by Kate Bateman
“Aren’t you worried he’ll relieve himself on one of the exhibits?” Alex chuckled.
Franks sent him an offended look. “Brutus wouldn’t do that. He knows he only receives his morning beefsteak if he waits to use the gardens.”
Alex nodded.
“Can I ask why you’re so interested in the museum’s security, my lord?”
“I expect you’ve read about the break-in at Rundell and Bridge a few days ago?”
Franks nodded. “Indeed I did, sir. A most worrying state of affairs. I do hope Bow Street don’t think the British Museum will be another target.”
“It’s a possibility,” Alex hedged. “You should stay alert.”
More like a certainty, if his theory was correct.
Franks drew himself up. “I am conscious of the fact that we house a great number of valuable objects here at the museum, sir. Rest assured that I shall be most vigilant when it comes to the security of our collections.”
Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. I’m sure Bow Street can count on you to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Now, I have a mind to visit the sculpture gallery before I leave. Lord Elgin tells me the friezes he brought from Greece are worth a look.”
* * *
“The diamond is upstairs,” Camille murmured as she and Emmy strolled through the British Museum’s Greek and Roman sculpture gallery. Their skirts swished softly in unison against the polished parquet floor. Emmy counted the number of steps it took to reach the staircase, twenty-eight.
They paused to admire a marble depiction of a gladiator, and she tried to imagine the athletic figure dressed in clothes. It would be impossible to fit shoulders that muscled into the confines of a modern tailcoat. And what cravat would wind around a neck so thick? For one brief, startling moment, she wondered what Alexander Harland might look like without his clothes on, and her entire body begin to glow. Would he look like this? Both hard and smooth? All ripples and curves?
“Oh, look. There’s Lord Melton.”
Emmy swirled around in horror. Sure enough, the subject of her feverish imaginings was standing at the far end of the gallery.
She ducked behind the statue and closed her eyes. It was as if her outrageous fantasies had actually summoned him into existence, like some terrible, far-too-handsome genie. She tried to will him away, but when she braved a peek from around the gladiator’s thigh, there he remained, stubbornly, attractively present.
The one small mercy was that he hadn’t noticed them—he seemed to be inspecting a frieze of wall-mounted panels. They could still escape.
Since they were at a safe distance, Emmy allowed herself a moment to study Harland’s physical architecture in the same way she might study the floorplan of a heist, taking in every pertinent detail. Certainly he was built along monumental lines. Tailoring couldn’t disguise the bulk of muscle in his biceps, nor the breadth of his shoulders. His breeches conformed so faithfully to his thighs that she could actually see the ripple of muscles beneath. And the tails of his coat were undoubtedly hiding a remarkable posterior—
“We really should go and introduce ourselves,” Camille trilled.
Emmy clutched her arm. “Are you mad? Why would we want to do that? I thought we’d agreed to avoid his notice?”
“Oh, pish. He’ll turn around and see us at any moment. It will be far more noticeable if we don’t acknowledge him. We must be brazen. Confident. And besides, I knew his mother. I’m sure he’s a lovely man.”
“He is the enemy,” Emmy hissed as if she were the wicked stepmother in a badly acted play. “He works for Bow Street! He is the law.”
Camille waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.
“And he is not a ‘nice man,’” Emmy added. “He is a rake and a gamester. He might be an earl, but he is thoroughly disreputable. He owns a gaming club. In St. James’s.”
“And where else would one open a gaming club?” Camille asked tartly. “Blackheath? Limehouse? Is he rich?”
Emmy narrowed her eyes. “Well, yes, by all accounts. Not that it makes—”
“There you go, then.” Camille smiled. “Handsome, rich, and charming. The perfect trifecta.”
She began to sidle forward, using the sculpture of a recumbent Apollo as cover. Emmy tried unsuccessfully to pull her back.
* * *
Alex was not impressed by Lord Elgin’s marbles. They seemed to consist of an endless procession of headless riders dressed in little more than bath sheets trying to control overly frisky mounts. If the Greeks wanted them back—and he wasn’t sure why they would—they were welcome to them.
He was about to return to the Tricorn when his nose detected the same scent he’d experienced outside Rundell & Bridge. He stilled in shock. His heart began to pound against his rib cage, and for one moment, he experienced an almost overwhelming surge of happiness.
The girl from the garden. She was here! Fate was giving him a second chance.
She must be remarkably close. It had been months since anyone had managed to sneak up on him without attracting his attention; he was usually far more conscious of people coming at him from his blind side. The marble sculptures must have concealed her approach.
He was almost afraid to turn around. “Never meet your heroes,” the old adage said, and the same was doubtless true for mysterious dance partners. What real-life flesh-and-blood woman could hope to compete with three years of dedicated fantasizing? She was bound to be a disappointment. Married. Or plain. Or cross-eyed.
Still, he had to know.
Bracing himself as if for a blow, Alex turned and encountered a froth of brown hair done up in an elaborate feminine style. He readjusted his gaze downward—the owner of the hair was a good foot shorter than himself—and found himself looking into a pair of wide grey eyes set in a pale, elfin face.
The same face he’d studied across Lady Turnbull’s ballroom last night.
He experienced an instant’s confusion and then a wave of bitter disillusionment incinerated every last ounce of optimism in his soul.
He’d always suspected fate was a perverse bitch, but even he couldn’t have predicted this cruel twist. Of course his mystery woman would be the prime suspect in a series of impossible crimes. And of course she would be beautiful, in that subtle, understated way that had always appealed to him most.
Alex bit back a cynical laugh and narrowed his eyes. It made an awful kind of sense. How much energy had he wasted, dreaming of her? He should have known she was too good to be true.
This close, he could see details he hadn’t noticed at Lady Turnbull’s. Her eyes were grey, with pale, silvery flecks. Her nose was small and tilt-tipped—the word “impertinent” sprang to mind—and the bridge of it was unmistakably freckled. She had a beauty spot half an inch below her left eye.
He let his gaze drop lower and almost groaned. Her lips were exactly as he remembered. Those lips had laughed at him from beneath a Venetian mask. Those lips had pressed against his in innocent ardor and left him panting for more.
Those lips were utter, pink perfection.
“Lord Melton?”
Alex blinked. A throaty female voice to his right interrupted his self-flagellation.
“Good morning! I am Camille Danvers, Comtesse de Rougemont. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I knew your mother, years ago. Such a charming lady. I still miss her terribly.”
Remembering his manners, Alex lifted the older lady’s hand to his lips. “A pleasure, madam. And thank you, but I barely remember her. She died when I was but six years old.”
The countess gave him a studied appraisal. “She was a handsome woman, and I must say you’ve certainly inherited her good looks.” She gestured to the tiny traitor beside her. “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Emmeline.”
Alex took the hand that was offered, amazed at how small it seemed within his own. They were both wearing gloves, but the shock of the contact still sent a sizzle of something—anger, definitely anger—all the way
down to his toes.
He brought her hand up to his lips, and at the last moment, seized by a wicked impulse, twisted it and pressed his mouth to the inch of exposed wrist between glove and sleeve.
The scent of her robbed him of breath, and he took a perverse satisfaction in her shocked gasp as his lips touched the bare skin over her fluttering pulse.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Danvers,” he growled.
At last.
Chapter 8.
Emmy was quite certain her heart was about give out. She snatched her hand back as Harland straightened and resisted the urge to thrust it behind her back. The skin on her wrist tingled.
Harland’s reaction was confusing. When he’d first turned around, he’d been smiling in welcome, but an instant later his expression had changed to one of cynical animosity. He was glaring at her now as if she’d committed some unpardonable sin. Which she had, of course, many times, but there was no way he could possibly know that.
A chill swept over her, immediately followed by a flash of heat. Her stomach turned over in panic. She’d forgotten the impact of him close-up. His eyes were remarkable, a steely, inky, fathomless blue. The precise color of the diamond she was going to steal.
The only other time she’d been this close to him had been the night they’d danced, and then the full effect of those eyes had been hidden behind his black half mask. Now, he was staring at her openly, as he had done last night, and the effect was truly unnerving. Did he focus such attention on everyone? Or was she, in particular, of interest? She sincerely hoped not.
Good lord, he was tall. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She had to tilt her neck to see his face. A strange mixture of danger and excitement swirled in her belly. How easy it would be for him to catch her around the waist with those huge hands and lift her up. Her mouth would be level with his—
No! She didn’t like tall men. He was the enemy.
“I heard a rumor that you work for Bow Street, Lord Melton,” Camille said easily. “I do hope you’re not here to investigate a crime?”
Emmy opened her eyes in a wide, innocently amused expression and found her voice. “One wonders where you will start.”
Harland’s brows rose. “What do you mean, Miss Danvers?”
“Why, only that I suspect a good ninety percent of everything around us, from the Rosetta Stone over there”—she waved toward the Egyptian room behind them—“to these marbles Lord Elgin ‘rescued’ from the Parthenon in Greece, have been pilfered from somewhere.”
“One could argue that they’re safe in here,” he said. “Being preserved for future generations.”
She gave him her widest smile. “Hmm. Is stealing something for a noble reason ever an acceptable excuse? Is stealing something that’s already been stolen truly a crime? They’re interesting moral questions.”
His eyes flashed grey-blue from under his lashes. “The general principle in criminal law, Miss Danvers, is that theft is theft, regardless of the status of the object itself. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“I quite agree. It is pleasant for people like me to be able to enjoy these items here in London, but it would be even better to see them in their original environment. They should be returned home, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He inclined his head in polite acknowledgment and turned to Camille. “And to answer your question, ma’am, no. I am not investigating a crime here. Mr. Franks has the security arrangements well in hand. But I do, on occasion, lend my services to Bow Street. As part owner of the Tricorn Club I have a number of useful connections. You may have read about an incident at Rundell and Bridge in which I have become involved?”
Camille fanned herself gently. “Ah, yes. The Times suggested it was the work of that notorious criminal the Nightjar.” She placed her hand at her throat, as if her pearls were in imminent danger of being snatched. “How dreadful! One hardly feels safe in one’s bed. Do you think you will catch him, Lord Melton? When so many others have failed?”
Harland’s smile was almost predatory. “Oh, I know I will, madame. I will chase him to the ends of the earth if need be. There will be no escape. Justice will be served.”
He sent Emmy another strange sideways glance, and she suppressed a shiver of foreboding. This man was a hunter. His languid exterior belied a steely inner determination; if he set his mind on something, he would be relentless in his pursuit. She turned away and feigned interest in a pair of statues flanking the door.
“You’re a fan of Italian sculpture, Miss Danvers?” he asked, moving so they stood side by side. He leaned forward to read the information card, and his cuff rode up his arm as he extended his hand.
Emmy’s mouth went dry as she glimpsed a scant inch of masculine wrist. Hairs, veins, sinews. It made her feel light-headed. Good lord, if this was how she reacted over the tiniest bit of skin, imagine what it would be to see him—
“These are by Buonarotti. Dying slaves, apparently,” he murmured.
She forced her attention back to the sculptures. Parts of the white marble had been left rough and unfinished; the figures seemed to be emerging from the rock as if they were coming to life before her eyes. The first slave’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his arm raised above his head. The muscles in his torso rippled and bulged.
Emmy swallowed. Instead of tortured, the figure looked almost … aroused. Exhausted by a surfeit of loving. She lowered her gaze—and smothered a gasp at the realistic depiction of his private parts, which were unashamedly on display. Her cheeks warmed in mortification. She heard Harland make a constricted noise, almost a snort, above her head.
“Clearly there was a shortage of fig leaves in Rome during the sixteenth century,” he said mildly, but she could hear the laughter in his voice. “No wonder they don’t admit children below the age of ten in here. It’s a veritable den of iniquity. Mister Franks should post a warning for ladies of a nervous disposition.”
“Indeed, he should,” Camille said lightly. “He can’t want impressionable young debutantes fainting all over his museum. Come along, Emmy. I think we should go and look at something a little less … stimulating. Fossils, perhaps. Or rocks.”
Harland gave them a polite bow. “In that case, ladies, I shall leave you to your visit. Good day.”
Emmy bobbed a curtsey. As Harland walked away, the click of his boot heels echoing down the hall, she realized her knees were shaky. She took a deep, calming breath through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.
She and Camille mounted the stairs and made their way to the rocks and minerals section. She knew the way; she’d memorized the route.
The diamond, along with other examples of precious and semiprecious stones, was housed in a solid oak display cabinet. It would have been too heavy for two people to move, even if it hadn’t been bolted to the floor. Emmy leaned over so her nose almost touched the top of the display case. Her breath fogged up the glass as she spoke.
“Why was Harland here? It cannot be a coincidence. If he’s made the connection between the Rundell and Bridge diamond and this one”—she pressed her gloved finger onto the glass above the sparkling gem—“then we are in serious trouble. If he knows which jewels the Nightjar is stealing, then all he has to do is set a trap and—”
Camille bent to study a crystalline geode beside her. “I expect Bow Street is merely warning anyone who houses expensive jewels to be on alert.”
“I don’t like it,” Emmy said. “We should put it off for another week until interest dies down.”
“You know we can’t do that. The fact that Monsieur Danton has decided to show himself to us, or at least to Sally, is not a good sign. He could have continued to blackmail us perfectly well by letter. He could have collected the jewels without any of us ever seeing his face. I do not think we should disregard his command for urgency. I think he could prove an extremely unpleasant man.”
Emmy sighed, acknowledging that as the truth.
“B
esides, everything is ready for tomorrow night,” Camille murmured soothingly. “Mister Franks has agreed to meet Sally at the White Lion at five o’clock. You know the floor plan by heart. The delivery’s all set up.” She patted her reticule. “And I have another delicious treat for Brutus, when we pass by the gardens. He’s such a sweetheart.”
“He weighs the same as me,” Emmy grumbled. “And he’s slobbery.”
Camille gave a wistful sigh. “Oh, darling. If I were twenty years younger, I’d come with you.”
“You’d probably be better than me.”
Her grandmother had nerves of steel. Nothing flustered her. She could stare people out of countenance at the drop of a hat. Whereas Emmy quite often veered between elation and terror, between resentment that such a career had been forced upon her, and resignation that stealing the jewels was, morally at least, the right thing to do.
If she were perfectly honest, she often experienced a thoroughly wicked rush of pleasure from robbery too. Instead of feeling guilty, she felt a confusing delight in the danger and excitement, at least once it was all over. It was the thrill of a job well done. The gleeful sense of getting away with it.
Perhaps she was more like her father than she’d thought.
Camille gazed down at the grey-blue gemstone between them, and her expression softened. “I remember this before it was cut down, you know. It used to be twice this size. The Sun King, Louis’s grandfather, used to wear it as a hat pin, but Louis had it set in a sash for the Order of the Golden Fleece. He wore it at all the ceremonial functions. Marie Antoinette used to tease him that he out-glittered the stars in the sky.” She sighed. “Ah, such happy days.”
Emmy straightened and squeezed her arm. “Come on. I’ve seen enough here. I need some food before I get into that ridiculous coffin.”
Chapter 9.
The worst thing about the British Museum plan was the sarcophagus. Emmy forced herself not to think of its previous occupant as she lay down in the cramped wooden space and glared up at Luc.
