To Kiss a Thief by Susanna Craig Page A

contentment.
    And her claws.
    * * *
    â€œHere.”
    The door to Primrose Cottage opened to St. John’s knock just enough to allow his tall beaver hat to be passed through the gap. The disembodied hand that held the brim was most certainly not Sarah’s.
    â€œMrs. Potts?”
    â€œTake it,” she insisted, giving the offending object a shake, “afore I let the wind have it.”
    Reluctantly, St. John lifted the hat from her grasp and placed it on his head. “Much obliged.” Mrs. Potts tried to push the door closed behind it, but he had prudently wedged the toe of his boot in her way. “Please, ma’am, may I come in?”
    â€œMrs. Fairfax isn’t here.”
    Knowing Sarah could not have got far, St. John held his ground. “That’s quite all right. I had hoped to have an opportunity to speak with you.”
    The door opened a crack wider. “And what would you want wi’ me? I won’t tell you where she’s gone, if that’s what you’re after.”
    â€œI would never ask you to betray the confidence of a friend, Mrs. Potts.” He paused. “Mrs. Fairfax is your friend, is she not?”
    At that, the door swung wide. “None better. And I won’t stand by and see her hurt by the likes o’ you.”
    Although she was surely not five feet tall, “Mad Martha” Potts cut an imposing figure in her gray serge gown, the knobby fingers of one hand clutching a broom handle as if it were a weapon. St. John had no doubt of her ability to use it as one. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, hoping to persuade her to relent.
    But he did not move his foot, just in case.
    â€œI deeply regret whatever I may have done or said that gave you the impression I meant Mrs. Fairfax any harm,” he replied, laying a hand across his chest in what he hoped was the appearance of sincerity. “Do you know who I am?”
    Her dark eyes narrowed and were nearly lost in the wrinkles of her weathered visage. “Word’s abroad you’re claimin’ to be her man.”
    â€œAnd what does Mrs. Fairfax say?”
    Mrs. Potts made no reply, but the answer was written on her face.
    â€œSo she has told you I am her husband. I expect you’re wondering how I came to be here.”
    â€œCouldn’t care less. What I’m wondering is how your wife came to be here without you.”
    â€œFair enough.” When pressed, he had given Beals and Mackey a simple story, one on which he could embellish as necessary. Based on their reactions, he knew it had the essential ingredients for success: misunderstood lovers, insurmountable distance, and broken communication, sufficiently probable that Sarah would find it uncomfortable to contradict him.
    With Mrs. Potts for an audience, perhaps he could begin to refine it.
    â€œBut may I come in? I know how swiftly gossip will fly in a country village.” With the right word in Mrs. Potts’s ear, he suspected it might travel even faster.
    She stepped back and allowed him to enter, setting aside the broom and gesturing toward the sitting room, where he and Sarah had spoken the night before. The morning light did not improve its appearance. It was neat and clean, but strikingly barren, not even a carpet for the scuffed wide-plank floors. Faded paper covered the walls, and what had seemed in the lamplight to be comfortably worn chairs, the light of day revealed as threadbare. Whatever the late Mr. Potts had done to support his family, legal or otherwise, he had been none too successful at it.
    Mrs. Potts seated herself in the chair closest to the fireplace, so St. John took the other, the one he thought of as Sarah’s. He laid his hat on the table between them, and at Mrs. Potts’s encouragement, he began to speak, modulating his voice to suit his tale and donning a grave expression. “Mrs. Fairfax and I were married three years ago last June, against my family’s