The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella Read Online Free PDF Page B

have been playing the penny whistle.” Helena settled in the chair next to him and unfolded her shawl to expose the length of silk inside it. Her father reached for her and she caught his hand, guiding it onto the silk so that he would think she wore a finer gown than she did.
    “I have my girl. It was a good gift.” He patted her knee, with his face upturned toward the sun. “And have you everything you need?”
    “Yes, Papa.” She wiped the tears from beneath her eyes with her free hand. “Oh— I brought you another gift.”
    “Helena… dearest. You must not spoil me so.”
    “It all comes from your accounts, Papa.” The lie came easily after so many years of living it. Her father did not know the extent of their ruin. “So you are spoiling yourself, you see?”
    “Well make certain you buy some fripperies for yourself.”
    “I do.” She pulled the little snuff box out of her reticule. She had forgotten it was in her pocket when she left the Rothfuss home and it was too distinctive to try to pawn. She placed it in his outstretched fingers.
    He turned the little box in his hands, head tilted to the side. It had seemed overly ornate but all those little details provided a feast for her father’s fingers. He found the catch and opened it, releasing the heady aroma of the snuff.
    A broad smile spread across her father’s face and that, alone, was worth every risk.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
    Parisian
     
    Weatherby stood with his hands behind his back, and stared up at the facade of the Rothfuss’s home. It was an imposing four story building of pale dressed stone. At his side, George leaned on his walking stick and stared at a young woman who was passing on the street.
    The window that had been indicated as belonging to Lord Rothfuss’s dressing room, and the scene of the crime, was a tiny square inset into the stone. Could she have fit through there? Certainly no larger thief could have, but that did not necessarily mean it was her. She had hoisted herself easily enough out of his skylight, but this window was not half so accessible.
    “You said they were having a party that night?”
    “Mm?” George turned from looking down the street. “Yes. You should have been there. Mr Fraser spilled his punch all over one of Lady Fairchild’s gown. The shrieking was spectacular. Parisian.”
    “The shrieking?”
    “No, the gown.” He glanced down the street again where the young woman had stepped into a shop. “What do you say to a spot of tea.”
    “I would say that there is likely to be ‘a nice bit of muslin’ there.” Weatherby turned away from the building and gestured for George to lead the way. But even if she could have fit, how could she have reached the window? He glanced over his shoulder at the window again and tried to picture how she might have reached it. Her legs had been long and beautifully rounded in those breeches.
    “…you do know me well.”
    “Mm? It is a burden I try to bear.” They had visited several homes that morning, theoretically on social calls. But each of the homes had been where a robbery had occurred, and each had a window that let into the scene of the crime. This window was the smallest of the lot, but they were all in places that seemed equally inaccessible. Each robbery had occurred the night of a party in the house. Which meant that all he had to do was figure out whose home duplicated those conditions and he would be able to see her again. To stop her. Clearly. “Speaking of burdens. It occurs to me that it would please my mother if I attended more soirees.”
    “You would do that for your mother and not for me? I am wounded.”
    “Woe.” Weatherby laughed at his friend. “In all seriousness though, next time you receive an invitation will you let me know?”
    “What? Do you not get your own invitations? I thought you simply declined them all.”
    “Decline often enough, and people stop sending them.” Which had seemed desirable at