Page 4 of When You Rescued Me

“Afternoon, Marsden,” Bailey said. “Good of ya t’ come so quickly.”

The runner’s attention flickered to Bailey, and Samuel seized the opportunity to take a small step to the right. His thigh grazed a stack of books. A quick glance at the doll sitting atop the books was all he needed. Relying on his nimble fingers, Samuel slipped the gold pocket watch into the folds of the doll’s velvet dress.

“I believe ya know better than t’ call me out on a fool’s errand, Bailey,” Marsden said.

“That I do.” Bailey jerked his chin in Samuel’s direction. “I reckon ya’ll find this fella ’as somethin’ on ’im that don’t belong.”

Marsden had yet to move from the door.

“What’s yer name, lad?” he asked.

“Sammy,” Samuel said, opting to use the nickname Thrasher had given him. If this situation went from bad to worse, word would eventually reach his boss. He’d like to believe Thrasher would miss him, but it was more likely that the man who regularly took in London’s destitute youth and gave them a place to sleep and a career—however disreputable—would see Samuel’s capture as nothing more than a frustrating inconvenience. Samuel had witnessed the man’s dismissive response to losing a member of his band of thieves before. He would growl angrily about incompetence and lost income and then grudgingly assign Charlie a new partner.

“Well, Sammy.” There was an unnerving hint of steel to Marsden’s voice. “P’raps ya’d be good enough t’ shake off yer sleeves and turn out yer pockets.”

Samuel fought the instinct to flee. It would gain him nothing—except an admission of guilt. No matter how swiftly he moved, there’d be no evading Marsden at the front door. And Bailey had repositioned himself so he was standing between Samuel and the rear portion of the shop, effectively preventing any means of escape through the back door also.

“There’s nothin’ on me,” Samuel said, dropping his arms and shaking them vigorously before sticking his hands into his jacket pockets and producing a button. “Unless yer goin’ to ’old me accountable fer a button that fell off me own shirt.”

“Don’ believe a word ’e says, Marsden,” Bailey said. “’E came in ’ere with somethin’ t’ sell.”

“Take yer jacket off, Sammy,” Marsden said.

Samuel bristled. “What exactly are ya lookin’ for, Marsden? ’As some fancy lady’s silverware gone missin’?”

Marsden took one step toward him. “It’s Mr. Marsden to you, lad. An’ either you take your jacket off, or I will.”

It appeared he wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of this mess. And if that was the case, it would be better to comply with the runner’s demands than to anger him further.

“All right,” Samuel muttered, fumbling with the only button still attached to his outerwear. “But just so ya know, it would be a lot easier t’ ’ide knives and forks in me jacket’s linin’ if this old rag actually ’ad a linin’.” He slid his arms through his sleeves and dropped the thin jacket onto the floor. The chilly air penetrated his threadbare shirt instantly, but he willed his breathing to stay even. “See.” He raised his arms, palms up. “There’s nothin’ there.”

“He hid something on the doll.”

It was the girl’s voice.

Samuel’s and the runner’s heads swiveled in unison. With his attention so fully on Marsden and Bailey, Samuel had all but forgotten there was anyone else still in the shop. The runner’s position at the doorway had obviously prevented their leaving as well.

“I beg yer pardon, young lady,” Marsden said.

“I don’t know what it was, but he dropped something onto the doll’s lap when you first arrived,” she said.

Her father’s expression was an odd mixture of concern and pride—two sentiments Samuel had not been offered since his mother’s death eight years previously.

“I would advise you to check the doll, Marsden,” the gentleman said. “My daughter has a propensity for catching things that others miss.”

Samuel did not wait for Marsden’s response. With a glare directed at the meddlesome girl, he whipped his jacket off the floor with one hand, feigned a step to the right, and then darted left. Marsden anticipated his move, and with speed that belied his size, he swung his arm wide and clamped a beefy hand around Samuel’s wrist.

“Oh, no, ya don’t, young man.”

Bailey sidled around them until he was standing beside the doll. He reached into the folds of its velvet dress and then turned to face Marsden and Samuel. The gloating look on his face was bested only by the glittering of the gold pocket watch in his hand.

“I ain’t ever seen this afore,” he said. “But I reckon it’s a very valuable timepiece.” His malicious grin caused a knot to settle in Samuel’s stomach. “I daresay the owner’d pay a pretty penny t’ ’ave it returned.”

Hannah studied the object in the shopkeeper’s hand, willing the proof of Sammy’s wrongdoing to ease the sudden tightening of her throat. She wanted to cry. It made no sense. There was no cause for regret. If anything, she should be pleased that she’d been instrumental in catching a thief. But never before had she been the target of such a marked look of shock and hurt. Even her sister Sophia’s devastation after Hannah had accidentally spilled water on the painting she’d been working on for three weeks could not match the look in Sammy’s eyes. She couldn’t identify the emotion exactly. Perhaps that was why it was so unsettling. She’d seen a flicker of anger, but it had been quickly smothered by something that seemed more like helplessness. Despair, even.

She tightened her grip on her father’s hand. She had done the right thing. Once they were away from here, he would tell her so. She was sure of it. After all, she had helped a Bow Street runner catch a thief. Raising her chin slightly, she swallowed past the discomfort and kept her attention on Mr. Marsden.

She had never seen a Bow Street runner before, but that was what Mr. Marsden was, she was sure of it. Her mother would be aghast to know that Hannah had heard of the small band of men working under Sir John Fielding at the Bow Street magistrate’s office—news of their successful capture of notorious highwaymen, thieves, and scoundrels was not considered suitable conversation for young ladies. But Hannah’s love for curling up with a book in an armchair in her father’s study had given her more than one opportunity to surreptitiously listen in on discussions about the effectiveness of Sir John Fielding’s men’s approach to curtailing crime in London.