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But none had done right by their mother in the end. During her last illness, Mr. Mucklow hadn’t called the doctor until it was too late. Fever dwindled her to bones and staring eyes. Nina was nine that bitter December. Old enough to remember plenty. If she concentrated, she could still feel the gentle tug of her mother’s hands in her hair. She could still hear her voice.

Much comfort in cats, little in men. That was one of her mother’s sayings. Unforgettable. The world provided constant reminders.

For example, in the form of Laddie. The lying, scheming backstabber.

“Fritz!” She stepped on Bull-neck’s heel, then, when he turned, wedged herself between his body and the shelves. “Fritz!”

The white tufts on Fritz’s ears pricked, and his eyes opened. He ricocheted off the French novels, zigzagging his way to the floor, and jumped up onto Nina’s skirt. She nuzzled his fur with her cheek as he settled onto her shoulder, tail wrapping her neck.

“Look lively.” She scowled at Bull-neck and Grigsby and barreled forward. They sprang out of her way.

“Cheeky maid.” She heard Bull-neck behind her. “I’d give her the sack, Laddie.”

“That’s not what I’d give her!” The shout came from across the room. Nina spared a single glance for the offender, who was waggling one of the narwhale tusks for emphasis.

Rats. The lot of them.

Guffaws followed her down the hall.

—

Jack wasn’t upstairs. Nina poked her head into the empty painting studio, then banged on his bedroom door. She went down the back stairs and found him in the small, foul-smelling kitchen, kneeling by the open oven in his shirtsleeves.

“Laddie tried to sell Fritz,” she announced, and moved a sauceboat off a chair so she could sit. There was a dormouse in the sauceboat. She set it carefully atop the plates stacked on the table.

“Dirty-arsed little bugger.” Jack shut the oven door and rose, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“Do you mean Laddie? Or Fritz?” She grimaced as Fritz snapped a strand of her hair. He liked to groom her, fingers scratching over her scalp. He groomed Boggs, the spaniel, too, and Dora and Mop, the cats, when they allowed it.

“Laddie, of course.” Jack grinned the dimpled grin that made the girls at the Baited Bear sigh. Sweet Jack, they called him and forgave his displays of temper. “Fritz is a prince. He missed you sorely.”

Nina bit her tongue. Jack had pledged to watch over Prince Fritz in her absence. He should have kept the marmoset close. And cleaned up after him! Laddie roared whenever Fritz rubbed himself on the upholstery or piddled down the curtains. If Jack had let Fritz run wild, ignoring the puddles, she should thank her lucky stars Laddie hadn’t gutted and stuffed him.

She would not be thanking Jack.

“I expected you yesterday.” Jack’s smile faded. “You didn’t run into any trouble?” He held out his hand. “Let me see the letter.”

“Yesterday!” Was he accusing her of lollygagging? She frowned. “You can’t just put on a mobcap and waltz into a duke’s study saying la-di-da, your documents could use a dusting.” She felt on her head for the cap and wiggled the fabric free of the pins.

“The job required cunning.” Cunning, and Ruby’s lockpick set. She tossed the cap and stood to fetch the biscuit tin down from the shelf above the sink. The sink was filled with greasy pans. To think, she’d left the kitchen spotless!

“I had to bide my time.” She sat back in the chair, piling crockery to make room for the biscuit tin on the table. “And by biding my time I don’t mean twiddling my thumbs. They run servants off their feet in that house.”

“Poor Birdie.” Jack curled his fingers, a quick, repeated motion. “Hand it over.”

He didn’t doubt that she had the letter. Nor should he. When had she ever failed him?

They had a pact, the two of them. They were bound to each other. By blood and by love, and by their collective enterprise, source of profit and peril.

Of course he didn’t doubt. She was his Birdie. His best and only apprentice. Best accomplice. Best friend. She worked miracles with her clever fingers.

Sighing, she fished Sleaford’s letter from her boot and passed it over.

Jack gave a short laugh as he scanned the lines. He crumpled the paper and sent it sailing through the air toward the dustbin.

“You did well,” he said, and dropped again into a crouch. “Umfreville’s an easy mark. And a damn good client.” He opened the oven door and warmth wafted out. The acrid smell in the room intensified. “He’ll like this Titian.”

Nina yanked the lid off the biscuit tin and peered inside. Crumbs gathered in the corners. Not a biscuit remained. She plucked up the biggest crumb and offered it to Fritz, who shifted his weight on her shoulder and emitted a happy chirp. The rest of the crumbs she shook into the sauceboat for the mouse.