Free The Telltale Heart by Melanie Thompson Page A

was no way she’d allow herself to become subservient to anyone, much less an unknown bunch of relatives from the north of nowhere.
    She and Edmund took care of themselves. He had his own friends and was a very talented cutpurse. She, on the other hand, was a second-story thief. Nimble as a goat, she could scamper up the side of any building quiet as a mouse and dub any lock. Between them, they managed to pay the rent on their roomy cellar digs, buy all the tools and equipment she needed for her experiments, and Cam had even managed to put away quite a nest egg just in case they had to pike on the bean.
    â€œI say, Cam, do you think this thing will actually work?” Edmund held up her invention. It looked like a chain mail vest, but under it wires and leads sprouted from a device that was cunningly fit into the inside of the vest.
    â€œIt’s hard to say. It should work, but so far, I’ve had no subjects to experiment upon. Find me someone dying of heart failure, and we’ll give it a go.”
    Edmund fit the vest over a dress form in the corner of the lab, shoved a pile of papers off a high stool and sat down. “I could ask around.”
    Cam shoved the special goggles she wore when she worked onto the top of her head. Her hair, a mass of golden curls, was tightly contained in a leather cap. She wore a man’s white linen shirt, the finest of linen because whenever she cracked the house of a particularly rich pigeon, she always checked for shirts that would fit her along with breeches and boots. Why buy clothing when it could be had for free? Most of the nobs living in Grosvenor Square or west of Charing Cross were out in the evenings at parties or gaming hells. It was a simple matter for someone with her skills to enter their mansions through third story windows.
    Cam preferred to dress like a man. Dresses were cumbersome and got in her way. Dressing as a male kept her safe from the procurers who were always trolling the Nichol for any unwary girls or women. Brothels and houses of ill repute were constantly in need of new recruits and she vowed she would never be one.
    â€œFind me someone, Edmund. Any drunken bum will do. Check the street tonight. Maybe we shall get lucky and so shall our victim.” She grinned as Edmund pulled on his coat of superfine fabric tailored at one of the best shops. It fit him like a glove. “Your neck cloth is askew.”
    He tugged at it with a crooked smiled. “Working for you is hell on my wardrobe which I need to be successful.”
    â€œWhere are you going this evening?” Every night, Edmund trolled the expensive clubs in the wealthy sections of town, prigging wasted gamblers of their purses. He was so slick they seldom even noticed he was there, much less that their purses were missing.
    â€œI’m going to give the Hellfire Club a try. I’ve been invited by the abbot himself, Sir Nugent Templecombe, the honorable Marquis of Barrasford. I met him at White’s last evening. We shared a rubber or two of whist and I refrained from removing his very fat purse, guessing, I hope correctly, that a trip into the Hellfire Club would prove the more profitable enterprise. He gave me a card which is supposed to be the only way of gaining entry.”
    â€œWell, be careful. I have heard very disturbing stories of that club on the street and the honorable Sir Nugent’s reputation is black to say the least.”
    â€œYes, so too have I heard; however I also heard only the wealthiest of the young bloods of the city are invited and while they are all partaking of the pleasures of the flesh, I shall be relieving them of their purses.”
    â€œNo entertainment there to your taste?”
    â€œI should think not. Mostly whores hired off the street to play games and submit to any torture Sir Nugent’s sick mind can devise.”
    â€œNo toothsome young men for you to play with?”
    â€œNot that I’ve heard. If I chance to