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The acclaimed author of "The Runaway Duke" returns with this second Regency-era romance in which an impoverished pickpocket is transformed into a lady of high society by a brilliant barrister. Original.

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To Love A Thief

Warner Forever

Chapter One

Uncle Edward was always dying.

"If the man doesn't actually die soon, Laurie," Gideon Cole gloomily told his friend, "I may just strangle him." He crushed the note in his fist.

No one knew the precise nature of Uncle Edward's illness, only that it seemed to require him to be bedridden and waited on hand and foot and had created handsome dowries for each of the parish doctor's five daughters. For five years Lord Lindsey had in fact been the most jovial sick person Gideon had ever seen. And because Gideon stood to inherit the baronetcy and his uncle's extraordinary estate, Aster Park, Edward sent for him every time he felt a twinge.

Uncle Edward was forever feeling twinges.

Tremendously ill-timed twinges.

Gideon yanked off his hat and pushed his fingers agitatedly through his hair. The warmth of the day was oppressive; the crowds that eddied around them on Bond Street felt oppressive, the circumstances of his life felt oppressive. He wasn't looking forward to returning to the chambers at Westminster, to donning his wig and robes and eloquently pleading a case while beads of perspiration raced each other down the back of his neck. At least it was a case he would win easily.

Kilmartin-Lawrence Mowbry, Lord Kilmartin-sighed a long-suffering sigh. "By all means, go to your uncle instead of to Lady Gilchrist's ball, Gideon. I'm sure Jarvis will be happy to dance all the waltzes with Constance in your stead-yet again."

"You're not helping, Laurie."

"And you're not listening, Gideon. You cannot afford to leave the ton now that Jarvis seems to be making a run for Constance. Jarvis already has a title and a fortune. And he's not exactly a gargoyle."

Usually Gideon found Kilmartin's particular brand of insight-honesty undiluted by tact-bracing. Today, however, his pride was tender. "Constance is fond of me," he insisted stubbornly.

"Of you, and grand houses and new carriages and fine clothes and attention and-"

"Hullo, Cole! Wonderful to see you! How are-oh, hello there, Kilmartin."

Gideon and Kilmartin swiveled to find the genteelly graying Lord Wolford hovering on the periphery of their conversation, merrily swinging a walking stick. Gideon tensed briefly, and then he remembered: he'd repaid Wolford. Gideon's father had owed a fortune to nearly everyone in the House of Lords at one time, but Gideon had repaid all of them methodically-alphabetically, in fact, because given the sheer number of debts, it had seemed the only fair way to go about it-after his father's death. Being a "W," Wolford had been one of the last, but he'd been more or less gracious about it: "Seems the apple fell a good distance from the tree in your case, m'boy" had been his precise words. Meaning that Gideon was nothing like his father, Alistair Cole, who had left behind mountains of debt and a trail of disillusioned friends when he'd shaken off this mortal coil. Gideon had taken Wolford's words as a compliment, and he'd done his best to ensure the truth of them ever since.

"Congratulations on the Griffith case, Cole." Wolford gave Gideon's back a manly thump with his free hand. "Very impressive work, indeed."

"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to win it for him."

The marquis fanned out his gloved fingers and began counting off. "First Shrewsbury's property dispute, then Lord Culpepper's sticky little problem with his estate manager, and now Griffith. You're making quite a name for yourself, m'boy. Shawcross is looking to fill that position in the Treasury, and your name came up, among others. Have you given any thought to a political career?"

Gideon noticed Kilmartin struggling to keep his face straight and resisted the urge to give him a little kick. Gideon fully intended to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, at the very least, someday; he'd mentioned it to Kilmartin two or three-or four thousand-times. And Shawcross-Marquis Shawcross-was Constance's father.

"It has crossed my mind, sir," he said mildly.

"Do let me know if I can help in any way, will you?"

You can ask Shrewsbury, Culpepper, and Griffith if they ever intend to pay me. He didn't say it. There were a number of reasons the ton held Gideon Cole in high regard, and discretion was one of them. "I shall, sir, and I thank you."

"Well, I must be off, but we really must share a drink and a chat at White's soon. Oh, and you come, too, Kilmartin." Wolford administered a paternal pat to Gideon and ambled away.

Kilmartin shook his head as they watched the crowd absorb the marquis. "'Oh, and you come, too, Kilmartin,'" he repeated, bemused, and shook his head. "All that admiration. Almost makes me want to work for my living, too."

By way of response, Gideon merely lifted a brow and regarded his friend in amused, unblinking silence.

Kilmartin struggled to maintain an earnest expression, but Gideon's see-through-your-soul barrister stare made it impossible. "Oh, very well, then. Of course it doesn't. But people have been congratulating you on the Griffith affair all morning. What must it be like, I wonder, to be so popular?"

Gideon snorted. "If it's any comfort to you, Laurie, I would much rather be rich than popular. And furthermore," he added, before Kilmartin could get the urge to remind him that it was probably his own bloody fault he wasn't yet rich, "if I were rich, I wouldn't be in my current ... absurd predicament."

"Gideon," Kilmartin continued more gently, "I know you're fond of your uncle, but you know very well he isn't actually dying. Have you considered that Constance's patience may not be endless? Perhaps she'd like a titled husband before she's in her dotage. Perhaps she's uncertain of your intentions."

"Uncertain of my intentions? Nonsense. I have it all planned, Laurie: I'll buy the town house-the one on the corner of Grosvenor Square that Constance wants so badly-"

"Because it's the biggest, most expensive town house on Grosvenor Square-"

"Of course," Gideon defended. "Constance wants only the very best of everything."

"And this includes you, presumably."

This made Gideon smile. And Gideon's smile, the slow sultry curve of it, could crack the heart of any woman between the ages of eight and eighty. "Naturally," he continued smoothly, eliciting a snort from Kilmartin. "As I was saying, I'll buy the town house, and then I'll present it to her-with a little speech, perhaps: 'Constance, I would be deeply honored if you would consent to spend all the Seasons of your life with me in this town house. Will you be my wife?'"

"Very romantic, Gideon," Kilmartin said dryly. "There's just one thing: Jarvis wants that town house, too."

This brought Gideon up short. "How do you know that?" he asked sharply.

"I'm afraid everyone knows that, Gideon. And there are now entries in White's betting books wagering not insignificant sums on the possibility that Lord Jarvis will be engaged to Lady Constance Clary before the end of the season. Seems he'd like to spend all his seasons with Constance, too. You've a serious rival now."

Gideon silently took this in, as around them hoards of men going about their business created the music of Bond Street: the jingle of tack and clatter of hooves, voices raised to outdoor volumes. He inhaled deeply and resisted the impulse to yank his hat off again; he half suspected he always allowed his dark hair to grow just a little too long just so he could work his fingers through it in frustration.

"Bloody hell," Gideon muttered grimly, at last. "All the wagers used to be about me."

Kilmartin nodded sympathetically. "Used to be."

"But didn't you hear Wolford, Laurie?" Gideon could hear desperation creeping into his tone, and it irritated him beyond measure. "Constance's father has mentioned my name in connection with the position in the Treasury. Surely it's because Constance believes we are close to an ...

understanding."

"Wolford said your name was among those mentioned. Who knows? Perhaps Jarvis was mentioned, too."

"I doubt Jarvis has done a day's work in his life." Gideon didn't entirely succeed in keeping the bitterness from his tone.

"I'm not sure the Treasury cares very much whether he has, Gideon."

This response irritated Gideon all the more because no one knew the truth of it better than he did. As with everything, it was about money and titles. And Jarvis had them: a grand family, and money, and a title. Gideon did not. What he did have was rather a knack for making the best of the only truly useful assets bequeathed to him by his father: a charm that was just shy of roguish, and looks that pleased on first glance and riveted on the second. His imposing height usually caused that first glance; his face-dark, dark eyes set into an arresting merger of slopes and angles and hollows that hinted at strength and sensitivity and something slightly more dangerous-did the rest.

But while Gideon's looks and charm may have opened doors, years of hard work and careful choices, of banishing risk and stifling impulse and using rules as ladder rungs to scale the ranks of the military, the law, in society, had earned him the regard he now enjoyed in the ton. And it was a measure of this regard that the idea of an engagement between Lady Constance Clary, the daughter of a wealthy marquis and the uncontested jewel of the season, and Gideon Cole, former soldier and near-penniless barrister, had so far been greeted not with mirth ... but with indulgence.

Though the "near penniless" part was a bit of a secret.

And again, was probably his own bloody fault.

Jarvis, on the other hand, need only be Jarvis-wealthy and titled-to be considered worthy of Constance and a position in the Treasury. It was simply how things were.

He did it: he yanked off his hat, swept his fingers through his hair again. "All I need is thirty pounds, Laurie, as a first payment on the town house-the solicitor promised. And then I'll make payments, and-"

"That town house must cost at least a thousand pounds, Gideon. Tell me, exactly how much money do you now have?"

Damnation. Kilmartin knew him too well.

And when Gideon remained stubbornly silent, it was Kilmartin's turn to arch a knowing brow. Unfortunately, Kilmartin's brows were so fair they were nearly invisible, which robbed the gesture of a little of its eloquence.

"I have Aster Park," Gideon, ever the barrister, countered. "Constance covets Aster Park."

Everyone coveted Aster Park. It was one of the grandest estates in England, a veritable ocean of land that gobbled money and managed to create just enough income in the form of beef and wool to justify its own existence. It had been a shock to everyone when Gideon's uncle had inherited it a few years after Gideon's parents had died, from a relative so distant he'd hardly been more than a rumor in their family.

"You don't quite have Aster Park yet," Kilmartin reminded him relentlessly. "Gideon, if you want my advice, you'd best stay in London and go to Lady Gilchrist's ball, if only to remind Constance why she is so very ... fond of you."

Gideon fell silent again, tracing and retracing the contours of the problem in his mind. His bloody, bloody uncle. He was fond of the man. And what if he was actually dying this time? Dying while Gideon circled a ballroom with a beautiful heiress in his arms ...

"You could just hit him," Kilmartin half jested. "Jarvis. Take him out of the running."

Gideon gave a short laugh. "I don't do that sort of thing anymore, Laurie."

He had done that sort of thing at one time; that sort of thing was how he'd met Kilmartin: about a decade ago at Oxford, he'd lunged at two large boys who were tormenting a small plump boy. An hour later he'd had two black eyes and a friend for life in Kilmartin (the small plump boy), and all four of them had received demerits for fighting, of which Kilmartin was still rather proud.

But he didn't do that sort of thing anymore. Largely because it was precisely the sort of thing his father would have done.

Kilmartin was no longer either small or plump, but he still had to tilt his head back to look Gideon in the eye. Which he did now, his pale eyes squinting in the sun despite the shelter of his hat. "Well, look at it this way, old man. Even if Constance is taken off the marriage mart, you would probably still have your pick of young ladies."

"Yes," Gideon said, because he hadn't the strength for false modesty today. "But I want Constance."

Kilmartin made an exasperated noise. "Why do this to yourself, Gideon? Why choose the most difficult female of them all?"

"Oh, come now, Laurie. You should know by now, no matter what, I always choose the most difficult of all." He grinned, an attempt to make Kilmartin grin.

But Kilmartin was having none of it. He studied Gideon shrewdly instead. And then his shoulders slumped as realization set in. "Bloody hell, Gideon. This is about your Master Plan, isn't it?"

Gideon paused again. Sometimes it was deucedly inconvenient to be known as well as Kilmartin knew him.

"I want Constance, Laurie," he said softly. "I need Constance." He'd earned Constance, he wanted to add, but didn't, because he wasn't certain Kilmartin would understand. Laurie was heir to a viscount; his family was ancient, his fortune seemingly permanent. Unlike Gideon, he'd never watched his father bring his humble family to untold social altitudes with a roll of the dice, only to bring them crashing down again in precisely the same way; he'd never watched his mother and his sister hold their heads high amidst the losses and whispers; he'd never received word that the ship carrying his parents to India-Gideon's father, the eternal gambler, the eternal optimist, had dragged his mother off in search of new fortune to replace the lost one-had been dashed to pieces in a storm.

Gideon had been just eighteen and still at Oxford when his parents died, his sister seventeen, and they'd been left nearly penniless. They'd sold the family home; Helen married a wealthy Yorkshire farmer who'd offered for her. It had seemed a sound decision at the time. Gideon knew better now.

Gideon had told Kilmartin about his Master Plan one night at Oxford after too much wine-and regretted it ever since, really. He wasn't sure Laurie fully understood the need to ensure his future was nothing-nothing-like the life his father had provided for his family, with its constant vertigo of fluctuating fortune, the pride and the shame.

But Laurie was a good friend. And after a moment, he shrugged in resignation.

Continues...

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Excerpted from To Love A Thief by Julie Anne Long Copyright © 2005 by Julie Anne Long. Excerpted by permission.
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