Read A Lady Never Trifles with Thieves for Free Online

never.”
    The second man drawled, “We done figgered that already, son.”
    Before the law clerk dissolved to a puddle of embarrassment, I said, “Oh, mind your own business,” to the men, then aimed a sweet smile at Percy. “Thank you very much for your help. The next time I see Fulton, I’ll certainly put in a good word for you.”
    “As relating this incident would do nothing to further my career, I would prefer my employer remain ignorant of it.”
    Our eyes met. “Then it will be our little secret,” I said. He knew I’d use it to finagle another favor someday. Such is the nature of commerce.
    The ceaseless wind batted my hat and fed me sips of grit and soot as I made my way up Larimer. Or down it. Or specifically, in a due northeasterly direction, until I reached the corner of H, where I turned due south-southeast.
    Had the city’s founders possessed a thimbleful of horse sense—or sobriety—the folly of platting streets to intersect with the banks of Cherry Creek, rather than in accordance with a compass, might have occurred to them. As it had not, the entire metropolis was laid out antigoggling to the mountains, the sun, the moon—any and all topo-graphic and celestial landmarks humankind has relied upon for navigation since the dawn of time.
    Although Arkansas was graven on my soul and flavored my speech, Colorado in general and Denver City in particular had stolen my heart, as it had tens of thousands of gold-fevered come-heres who’d sallied west to make a fortune and found a home. I only wished the damnfool first arrivals had squared longitude with latitude like the rest of the world.
    The smell of spilt beer and bodies several days removed from a bath wafted from every fifth or sixth doorway. Disembodied conversations and laughter chased out onto the street as well. Thankfully, it was too early in the evening for much gunplay.
    Clattering away on a vacant lot between an auction-and-storage concern and a brothel were Aloysius Q. Dablemont and his steam-driven rainmaking machine. The balding, portly climatologist stood on a soapbox, his bowler aloft, telling the dozen or so folks gathered round that last night’s mizzling rain was a mere sample of his contraption’s wares. A pure-de-frog strangler was within his realm, but they cost extra and must be paid for in advance.
    Further on, two mangy curs trotted behind an ice wagon, lapping at the water dripping under its doors. From the opposite direction came a dray heaped with offal. The dogs yelped and stutter-stepped. Their bone-sharp heads swiveled from one conveyance to the other.
    The horns of their dilemma reminded me of my own. A legal means of snipping Mrs. LeBruton’s bonds of unholy matrimony could be as close as a page in the god-awful heavy books hugged to my bosom. If not, there was more up my leg-o’-mutton sleeve besides my arm.
    It was resurrecting Papa for his appointment tomorrow with Misters McCoyne and Whitelaw that had me flummoxed. Men of their station and prestige would not be dissuaded by excuses, nor would they confide in Joe B. Sawyer’s able female assistant. Currying the carriage trade was vital to the agency’s prosperity. The rent, expenses, and Sawyer Investigations’ future could not be staked on crumbs tossed by J. Fulton Shulteis.
    Before the appointed hour, what if I positioned Won Li behind a screen? Selling McCoyne and Whitelaw on the pretense that secrecy was crucial to covert investigations would take some fast, fancy talking. I’d emphasize the general knowledge that Wells, Fargo employed undercover operatives. So did the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. It stood to reason that stealth was a higher priority for a small concern like ours.
    The hitch in that grand scheme was Won Li’s adamant refusal to cooperate. Even if his faculties deserted him for a nonce and he agreed, the odds of him feigning a low-country Arkansas accent were equal to passing myself off as a deposed Hungarian princess.
    I hated