Page 18 of The Hood and his Thief

“And yet you came to some of the most notorious criminals in London for advice.”

Rhosyn resisted the very immature urge to stick her tongue out at Kristoff for verbally backing her into a corner. He had a way of pulling argumentative urges out of her like Rhosyn imagined a sibling would, if she had been lucky enough to have one.

“You have good instincts,” Gregor chimed in more gently. “Chief Thorne knows it, I’m sure.”

Rhosyn jumped as the teakettle started whistling, and Gregor turned away to remove it from the heat. Kristoff kept observing Rhosyn pensively, the corner of his usual devilish smirk slipping slightly.

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground for any news about Paul and Olivia,” he promised quietly, “But I don’t think you should be hard on yourself for wanting to make sure they’re safe.”

Rhosyn nodded her thanks as Gregor bustled over with a cup of tea. Like a brother, Kristoff had a way of knowing what she needed to hear, just like he knew how best to tease her.

“Maybe you just need a man in your life to distract you,” Kristoff prodded. “Contessa said something about you dancing with a gentleman at the King’s ball.”

“I hardly see how who I dance with has anything to do with my job as a police officer,” Rhosyn shot back.

Gregor grinned. “He’s just trying to play matchmaker with everybody since he’s tired of waiting for Contessa and Nate to have a baby he can slowly corrupt to his villainous ways.”

“They say they’re trying, but I hardly see how that’s happening when they spend every night working into the small hours of the morning.” Kristoff threw his hands up in defeat.

Rhosyn snorted into her tea. “Well, I’m sorry but I don’t think I’ll be supplying you with a child to dote on any time soon, either. I’m more concerned, at the moment, with finding the ones who have gone missing.”

Rhosyn jumped up and down, wiggling inelegantly to pull the too small pants over her hips and thighs. Finally, she managed to button them, blowing a stray curl off her sweaty forehead. For years, she had worn only the navy uniform and gold buttons of the Royal Police, or an occasional gown gifted to her by Contessa and altered to fit, but tonight’s task required discretion. So, she had dug to the very bottom of her small chest of clothes and fished out the black shirt and trousers she used to wear when the Lion’s went on liberation missions.

Fortunately, Rhosyn had filled in since the lanky days of her teenage years, but she had failed to update her espionage wardrobe. She would just have to deal with tight pants during tonight’s creeping about, and avoid thinking about how Contessa would blush at the way the trousers showed every curve of her ass and thighs.

Rhosyn wasn’t exactly a lady, after all.

Shoving a black scarf into her shirt, to conceal her hair once she reached her destination, Rhosyn slipped out of her middle city residence and turned her steps uphill. Where Rhosyn normally strode confidently down the middle of the street where all could see her uniform, tonight, she stuck to the edges where the shadows of buildings might obscure her face. As the houses changed from wood to stone, becoming more widely spaced with blooming flowerbeds out front, a thrill ran up Rhosyn’s spine.

Something wild in her lifted its head in interest at this new development, as if it had missed illicit midnight missions. She mentally wagged a finger at it. This was a one-time thing, to make sure Paul and Olivia were found. Still, she shivered as she paused to pull out her scarf and wrap it around her hair and lower face.

Soon, the silhouette of Mr. Gower’s house shadowed the cobblestones in front of Rhosyn. Surveying the front of the house, the windows remained dark and impenetrable, concealing anything that might be happening within. No matter. Rhosyn was more interested in the back of the house where the servants’ quarters resided.

She darted between shadows, creeping around towards the back of the mansion. Her brows drew together as the rear windows remained darkened, but the flickering of a lantern off to the side caught her eye. She crept towards it, finding the light seeping out the cracks around a large door, leading to what must be the carriage house and stables.

Rhosyn inched forward, pressing her palms to the wooden panels and aligning her eye with the seam between the double doors. With her narrow frame of vision, she could just make out a sleek black coach occupying the center of the stable, backlit in shadowy lighting that appeared to be spilling from one of the stalls.

She stiffened as voices drifted through the still night air. Straining forward, nearly pressing her nose into the door, she tried to distinguish words, but only succeeded in making out a faint murmur.

Perhaps it was only the groom, indulging in a little late night…conversation. But nobody knew more about the goings on in a great house than the help, so often treated as invisible but carrying secrets that could ruin many socialites if they so chose. Mr. Gower’s household staff may have some inkling of what happened to Paul and Olivia.

As slowly as she could muster, Rhosyn unlatched the stable doors—still unlocked as if the groom hadn’t yet closed up for the night—and pressed the door open. She sent up a silent thank you for the wealth that kept Mr. Gower’s stable hinges well-oiled, as the wood silently swung forward just wide enough for her to slip inside and ease it shut behind her.

She placed her feet gingerly on the hay-strewn floor, soft boots padding gently as she inched towards the source of the voices. The voices became clearer, and she paused next to the coach, which took up the majority of the open space, crouching partially behind it near one of the large, spoked wheels to listen.

“—need them back as soon as possible.”

Rhosyn frowned at the familiar voice. She hadn’t expected to hear—

“They might still come back of their own accord, Mr. Gower.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose, air full of the warm smell of hay and sleepy horses. What would Mr. Gower himself be doing in the stable in the middle of the night?

“If they wanted to come back, they wouldn’t have left, Hamish.” The voice was definitely Mr. Gower’s, but gone was polish of civility that coated his tone in ballrooms and parties. He sounded frustrated.

“We don’t know that. The Royal Police might still bring them back.”

“The Royal Police wouldn’t know a lead if it bit them on the nose.”