Prince of Swords

by Anne Stuart

  “Because you know perfectly well that no one will believe your innocent involvement. They’ll probably try me in the House of Lords and hang me. You they’ll simply drag out to the nearest lamppost and hang you right there and then. They do that, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, shuddering.

  “You’ve come this far...”

  “Not by choice!”

  “And you may as well accept your fate. Your wisest course would be to go along with me. I’m a very accomplished thief, my pet. I’ll have us in and out of that monstrosity of a house over there in no time at all. We’ll meet up with Nicodemus and be back in Kent before sunup, with no one the wiser.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “So you won’t be able to use your wicked cards to inform on me. If I’m caught, I’ll tell them about my charming accomplice the night I robbed Justas Winters’s house.”

  “That’s Ermintrude’s house!” Her shriek of horror was blessedly muffled.

  “Who better deserves our attention?” he countered. “Freddie Arbuthnot happened to mention she has a singularly ugly set of peach-hued diamonds. I think it would only be fitting to deprive her of them, don’t you?”

  “No one deserves to be robbed.”

  “Such a little Methodist you are,” he murmured. “Still, you must admit, if any soul did deserve it, that would be Ermintrude.”

  “I admit nothing.”

  “But you’ll help me. Since you have no choice in the matter.”

  “I hope you roast in hell,” she said fiercely.

  Her hair had come free, and it tumbled down her back, a thick fall of golden brown, a stream of dangerous color. He was standing in front of her, and he reached around her head and caught up the thick waves, tucking them up inside the cap he’d brought for himself. His own hair was dark enough to escape notice.

  She stood very still, letting him touch her. His face was close to hers, and he wanted to kiss her again. Indeed, he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted Ermintrude Winters’s diamonds, a realization that disturbed him. He stepped away from her, dropping his arms.

  “Come along, my love,” he said. “The sooner we embark on your life of crime, the sooner you’ll be safe in bed.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered, but she trailed along behind him obediently enough.

  “You should consider yourself honored,” he said, leading her through the side alleyways to the thick iron gate that surrounded the property. “You get to witness an artist at the very peak of his powers. This is no simple place to rob for a variety of reasons. Do you care to hazard a guess?”

  “No.”

  “For one thing,” he continued, undaunted, “it sits alone in its little park, with no houses abutting it as is so common in the city. Therefore we can’t enter through the roof—there’s no way to get up there.”

  “Too bad. Let’s go back,” she said.

  “Ah, but there are alternatives,” he said, ignoring her. “Even if I can’t show you the glory of the London rooftops, I can at least initiate you into the pleasures of larceny.”

  “Kind of you,” she muttered.

  “First we have to get past this iron gate that surrounds the place. A simple enough matter—I’ve already discovered a side gate that they seldom bother to check. Once we’re on the property, things get a little more difficult. The family is away, and the house is tightly locked.”

  “But you doubtless have a remedy for that.”

  “Ah, you’re beginning to appreciate me,” Glenshiel murmured wryly. “I do indeed. Picklocks.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tools employed by the uncommon criminal. Delightful little instruments that Nicodemus was able to supply me. Learning to use them was a bit of a challenge, considering I had no mentor, but I confess I’ve become quite expert at them.”

  “You must be very proud.” Her voice was acid.

  They’d reached the side gate to the Winters estate. It opened too easily, no challenge for his skills, and he pushed it free, ushering her onto the grounds. “So now we must decide,” he continued, closing the gate behind him, “how best to approach the fortress. If we try to gain entry through the back, we’re more likely to be overheard by whatever servants are currently in residence. But if we were to attempt the front door, we would risk being seen by passersby.”

  “I presume there’s a side door, as there was with the gate?” Jessamine suggested in a deliberately bored tone of voice.

  “One would expect as much, but in this case there isn’t. The house is of recent design, made to be impregnable to the hordes of thieves that wander the city, and the only other doors are on the first floor. They lead on to small stone balconies that I imagine are supposed to be gothic in design.”

  She peered up at the house. “It does look rather gloomy.”

  “So what do you suggest we do, Jessamine? How shall we breach this impregnable fortress?”

  He waited almost endlessly for an answer. She was beginning to be caught up in it, he could sense that she was. He was attempting to seduce her soul as he planned to seduce her body, and he wanted, needed, a sign that he was succeeding.

  “A tree,” she said finally. “You could climb a tree and jump over to one of the balconies.”

  He resisted the impulse to kiss her. “A good thought, but this is too damnably new. There are no trees left standing near the building.”

  “A ladder?”

  “I forgot to bring one.”

  It managed to coax a smile from her. “We give up and go back to Kent?” she suggested hopefully.

  “Don’t be so poor-spirited. We have a challenge ahead of us, and we’ll meet it. I may not have a ladder, but I have a rope.” He drew out the thin, strong length from the satchel he carried with him.

  “Convenient,” she drawled. “When they catch us, they won’t have to search for something to hang us with.”

  “They won’t catch us, my pet. Come along.”

  She followed him across the frozen ground quite dutifully. “And there’s something to be said for the breeches,” she continued in a marginally more cheerful voice. “At least my modesty will be preserved as I’m swinging in the breeze.”

  He glanced back at her. “Ah, Jessamine,” he murmured without thinking, “a man could love a tart soul like yours.”

  And the words fell between them with the shock of a blow.

  A man could love a tart soul like yours. The words taunted her unmercifully. A man could love you. Not this man, she prayed fervently. Not any man, but most especially not this one. Because this was the one man she didn’t think she’d be able to resist.

  He seemed almost as horrified by his random words as she was. He said nothing more as he led her toward the huge, dark house, but the knowledge burned in her brain. Beyond the gate in the darkness the city of London continued about its business, the noise muffled as life went on. He was several paces ahead of her—he might not notice she’d taken off until she’d gotten enough of a head start.

  He was fast, but he might decide the Winters house was worth more than her unwilling cooperation. The moment he was fully occupied she could seize her chance and abandon him. She’d been alone on the streets of London before at such late hours, and she had faith that she’d be able to make it back to Spitalfields safely. There she could change into her own clothes, spend the very last of her hoarded money on a private coach, and make her way back to Sevenoaks before anyone noticed she was gone.

  Except that she doubted a carriage was to be had at that hour. And even her usually somnolent mother might notice the midnight arrival of her elder child and have a few unanswerable questions.

  There was always another alternative. She could present herself at Bow Street. Seek out the magistrate himself and inform on the Earl of Glenshiel. The reward would be plentiful, and Josiah Clegg would no longer be a threat.

  “Don’t even think about.” His voice floated back to her. He was standing bene
ath one of those gothic balconies, the line of his body intent on surveying this latest obstacle.

  “Think about what?”

  “Running away.” He glanced back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “It’s time for you to get to work.”

  “I’m not...”

  He picked her up as if she weighed no more than a handful and boosted her up toward the balcony. In her shock she flailed out, catching hold of the stone railing in her panic and kicking out, her foot connecting with something resilient and vulnerable.

  Glenshiel cursed in pain, gave her another shove, and she was up and over, sprawling on the hard stone floor of the small balcony.

  It hurt. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that, however. She pulled herself to a sitting position, looking down at him through the stone railing. “What do I do now?” she demanded.

  “You see if the door is locked.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I’m certain it is. However, if by any chance someone forgot to lock it, then it would a simple enough matter for you to get in by yourself and let me in through the front door, thereby saving me a great deal of trouble.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I might go for help instead?”

  “No,” he said. “You’re in too deep already.”

  He was right. On all accounts. The door was locked, and she wasn’t ready to turn him over to the authorities. Not yet, at least.

  She leaned over the balcony, peering down at him. “So what do we do now?”

  “She speaks. O speak again bright angel...”

  “Now is not the time for Shakespeare,” she said sternly.

  “But you make a perfect Juliet.”

  “More like one of those girls who dress as boys in one of the comedies,” she said.

  The rope landed at her feet with a quiet thwap. “Life isn’t a comedy, Jessamine,” he said. “Are you any good at tying ropes? I need you to knot that over the banister.”

  “For your sake, you’d best hope so,” she replied, picking up the coiled length. It was thin and seemingly very strong, and she worked swiftly, pulling at it to make sure it would hold his weight. She tossed the end over the side, aiming for his head. It missed him.

  “You wouldn’t like it if I fell,” he said cheerfully enough, pulling at it. “You’d be trapped on that balcony—I doubt you could climb down by yourself without doing yourself some injury, and I’m not sure you’d want to call for help.”

  “I tied it as best I could,” she snapped, stepping back from the railing as he started to pull himself up after her.

  It made her nervous to watch for a variety of reasons. He was absolutely right—she’d come too far along the path he’d forced her. If he were to fall, it would be her own disaster as well.

  For another, she disliked the eerie, primal awareness she had of his strength, his body, his power, as he pulled himself up the rope and climbed over the balcony. His dark hair was pushed back from his face, and the black clothes clung to his lean, lithe body. He looked dangerous and beautiful, a demon lover.

  Except that it was jewels and robbery he loved. Not her. Thank heaven, she reminded herself.

  She kept out of his way, a move that didn’t escape his notice, and the smile that slashed his face was plainly visible in the darkness as he bent down and began to fiddle with the lock.

  It clicked almost immediately. He pushed the door open, then held it for her. Jessamine took one last, longing glance over the side of the stone balcony, at the rope still dangling.

  And then she stepped inside the cool darkness of Ermintrude Winters’s house.

  She didn’t scream when Alistair’s gloved hand closed around hers. She didn’t even hesitate before gripping that hand tightly as he led her through the darkened building with eerily accurate night vision. Her heart was pounding wildly—at any moment she expected servants to rush out of the darkness, demanding to know what business they had in the empty house.

  Up the wide stairs they went silently, hand in hand. She held on to him as if he were a lifeline—she had no idea where they were going, but he moved unerringly, and she followed, trusting.

  They stopped at the top of the stairs, and Glenshiel’s voice was pitched so low it was no more than a whisper. “I don’t suppose you know which room belongs to Ermintrude?”

  “I’ve never been here before. Ermintrude considers poverty to be déclassé.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he drawled. “We’ll simply have to go by trial and error.”

  “What makes you think Ermintrude doesn’t have the diamonds with her? If they’re worth such a great amount, I’d expect her to wear them even in her sleep.”

  “She went on at great length about leaving them behind. She insisted her father’s house was impregnable, and the Cat wouldn’t dare attempt to breach it.”

  “A challenge you couldn’t resist,” Jessamine whispered dryly.

  “Of course not. Especially considering what a ruthless bitch she is.” The doors leading to the upper hallway were all closed, and Jessamine couldn’t begin to guess which was her erstwhile friend’s.

  Alistair didn’t seem to have any reservations. He began opening doors, silently enough, peering into the darkened interior and then backing out again. Jessamine followed along, saying nothing, until he finally stopped in triumph at one of the last doors. “This is it,” he said, pushing her inside and shutting the door behind them.

  “How do you know?”

  “That cloying perfume she wears,” he replied, moving past her toward the window. “I’d know it anywhere.”

  She tried to follow him, and immediately bumped into some low object that he’d managed to avoid, hurting her shins. She muttered something dire under her breath as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Alistair had already achieved his object, and even in the darkness the jewels sparkled.

  “Don’t you have any morals at all?” she demanded. “Any code of honor?”

  “Certainly.” He tucked them in the black satchel he slung over his shoulder. “They just happen to be of my own design. I don’t pay any attention to other people’s definitions of right and wrong. I don’t take from people who can ill afford it, and I don’t take from people who don’t deserve it.”

  “And who are you to set yourself up as judge and jury, to decide who deserves to be robbed?” Jessamine demanded. “You hardly seem a decent judge of character. What if you make a mistake? What if Ermintrude is secretly charitable and gives generously to the poor?”

  “Highly unlikely. If so, I’d probably feel compelled to return those deliciously gaudy jewels I just purloined.”

  “Ha! You are a very very bad man,” she said sternly.

  “True,” he said in a mournful voice. “There’s no redeeming me. Come along, Jess. We’ve more to do.”

  “More?” She choked.

  “This was dead easy. We need more of a challenge. Besides, I want to take you over the rooftops. I think your old friend Isolde Plumworthy deserves our attention.”

  “You’re mad!”

  “Not in the slightest. Her house is wedged in quite tightly with several others, and we should have a glorious time under the stars.”

  “What if I told you I don’t like heights?”

  “I would be desolated to force you to suffer through such torment,” he said sweetly.

  “But you’d force me anyway.”

  “Come now, Jess, don’t tell me this isn’t fun?”

  “It isn’t right,” she said sternly.

  “That wasn’t my question.” He sighed, took her hand again. “I’ll make you admit it sooner or later,” he said. “I’ll show you a London that few people have ever seen. And then I’ll dress you in Isolde’s jewels and carry you back to Kent.”

  “I have the melancholy feeling I’m never going to see my sister again,” Jess murmured.

  “Foolish child. Trust me. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “
Trust you?” The notion was so absurd, she laughed out loud. Except that oddly enough, she did trust him. “It’s not my safety that’s in question.”

  “Isn’t it? Then whose?”

  “Yours, my lord.”

  “Doesn’t it seem ridiculous to stand in a darkened bedroom with a jewel thief and call him ‘my lord’? Alistair will do nicely.”

  She ignored the comment. “I read your cards, my lord. That’s how I knew who you were. You are going to meet with disaster this night. I saw it.”

  He leaned forward and cupped her face, and his smile was dazzlingly bright in the darkened room. “I met with disaster the day I set eyes on you, my love.” And he kissed her, a brief, hard, hungry kiss that left Jessamine’s stomach clenching in sudden, wicked longing.

  When he pulled away, there was triumph and despair in his eyes. “Sometime, sooner or later, you will kiss me back,” he said, taking her unresisting hand in his.

  “I will weep at your grave,” she said sternly.

  “Well, I suppose that’s a reasonable alternative.” And he drew her back through the darkened hallway.

  Fleur leaned against the wall, staring out into the frosty night. She’d lost track of time—Robert Brennan had delivered her to her room like the perfect gentleman he insisted he wasn’t, ordering her to get some sleep while he investigated the situation. She’d looked up into his dear, stubborn face and let him believe she’d do just that.

  Of course it was impossible. Jessamine was out there somewhere, in trouble, perhaps in danger, and all Fleur could do was pray that Brennan could save her. There was no man she’d more freely put her trust in, despite the fact that he seemed determined to convince her he was dishonorable and heartless. He’d save her sister, if indeed Jessamine needed saving. He’d do everything he could for Fleur. Except love her.

  She reached up and rubbed her fingertips against her aching scalp. Life had been a series of disasters since the day her father died and their security vanished. She’d kept hoping that sooner or later things would right themselves. She’d wanted to believe in Jessamine’s happy fantasy of a rich, kind, handsome young man to love her and to take care of her family.