A Heart Worth Stealing, page 1
Cover art: Shelley Richmond/Arcangel
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Art direction: Richard Erickson
Design: Heather G. Ward
© 2023 Joanna Barker
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This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Barker, Joanna, author.
Title: A heart worth stealing / Joanna Barker.
Other titles: Proper romance.
Description: Salt Lake City: Shadow Mountain, [2023] | Series: Proper romance | Summary: “When Miss Genevieve Wilde hires the thief-taker Jack Travers to find her late father’s stolen pocket watch—and possibly unravel the mysterious circumstances of his death—she doesn’t expect to also have her heart stolen by the flirtatious rogue”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022047899 | ISBN 9781639931040 (trade paperback) | eISBN 9781649331564 (eBook)
Subjects: BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Historical / Regency | FICTION / Romance / Clean & Wholesome | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Romance fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603. O54728 H43 2023 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20221107
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022047899
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Audrey,
Always be you, my fierce girl. I love you forever.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Chapter 1
My study had been overrun by men.
I sat on the high-back chair near the fireplace, hands gripping the scrolled armrests. Normally this room was a place of quiet refuge, with its dark paneled walls, wide and inviting windows, and high ceiling. Now, however, my study contained not only myself but three men—which was three too many.
Mr. Northcott examined the desk, moving aside an inkwell with care. His pale blue eyes squinted, long features arranged in careful concentration. The magistrate was hardly an expert on investigating home thefts, better suited as he was to judicial hearings, but he was the first—and only—person I’d thought to call upon. He’d arrived at Wimborne within an hour of my sending him a plea for help. Now he picked up a red leather-bound book and flipped through the pages.
“What is this?” he asked.
I shot to my feet. “You needn’t worry about that,” I said, hurrying to my desk and taking the book from his hands.
“My apologies.” His eyes lingered on my journal. I could only imagine his face if he read what I’d written about him inside.
A cough drew my gaze to Mr. Crouth, a parish constable. He halfheartedly inspected the area around the window, his rounded, red face and rough spun clothes reflecting in the surface. I’d never liked him when he worked with Father, and I liked him even less now as he rubbed a dirty boot on my rug.
Marchant, my butler, stood inside the open door and watched Mr. Crouth with a narrowed gaze, as if he thought the constable might break something. Marchant was no stranger to my study, of course. He’d served at Wimborne for more than a decade. But he had the tendency to hover over me, as if to ensure I was doing things properly, and that always made his presence feel a bit . . . much.
He would never have hovered over Father.
I took a steadying breath and turned back to Mr. Northcott.
“No matter,” I said, tucking my journal against my chest. “Have you discovered anything suspicious?”
“No, unfortunately not.” Mr. Northcott frowned and settled his walking stick beneath both hands. He always had it with him, though he hardly needed it. He was a perfectly healthy man of three and thirty years, with a full head of pomaded sandy hair that was never out of place. But I daresay he liked the feel of the cane, the authority of it. He’d adopted the affectation when he’d become the magistrate six months ago. Six long months ago.
“You are sure this is where you left the watch?” he asked, gesturing at my desk.
“Yes,” I said. “I always have it beside me as I attend to business.”
“And now it is gone.” Skepticism did a horrible job of hiding in his eyes.
“Yes.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “I arrived this morning to begin work for the day and noticed the watch missing. Marchant recommended we search the servants’ quarters and question the staff, but we found nothing.” I’d done this most reluctantly—my servants had never given me a reason to mistrust them. But I had to search out every avenue.
He offered a smile‚ which was meant to be kind but instead made me feel like a child. “Miss Wilde, is it possible you simply misplaced it?”
My back was already ramrod straight—lazy posture is a sign of weak character, Genevieve, my half sister Catherine often insisted—but I squared my shoulders as I fixed Mr. Northcott with a determined gaze.
“No,” I insisted. “It is not possible. I distinctly remember placing the watch beside that ledger before I went to dress for dinner.” I’d hosted a small dinner party last night, my first since ending my mourning for Father. Beatrice had attended, of course, with her parents, as well as the vicar and his wife. Mr. Northcott had come too. Though he was a decade older than my twenty-three years, he’d been Father’s friend—and mine, I’d thought. Our interactions had been strained in recent weeks, but surely he wouldn’t let our personal relationship interfere with what was clearly a criminal matter. Would he?
“I did not reenter the room until this morning,” I went on, “which means it must have been stolen during the night.”
Mr. Northcott lowered his voice. “Are you suggesting someone from the dinner party might have taken it?”
“Of course not.” As if Beatrice or the vicar was a thief. “I simply wished to give you a span of time during which the theft was committed. I imagine the thief entered through the window.”
“The window,” Mr. Northcott repeated doubtfully. Mr. Crouth gave a snort, a sad effort at suppressing laughter. My jaw tightened.
“Yes,” I said. “The window was open when I arrived this morning. A catch must have been left undone by mistake, allowing the thief inside.”
Mr. Northcott eyed the gold candlesticks near the door. “And he took only the watch?”
Heat bloomed on my cheeks—a horrible combination of embarrassment and frustration. It did sound absurd when I said it aloud. What thief took a simple pocket watch but left so many valuables untouched? Yet I knew for a fact I had not misplaced Father’s watch. The logical conclusion was that someone had taken it.
Mr. Northcott’s narrow jaw softened as he regarded me. “Can you think of any reason why someone would steal the watch and nothing else?”
My thoughts flashed to the past few weeks—the missing sheep, the flooded irrigation channels. But those were just unfortunate events. They had nothing to do with Father’s watch, and if I told Mr. Northcott about my recent string of bad luck, it would cement in his mind that I was unable to run Wimborne, that I was incapable of protecting my house and land. He would pity me.
He would probably propose again.
“No,” I said. “I cannot.” And that was the crux of the matter. Why would someone take Father’s watch? It wasn’t elegant or valuable—at least, to anyone else. To me, its worth was incalculable. Just touching its smooth brass casing brought me a steadying peace, and since discovering it missing this morning, I’d felt uneven. Incomplete. Like I was missing one shoe or I’d forgotten my name—but only if either of those also made me feel like my chest had been torn into ribbons, reviving and inflaming my grief yet again.
A memory tugged at the edge of my mind—Father pressing his watch into my hands, his face pale, fingers trembling, eyes painted in a strange desperation.
I looked down, blinking to clear my vision. “Please, Mr. Northcott,” I said, my voice fragile. “I need to find it.”
He sighed, leaning forward o
I bit my lip. Highwaymen had plagued the roads around Little Sowerby for years, but they’d grown bolder in recent months, their robberies becoming more frequent—and more violent. My missing watch paled in comparison.
“But I shall have my constables make inquiries,” Mr. Northcott went on. “I will do what I can. I promise.”
I’d thought his help would reassure me, but the heaviness in my heart did not abate. When Father had been magistrate, he had often grumbled about the relative uselessness of his constables. These men were private citizens serving as part of their civic duty, or often paid replacements for men who could afford such a thing. Their responsibilities lay in keeping the streets clear of vagrants and controlling crowds, not in investigation and detection.
“Perhaps we will be lucky and your watch will turn up,” Mr. Northcott said.
Turn up. As if my family heirloom had simply gone for a walk and lost track of the time.
I moved to the door. “Thank you for sparing me a few minutes, Mr. Northcott. I know you are much occupied.”
He raised an eyebrow at my sudden dismissal. “Perhaps you might consider taking an advertisement in the paper,” he suggested. “Offer a reward for the watch.”
He was trying to make peace between us, but I didn’t feel particularly peaceful.
“Perhaps,” I said, clasping my hands. “Good day, sir.”
“Good day, Miss Wilde.” Mr. Northcott offered a bow. Mr. Crouth abandoned his pretense of an investigation and made for the door, giving me the slightest tip of his balding head. I tried not to frown at the odious man and only just succeeded.
Marchant saw the men out, giving me a sympathetic look as he closed the door behind him. I sighed and went to my desk. Mr. Northcott had left everything askew, and it would irk me if I did not set it right. I laid down my journal, straightened a stack of letters, and adjusted my inkwell. My fingers rested on the empty spot where Father’s watch ought to be, the polished wood of my desk gleaming in the morning light.
There was only one man who belonged in this study—not Mr. Northcott or the constable or Marchant. How easily I could picture Father here in his great leather chair by the fire, the dark, woody smell of his pipe filling the air. I’d so often come to him, crying over a scraped knee when I was younger, or wishing for his advice as I grew older. And always, always, he had his watch.
“This watch is my god,” he’d often joked, which earned him censuring looks if one did not know his favorite book was Gulliver’s Travels. Like Gulliver, Father rarely did anything without consulting his watch. It was a part of him. If ever a soul could be seen in an object, that watch was Father. Steady, sturdy, practical. Loved.
I swallowed hard. What if I never found the watch?
I’d expected something from Mr. Northcott’s visit, the discovery of a helpful clue or an insight into local thieves. Yet it was clear Mr. Northcott did not entirely believe me. It did not matter that I was certain I’d been robbed. My word—a woman’s word—was not evidence enough.
But someone had broken into my house. Someone had violated the place I felt safest and taken the item I loved most. My shock grew thin, fear greedily eating away at me. Though I had control of my own estate, I was just a single woman. How was I to keep my home safe? I had no one left to guide me. No mother since the day I was born. No sister since Catherine had decided I was a thorn in her side.
No father.
Tears burned in my eyes. I fought them back. I needed solutions, not a headache.
What would you do, Father? I’d asked myself that question countless times over the last few months. It had sometimes brought me comfort, clarity, but now the words simply sharpened the ache in my chest. Father could not answer me, and he never would.
I inhaled a stiff breath and set my jaw. As I saw it, I had two problems. One being the security of my home and all those who lived here, the other being the matter of my father’s watch. While the first required a bit more thinking, I needed to act now if I ever wanted to see the watch again. Mr. Northcott had proven less than helpful, and so I would take matters into my own hands.
Chapter 2
Beatrice waited for me outside the milliner’s an hour later, her blonde curls dancing in the April breeze, her bold yellow pelisse striking against the browns of the bustling crowd. My mouth tugged upwards in spite of myself. Only Beatrice Lacey could wear such a color and think nothing of it. I straightened my own skirts, a mourning gray. I would need to have new dresses made soon, though I kept putting it off. These days, my red hair provided the only spot of color when I caught my reflection in a mirror.
Holloway—my lady’s maid—made a sound of amusement upon seeing Beatrice. “Easy to spot in a crowd, isn’t she?”
“Thankfully.”
Beatrice caught sight of Holloway and me descending from the coach and hurried to meet us, her own maid, Mariah, following in her wake.
“Genevieve Wilde,” she scolded, amusement hiding in her voice. “There you are. I thought the highwaymen had gotten you.”
“I know, I know, I’m terribly late.” In truth, I nearly hadn’t come. After Mr. Northcott had left, I’d wanted nothing more than to retreat to my room and ensconce myself with a tray of tea and pastries—with my door firmly locked. But Beatrice and I had arranged last night at the dinner party to meet, and I did not want to leave her waiting. Besides that, I knew she would make me feel better.
She planted one hand on her hip, her netted reticule swinging from her wrist. “What happened? It must have been something dreadful. You’d be early for your own funeral if you could manage it.”
“I like to be punctual,” I said with a laugh. “It’s polite.”
“Haven’t you heard?” She grinned. “Politeness is no longer the thing. Men now want unpredictable, messy-mannered, free-thinking women.”
“Then you will make some fellow perfectly unhappy one day.” I smiled at the petite girl standing beside Beatrice. “Good morning, Mariah.”
She bobbed a curtsy, her eyes twinkling. “Morning, Miss Wilde.” As the housemaid assigned to keep Beatrice out of trouble, Mariah spent a great deal of time sharing in my exasperation over the things my friend said.
Beatrice waved a hand. “Never mind all that. What happened this morning?”
I sighed. “It is not what happened this morning but, rather, last night.”
I told her everything that had occurred since my dinner party, her face sobering with every word I spoke. When I finished, she simply stared at me. The morning crowd moved around us as we remained quite rudely in the middle of the walkway, but Beatrice paid them no mind. She took my hand. “Oh, Ginny, I am so sorry. I know what that watch meant to you.”
I squeezed her hand. Beatrice had been my closest friend as long as I could remember, and she knew better than anyone how much the last six months had cost me.
“In any case,” I said, swallowing against the lump in my throat, “since Mr. Northcott is no help at all, I am determined to do what I can on my own. Would you mind if we stopped at the printer’s before doing our shopping?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But what for?”
“Mr. Northcott suggested I place an advertisement in the paper,” I said. “He only said it to placate me, but perhaps he had the right idea of it. If the thief sells the watch, then a reward might tempt the buyer to return it to me.” Though that result was improbable—and naively optimistic.
“Or,” Beatrice said with narrowed eyes, “the thief might see your advertisement and return the watch himself for the reward.”
I did not much like that thought, coming face-to-face, even unknowingly, with the thief who had entered my home while I lay sleeping. But I raised my chin. “It is possible. Still, I should be glad to have my watch back, whatever the means.”
We walked to the print shop, where a few passersby had gathered before the broad windows, reading the latest caricatures and cartoons the owner posted in hopes of luring more readers to purchase the weekly paper, The Little Sowerby Review. It wasn’t much in terms of literature—political articles poached from the London papers, a bit of local gossip, weather reports. But it would do for my needs.
