To Catch an Earl--A Bow Street Bachelors Novel

by Kate Bateman

  Sally always said that for a disguise to be truly effective, the wearer must have an attitude to match. If you were supposed to be a ballet dancer, every movement, every action had to mirror that belief. You should keep your head up, chin high, be graceful. Conversely, if you were supposed to be a vagabond, you should hunch, and drag your feet, and scratch as if you had vermin. She’d learned such things from her days at the theatre.

  Emmy felt very much like a woman who wanted to sit and relieve her aching feet. An apron tied over the top of her skirts added to her apparent bulk, as did the scratchy wig she wore beneath an unsightly bonnet that shielded her face.

  Lady Carrington’s servants had been all too happy to delegate the task of window washing to Sally, who had turned herself into a strapping young lad. She was currently whistling tunelessly at the top of the ladder, gaily swiping at the “droppings” with a wet rag.

  They’d done what they needed to do. While washing the back of the Carringtons’ house Sally had deformed one of the window latches just enough to prevent it from fully closing. Everything was set. Emmy had wanted to leave at once—Luc was waiting for them with the carriage just around the corner in Harley Street, but Sally had insisted they wash a few more windows along the street to allay suspicion.

  Emmy cursed softly as a splash of water from Sally’s bucket landed squarely in her eye. It stung. Sally maintained the secret to a perfectly shiny window was vinegar in with the water.

  “Get a move on!” Emmy muttered at Sally’s breeches-clad bottom.

  Sally glanced down, and her white smile split the grimy oval of her face. “Almost done, missus.” She chuckled. “Don’t want to leave no streaks.”

  Emmy cast a wary glance down the stately curve of Park Crescent. The row of elegant terraced houses had been designed by Prinny’s favorite architect, John Nash. They formed a gentle semicircle around a central green park. A couple of the upper-class residents were strolling along the well-kept paths toward the verdant swathe of Regent’s Park a little farther down the street.

  Emmy ducked her head as she recognized Lord Denman, Chief Justice of the Court of Queen’s Bench, leaving his house. After the Lord Chancellor, Lord Denman was the second-most important judge in England. She had no intention of gaining his notice, either inside or outside a courtroom.

  When she glanced up again, she almost swallowed her own tongue. Alex Harland was striding along the crescent, heading directly toward her. She pressed herself to the foot of the ladder with a whispered curse.

  “It’s Harland!” she hissed.

  Sally turned to look and gave an appreciative sigh from her elevated vantage point. “Good lord. Just look at those shoulders. Camille’s right, that man is—”

  “Come on!” Emmy whispered.

  He was almost upon them. Emmy ducked, bending over her large belly with difficulty, and nudged the bucket of water closer to the foot of the ladder, ostensibly to get it out of his way. She felt a swish of air behind her as he passed by and breathed a sigh of relief when he spared herself and Sally only the briefest glance. He turned into the gate of the Carrington residence.

  Emmy’s palms began to sweat. She’d been right! He knew they were going to steal the ruby, although how, she couldn’t fathom. True, her father had once proclaimed the Nightjar’s intentions in print, but that had been sixteen years ago, back in Paris. How likely was it that Harland would have stumbled across something so obscure? And yet his sources must have managed to dig it up. How irritating.

  Sally, finally, seemed to catch her urgency. She descended the ladder, tossed the wet rag in the bucket, and joined Emmy as she started to waddle down the street.

  The pregnant woman was a good disguise, but it was useless for a speedy escape.

  Emmy reached into her apron, flicked open the small folding knife she carried, and made a nick in the water-filled sack. She was immediately treated to a slow, unpleasant trickle of liquid leaking down her right leg. It soaked into her stocking, then slithered into her shoe. Her belly began to deflate. Still, better wet than arrested.

  Still whistling, Sally put her arm solicitously around Emmy’s shoulders and bent her head as if murmuring something comforting.

  “As soon as we’re ’round that corner, run,” she muttered.

  * * *

  Alex took the steps to the Carrington residence two at a time, then stopped halfway. Something niggled at him, a sniper’s sense that something wasn’t right.

  He shot a glance down the street, wondering what had prickled his attention. A carriage rattled along. A child played with a yappy dog over in the park. And a tuneless whistling floated back to him from the young window washer who was escorting his pregnant wife along the road.

  Alex frowned. The boy’s ladder was still propped up against the front of the house. The bucket was still there. Why were they leaving without their equipment? Alex narrowed his eyes. That boy had a suspiciously rounded pair of hips. And that pregnant woman seemed to be walking faster with every step.

  He checked his pockets for his watch. Had he been pickpocketed? No.

  Still suspicious, he bounded back down the steps and started after them.

  “Hoi! Madam!”

  The pair started walking faster. Neither of them looked around—a sure indication of guilt. Alex quickened his pace. They turned the corner. He broke into a trot.

  He rounded the last house just in time to see the “pregnant woman” standing in a puddle of water, and suddenly as slim as a reed. Alex let out a shout. He heard a distinct feminine gasp as she hitched up her sodden skirts and bolted down the street in the wake of the shapely window washer.

  He hastened in pursuit.

  The two of them dodged nimbly through the pedestrians on Harley Street, dashed across the road in front of a draper’s cart, eliciting a flurry of abuse from the driver, and dived into a nondescript black carriage. The driver—an elderly cove with grizzled sideburns and an apparent hunchback—whipped the horses with a shout and the whole lot galloped off before Alex could catch up.

  He stopped, panting, in the middle of the street and made use of every single swear word he’d ever learned. He hadn’t seen the woman’s face, but he was convinced that expectant mother had been Emmy Danvers.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  The fact that she was here, quite clearly studying the location for her next crime, should have filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction. He’d correctly predicted where she would strike. He would catch her. He doubted she’d be sensible enough to abort the plan to steal the Carringtons’ ruby, even knowing he was close on her tail. Whatever her reasons—and he strongly suspected a touch of insanity at this point—she seemed unwilling to stop her larcenous hobby.

  A wave of impotent fury balled his hands into fists as he stalked back to Park Crescent. Bloody woman! Could she not see how this would end? What did she think was going to happen when she was caught? That her pretty face and aristocratic name would protect her from the full weight of the English judiciary system? It would not.

  The punishment for stealing was harsh. A person could be executed for taking anything worth more than five shillings, be that a handkerchief or a sheep. Did she think if she made those stardust eyes fill with tears that a judge would be moved to clemency? Would those irresistible lips spout lie after lie?

  Alex shook his head. Or did she think that he would be the weak link? That she could somehow sway him from turning her in? A muscle ticked in his jaw. Did she plan to seduce him into letting her go? His groin throbbed in an enthusiastic yes!

  God knew, he would be tempted.

  He frowned, irritated at himself. No. He would not be swayed, however persuasive that sweet body and those glorious lips might be. The law was the law. Reason free from passion. Just as Aristotle said.

  Half an hour later, having spoken to Lady Carrington, Alex had learned two things. One, that Lady Carrington deserved to have her ruby necklace stolen. When he’d asked to see where she kept her jewels,
the woman had complied willingly; the endeavor required a trip to her bedchamber. Licking her lips—which were thin and not at all tempting in the way that Emmy Danvers’s lips were—she’d casually mentioned that her “incredibly dull” husband would be “away for hours at some stuffy parliamentary debate.” Perhaps Alex would like to see her newly redecorated boudoir? Alex had politely declined.

  The second thing he’d learned was that the Carringtons’ neighbor, the Spanish Ambassador, would be holding his annual ball on Thursday night. Which meant the odds were high the Nightjar would use the crowds and confusion to strike.

  Alex bounded down the steps with a spring in his step, his pulse thumping in anticipation. Emmy Danvers was going to get caught.

  Chapter 17.

  Emmy’s dress for the Ambassador’s ball was dark-blue silk, an exquisite French-inspired creation that skimmed her shoulders and waist before falling in artless swirls around her legs. It felt as decadent, as smooth, as double cream.

  Sally had pinned her hair up in elaborate coils on the top of her head, with a trio of black feathers and a diamond-studded clip, which added inches to Emmy’s diminutive stature. The feathers matched her black satin gloves and ostrich-feather fan.

  Camille also looked magnificent, very much “la Grande Dame” in a gown of pale-green brocade shot with gold thread that shimmered when she turned in the light. Her upswept hair highlighted her excellent bone structure and piercing blue eyes.

  “Well, don’t we look marvelous?” Camille laughed, her eyes sparkling. “The men of London should guard their hearts tonight.”

  “Let’s just hope Lady Carrington isn’t guarding her ruby,” Emmy muttered. “If she’s wearing it, we’ll have to come up with another plan.”

  Luc, handsome in a black satin evening jacket, shrugged. “You’re good at improvising, Em. You’ll think of something.”

  Park Crescent was teeming with carriages when they arrived. Light blazed through the open front door of the ambassador’s house as a stream of people waited to be admitted by the liveried servants. Since the Prince Regent was rumored to be attending, along with several of the royal dukes, members of the cabinet, and Wellington, a squadron of the Royal Horse Guards had been placed on duty in the street in case of any disturbance.

  Emmy glanced over at the Carringtons’ house. As expected, only a few lights burned in the upstairs living quarters. Some of the staff had been given the night off, since they weren’t needed to attend to their master and mistress, and the rest were gathered in the basement kitchen, peering out between the railings to watch the fantastic creatures arriving next door.

  As she ascended the staircase to the huge ballroom that occupied the front of the house, Emmy was relieved to catch a glimpse of Lady Carrington wearing a sparkling diamond choker. She’d left her rubies at home. Thank goodness.

  Luc made his way to the room that had been set aside for cards and took a seat, while Emmy left Camille talking to some friends and made her way to the ballroom.

  Couples, with elbows high and hands clasped, swirled around the inlaid wooden floor to the accompaniment of a string quartet playing Schubert. Conversations rose and fell in rhythmic cadences like the sea. Fans fluttered, jewels flashed, turbans bobbed. It was a dizzying, glorious spectacle. Emmy took up position between a decorative wooden pillar that had been painted to look like marble and a side table held aloft by a grotesque gilt dolphin.

  She became aware of Harland when the back of her neck prickled in warning. His huge, warm body materialized behind her, a solid masculine presence impossible to ignore. He must have learned such tactics in the army; how to sneak up on an enemy unobserved. How to take advantage of the terrain and natural cover to gain an advantage.

  She tamped down a delirious sense of anticipation. She’d known he would seek her out. His presence just added another level of excitement, of danger to the game. She had the feeling he would always be within arm’s reach. Was that a desirable thing or not?

  His low voice came from over her shoulder. “Miss Danvers. Fancy seeing you here.” His tone was drier than a desert.

  Her whole body seemed to light up, like a breathed-upon ember. “Lord Melton,” she said coolly.

  Had she really kissed him senseless a few days ago? It seemed impossible. She wanted to do it again.

  “Tell me one thing about yourself that very few people in this room know,” he said.

  Emmy kept her gaze on the dancers. I’m a brazen, unrepentant jewel thief. She shouldn’t even be talking to him. Every piece of information might be used against her. But politeness won out.

  “Very well. I enjoy discovering foreign words that have no direct English translation.” She glanced over her shoulder and caught his look of mild surprise. Any other woman would have told him she liked embroidery or playing the pianoforte or sketching.

  “Hmmm.” The sound he made was encouraging, as if he’d received the pleasantly satisfying answer to a puzzle that had been plaguing him for some time. Emmy decided to elaborate.

  “The French have several of them. L’esprit de l’escalier, for example. It literally means ‘staircase wit’ and is used to describe that perfect, clever retort you think of only after someone’s left and you’re going back upstairs.”

  Harland smiled—a wide, genuine smile that lit his eyes—and her heart seized in her chest. His smile was a thing of beauty, something rare and wonderful. She wanted to make it appear again.

  “Sortable is the adjective to use for friends and family members you can take out in public without fear of being embarrassed,” she said.

  He was très sortable. Any woman would preen to have him on her arm.

  Now that she’d started, Emmy couldn’t seem to stop. “The Scots have a good one: tartle. It’s that panicky hesitation just before you have to introduce someone whose name you cannot quite remember.”

  “That is a good word,” he said. “I have definitely been tartled, on occasion.” He tilted his head, still not looking at her. “I’ve travelled extensively on the continent—Bonaparte’s unofficial Grand Tour. I must have picked up a few words to add to your collection. Let me think.”

  He gazed out across the dance floor, apparently deep in thought, and Emmy stole a glance at the clean line of his jaw and firm lips. Her skin tingled.

  “I have one,” he said finally. “See that annoying fellow over there? In mustard-yellow pantaloons.”

  “Lord Eversleigh?”

  “Indeed. The Germans have a word for him.”

  She raised her brows in silent question.

  “Backpeifengesicht,” he supplied.

  “Bless you,” she said, straight-faced.

  He shot her a chiding sideways glance. “It means ‘a face badly in need of a fist.’”

  Emmy quelled a snicker of amusement. “Interesting.”

  “The Russian soldiers I met had plenty of entertaining phrases too. Most of them were related to drinking. They have a whole host of words to convey various levels of intoxication. Soosh-nyak, for example, is that dry feeling you get in your throat when you wake up after a night of heavy drinking.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Emmy said virtuously. “But no doubt you’re intimately acquainted with the sensation.”

  He ignored that little jibe. “They have another word that describes the disappointment of seeing a woman who appears pretty from behind but not from the front. I can’t remember what it is, though.”

  “That’s very helpful,” she said with faint irony.

  The realization of how much she was enjoying herself crushed her chest. This easy, teasing banter was a tantalizing glimpse of what could have been, had circumstances been different. But any friendship between the two of them was an impossibility. These brief, forbidden moments were all she could ever have.

  The dance ended, and another set began to form. Harland stepped past her and caught her hand. “We should dance.”

  She didn’t have time to voice an objection. He led her onto the d
ance floor and turned her neatly in his arms. The heat of his palm warmed through her glove where their hands were joined. His left hand settled easily at the small of her back.

  She braced herself to look him in the eye, and the predictable flash of lightning sparked between them. What an unreasonable attraction.

  His gaze rested for an instant on her mouth, then flitted away. Emmy was aware of curious glances being sent their way, a flurry of speculative whispers. Any woman with Alex Harland would be an object of envy. With his height and sinfully dark good looks, he was utterly compelling, and her heart fluttered at being the center of attention. The cattiest amongst them were probably wondering how a freckled little thing like her was dancing with a demigod like him.

  “Wait, you don’t dance!” she recalled belatedly. “You haven’t danced since you returned from the Peninsular.”

  His eyebrows rose, and she could have bitten off her tongue for betraying how much she knew about him. His lips quirked. “It’s true I haven’t danced, but that doesn’t mean I cannot do so. I’ve just chosen not to. Until now. I never found a suitable partner.”

  Her pulse fluttered. What did that mean?

  “You’ll have to help me, Miss Danvers,” he murmured. “I cannot see our joined hands, nor the couples in our periphery. If it looks as if we are about to cause a collision, do let me know.”

  She glanced round in alarm. “Really, there’s no need. We should—”

  “Afraid?” he taunted softly.

  That did it. She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”

  His chuckled exhale sluiced against her temple. He pulled her tighter into his embrace and squeezed her hand. “In that case, try to keep up.”

  The music started, another Viennese waltz, and Emmy’s breath lodged in her throat. Her first steps faltered, but Harland spun her out and back into his embrace with consummate skill.

  Had she truly imagined that he would be clumsy? His footwork was perfect, his body straight and tall. He seemed to be touching her everywhere: his hand at the small of her back, gently guiding, at her elbow, around her waist, sliding easily around her hip.