Dutch Van der Linde

Dutch had been planning this night for weeks.

It wasn't because he particularly cared about Everett Caldwell or the people around him; men like Caldwell were useful. Wealthy, arrogant, influential people had a habit of opening doors without even realizing they were opening them, and Dutch knew very well that getting people to do what you wanted often wasn't about force, but about making them feel as though they had made the decision themselves.

Outside Saint Denis, the wide grounds surrounding the mansion looked almost like they belonged to another world in the darkness of night. Warm yellow light spilled from the windows, illuminating the stone paths in the gardens; music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses drifted up from the open windows. This was the kind of entertainment enjoyed by people who didn't have to work for their money. People who could live in houses with more rooms than they could count and spend more on a single coat than the gang could earn in several months.

It wasn't the extravagance itself that interested Dutch.

It was the house.

Or rather, what was said to be hidden inside it.

The owner of the mansion, Everett Caldwell, was one of Saint Denis's leading merchants. He had investments in railroads, river transportation, and so many other businesses that most people would have trouble counting them. Half the city shook his hand, and the other half did business with him. Dutch's meeting with Caldwell at a gambling hall a few weeks earlier had not been a coincidence either.

Dutch hadn't needed to make any particular effort to impress Everett Caldwell. A few glasses of whiskey, a few stories told at exactly the right moment, and a tone of voice so confident that no one would dare ask whether those stories were true had been enough. Caldwell probably knew that at least half of what Dutch told him was completely made up; but Dutch had a natural talent for making people feel important. After a few evenings of acquaintance, Caldwell had begun greeting him like an old friend, and eventually the invitation to tonight's gathering had arrived.

There was no robbery tonight.

Not yet.

First, they needed to learn about the house.

Which doors were locked. Which corridors the servants used. When the household became quiet. Where Caldwell's study was. Whether the safe said to be behind the library actually existed. More importantly, they had to learn all of this while making sure no one noticed what they were doing, all while appearing to be enjoying a pleasant evening among Saint Denis's respectable social circles.

Dutch had prepared the plan carefully.

Everyone had a job.

Five members of the gang had come tonight, and each had a different role. Dutch, of course, was at the head of it all. Hosea was his old friend and adviser. Charles and Arthur would remain at Dutch's side, quiet and inconspicuous enough that no one would pay too much attention to them. Javier, meanwhile, was playing the role of a distant acquaintance who had crossed paths with some people in Saint Denis a few times.

And one of {{user}}'s jobs was simpler.

She had been introduced as Hosea's niece; a young woman visiting Saint Denis for a short while and being brought into Caldwell's circle for the first time. Her story was ordinary enough that no one would have any reason to question it. She could move around the house, talk to the guests, observe the servants, and take an interest in anything that caught her attention; moreover, she could do all of this without immediately arousing suspicion.

All she had to do was pay attention.

That was all Dutch had asked of her.

The truth was, she didn't particularly like this kind of work. Living at the gang's camp was already exhausting enough on its own; horses, guns, dust, endless chores, and a new plan from Dutch every few days already made it difficult enough for her to build a life of her own. Now she also had to spend the entire evening listening to rich people's food, music, and the artificial politeness they displayed toward one another.

And Dutch expected her to pay attention to the layout of the house while also behaving as naturally as possible throughout the night.

{{user}} could do that.

She just didn't want to.

While Dutch's eyes moved around the house, studying which door led where, she pretended to be doing the same; after watching the servants for a few minutes, she turned her attention to things she found far more interesting. She heard the questions Hosea asked while trying to figure out where Caldwell's study was, but made no effort to remember the answers. As for whether the safe really was behind the library, frankly, she didn't care one bit.

There were other things that could make the night a little more bearable.

Flirting with the men in the gang wasn't as entertaining as it used to be. A man telling her she was beautiful might have been pleasant at first, but after a while, it became far too easy to predict what would come next. And then there was the matter of Dutch van der Linde.

Approaching Dutch was nothing like flirting with any of the other men in the camp. {{user}} could swear that even a few minutes of conversation with him could become complicated enough to make a person forget why they had started in the first place.

Besides, Dutch wasn't exactly a man who completely ignored her interest.

When the time was right, he would look at her. Sometimes he would keep his gaze on her for a little longer than necessary, sometimes he would say a few flattering words in a low voice as he passed by, and sometimes he would unnecessarily prolong their conversation and flirt with her with that distinctive smile of his.

{{user}} noticed all of it.

That was exactly the problem.

Dutch was interested. There was no denying it. But every time, that was where it ended.

In a glance, a brief compliment, a few suggestive words... Then Dutch would return to his own business, as though nothing had happened between them a moment before.

After a while, {{user}} had stopped trying to understand why Dutch behaved that way.

Maybe it was his pride.

Maybe he liked the attention but didn't want the responsibility that would come with it.

Maybe Dutch thought keeping a woman's interest alive was much easier than actually getting close to her.

Whatever the reason, she had no intention of waiting for him to make up his mind tonight.

If Dutch van der Linde wasn't going to approach her, {{user}} wasn't going to spend her whole life waiting for him to decide when he was finally ready to take a step.

Besides, this mansion was full of the kind of men she rarely encountered in her life. This was a place where she could look at different men.

Well-dressed men who wore expensive colognes, had no calluses on their hands, and knew how to open a door for a woman. Each button on their jackets could have cost more than all the shirts in the gang put together.

Why shouldn't she have a little fun?

And before the first hour of the night had even passed, a good candidate appeared.

His name was Theodore Bellamy.

He was one of Everett Caldwell's close friends and appeared to be in his early thirties. His dark hair was combed perfectly back, and his neatly trimmed mustache gave his face a self-assured expression. His dark suit was immaculate; it was obvious that every piece had been tailored to fit him perfectly. Handsome, charismatic, and undeniably sexy; he possessed the kind of charm that made it difficult not to keep one's eyes on him for a few seconds longer than necessary.

When he noticed her, his gaze moved toward {{user}} several times; it traveled downward from her face, followed the line of her posture, and briefly traced the elegant curve of her breasts beneath her dress, the silhouette extending from her waist to her hips. When he was caught, he didn't immediately look away; instead, he held his gaze on her for a few more seconds with the quiet confidence of a man who felt no need to hide the fact that he found her attractive.

He wasn't in a hurry; there was an ease to his manner, the comfort of a man accustomed to knowing that, wherever he went, people's attention would eventually turn toward him.

He took a short sip from the glass between his fingers, then politely nodded to the man he had been speaking with and excused himself before making his way toward {{user}}.

Dutch noticed it from the other side of the room.

He noticed the moment Theodore stopped in front of her.

He noticed {{user}} smiling.

And he noticed that their conversation lasted far longer than it needed to.

Theodore introduced himself with effortless politeness, kissed her hand, and asked her name. After that, their conversation progressed naturally. They talked about her time in Saint Denis, the city's strange social circles, life in the countryside, and the reason she had accepted Caldwell's invitation. Theodore listened attentively, occasionally making a clever remark or teasing observation, and beneath his flirting was an easy intelligence that made the conversation far less boring than the rest of the evening. As their conversation became more personal, {{user}} almost completely forgot the tedious purpose of the gathering.

Dutch continued watching them from the other side of the room.

At first, he let it happen.

There was no reason to interfere. A little conversation wasn't going to ruin the night's plan, and being noticed by the right people in a house like this could even be useful.

But eventually, when the music shifted to a slower tune, Theodore extended his hand and asked her to dance.

{{user}} accepted.

Dutch's smile remained in place.

The dance itself was harmless. His movements were measured, his touch confident, and he seemed to know exactly how close he could get without making the closeness seem forced. When the dance ended, Theodore asked if she wanted to step outside for some air, and {{user}} accepted without much hesitation. He led her through the long glass doors opening onto the garden, leaving behind the warmth and golden light of the ballroom.

Dutch's patience began to approach its limit then.

The garden could be seen from the ballroom. Dutch could clearly see them through the glass while continuing to speak with one of Caldwell's associates. He kept his tone pleasant, maintained the relaxed expression on his face, and answered questions about the city as though nothing had happened. But his attention had already shifted elsewhere.

The whole purpose of bringing {{user}} here was to make use of the access she had. Yet now she was going out into the garden with one of Caldwell's friends.

Dutch had always believed in the importance of self-control. He thought a man should know what he wanted, understand when to step back, and never allow his emotions to control him. But when he saw Theodore turn toward {{user}} and kiss her a few seconds later, the usefulness of all those fine ideas suddenly became rather questionable.

Dutch's gaze locked onto them through the glass.

His smile slowly disappeared, but he gradually absorbed it into the end of the conversation. But his fingers closed a little tighter around the glass in his hand.

That was enough.

Not because he cared.

Because they were working.

For God's sake, they were inside a stranger's house; among people who could ruin the entire operation with a single wrong observation, and {{user}} was allowing herself to become distracted because of a man she had known for less than an hour.

At least, that was the explanation Dutch gave himself.

He crossed the ballroom at a measured pace.

By the time Theodore and {{user}} finally returned inside, Dutch was already waiting for them near the door. With a composed movement, he straightened the front of his jacket. His fingers paused briefly at the edge of his collar, then he adjusted a few cuffs; as though what he had seen in the garden moments earlier had nothing to do with him, he settled himself back into the evening. He rolled his shoulders back, lifted his chin slightly, and put that relaxed, self-assured expression he wore among Caldwell's guests back on his face.

Then he approached them.

His steps were neither quick nor hesitant. Rather, there was the calm of a man who had no need to hurry about him. By the time he reached {{user}}, he had erased even the slightest trace of anger from his face.

“{{user}}.”

His voice was calm.

Far too calm.

He smiled at Theodore first and showed all the courtesy expected of a gentleman in Caldwell's house. Then his attention returned to {{user}}.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to speak with you for a few words.”

There was nothing openly threatening in his tone. In fact, he seemed perfectly reasonable.

He extended his arm toward her.

The gesture was so polite that refusing would have created an unnecessary oddity capable of drawing the attention of the entire room.

Without saying another word, Dutch led her away from the ballroom.

He said nothing until they had safely reached a small sitting room.

But the moment the door clicked shut behind them and they were somewhere Theodore could no longer see them, Dutch stopped pretending.

His jaw tightened again. The calmness disappeared from his eyes. The carefully constructed politeness he had forced himself to wear in the ballroom turned into the anger of a man who had been fighting himself all night not to lose control.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

His voice suddenly became much harsher.

For a moment, he stepped away from her and ran a hand over his face, then turned back toward her.

“Damn it, use your head! We came here for a reason. This ain't a place we came to have fun. One wrong move and the whole thing blows up in our faces.”

He began pacing back and forth across the room; the anger he had kept under control downstairs had finally risen to the surface. He raised one finger irritably.

“You had one job.”

His voice rose again.

“One!”

Dutch shook his head, clearly struggling to keep himself under control.

“You were supposed to watch the servants. The doors. The rooms. Who went upstairs, who went downstairs. You were supposed to remember every damn thing you saw.”

He stepped closer.

“Instead, I see you dancing with Caldwell's friend, slipping off into the garden with him, and letting him kiss you while we're supposed to be working in here!”

He angrily threw one hand toward the door.

“What am I supposed to think about that?”

Then his voice lowered, though the anger was still there.

“I don't give a damn what you do when we get back to camp. You wanna flirt with every damn man there? Fine.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“But right now, if you're part of my plan, you follow the damn plan.”

For a moment, he seemed to realize how much of his anger he had let out. He adjusted his jacket, took a deep breath, and tried to regain the composure he had possessed in the ballroom.

This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid all night. The reason he wanted to tell her what she should and shouldn't do had almost nothing to do with the job. It was about that unbearable feeling settling in his chest whenever he saw another man get too close to her.

Of course, Dutch would deny it even on his deathbed; this wasn't jealousy, it was damn well about the job. His attention had been distracted, the plan could have gone wrong, and that was all there was to it.