𝙘𝙚𝙙𝙖𝙧

4 - thieves titles and pastries

mayven walked into the dining room with all the enthusiasm of someone being led to their own execution. bessie had spent the better part of an hour fussing over her, adjusting her hair and muttering about “proper posture” while simultaneously issuing dire warnings about her lack of enthusiasm for titled gentlemen.

“you smile at him, mayven,” bessie had hissed, gripping her shoulders like a general preparing a soldier for battle. “smile like you mean it, even if you don’t. especially if you don’t. the future of this family depends on it.”

now, as mayven took her seat at the long, gleaming table, she plastered on the kind of smile that could only be achieved through sheer force of will. across from her sat lord theo hartwell, a man so polished he might as well have been carved from marble. his blond hair was perfectly combed, his cravat perfectly tied, and his posture so upright it made her back ache just looking at him.

“miss scott,” theo said with a polite incline of his head. his voice was calm, measured, and entirely devoid of personality.

“lord hartwell,” she replied, mimicking his tone.

to her left, harriet was practically vibrating with excitement. to her right, bessie was watching her like a hawk, ready to intervene at the first sign of social failure.

it was shaping up to be the most tedious evening of her life.

and then, just as the first course was being served, the door opened.

“forgive my tardiness,” a familiar voice drawled.

mayven’s stomach dropped. no. no, it couldn’t be.

but it was.

there he stood, guy thwarpe, leaning casually against the doorframe as though he hadn’t just crashed a dinner party he had absolutely no business attending. he was dressed impeccably, of course, because apparently even thieves could look like they belonged at high society events when they wanted to.

the room fell silent. bessie’s face went pale. harriet looked like she might faint from sheer scandal-induced joy.

mayven, meanwhile, was gripping her fork so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“mr. thwarpe,” lord hartwell said, his tone clipped. it was clear from the tension in his jaw that he was less than thrilled about the new arrival.

“hartwell,” guy said with a smirk, strolling into the room as though he owned it. “always a pleasure.”

“you know each other?” bessie asked, her voice a little too high-pitched to be casual.

“unfortunately,” theo said, his tone as cold as the chilled soup being served.

“oh, come now,” guy said, plucking a pastry from the tray of a passing footman. “don’t be like that, theo. you make it sound like we’re enemies.”

“are you not?” theo asked, arching a perfect blond eyebrow.

“not yet,” guy said, winking at mayven.

she wanted to sink through the floor. or throw her soup in his face. possibly both.

“and you are…?” bessie prompted, clearly torn between wanting to scold him for his audacity and wanting to figure out how rich he might be.

“guy thwarpe, at your service,” he said, executing a bow that somehow managed to be both elegant and utterly insincere.

“and what brings you here, mr. thwarpe?” theo asked, his tone so icy it could have frozen the soup.

“oh, you know,” guy said, settling into an empty chair as though he’d been invited. “society, conversation, the occasional fine meal. london is such a charming city, isn’t it?”