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He has been waiting out by the docks for what feels like forever. The letter he had received had been simple. Midnight. The docks. Disguise yourself. He hates needing help. He hates it like he hates being poor, like he hates the way others have always looked down on him. If they knew, if they only knew. Well, they wouldn’t look down on him now.
He senses the person only moments before he feels them walk into him, jostling him a bit and causing him to lean a little more heavily on the cane he’s come to rely on. “Pardon me, sir.” The voice is soft, feminine, and entirely unexpected.
He turns to look at the woman but cannot see her properly in the dark of night. “Milady,” he begins, starting to bow. It’s obvious from the lilt to her voice that she’s of the upper crust. She doesn’t belong here, down by the rough docks. He does. He always has.
She puts a finger to his lips and he’s startled by the softness, the intimacy of the gesture. “Say no more.” Her voice comes from far too close to him. She’s a tiny little thing, daring. He wonders again why she would be here. She leans in closer, her lips very near his ear. “You are ‘the imp.’” The words are not a question. They’re a statement.
He tries to peer closer at her in the dark, only catching a glimpse of long dark hair and fierce eyes. Her cloak hides much, the hood pulled low over her face, but he can see that much. She’s studying him, there in the dark, and a shiver runs down his back. “You’re…”
“I am.” There’s no need for her to say more. She’s “the rose.” And while he thought it a fanciful name, it somehow makes all the more sense now. “You were expecting something different?”
He cannot help the small snort of laughter that escapes him. “Oh indeed, I was.” She is known far and wide for her exploits, though she has disguised herself so well over the years that none know that the infamous thief known only as “the rose” is a woman.
“So why…”
“Have I brought you here?” There is a purr to her voice, a huskiness. She steps closer to him, touches his cheek lightly.
“They’ve moved them,” she says simply.
“Moved?”
“Oh yes.” And he can hear the amusement in her voice. She knows something he does not know. He has been in pursuit of them for years, making plans, chasing them. They have been in the same locale for some time, just waiting for someone with daring to pluck them out from under the dukes and duchesses, kings and queens of their world.
“Where?”
She gives a tittering little laugh. “And tell me why I should trust you?”
He grips her by the shoulders, spins her around until she is forced to stand bathed in the pale light of the one lamp that illuminates the docks. The wick on the candle is running low, casting her half in shadow.
She’s beautiful and he thinks “the rose” does not do her justice. Her eyes are blue, though in the flickering light of the street lamp he cannot tell how dark or light they are. Her chin is set at a haughty angle, determined. She is glorious and he feels small before her, small like the poor man he once was, small when confronted by someone who is so much.
But he shrugs it off, pushes her away. “You came to me, dearie.” And if the words are a little bit harsher than he intends, so be it.
“I did.”
She is still so very defiant and he wants to reach for her again, grab her shoulders, pull her close to him. He fights the urge. He suspects she wants him off guard and is using that to her advantage. He hasn’t been drawn in by a pretty face in a long time, not since Milah, not since the wife who had left him when he was branded a coward. He was a coward no more, though few knew it. His identity had remained a secret. It would stay so unless some horrible mistake was made. “And so?”
She moves closer to him, her eyes darting to one side before looking back to him. Their eyes meet and without any sort of preamble, she grabs him by the lapels of his coat and yanks him to her. Her lips are hard on his and he cannot think straight, cannot fathom what is going on. She wraps her arms around him and finally his restraint breaks free as his arms come up to cup her face, tilting her head slightly and deepening the kiss.
“Alright, alight. You’ve bought yer whore, now take this elsewhere.” He pulls away from her and looks over her shoulder. The constable tips his hat at him and turns away. He gives a small smirk and then wraps his arm around her, turns her away from the constable and takes a few steps.
He leans close to her. “Nice save.”
“I thought so.” She sounds smug.
“So are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“Soon.” She walks faster, keeping his arm around her. When they’re far enough away from the constable, she turns suddenly, pulling him into a dark alley. He finds himself pushed into the wall, feels her hot breath on his cheek as she leans in close to him. “The jewels.”
“Jewels?” He feels his stomach drop, his heart race.
“The Crown Jewels. Yes. The ones you are after?”
“How did you…”
“Know that? That is of no matter.” She presses a finger to his lips before he can speak again. “They are being moved. Westminster Abbey is no longer a safe place. They leave in two days time soon after the sun sets. None know of this move.” She removes her finger.
“None except you.”
“Except me,” she agrees and there is a certain pride, a bit of arrogance, in that lilting voice of hers. “They will arrive at the Tower of London shortly before dawn. We must strike while they are on the move.”
He knows she’s correct. Once the jewels reach the Tower, there is little chance to retrieve them. The Tower is near impenetrable. With legions of soldiers guarding it and a moat surrounding it, there is no easy way to gain access, especially for a thief whose gait is uneven, who needs a cane to walk. He would have to direct others, remain on the outside, and one thing he was not good at was remaining on the outside.
“You seem to know much…” He lets the words trail off.
“I have my ways.” This woman is a mystery and he finds that intrigues him. Most women that he meets are hardened women of the streets or vapid nobles. This woman, this “rose,” she’s intriguing and beautiful and so very confounding.
“I see that,” he responds with. She’s still close to him and so he simply grabs her about the waist and hauls her in close to him again. For a moment nothing is said as she sways against him, puts one hand on his chest. When he can breathe again, he finally speaks. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“Yes,” she whispers and he can feel her breath fan out across his face.
“You help me, you get a quarter of the profits.”
“Half,” she says quickly.
He lets out a quiet laugh. “A bargainer, are you? Fine then. Thirty percent.”
“Forty-five.”
“Forty,” he counters with.
“Deal.” His lips crash down on hers once more, this time not for show. She opens almost immediately beneath him, their tongues clashing for just a moment before she wrenches herself away. He lets her go, lets her back away.
Her voice is breathy as she speaks. She’s more affected by this than it might seem. “Tomorrow. Just before sundown. Meet me at The Grey Fox. You know the place?”
“I do.”
“Good. We’ll discuss our plans then.”
She begins to slip away when he reaches out a hand and grips her upper arm. “Of course…Miss…” He lets the question hang in the air.
“I…”
He makes a tisking noise. “I don’t like to work with those whose name I don’t know.” The words are growled at her and he knows from the way she stiffens that she senses the threat behind them.
“Belle,” she finally says.
“French?” He couldn’t place the slight lilt to her accent before, but now understands.
“Oui.”
He releases her arm and grips her hand, pulls it up to his mouth to press a chaste kiss to the back of it. “Enchanté.”
Then she is gone, leaving the alley on silent steps. Tomorrow. He’ll see her again tomorrow. And damned if he isn’t looking more forward to seeing her than he is to walking away with the Crown Jewels of England.