by Kate Bateman
Luc had positioned the cart across the entrance of the alleyway to prevent anyone else coming in. He gave her a cheeky grin from underneath his hat as she climbed up onto the seat beside him and donned a flat cap of her own. “All done?” he asked casually.
Emmy slouched back into the seat, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She always felt drained after the excitement of the heist left her.
“All done. Let’s go home.”
Chapter 11.
Alex frowned. It had taken Franks almost an entire day to discover the loss of the diamond. He’d been so engrossed in studying some new Egyptian sarcophagus that he hadn’t noticed it missing on his morning tour of the museum. Alex quelled a spurt of irritation as he and Seb listened to the man’s bumbling attempts to understand what had happened.
“Indeed, it was only at around four o’clock that a gentleman pointed out that it was missing and asked whether it was being cleaned.” Franks wrung his hands in obvious agitation. “I sent to inform you directly, Lord Melton.”
Alex nodded. “Thank you. But what happened to your guard dog? You assured me he was a veritable Cerberus.” He glared down at the animal in question, who was trotting amiably beside them. Brutus whimpered, as if he recognized the accusatory tone. He tucked his tail between his legs and dipped his muzzle in a perfect canine grovel.
Franks’s neck turned pink. “Ah, well, it seems the thief discovered Brutus’s fatal weakness. The clever devil bribed him with steak.”
Seb rolled his eyes. “Whoever would have thought of that?”
“Et tu, Brute?” Alex chided the dog, but neither of his companions appreciated the Shakespeare reference.
“There’s more, my lord.” Franks cleared his throat as they neared the minerals gallery. “It seems the crook has taken a personal interest in you.”
“In what way?”
They stopped in front of the cabinet. The glass was still intact. There was no evidence of forced entry, but the diamond was notably absent. A lone black feather lay in its place. Franks pointed to a folded ridge of card, propped up next to another specimen nearby.
“The thief not only took the diamond, they also replaced that particular label.”
Alex bent to read the note and his brows rose in affronted disbelief.
Specimen: Meltonium Harlandii. Locale: London and its environs. Defining characteristics: Inert. Dull in appearance. Particularly dense. No practical uses. Almost worthless.
“What kind of rock is that?” Alex asked very softly.
“A meteorite,” Franks supplied. “It is, in all probability, the oldest thing on this entire planet.”
Behind him, Alex heard Seb snort, then give up any pretense of trying to quash his laughter. “Oh, that’s priceless! Alex Harland: old and thick and not of this world!”
Alex reminded himself that Seb was one of his best friends. It would be bad form to knock his bloody teeth out. He glared at the handwritten note. It was not the same hand that had written the Nightjar’s previous message about the sugar. It was equally neat and educated, but more sloping. Slightly—dare he say it—more feminine?
Seb wasn’t finished. “Is this how the Nightjar sees us at Bow Street? Big, hulking lumps with no more intelligence than a misshapen rock? I believe we should be insulted, Alex. Or, you should be.”
Alex ground his teeth. One eyelid began to twitch. If he’d had any doubt about the identity of the Nightjar, this taunting little note quashed it. Emmeline Danvers’s cheeky face rose up before him, those lips curved in a teasing smile, those damnably alluring freckles peppering her nose, and his blood began to boil.
Franks unlocked the cabinet and handed the feather to Alex. Alex brought it to his nose and his stomach clenched in recognition. It smelled of her. His mystery woman. Emmeline Danvers. The Nightjar.
One and the same. Damn her.
Anyone who said women weren’t capable of such things was a fool. Women were capable of anything. He wasn’t yet precisely sure of how she’d managed it—although he’d bet the sudden appearance of that sarcophagus downstairs had something to do with it—but he was sure of one thing: she was his thief.
“One thing I’ve always wondered,” Seb said to the room in general. “How come ladies are always referred to as diamonds of the first water? Is that a gemological term?”
Franks nodded, glad of the distraction. “It is indeed. ‘First water’ denotes the highest quality. Diamonds are assessed by their translucence; the more like water, the better. It means they have a perfect cut, color, and clarity, and lack internal flaws.”
“We all have internal flaws,” Alex growled. “And external ones too.” He touched the scar at his temple, then turned on his heel and strode toward the entrance.
“Where are we going now?” Seb demanded cheerfully.
“To the Danvers residence. Good day, Mister Franks.”
Alex jogged down the stairs, out of the main entrance, gave directions to the driver, and jumped into the waiting carriage.
Seb scrambled in after him. “You really think it’s her?”
“Without a doubt. I even met her here yesterday when I was talking to Franks. That woman has some gall.”
Seb gave a crooked smile. “There’s something incredibly attractive about competence, don’t you think? I find it almost … arousing. In certain circumstances, of course.”
Alex shot him a disbelieving look. “You think we should admire her sangfroid?”
The little imp certainly had a cool head in a crisis. He had it himself, gained from his years in the Rifles, an ability to think clearly when bullets were whistling past his head. In a colleague, it was an excellent trait. In an adversary, it was irritating beyond measure.
Seb’s expression grew serious. “She might not have had a choice, you know. There may be extenuating circumstances.”
“Everyone always has a choice,” Alex said grimly. “She knows the difference between right and wrong.”
“Maybe her only option was choosing the lesser of two evils?”
“Stop playing devil’s advocate,” Alex growled. “You sound as if you’re on her side. She’s a bloody criminal.”
Seb shrugged. “I just think it’s odd that you’re so angry. You’ve never reacted like this with any of the other criminals we’ve been involved with.” His face took on a slyly innocent expression. “Maybe it’s because none of the other criminals had such perfect breasts.”
“You shouldn’t be noticing her breasts!”
Seb chuckled, delighted to have drawn a response. “You just seem, I don’t know, emotionally invested in this one. I’ve never seen you so animated. There’s more to this than upholding the law.”
“You know what they say: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer … especially if they’re female.”
“That should be the Harland family motto.” Seb chuckled. “Maybe we should get it carved above the fireplace at the Tricorn?”
Alex winced. Seb made it his business to know everything about everyone. His personal motto was “knowledge is power.” And for all his teasing, he’d hit the nail on the head. Emmeline Danvers’s involvement felt like a personal betrayal, the shattering of all his foolish dreams. He’d held a false image in his heart for all these years, fostered stupid longings that should have been quashed long ago. The image of purity, of innocence, of that laughing shimmering girl, had been an illusion.
“I will catch her. I always get my man.”
Seb spread his arms along the back of the seat with a grin. “See, that’s where you have a problem. Because in this case, your man is a woman. A very attractive woman.”
“Whether or not she’s attractive is neither here nor there. Justice will be served. Let’s not forget what happened the last time I gave a pretty woman the benefit of the doubt.”
Seb levelled him with a direct stare. “This is nothing like Spain, Alex. Not the same at all.”
It had been one of Alex’s blackest moments, an experience he’d never
been able to forget. They’d been escorting a group of French prisoners of war through the mountains and had stopped near a small village. As usual, a group of locals had appeared, offering food and drink. A young Spanish woman carrying a basket of flowers had approached the group of bound prisoners, who were resting on the ground.
She was beautiful; her unbound hair was wild around her face, her eyes flashing brown. The fringed edge of her burnt-orange shawl fluttered as she walked. All heads turned to follow her progress.
Alex’s commanding officer had just motioned at her to move away from the men when she reached into her basket and pulled out a grenade.
The entire camp stilled. Alex had been on lookout; his rifle was already in his hands. Someone shouted an order to shoot, but he’d hesitated. He didn’t want to shoot a woman. He couldn’t believe she would carry out her threat.
The explosion, when it came seconds later, killed the woman and the two Frenchmen closest to her and wounded a dozen more. It transpired that her husband had been killed by the French the week before.
Alex closed his eyes. It still rankled. He’d been naïve, blinded by her attractive appearance, still clinging to the faint hope that the world wasn’t as brutal as he already knew it to be. His gut had warned him of danger, but he’d ignored his instincts and allowed emotion to override his training. Innocent men—even if they were technically the enemy—had died because of his weakness.
In hindsight, the situation had a certain dark irony. Back then, he’d still had full vision; he’d been blinded by hope and inexperience. Now, he was blinded in truth, at least partially, but never again would he be fooled by a pretty face. He’d learned his lesson.
“We can’t just walk in there and search the place,” Seb said, interrupting his brooding thoughts. “We need a warrant from Conant.”
“I know that.”
“Then why—?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said irritably. “I just want to take a look at her. In her home, the place she feels most secure. She’ll be confident there. Relaxed. She might let something slip that incriminates her.”
He couldn’t explain it logically, but he was convinced that if he just looked her in the eye he’d know. He’d see it in her face. The guilt. The amusement. The spark of challenge in her eyes.
“Besides, there are plenty of ways to get what we want without a search warrant. Sometimes all you have to do is ask nicely.”
Chapter 12.
Harland’s timing was unfortunate.
Emmy, Luc, and Camille had just sat down to an early dinner so they could go and watch one of Sally’s friends, Molly, perform at the Haymarket Theatre.
An impatient pounding on the front door had Emmy and Camille glancing at one another in wide-eyed alarm. Emmy’s first thought was that it was Danton, come to demand not only the Rundell & Bridge diamond but also the blue one she’d stolen the previous night. Both lay on the white tablecloth between them.
Quick as a flash, Emmy seized the blue stone and dropped it into the bowl of soup in front of her. It was, thankfully, leek and potato, and therefore opaque. Beef consommé would have been a disaster. Camille, with a chuckle, did the same with the clear diamond. It made a distinct splash just as Sally reappeared in the doorway and announced, “Lords Melton and Mowbray to see you.”
Emmy was certain her face must be an incriminating shade of pink, but Camille merely dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and said loudly, “At this hour? How singular. Still, I suppose it must be something important.”
“Shall I put them in the salon, ma’am?” Sally asked.
“Heavens no. You may show them in here. If they will come visiting at dinnertime, they should expect people to be eating dinner.”
A wave of excitement that bordered on nausea rose up as Harland and his friend appeared in the doorway. Camille gave them both a radiant smile and batted her eyelashes. Emmy almost rolled her eyes. Sometimes her grandmother acted more like a girl of sixteen than a woman of seventy. “My lords, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Good evening, Countess. Danvers. Miss Danvers.”
Harland’s voice did fluttery things to her insides. Emmy tried to keep her eyes on the soup but failed. The instant she looked up, his blue gaze bored into hers, and she pressed her lips together to stop a completely inappropriate smile. He looked harried. Angry. Harassed. He’d definitely discovered the note, then.
Camille rose from her seat, and Emmy did the same. Luc, however, remained seated. “To what do we owe the pleasure, gentlemen?”
“I apologize for interrupting your dinner.” Harland swept the table with a brief glance and Emmy quelled the urge to cover her soup bowl with her napkin. He made a motion with his hand. “Please, sit down.”
Camille sank back into her chair, as did Emmy, although she would have preferred to remain standing. Harland loomed over her at the best of times. There was no need to add to the height difference.
“I was wondering if I might have a brief word with Miss Danvers?”
Luc’s eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted.”
“We met at the British Museum yesterday,” Camille supplied brightly.
“And what do you wish to speak to her about?” Luc asked, in the tone Emmy had long ago christened his protective-big-brother voice.
Harland shot her an indecipherable glance from under his lashes. “This is not a social call. I’m sorry to report that shortly after Miss Danvers and the countess visited the museum, it fell victim to the thief known as the Nightjar. A stone of some considerable value was stolen from one of the galleries.”
Camille made a convincing little gasp of shock. “Oh, dear. But what can that possibly have to do with us?”
“I have reason to believe that the thief may have been present in the museum at the same time as you, preparing for the heist.”
Emmy bit her lip. He knew. He knew it was her. He was just playing with them, like a cat with a mouse.
“I was hoping you might be able to furnish us with descriptions of the other visitors you encountered.”
Camille nodded. “Of course. We would be delighted to help. But my memory is not what it once was. I’m sure Emmy will be able to provide you with a more complete list of those she remembers.”
Emmy shot her a furious glance. She didn’t want to give Harland an example of her handwriting. She’d made some effort to disguise it when she’d penned that taunting note, but why give him something with which to make a comparison? He might use it as evidence.
“We’ll send it over to Bow Street tomorrow,” Camille said. “Will that be all?”
“There is one more thing,” Harland said silkily. “I was wondering if I might visit Miss Danvers’s bedchamber.”
Luc glowered at him. “I fail to see what bearing that could have on your investigation, Lord Melton.”
Harland gave him a smile that was both innocent and, to Emmy’s mind, utterly diabolical. He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew two familiar black feathers. “The Nightjar left these at his last two crimes.”
He lifted them to his nose and inhaled, and Emmy felt a cold wave of dread sweep over her.
“They have a very distinctive scent. Almost like a woman’s perfume. When I met Miss Danvers yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice that her perfume is very similar to that of these feathers. A happy coincidence, you might say.”
Emmy narrowed her eyes. A happy coincidence, my arse. He knew. But at least he wasn’t accusing her of being the Nightjar directly. Not yet, anyway.
“I had no idea you had such an excellent nose, Lord Melton,” Luc said acidly.
Harland’s smile was wicked. “I daresay I’ve had some experience in recognizing female perfumes.”
She didn’t want to know about his experience with other women, the fiend.
“If Miss Danvers would be so kind as to show me the scent she uses, I’ll know what I’m looking for. It may be that the Nightjar is, in fact, a woman.”
“It could just be a man who gets his feathers from a woman’s fan or headpiece,” Camille suggested. “What are they, anyway? Ostrich feathers?”
Harland stroked them back and forth along his jaw. Emmy couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing sight. There was something horribly sensual about it.
“I believe ostrich feathers are larger. These are goose feathers, dyed black. Unfortunately, they’re too common to track down their source. They’re used in everything from pillows to hats. But the scent is rather distinctive. Identifying this particular perfume might well be the key to identifying the culprit.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. She should have listened to her father. She’d never imagined feathers could absorb scent to such a degree. Or that Harland would have such a delicate nose.
Emmy finally found her voice. “Of course. If you’ll just excuse me, I’ll ask Sally to go and get a bottle of my perfume from my room.”
Camille shot her a wicked, laughing look. “Oh, Sally’s far too busy in the kitchen. You go, Emmy dear.”
Emmy and Luc shot her identical incredulous stares. Surely Camille wasn’t matchmaking at a time like this? But one glance at her grandmother’s wide smile and sparkling eyes confirmed it. The woman was meddling.
“Well, we can’t let Lord Melton go, can we?” Camille said with mock innocence. “That would be most unseemly, to have a gentleman poking around in your drawers.”
Emmy glared at her for the deliberate innuendo.
Wolff, Harland’s companion, smiled broadly, and Emmy had a sudden vision of Harland searching through her very French, very lacy underthings. The thought of those big hands touching the delicate silk of her negligees made her feel molten inside. She stood with a decisive motion. “All right, then.”
Harland watched her every move as she rounded the end of the table. He and Wolff stepped aside so she could pass through the door.
