by Kate Bateman
Emmy was too surprised to do more than gasp as he closed it behind them with a heavy click and swung her round so her back was pressed against the wall.
The noise from outside decreased to a dull hum, and she registered, dimly, that they were in some kind of secondary hallway, illuminated at regular intervals by a series of glowing wall sconces. He stepped up close, his huge chest inches from her own, his shins pressing against the front of her skirts.
Irritation mingled with shock. She was masked; he couldn’t know who she was. Did he make a habit of abducting female strangers in this manner? Was this how he conducted all his interactions with women? He just pulled them into dimly lit corners whenever he felt the need to—
She tugged her elbow from his grip and went on the attack, even as her heart thundered in her ears. “Lord Melton, you seem to have made a—”
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“You have me confused with someone else, sir.”
He sent her mask a scathing look. “Do you think I’m completely blind?”
Emmy made one last-ditch effort. “My name is—”
“Emmeline d’Anvers,” he supplied smoothly, and Emmy stilled in shock at the unexpected perfection of his French accent. From his lips, her name sounded liquid, seductive. As if he’d said it a thousand times before. Only Camille and her father had ever used that version. Luc and Sally used the clipped, Anglicized style—Emmy Danvers.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll ask you again. How did you get in?”
Emmy looked him in the eye. “Your friend Mowbray sent my brother tickets.”
His jaw tensed, and she thought she heard him mutter a curse. His gaze flicked down to her mouth—about the only part of her face he could see beneath her mask—then back up.
“You shouldn’t have come. This is no place for a lady. It could be dangerous.”
Emmy almost laughed aloud. Oh, yes, dangerous. The danger wasn’t out there, though, in the card room. It was right here in front of her. Six foot two of bristling, infuriated male.
“You’ll be ruined if someone from the ton recognizes you.”
She managed an offhand shrug. “My reputation, or lack of it, is not your concern.”
An inch of white cuff flashed as he braced his hands on the wall on either side of her head. He leaned forward, crowding her with his height, and a thrill of something that wasn’t quite fear flashed through her. It had been a mistake to come here, to taunt him. But she’d never felt so alive. Being near him elicited the same nerve-wracking rush as participating in a heist.
“You’re in my club, Miss Danvers. That makes you my concern.”
Emmy pressed herself back against the wallpaper in a vain attempt to create some space between them. The air seemed thick, throbbing with tension. They were almost nose to nose. The light from the nearest sconce outlined the harsh line of his jaw, the bulge of his shoulder. She caught a hint of brandy on his breath, and it warmed her, curled her stomach.
His eyes narrowed. “You are the most aggravating woman I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.”
“And you are the most irritating man.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze. She understood this game; to close her eyes would be to admit defeat, and she refused to flinch first. She kept her eyes on his as he brought his hand to her cheek and spread his fingers along her jaw, just daring her to move. His hand was so large, he touched both earlobes at the same time.
She shivered.
“Do you find this irritating, Miss Danvers?” he murmured. His thumb stroked her chin, then slid to the corner of her lips.
She found that she was breathing hard, little pants against his skin. Her stomach swooped as he slid the pad of his thumb to the center of her lips and snagged her lower lip, folding it down. His eyes darkened.
In a sudden move, he yanked the ribbon that held her mask. It fell to the floor, and Emmy felt instantly exposed. The tiny piece of cloth had given her more confidence than she’d realized, the illusion of safety.
“Better,” he murmured. “I see you, Emmy Danvers.”
Was that a threat? A warning?
“Considering you’re half blind, that’s quite ironic,” she managed on a shaky exhale.
His eyes were slate blue behind a tangle of dark lashes. Emmy regarded him with suspicion as he slid his hand around to the nape of her neck.
His lips touched hers with a static jolt that made her gasp. He pulled back, just a fraction, as if gauging her reaction, and then closed his eyes. He seemed to be waging an internal battle with himself. Emmy held her breath.
“Sod it,” he breathed.
There was no hesitation this time. No uncertainty. His mouth molded over hers confidently, the perfect weight, neither too soft nor too aggressive. Heat curled inside her. He increased the pressure, and her lips opened at his silent command. She gasped as his tongue tangled with her own.
Brandy and sin.
Emmy closed her eyes. He traced her lower lip then slid back for more, angling, pressing, repositioning; an endless slow burn that grew more and more urgent with every swirl of his tongue. Reason slipped away.
Madness. This was madness.
Nothing had ever felt so right. His mouth was even better than she remembered. Hot and insistent. Addictive. Her blood was a dull roar in her ears, blocking out the sound of the club only feet away.
Pretend. Just for a few moments. Pretend we’re enemies who kiss. Pretend we’re not enemies at all.
Another kiss. A deep, wet slide. Slow and languid, as if he had all the time in the world. As if he were savoring the taste of her.
Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop.
Seized with a reckless desperation, Emmy captured his lower lip between her teeth. He groaned, a low sound of appreciation deep in his throat, and her pulse leapt with delight. Interacting with him made her feel stingingly, achingly alive. She wanted to ruffle his feathers, to goad a reaction out of him.
You’re supposed to be avoiding him!
Don’t care. Closer. More.
She flattened her palms against his chest. His skin was hot beneath the cotton, his heartbeat strong. His delicious masculine weight pushed her up against the wall and an aching heaviness pulsed between her legs.
His hand slid to her ribs then up the side of her breast in a wicked slow caress. Her nipples peaked inside her bodice, and she gasped in dazed wonder. His kiss became a challenge, a gauntlet being thrown down. Who would stop first? Who would pull away, admit defeat?
Not me.
Air whooshed out of her lungs as he caught her waist and lifted her, pressing her hard against the wall. Emmy wrapped her arms around his neck and marveled at his strength as he grasped her bottom in both hands and crushed her to him.
“God—” He sounded breathless, almost pained.
“Emmy!” Another voice, Luc’s, sharp and insistent.
Harland froze. And then cursed. He loosened his arms, and she slid back down to the floor, the wall at her back the only thing keeping her upright. Cool air rushed between them.
Emmy stared at him in astonishment. What had just happened? She could barely catch air into her lungs. Her legs felt like jelly. She placed one shaking hand over her heart and took as deep a breath as her stays would allow. Good God.
He stepped back, straightening his shirtsleeves, then ran a hand through his hair.
“Emmy!” Luc’s voice echoed through the thick door, fainter this time.
Harland caught the handle of the door and swung it wide. Light flooded in. He shot Emmy a fierce look. “Go home, Emmy Danvers. And stop playing with fire.”
Emmy scooped up her mask from the floor and ran.
Chapter 15.
Seb wrinkled his nose when Alex entered the Tricorn’s private sitting room the following afternoon.
“Phew! Where have you been? You smell like a tart’s boudoir.”
Alex raised his sleeve to his nose, sniffed, and grimaced. �
��I’ve been at Floris, the parfumier over on Jermyn Street.”
“Still trying to pin down our fragrant thief?” Seb surmised. “Any luck?”
“Indeed. Monsieur Fargeon confirmed what I’d suspected—that the scent on the feathers left by the Nightjar is the same as the one provided to us by Miss Danvers.”
“And?” Seb shrugged. “What does that signify? She can’t be the only woman in London with that particular perfume.”
“As a matter of fact, she probably is. It’s a rather unusual scent, by all accounts. As individual as personalized snuff.” Alex pulled out his penciled notes. “It was invented by a Frenchman named Houbigant, who made perfumes for Marie Antoinette and the Empress Josephine. According to Fargeon, he’s been making the same scent for Miss Danvers ever since her sixteenth birthday. He makes it only for her.”
Alex squinted at the paper, trying to read his own handwriting. “He says it evokes ‘a classic French garden’ with ‘headnotes of bergamot and lemon, a midrange of jasmine, rose, and orange blossom, and base notes of sandalwood and ambergris.’ Whatever that means.”
Fargeon had been quite the character. He’d maintained that every scent told a story, weaved a spell. He claimed that just by un-stoppering a bottle, he could transport a man to Arabia or the shores of the tropics.
Or to a moonlit garden, with an armful of fragrant, deceitful woman.
Alex frowned. The scent of her still haunted his bedroom, thanks to the bottle he’d commandeered. The taste of her still lingered in his mouth, even after a day. What in God’s name had he been thinking, to kiss her like that? He was deranged. He should have been trying to trick a confession out of her, not kissing her senseless up against a bloody wall.
Seb raised his brows. “A heady concoction. But can he be certain it’s exactly the same? Beyond reasonable doubt?”
“He’s an expert. His opinion’s good enough for me,” Alex said grimly. “When you put it together with her family history and Vidocq’s deductions, it seems clear that she’s the Nightjar.”
“Well, hell,” Seb sighed. “I suppose you’re going to catch her now?”
Alex nodded. “There are only two of the major jewels left to steal. Lady Carrington’s ruby, and the sapphire in Kent.”
“I don’t mind taking a trip out to Kent,” Seb said easily. “I’m getting a bit sick of London. I’ll see if I can drag Benedict away from marital bliss to accompany me.”
“All right. You go; I’ll talk to the Carringtons.”
* * *
“You’ll never guess who I just saw in Covent Garden,” Sally said as she breezed into the salon with her arms full of freshly cut flowers. “Your Lord Melton.”
Emmy’s teacup clattered back into her saucer, but she managed a frown. “He’s not my anything.”
Camille raised her own teacup to her lips and exchanged an amused glance with Sally, which made Emmy want to grind her teeth. “Of course not, darling.”
Emmy hadn’t been thinking about him, or that earth-shattering kiss, for the better part of two days. Not at all. She definitely hadn’t woken that morning from the most wickedly erotic dream of her life with her body throbbing on the verge of climax because she’d been imagining herself beneath Harland. On a bed instead of against a wall.
Do you find this irritating, Miss Danvers?
Not. At. All.
She cleared her throat. “What was he doing?”
Sally fluffed the flowers in a vase. “I was on my way to Floris, to get you another bottle of scent, since he took the last one, and he was just leaving.”
The image of such a masculine man in such a feminine place was an amusing contradiction. A lesser man might have been overawed, but Emmy couldn’t imagine Harland being intimidated by anything. He was the kind of man who made himself at home in a modiste’s dressing room and calmly dictated which underwear his paramour should buy.
Her heart sank. Bother the man. She hadn’t had any perfume for two days, because of him. She felt naked without it. A little less feminine. A little more vulnerable. The thought of him having her scent in his house, of being able to smell it whenever he felt like it, made her feel a little strange.
Neither Luc nor Camille seemed particularly concerned by his ongoing investigations. They believed she was wily enough throw him off the scent. But Emmy could sense the net closing in. The sword of Damocles hovered above her head, held aloft by only the thinnest of threads. Any moment, whenever Harland decided, it would come crashing down upon her neck.
She glanced over at Camille. “I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I say we should postpone stealing the ruby?”
Camille took a dainty bite of teacake. “I do understand your concerns, Emmy, but time is of the essence. Danton has been suspiciously quiet, which worries me. Harland might be suspicious of you, but he will want enough evidence to obtain a conviction before he makes his move. The fact that he hasn’t done anything yet suggests he doesn’t have enough proof.”
“He knows what we’re after,” Emmy urged. “He’s going to try to catch me stealing the ruby.”
“Let him try. You are clever and forewarned. And really, the opportunity on Thursday is too good to miss.”
Emmy sighed. The ruby Danton had demanded was owned by Lady Carrington, who lived on Park Crescent. In two days’ time, her neighbor, the Spanish Ambassador, would be holding a ball in honor of the Russian and French Court. Close to six hundred people would be in attendance; it was one of the most anticipated social events of the year. It would provide an excellent distraction.
“It would be nice,” Emmy said wearily, “to have normal concerns. Like trying to decide which dress to wear, which gloves to purchase. Not which window to climb through.”
Camille smiled. “You are not normal, Emmeline.”
“A phrase every girl longs to hear.”
Camille waved her hand. “If you weren’t a thief, you would be like all the other girls out there. Unforgivably dull. You’d have no conversation at all. You’re so much more interesting this way, darling.”
“How can I be interesting when I can’t talk to anyone about it? I must pretend to be vapid and almost mute and suffer idiots explaining things badly to me. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to empty my glass of champagne over Lord Bolton’s head when he tried to tell me that rubies and spinels were the same.”
“Don’t forget that diamonds are only produced under immense pressure. It can be the same for people. You have produced your greatest work, attained your greatest potential, because you were put under pressure.”
“Yes, but—”
Camille’s eyes took on a roguish twinkle. “I’ve discovered it’s often the case with husbands too. A combination of applying pressure—and the right amount of heat—usually produces diamonds. Necklaces mainly.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “And what fun it was to provide the heat! Ah, me. I do miss your grandfather.”
“Grandmère!”
“Bah. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt an equal amount of heat for your Lord Melton.”
Emmy groaned into her teacup, wishing she could deny it.
“It is rather an inconvenient attraction.” Camille sighed. “Considering your respective professions.”
Emmy gave a cracked laugh. “It is not inconvenient. Inconvenient is snapping your parasol on the hottest day of the year. Inconvenient is being unable to find a matching pair of stockings. This is a disaster.”
“I know how you like to collect words that have no English translation, Emmeline. So here is one for you: the Russians call what you have tosca.” Camille nodded sagely. “It is a melancholy yearning, a longing, a love sickness. An unbearable feeling that you need to escape but lack the hope or energy to do so. It is an awful feeling. But without tosca, there cannot be delirious happiness.”
Emmy frowned into the tea leaves that swirled at the bottom of her cup. “I don’t want to be attracted to him. He’s not a man, he’s a bloodhound. Sniffing us out. Hunt
ing us down. He is relentless. He will catch us and rip us to pieces—”
“How terribly bloodthirsty.” Camille laughed. “But I have seen the way he looks at you. It is not ice in his veins, but fire. There is passion beneath the hauteur. A man like that is slow to kindle, but when he does? Ooh la la.” She raised her brows. “You distract him, Emmeline. And that gives you power. Distracted, he will make mistakes. If you rile him enough, he will snap.”
“I don’t want to see him snap,” Emmy said, quite honestly. “He’s dangerous.”
Camille tilted her head. “Au contraire, I think it could be extremely exciting. But it takes a brave woman to deal with that kind of man. You must meet him head-on. He is not comfortable, I think. But he would be so very worth it.”
“He will show me no mercy if he catches me.”
Camille nodded. “Sometimes the chase is such fun that the catching is quite a disappointment.” She took another bite of teacake. “On the other hand, sometimes being caught is only the start of the adventure.”
“Being caught would be the start of a trip to the gallows,” Emmy said sharply. “Nothing more.”
Sally’s reappearance at the doorway precluded any further argument. “Ready for a trip to Park Crescent?”
Emmy gave a resigned nod.
Chapter 16.
Emmy put both hands on the small of her back and arched her spine—the universal movement of a heavily pregnant woman trying to relieve the weight she carried in front—then took hold of the bottom of Sally’s ladder to steady it.
Luc had driven around Park Crescent late last night, flicking white, watery paint at several of the first-floor windows. This morning Sally and Emmy, happily disguised as itinerant window washers, were doing a brisk trade cleaning off the “pigeon droppings.”
Sally had excelled this time. Tied to Emmy’s waist by an ingenious series of straps and buckles was a pig’s bladder—thoroughly cleaned—filled with water. It gave the realistic appearance of a pregnant belly; the weight of it added to the authenticity of her posture.
