To Trust a Thief by Michelle McLean Page A

the witnesses has recanted…
    The family is demanding compensation…
    Min folded the letter and put it away. Reading it again wouldn’t help. Nothing would help except enough money to bribe her father’s way out of prison and onto a ship. She played with the chain around her neck. The locket was of no real use to them, only the map that was inside. The pearl at least would be worth something. She wondered how much she’d be able to get for it…and how much Arthur would hate her if she sold it. All she knew for certain was that time was running out.
    She jumped as a loud crash arose behind her. She stood, walking as quietly as she could until she approached the door of the greenhouse. The frosted glass made it impossible to see anything but vague shapes. A scraping sound came from inside, but she saw no hint of movement.
    She moved to the door and eased it open to peek inside. Seeing nothing suspicious, she entered, closing the door behind her. Another loud crash sounded from the back of the large, crowded space, followed by a muffled, “Oh, bloody hell!”
    Min slapped a hand over her mouth to keep in her shocked giggle. “Mr. Westley?” she finally asked, having recognized the voice. “Is everything all right?”
    “Miss Sinclair?” Mr. Westley appeared from behind the plant-laden tables in the back. He dusted himself off and hurried over to her, taking her hand in his. She started at the feel of his warm skin against her chilled fingers. She’d forgotten her gloves. As, apparently, had he. Her eyes flicked down, but he held his mangled hand behind his back. “Yes, I was just looking for something. I didn’t expect company. What brings you to this stuffy old place?”
    Min willed her fingers to remain still. She wanted to turn her hand, mold her skin to his. She looked up to find him staring at her and realized she hadn’t yet answered him.
    “Oh, I come here often, especially if the weather is cold outside. I love being surrounded by the plants.”
    Mr. Westley tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and Min tried to keep her expression neutral. “They are rather beautiful, aren’t they?” he asked, looking directly at her. “Shall we?” He bowed, holding his hand out to the aisle in front of them. They talked as they wandered around the greenhouse, stopping every so often to gaze at a particular plant. They came upon a small wrought-iron bench against the wall.
    “Please, Miss Sinclair,” he said, gesturing to the bench. Min sat stiffly, anticipation, nervousness, and a myriad of other emotions all tumbling together inside her. The tumult created a curious, though not unpleasant, sensation in the pit of her stomach. She thought it odd that Mr. Westley’s nearness made her want to both run away and throw herself at him at the same time. The thought of his arms as he’d held her sent a tremble through her and she bit her lip, trying to control her shocking thoughts.
    “Our conversation the other day intrigued me.” Mr. Westley sat beside to her.
    “Oh? How so?” Min tried to remember to which conversation he might be referring. Somehow, his mere presence managed to cease all her brain functions and breathing capabilities while simultaneously igniting parts of her she never dreamed existed.
    “Well, your thoughts on Shakespeare, for instance. Your view that his heroines were examples of the women of his age and your thoughts on their place in that world. I’m curious, what is your view of a woman’s place in our world?”
    “Our world?” Her voice hitched on the word our and she cringed at the telltale heat seeping into her cheeks. His lips twitched in amusement and his meaning finally sank in. “Oh! Our world, well, yes, I think, um, well, that our worlds are very similar in many respects,” she said, fumbling to regain her mental fortitude.
    “In which respects?”
    “Well,” Min began, keeping a careful eye on him for any adverse reactions, “just as in past years, women, at least