To Catch an Earl--A Bow Street Bachelors Novel

by Kate Bateman

  Alex arched his head to see over the dancers and studied the chairs set up along the opposite side of the room. He dismissed several pink-gowned women as too young, and then his eye was caught by an elderly lady standing next to a handsome, seated man. The dowager’s snow-white hair had been arranged in an upswept style, and while she was obviously of advanced years, it was clear she had once been a great beauty. She retained a certain ingrained elegance.

  Seb followed his gaze. “That’s them. The son’s called Luc. And Vidocq’s file omitted one crucial fact that puts paid to your theory he’s the new Nightjar. The man’s an amputee. Lost his right foot at Trafalgar.”

  Alex studied him. They were of a similar age, a similar height. Luc Danvers did not appear to be lacking a foot; he must have adopted a prosthesis, like so many others Alex had encountered since the war. A faint bump under his breeches, just below the knee, seemed to confirm that notion.

  “He’s almost as tall as either of us.” Alex frowned. “And broad. Even if he wasn’t missing a foot, he’d never have been able to fold himself into that beer barrel at Rundell and Bridge. Whoever we’re looking for, they’re smaller than that.”

  “What about the daughter?” Seb asked. “Standing next to her grandmother. Her name is Emmeline.”

  Alex moved his eyes to the right and froze.

  Amidst the ever-moving gaiety of the ballroom, the woman was standing perfectly still, a sliver of darkness among all the frilly pastels. She was no debutante in ice blue or delicate pink, nor like the matrons in their somber greys and browns. Her dress was midnight blue, so dark it was almost black. Unfussy, unadorned with either ruffles or frills, it was striking in its elegant simplicity.

  Alex narrowed his eyes, trying to discern her features. She’d chosen a place in the most shadowed part of the room.

  She was a little over five feet. Her face was elfin, with a small nose, a softly pointed chin, and the hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. She looked playful, mischievous. As if she knew an amusing secret and didn’t want to share.

  A flash of desire quickened his pulse. The woman’s sly merriment was oddly attractive. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes from this distance, but her teeth flashed white as she smiled at something her brother said.

  It was clear that she and the man were siblings. They were both attractive, with the same tilt of eyebrow, high cheekbones, and brown hair. And yet one version was undoubtedly masculine while the other was unmistakably feminine.

  Alex watched as the foppish Lord Eversleigh approached the trio. Eversleigh was rich; he regularly lost hundreds of pounds when he played at the Tricorn, usually because he was so often in his cups. His weaving course across the room suggested he’d already sampled Lord Turnbull’s hospitality to the hilt.

  He kissed the countess’s hand with a flourish, then turned his attention to the younger woman. After kissing her hand too, he proceeded to address his comments to her bosom, waving his lace-edged handkerchief in the air for emphasis. Her mouth adopted a faint curl of disdain, and Alex felt his own lips quirk in response. She was not impressed with the boorish Eversleigh. An astute judge of character, then.

  “She’s small enough to fit in a barrel,” Alex murmured.

  Chapter 6.

  Alex watched the young woman, trying to place her in the role of thief. It was unlikely that someone from the midst of the ton should have adopted such an unlawful sideline, but not impossible.

  The fact that her family had wealth was significant, since the Nightjar didn’t seem to profit from his crimes. His thefts were based on high-minded patriotic principle.

  Three years of warfare had shown Alex that noble concepts like honor and justice were used only by those who could afford them. To a starving man, or a woman desperate for medicine for her sick child, the moral argument of whether stealing was wrong took second place to necessity.

  Was Miss Danvers bored? In need of a challenge? Alex could sympathize with that sentiment. He worked for Bow Street even though he didn’t need the money. His investment in the Tricorn too gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He relished the challenge of managing the place alongside Benedict and Seb.

  Women of the ton had it far worse than men. Most of them were expected to do little else in life but attract a wealthy suitor—preferably one with a title—and settle down to a life of dreary domesticity while producing the next generation of aristocrats. He could hardly blame Miss Danvers if she craved a little excitement. But the law was the law.

  Alex’s mouth curved in a faint cynical smile as her gaze swept the room over Eversleigh’s shoulder. She was cataloguing the exit points. As a soldier, a sniper, he automatically did the same thing, whether at the opera or a dockside tavern. He scanned for the highest vantage points too, the best place from which to take a shot. The stage, a balcony, a raised terrace. Seb and Benedict did it too. Old habits died hard.

  Was it because she wanted to escape from the obnoxious Eversleigh? Or was it the ingrained habit of a thief? Alex watched her note the tall sash windows, the servants’ door partially disguised in the papered wall to her left, the door to the dining room, and the double doors that led out onto the terrace.

  A thief would hate to be cornered. A thief would always want to know his options for escape.

  Her options, he amended silently. Her name was Emmeline. Emmeline Danvers.

  Could she be the Nightjar?

  The idea of being the one to corner her sent a shiver of excitement through him. It was more than the mere thought of bringing a miscreant to justice. The delicious possibility that his thief might turn out to be this attractive young woman gave him an almost sexual thrill.

  Alex shook his head. He’d been too long without a woman. It had been almost a month since he’d given Alicia her marching orders.

  He glanced over at the girl again and his blood surged in anticipation. He’d never desired any of the criminals he’d been after before—not entirely surprising considering they were usually unwashed smugglers, pox-ridden whores, and toothless crones. His attraction wouldn’t sway him or distract him from his goal, of course, but it would certainly add a little piquancy to the game.

  “Do you know what a nightjar is?” Seb asked suddenly. “I looked it up this afternoon. It’s a nocturnal bird. Its plumage is brown and speckled and resembles bark or leaves. It is exceptionally good at blending into its environment.”

  Emmeline Danvers was doing an admirable job of effacing herself on the other side of the room. She blended into the shadows beautifully.

  “They’re found all around the world,” Seb continued, “and are mostly active in the late evening, early morning, and at night. That describes our thief rather well, don’t you think?”

  “It does indeed.” Alex smiled.

  * * *

  Emmy could barely concentrate.

  She’d followed Harland’s progress through the room, watched as he directed that easy charm at everyone in his path. He knew just what to say. How to flatter, how to charm, and then skillfully extricate himself, leaving them wanting more.

  He looked devastatingly handsome in his black evening jacket, a fact that irritated her no end. No man should look that good, especially one she was trying her best to ignore. She watched with hot envy as he bent his dark head toward a jewel-bedecked woman and laughed at something she said. Jealousy gnawed at her stomach when the woman’s hand lingered playfully on his shoulder, then slid down his shirt front in a familiar caress. When he stepped away, he took up a position almost directly opposite her.

  Her skin pricked with an uncomfortable awareness.

  He was watching her; she was sure of it.

  Her heart began to pound in alarm. She felt his gaze like a touch all the way down her body, from her hair, over her breasts, waist, legs, and back up.

  You’re imagining things. He’s not looking at you. He doesn’t know you exist.

  Almost against her will, she glanced up, certain she would find herself mistak
en. His gaze would be centered on some other hapless female.

  Her entire body jolted in shock as his eyes clashed with hers.

  The intensity of his stare made her stomach knot and the hairs rise on her arms. A sense of dread squeezed her chest, as if she’d spotted a highwayman on the crest of a hill or the sails of a pirate brig on the horizon. She knew she would be the next victim.

  She was being ridiculous.

  She wanted to run, but she seemed incapable of looking away. Incapable of even blinking. Did no one else notice him staring at her so fixedly?

  His brows rose in a subtle challenge, as if daring her to be the first to look away, and her own innate stubbornness kicked in. A modest young woman would have hidden her blushing face behind her fan. Emmy held his gaze, refusing to allow him to intimidate her.

  Blood rushed into her cheeks and she experienced an odd, weightless feeling. Every instinct urged her to lower her lashes and escape the piercing concentration of his gaze. She felt pinned, like a moth on a naturalist’s mountboard.

  Then his lips quirked upward, and she watched in astonishment as a smile transformed his face. In the space of a heartbeat he went from coldly austere, almost accusing, to breathtakingly handsome. Her heart missed a beat.

  “Em! You’re woolgathering again.”

  Luc’s exclamation freed her from Harland’s visual snare. She turned away, unaccountably flustered, as air rushed back into her lungs. She’d done nothing to attract his notice. Why was he singling her out now, after all this time? It couldn’t possibly bode well.

  “We should leave.”

  Luc raised his brows. “But we haven’t even had dinner. I heard a rumor there was flan—”

  “Lord Melton’s watching me. He’s over there, by the orchestra, with his friend Lord Mowbray.”

  Luc was too intelligent to turn his head and look. He merely nodded and smiled, as if still engrossed in conversation. “Ah. Do we know why?”

  “It is entirely possible that her face and person have attracted his notice,” Camille said. “From what I hear, Lord Melton is one of those connoisseurs we were discussing earlier.”

  “I don’t think that’s likely,” Emmy breathed. “The man’s been linked with some of the most beautiful women in town. I hardly think he’d spare me a glance. If I’ve gained his attention, it’s because he’s suspicious, not amorous.”

  “Did he see you at Rundell and Bridge this morning?” Luc asked sharply. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

  “I am certain he did not.” Emmy maintained her smile despite her irritation. “Give me some credit. But still, I think it would be wise to leave now. I do not relish the thought of being cornered by him at the buffet.”

  Luc nodded. “Agreed. ‘Discretion is the better part of valor,’ as Shakespeare said. Help me rise. We can make our escape as soon as dinner is called. My desire for flan will have to wait.”

  With perfect timing, two servants appeared at the doors that led into Lady Turnbull’s dining room and announced that supper was served. Emmy, Luc, and Camille used the mass exodus to wend their way across the ballroom. It was slow going; everyone was trying to go in the opposite direction. Emmy turned to locate Harland and discovered that he, too, was pushing his way through the crowd, making a beeline directly for her.

  The thought was enough to give her steps an extra urgency. She ushered Luc up the stairs, silently cursing his slowness, and glanced back again, her heart in her throat, certain that Harland would be upon them.

  But fate, it seemed, was on her side. The Dowager Duchess of Winwick, his companion’s great-aunt, had waylaid them. Good manners dictated the two men stop and acknowledge the woman, and Emmy smiled when she saw the delighted dowager clasp the elbows of both Harland and her nephew in her gnarly fingers so they could escort her in to dinner.

  She spent the trip home to Waverton Street trying to dismiss Harland’s attention as mere coincidence. Doubtless he used the same tactic to put wallflowers such as herself out of countenance. It was probably a game between himself and Wolff, to see which ladies they could discompose the quickest.

  The coach had barely pulled up at the front steps when Sally appeared at the door, looking uncharacteristically agitated. She must have been listening for the carriage. She ushered them into the front parlor.

  Luc lowered himself into a chair with a grimace. “What’s wrong, Sal?”

  “We’ve had a visitor.”

  Camille glanced at the clock on the mantel. “At this hour? It’s almost midnight.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell ’im,” Sally said, sinking into the vacant seat beside Luc. “But the gentleman”—she spat the word like an insult—“was insistent.”

  “Who was it?” Emmy asked.

  “Yer blackmailin’ Frenchie, that’s who.”

  Camille sucked in a shocked breath, and Luc’s hand clenched on the arm of his chair. “Danton? He didn’t hurt you, did he? By God, if he did—”

  Sally shook her head. “Nah. ’E were pleasant enough. Too pleasant, if you ask me. I seen ’is kind at the theatre. The quiet ones are always the ones to watch. They smile as they slip a knife between yer ribs.”

  “What does he look like?” Emmy asked.

  “Middling height, smaller than Luc by a few inches, I’d say. Brown hair, cut short. Bit of a doughy face—makes his eyes look piggy. And ’is mouth is girly-looking. He has a pretty cupid’s bow on top and a pouty lower lip. Looks like a spoiled child.”

  “What did he say?”

  “’E was sorry to have missed you.” Sally curled her lip. “He’d read about the Rundell and Bridge job and wanted to congratulate you.”

  Luc snorted. “Did he ask for the diamond?”

  “’E asked if I had anythin’ to give him, but I told ’im I didn’t know nothin’ about nobody. Said ’e should come back at a more reasonable hour.” Sally grinned, but then her expression sobered. “’E said he’d be back. And that he wanted to be readin’ about the British Museum as soon as could be, or people might get hurt.”

  Luc’s head snapped up. “He threatened you?”

  Sally rested her hand on his sleeve. “I’m a big girl, Luc Danvers. I’ve dealt with worse than ’im in Limehouse.”

  Luc clenched his jaw, and an angry flush pinked his cheekbones. He touched his fingers to the back of Sally’s hand.

  “I hate that he tried to scare you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  Sally covered his hand with her own and smiled back at him, and for a moment the two of them seemed to forget Emmy and Camille were in the room. Then Sally rose, brushing her skirts in a brisk, no-nonsense manner. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t ’ere. You’d probably ’ave skewered ’im with that sword-stick of yours and then where would we be? None of you lot know ’ow ’ard it is to get bloodstains out of a cream carpet.”

  Emmy rubbed her throbbing temples. Danton’s sudden appearance, combined with her unsettling encounter with Harland, had resulted in a pounding headache. “Surely Danton knows we can’t just rob the museum without weeks of preparation? What does he think we are? Magicians?”

  Camille sighed. “That, I’m afraid, is the curse of being the Nightjar—a reputation for achieving the impossible.”

  Luc caught Emmy’s eye. “Even so, we’d better get planning. Emmy, you and Camille can go to the museum tomorrow. The sooner we get those last three jewels, the sooner we’ll have that bastard off our backs.”

  Chapter 7.

  The British Museum was housed in a sprawling French-style edifice on Great Russell Street. The building had been constructed for the first Duke of Montagu but a subsequent duke, alarmed by the decline of Bloomsbury from fashionable aristocratic enclave to distinctly middle-class district, had abandoned the house in the mid-eighteenth century and moved to Whitehall.

  “The building was sold to the trustees of the British Museum and used to house the collection of the Irish Physician and scientist Sir Hans Sloane.”

&nb
sp; Alex nodded dutifully as he followed curator Henry Franks through the museum’s echoing halls.

  “The lower floor, where we are now,” Franks explained, “contains our extensive library of printed books.” He gestured vaguely toward a wing that disappeared off to the right. “The upper floor, which we shall see in a moment, Lord Melton, is home to our impressive collection of insects, worms, corals, vegetables, birds and quadrupeds—stuffed, of course, not live”—he chuckled at his own humor—“snakes, lizards, and fishes.”

  Alex shuddered. He’d seen quite enough lizards and flies during his time in the Peninsular. Those damned mosquitoes had plagued the entire regiment. He made a noncommittal sound. “And where might I find a blue diamond that was loaned to the museum a few years ago?”

  Franks pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Ah. You refer to the Eliason jewel. That would also be on the second floor, in our minerals, shells, and fossils room. This way.”

  Alex let out a relieved exhale when he saw the jewel in question was still resting in its velvet-lined cabinet. The Nightjar had not already paid the museum a clandestine visit. “Who has the key to this cabinet, Mister Franks?”

  “I do, my lord, although I don’t carry it around with me all day.” Franks held up a jangling metal ring upon which resided eight or so keys. “I keep the keys to the main doors here on my person, but all the cabinet keys are stored in my office downstairs, on hooks. Each one is labelled with a room and a cabinet number to avoid confusion.”

  “I see. And what other security measures do you have in place?”

  “Well, I myself live in an apartment in the east wing, my lord. I make a nightly patrol at eleven, just before I retire, and another at nine in the morning, just before opening time. And of course, there’s Brutus.”

  “Brutus?”

  “Our guard dog. He’s half Doberman. I let him loose in here at night. He’d let me know if we had any intruders.”