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When the charismatic man had first made Wickham the temping offer of becoming rich with hardly any effort on his part, he had identified himself only as Count Stefano. Nevertheless, thieves are not a trusting lot, and Wickham trusted no one, especially not this count. Thus, before throwing his lot in with the stranger, howbeit a seemingly wealthy one, Wickham put word on the street that he would pay for information leading to the count’s identity. What he had discovered was astonishing.

The man who called himself Count Stefano was actually Stephen Stanton, Viscount Glascomb, heir to Lord Stanton, a former diplomat and well-liked member of the ton. Apparently, father and son were estranged, and whatever their disagreement, it had resulted in the son’s return to Italy to reside with his mother’s family as he neared thirty. Upon returning to England years later, he called himself Count Stefano Gianni Montalvo de Cavour, a title apparently inherited when his maternal grandfather died.

Wickham’s sources also uncovered evidence of the Count’s many liaisons with wealthy widows and heiresses, each dalliance mysteriously increasing his coffers. There was proof that he had married at least one extremely wealthy widow, a Lady Marlton, who had died soon after the wedding. However, most surprising was the rumour that he had never bothered to rid himself of one wife before acquiring another.

The final report, which was unproven, suggested he had married Anne de Bourgh, taken her dowry and then abandoned her. Wickham smiled to himself, remembering his meeting Miss de Bourgh and the imperious Lady Catherine de Bourgh once at Pemberley. The old bat had practically spit on him when she learned he was the steward’s son.

Just at that moment, the carriage came to an abrupt halt, jarring him from his contemplations. Sighing audibly, Wickham stepped from the carriage, instinctively peering up at the three-storey Georgian facade of the townhouse the Count was renting. It always put him in mind of Darcy’s residence only a few streets away. His head naturally turned in that direction as feelings of deprivation rushed over him. If old George Darcy had been a decent godfather or his son a better man, he might also be living in this elite section of town. Determined not to be distracted by old wounds while there was business of import to conduct, Wickham turned and pasted a smile on his face as he briskly ascended the steps.

To his surprise, the elaborate front door opened before he could knock, and a small, dark-skinned butler immediately reached for his coat and hat, nodding, though he did not say a word. A maid, arranging a vase of flowers on a table under an elaborate mirror, lowered her eyes and turned away. Wickham tried to recall if he had seen these servants on his last visit, as the count’s servants seemed to change regularly. Instantly, his thoughts were halted by the sound of Stefano’s voice reverberating throughout the house via the open drawing room door.

“Do not make excuses!” Stefano bellowed. “I do not want to hear them. You have had ample time! You were hired to tell me if she is alive, and if so, where she is at present! You take my money, but you bring me no satisfaction!”

After exchanging worried glances, the butler moved into a dark corner near the front door, while a maid scurried out of sight. Observing the servants’ discomfort, Wickham was amazed that the count had not at least closed the door, though the outburst was just as likely heard in the park across the street.

“It seems as if she disappeared from the face of the earth. I cannot find evidence that she lives or conclusive evidence that she died in the fire. The housekeeper feigns no knowledge of her after the catastrophe. She says there were numerous bodies that were burned beyond recognition. And, you know of the marked grave in Meryton.”

“I am not convinced of her death, even though her mother assures me it is true! Someone knows more than they are saying! Question everyone—present and former servants, and the locals! Pay them to talk! Do not come back to me without accurate information again! Do you understand?”

The voices and footsteps kept getting closer, and Wickham distinctly heard someone say, “Yes. Yes. I understand,” just as a man backed out of the drawing room, the count following close behind.

Wickham had never seen Stefano so angry—face contorted and shaking with rage— but the count stopped abruptly when he became aware of his presence. Somewhat embarrassed to find he had an audience, Stefano carefully adjusted his waistcoat, while waving his hand in dismissal at other man. “Get out of my sight until you have what I want!”

With that pronouncement, the little man turned and hurried towards the now open front door. Grabbing the coat and hat offered by the equally fearful butler, he never slowed down or bothered to don them as he ran down the front steps.

“Mr. Wickham,” Stefano turned now to him, his green eyes still flashing angrily, “I hope at least you have some good news for me.”

Wickham bowed slightly, trying not to let his uneasiness show. “I believe you will be pleased with my report.”

“Come then.” Stefano waved towards an open door. “Tell me something that will make me smile.” As Wickham moved in that direction, Stefano addressed an older woman who emerged from a nearby doorway. He was curt. “Signora Giovanni, send a tray of refreshments to my study.”

She bobbed, cutting her eyes towards Wickham before they settled on the count again. “Yes, sir.”

Entering the study, Wickham began perusing the well-appointed room as any thief would, noting that it was expensively furnished with rich wood furniture, oil paintings, imported carpets, silver services and china figurines. All their previous talks had been in the drawing room, and it was not nearly this well-appointed. His examination abruptly ended with the sound of the door closing, and he followed the count with his eyes as he moved to sit behind the desk and motioned for him to take the chair in front. As Stefano leaned back in his chair, seeming to relax a bit, he fixed his steely gaze on Wickham.

“Now, what do you have for me?”

Wickham pulled a piece of paper from inside his coat and leaned across the desk to place it in front of Stefano. “This is an inventory of the objects that I delivered this very morning, signed by your contact at the wharf.”

Listed were several cases of silver serving pieces, silver candelabrums, gold and silver boxes, gold pocket watches and numerous necklaces, brooches and bracelets with precious stones and pearls. The count’s face lit up, and he looked pleased for the first time that day.

“I am suitably impressed with your inspiration to use this woman for her connections and knowledge of their valuables. She has made a great difference in the number and quality of items procured. What did you say her name was?”

“As I said before, she wishes to remain anonymous.” Wickham knew it would anger him, but he did not trust the count. What was to keep him from dealing directly with Mrs. Preston and cutting him out of the arrangement altogether?

Stefano’s smile did not change, though his eyes betrayed his displeasure. “She must be a lady of some means, I suppose, since she has the ability to gain access to the homes of people of quality.”

“Precisely.”

Stefano stood and turned to a picture behind his desk as if studying it. “You have doubled your profit in the last month. I would have liked to have had the lady’s cooperation much earlier or that of others like her.”

Wickham shifted in his chair. Mrs. Preston had fallen into his lap due to her love of the horses, inability to curb her habits and no ready income. However, all of the other ladies indebted to him had sufficient future income to pay their notes. “I have no other prospects. She agreed only because she was indebted to me and had need of extra income since her husband’s death.”

“A widow?” Stefano turned, rubbing his chin as a wicked grin spread across his face. “I have had great luck with widows.”

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he seemed to sober, taking his seat again and beginning to play with a crystal paperweight. “I want you to know that I am going to leave England in the near future—perhaps several months, perhaps mere weeks. Whatever goods we acquire until then will have to suffice. Our partnership will end at that point, as I intend never to return.”

Wickham was taken aback. He had never given a thought to the end of their venture and, for a moment, he pondered how he would live without this source of income. He had just concluded that he would merely have to find another person to buy the stolen goods, when his thoughts were interrupted.