenty of time for Fenric to snoop at his leisure through the place and pick up a good amount of loot to fund his important endeavors. His heart sped up and there was a lightness in his chest he hadn’t felt in a while. Maxie had been a nice distraction, but it was only through taking steps toward regaining his mother’s lost treasures that Fenric could sleep easy at night.

Fenric took one last look around to make sure there was no one about who had noticed him standing in the shadows. Sure he hadn’t been discovered, he shifted into a lean black cat and strolled across the cobblestone. He moved a touch quicker when he reached the Cartwright property, peeking here and there at the windows for an opening.

His padded paws picked over the rocky ground that was sparsely covered with brown grass. He paused at the end of the house and sniffed the air, catching hints of cooked food wafting from the nearby homes, horse dung from the stables, and a lingering hint of alcohol. Forgotten clothes hung on the line strung across the yard, fluttering in the evening breeze.

Edging forward, he found the rear door standing wide open. A woman lay slumped over the table, the bottle he’d dropped off earlier empty and on its side next to her. A loud snore drifted out of the house.

He didn’t waste another second. He darted up the three short steps and slunk through the kitchen. After pushing open the door to the rest of the house, he scampered down the dark hall, stopping only when he reached the dining room.

Cats were great at sneaking, but not so great at stealing. It was a hands-and-pockets issue.

Only when another loud snore came from the open door down the hall did Fenric shift back into his human form. He rubbed his hands together, grinning. Now it was time to loot and pillage.

But when his gaze swept through the room, there was not a single gleam of gold or sparkle of gem. Not even the few paintings on the walls looked worth more than the shoddy frames they were in—not that he planned to haul paintings out of there. He was looking for gold, coins, jewelry, and anything small of worth he could shove into his pockets or in a sack.

Not to worry. It was only the dining room. People didn’t keep their best stuff there.

Without a creak of the floorboards, Fenric hurried on to the next room—a parlor—to find more of the same. Not a single oil lamp or candle was lit outside of the kitchen. Not that it mattered. Even if he didn’t have the last few dregs of sunlight coming in from the window, Fenric was long accustomed to skulking around in the dark. His naturally sharp eyes could still pick out the lackluster surroundings, while the air was stale and heavy with the scent of dust. The furniture was old and threadbare. The carpets were no better. Fewer paintings decorated the walls here. He checked drawers, cabinets, and bureaus, but they were largely empty. Even the silver looked cheap and bent.

Room after room went like this. The man had zero possessions worth Fenric’s time to pawn. What the hell? Had this old bastard conned all of Pomor into believing he was rich when he was really a pauper? But that couldn’t be true. Fenric had seen Ebeneezer slinking around town with his twisted smirk, always dressed in finely tailored clothes made from the most expensive fabrics. Was the man wasting all of his wealth on his wardrobe?

Or were all of his assets liquid and hidden in safes around the house?

Yes, that had to be it. Fenric’s heart skipped, and he backtracked through the rooms he’d already covered, checking behind all the bland, boring paintings for wall safes. He kicked aside thin rugs to look for hidden safes in the floor, but there was nothing.

With each room he checked over for a second and third time, his panic grew. This was insane. Impossible! Where the hell was this man’s wealth? Fenric couldn’t miss this opportunity.

He stood in the center of the parlor, his hands balled into fists, struggling to even out his breathing as rage boiled in his chest. Leaving here empty-handed put him further from his goal.

No, he wasn’t leaving until he found the money. Even if he had to burn the place down and sift through the ashes, he was gonna find it. The next step in his plan to get back his mother’s treasures hinged on having funds.

But the first floor revealed nothing of use.

That just left the second floor, which was fine. It made total sense. Ebeneezer didn’t trust anyone. He would want to secure his wealth in his study or maybe in his bedroom, where he could keep an even closer watch on it.

With that rationale locked in place—and he wasn’t lying to himself so he wouldn’t succumb to panic—Fenric charged up the stairs with silent footfalls in search of the old fart’s study. He paused at the top and looked to the left and right, trying to decide which hallway to go down first. The two looked identical. It was likely one direction led to the lord of the house’s rooms while the other way was supposed to lead to the guest rooms. Or maybe the lord had one wing and the lady had the other? Fenric was in no mood to check every fucking room. The first floor was a bust, and he was growing more anxious to get off the premises before the cook stirred from her drunken stupor.

Right it was.

He turned toward the right and smirked when he spotted a set of double doors. That had to be the master’s bedroom. He was headed in the correct direction now. Nothing was going to get in his way.

Fenric’s steps were even lighter now, a spring in his step as he charged forward. Just as he lightly touched the doorknobs to push both doors open, the brass handles began to turn. His heart froze.

No! No! No!

What the ever-loving hell was this? There wasn’t anyone else in the house! There couldn’t be! He should have shifted back into his cat form, but his brain was too full of scattered thoughts and confusion to focus on the magic.

Fenric jerked backward, air trapped in his lungs. His brain scrambled. A shirtless man with short, curly pink hair and sparkling ocean blue eyes stepped into the doorway and stopped when his gaze locked with Fenric’s shocked one.

This sexy hunk of a man with the broad chest and ridiculously full pouty lips was not a sixty-year-old miser.

“Who the fuck are you?” the stranger choked out. He released both doors and stumbled backward a step into the bedroom.