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A block of ordinary wood.
With a little frown, she reached for it, lifting the six-inch cube. A lifetime of thieving had taught Adelaide that ordinary things were rarely that—especially when her father kept them in false-bottomed drawers—and so, she did what she often did when something piqued her curiosity.
She took it.
The light was fading fast inside the building, so she worked quickly. Replacing the bottom of the drawer, she returned the ledger books, dismantled her skeleton key, and stood, tucking her snuffbox away and settling the wooden cube into the crook of her arm.
“That doesn’t belong to you.”
Her heart leapt into her throat as she looked to the doorway, her free hand already sliding inside her skirts to the false pocket at her thigh, headed for the blade she kept there. She preferred to remain invisible and not leave a mess on missions, but she wasn’t above taking out this bruiser if she had to.
Hewas the opposite of invisible, tall and lean, standing in the shadows just inside the office door, peaked cap pulled low over his brow, doing absolutely nothing to hide the sharp lines of his handsome face—a long, straight nose and an angled jaw that appeared to have been honed by the best of bladesmiths.
This was not one of her father’s bruisers.
Even if she hadn’t been able to hear it in his propervoice, or see it in the way he held himself, as though it had never occurred to him that he did not belong in a place—even a dark warehouse owned by a hardened criminal . . . even if he didn’t look as though he’d spent his youth learning to fence instead of fight . . . it was the nose that gave it away.
He’d never once spent a night hungry. Never once had to brawl for his safety or his supper. Never once had to steal, because he had obviously been born into all he had.
The man was money.
And he was going to get them both caught.
She stood and headed around the side of the desk for the door, refusing to look at him or speak to him, considering her options. She couldn’t knife money. But she could certainly serve him a facer if he didn’t let her leave the room.
Except, when she got to the door, he stopped her. He didn’t touch her—he simply set one hand to the doorjamb and said, “Once again, that does not belong to you.”
“And what,” she retorted. “It belongs to you?”
He stiffened at the words, as though he was offended that she would deign to reply to him.
Definitely money. With absolutely no claim on this place. And he thought to tell her—Adelaide Frampton, the best thief Lambeth had ever seen—what she could and could not steal? The man should know his betters.
“It does, as a matter of fact.”
Surprised, she lifted her gaze to his face, past the rough scruff on his jaw and the low brim of his cap—a meager attempt at a disguise, as Adelaide recognized him instantly. And bit back a groan.
He wasn’t just money. He wasn’t justsome toff.
And he most definitely wasn’thandsome.
The man in front of her was the Duke of Clayborn. The absolute worst of the aristocracy, with a stiff upper lip and a stick up his—
“Oy!”
The shout came from outside the door, where she could see a decent-sized watchman headed their way, beady eyes trained on her.
So much for invisible.
“Dammit, Clayborn,” she whispered, her grip tightening on the box. “Of course you would turn up here and see us both killed.”
He couldn’t conceal the surprise on his face. “You recognize me?”
Of course she did. She’d know this particular duke anywhere. He was impossible not to know. The last time he’d been this close to her, they’d been north of the river in the heart of Mayfair, and he’d given Adelaide a scathing setdown—the kind arrogant, rich, titled men adored delivering with cool disdain to women far below their station. He was lucky she wasn’t in the habit of brandishing her blade at dinner.
Though, if anyone could drive her to it, it was this man.
Stern and cold... and absolutely rubbish at remaining unnoticed.
