The Scoundrel in Her Bed (Sins for All Seasons #3)(6)

But he’d told the lass true. He was paid ten shillings to dispatch the creature to heaven, and if it was discovered he hadn’t, his boss could forfeit his license and Finn would lose not only his position but his ability to find employment elsewhere, because who would trust him after not carrying out orders dictated by law? No cheating of the customer was allowed. The taking of a horse that was to be put down was theft. He wasn’t going to risk going to prison, no matter how pretty the girl, no matter how green her eyes—the greenest, prettiest he’d ever had the pleasure to look into. Even if they were filled with anger directed at him, when it should have been directed at herself. Silly chit, to hasten a horse’s end by goading her and then begging Finn to spare the beast, as though he had a choice in the matter.

He didn’t. At the depot, they were expecting the horse and the ten shillings. It would be killed with one swift blow of an axe. Normally he found comfort knowing that the end came swiftly and mercifully.

But the girl, blast her—he could still see the tears glistening in her eyes—made him feel guilty about his current occupation. It paid well, but it wasn’t where he planned to spend his entire life. He was one and twenty, had saved a good bit of money, and would soon be moving on to better things. But no amount of moving on was going to stop him from being haunted by the sorrow reflected in those green, green eyes.



That night, near midnight, in the mews outside the Earl of Collinsworth’s massive residence, Finn stood with his black burglary bag resting near his feet. In his youth, he’d gotten involved with an unsavory group of lads. He’d been fifteen when his mum had discovered what he was about and had nearly flayed the skin off his backside with her switch—even with his britches still covering the sensitive flesh. She hadn’t taken him in when no one else wanted him and kept him alive all those years to see him rotting in prison or dangling from a hangman’s noose. To placate her he’d left the trade of burglarizing but kept the tools he’d purchased as well as the skills he’d acquired, never knowing when either or both might come in handy.

He’d been studying the residence for a couple of hours now, striving to determine which bedchamber was hers, but the girl never peered out a window. Based on the glow occasionally coming from between the draperies, he’d been able to narrow the possible windows down to eight, but not knowing the size of the rooms, he couldn’t be certain he had the right of it when it came to their number. In a residence as large as this one, some of the chambers were bound to have more than a single window. Hedges lined the walls, but no trees were near enough to the house for him to climb up and take a peek inside.

Hence the tools. He was going to break into the lord’s manor.

He’d considered stopping by tomorrow afternoon and asking to talk with the girl about the fate of her horse but had decided he was safer with a clandestine meeting because absolutely no one except the girl could ever know what he’d done. A lord who sent a horse to its doom for tossing his daughter from the saddle might not take too kindly to a commoner asking to speak with said daughter, especially when Finn was hoping their little meeting would result in her traveling with him. The rationale had all made sense when he’d been tossing back beer in his sister’s tavern, although he suspected come morning, when a clearer head was to be found, he’d realize he was every manner of fool.

But that was for tomorrow. For now, he wasn’t so far into his cups he couldn’t sneak stealthily into the house. He’d watched the lights going out one by one until not a speck was visible, so he was rather certain all the inhabitants, including the servants, were finally abed. The larger the residence, the better it was for burglarizing because so much of it was abandoned at night that a thief could easily wander about, lifting goods without ever running into another soul.

Hefting his bag over his shoulder, pulling his cap down low, he crept toward the massive manor that was the sort he planned to live in when he was older, when he’d made something of himself. As much as he hated his current occupation, he loved working with the horses and hoped, with a bit of luck, to own a horse farm someday where he could breed and train the noble beasts. It wasn’t a fancy dream, but he’d rather be his own man, work for himself, not have to answer to another. However, dreaming was for another time. At that precise moment he needed to focus on not getting caught.

When he reached the servants’ door, he quietly lowered his bag to the ground, opened it, and pulled out a small lantern, enclosed on three sides, with a tiny hole on the fourth that allowed only a minimum of light to escape. After using a match to light the candle within, he held it up to the lock, grateful to see it was one he was quite skilled at unlocking. He had the tools to pry open a window or to cut away glass when prying wouldn’t work, but opening a lock was always the better choice, especially in this case. If the unlocked door was discovered, a servant would be taken to task for not securing the home properly, but that was preferable to leaving glaring evidence that someone had indeed entered uninvited. Removing the small satchel containing his picks, he went to work and less than a minute later he was through the door. He left his bag on the stoop because he wouldn’t be taking any treasures with him.

Although it was tempting, so damned tempting, to lift a vase here or an ornate box there as he made his way quietly through the residence, holding his lantern aloft to guide him. Now and then the light would shine on some fancy object he knew probably wouldn’t be missed. The nobs had so many blasted knickknacks, as though filling their house with useless things would disguise the fact their lives were lacking in some regard. On occasion, after he’d ransacked a residence, no one ever noted the absence of the silver candlesticks, trinkets, or figurines he’d nicked. Coppers had never been sent for. He’d known because he’d taken perverse pleasure in keeping an eye on the house just to see if any frantic activity occurred the following morning. He’d prided himself on getting away with the thievery, had thought eventually he could become the greatest burglar who ever lived—but then his mum had discovered his antics and put a quick stop to them.