To Catch an Earl--A Bow Street Bachelors Novel

by Kate Bateman

  The ballroom dissolved into a breathless succession of dips and swirls, advance and retreat. Heat spread throughout her limbs. Her skin began to glow. Every nerve in her body was attuned to his presence. She wanted to press herself closer still, to feel the extraordinary breadth of his chest against her cheek, the rippled muscles of his stomach beneath her palms. The press of his mouth on hers.

  No. No. No. She was becoming befuddled by his nearness. She couldn’t trust him an inch. He was here to catch her in the act of stealing the ruby. Why else would he have been at the Carringtons’ house two days ago?

  Had he warned them? Had they moved the ruby? Was she about to walk into a trap?

  She’d been plagued by visions of opening Lady Carrington’s jewelry case and finding nothing but a taunting black feather. Of turning to see Harland’s huge hands and triumphant face materializing from the darkness, blocking her only escape.

  Last night, she’d awoken from a hot, confusing dream of being chased and caught, of being held against a rock-hard chest, her wrists manacled by unrelenting fingers. She’d been begging, sobbing, but for what? For freedom? For forgiveness? For more of that wicked, forbidden heat? She’d been simultaneously aroused and terrified.

  She couldn’t wait until this was over. When Danton was appeased, she could start chasing her own desires, her own dreams. Except the only thing she’d ever truly desired was this man who’d stop at nothing to see the Nightjar brought to justice. Ha.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, you know.” Harland’s murmur jolted her back to the room.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do. You’re very good at hiding, aren’t you, Miss Danvers? You pretend to be stupider than you are. You disguise your beauty behind drab colors. But not tonight,” he conceded, flicking an appreciative glance down at the silk of her dress. “Tonight you look like a jewel, ripe for the plucking.”

  She stepped on his toe in surprise. What a choice of words. Deliberate? Or mere coincidence? She didn’t believe in coincidence. Everything this man said had a deeper meaning.

  He glared down at her as if he could see into her soul. As if every misdeed and wicked thought lay naked to his gaze. Emmy bit her lip against the insane urge to confess everything. Good lord, no wonder this man was so successful at Bow Street. He only had to look at a perpetrator to have them spilling their secrets.

  He bent his head and his breath tickled her cheek. “A word of advice, Miss Danvers. Only play a game if you are certain you can win.”

  “That’s an interesting comment, coming from a man who owns a gambling club.”

  He shrugged. “An individual might encounter a streak of luck, it’s true, but sooner or later, that luck will run out. The odds are always stacked in the bank’s favor.”

  Her own luck couldn’t possibly continue. But did he think she had any choice in the matter? She had to play the game. “I stand forewarned, my lord,” she said lightly.

  The waltz ended on two final, joyously uplifting chords.

  Enough. She needed to stop torturing herself with the pleasure-pain of his proximity and get on with the real business of the night.

  “Thank you for the dance, my lord. And the advice.” She bobbed him a curtsey then sent him a sidelong look full of mock sympathy. “Oh dear. I see a whole raft of ladies expecting a waltz, now you’ve finally set foot on the dance floor. You’ve opened Pandora’s box.”

  His alarmed glance at the flock of women hovering on the periphery of the room was a joy to see. Emmy used his momentary distraction to step away. She had a ruby to steal.

  Chapter 18.

  It was easy enough to slip into the library at the back of the house. The room, although not officially open to guests, had not been locked. Emmy unlatched the tall doors that opened onto the narrow wrought-iron balcony and slipped through. The cool night air brought goose bumps to her skin.

  Below her, the indistinct shapes of well-tended trees and bushes disappeared into the darkness of the garden. She clutched the rail and forced herself to look down. To her right, only a few feet away, an identical balcony belonging to the Carringtons protruded from the dressed stone. Pushing down a wave of nausea, she lifted her skirts and climbed over the metal rail. It was cold, even through her gloves.

  She hated heights.

  The French had a phrase, l’appel du vide, “the call of the void.” She felt it, always, that intrinsic urge to jump from high places, despite her fear.

  With a heart-stopping stretch, she reached over and caught the other railing, first with her hand, then her left foot. For an awful moment she froze, suspended like a starfish over the drop, one foot and one hand on each balcony. The sudden ridiculous thought of someone happening to come outside and glance up—they would see right up her skirt to her scandalous navy silk underthings—made her stifle a snort of nervous laughter.

  A push, a lurch, and she transferred her weight to the opposite side and climbed gratefully over the rail. It would have been a lot easier if she’d been able to wear her breeches, but the cut of her dress had not allowed for her to wear them underneath.

  There. Worst bit over.

  Her palms were damp inside her gloves but the window catch Sally had bent out of shape ensured the window opened easily. Emmy strained her ears, listening for any hint of sound from within, but heard nothing. She slipped through the narrow window.

  The Carringtons’ house was a mirror image of the ambassador’s, but their library didn’t have half as many books. Every one of her senses stretched as she made her way through the house. What trap had Harland laid for her? Since he himself was still on the dance floor, he couldn’t be lying in wait, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t arranged for other Bow Street agents to be here.

  Emmy crept forward, studying every lumpy sofa, every suspiciously billowing curtain, but failed to detect any other presence. Her blood was a pounding rush in her ears as she crept up the stairs to Lady Carrington’s bedroom.

  The ruby was exactly where Luc had said it would be, in a red leather–covered box at the back of the armoire. The key, as promised, under the Meissen parrot on the mantel. How Luc had discovered this information Emmy had no idea, but since Lord Carrington was known to turn a blind eye to his wife’s blatant flirtations, she suspected there were plenty of gentlemen with intimate knowledge of her bedroom who might have been persuaded to share the information.

  She was sure her brother hadn’t felt the need to make a personal investigation of Lady Carrington’s “valuables” himself. He was too dedicated to Sally.

  The claw setting of the ruby snagged her glove as she twisted the pendant free from its place in the center of the necklace, and she quashed a faint twinge of guilt at the destruction of the piece. The ruby didn’t belong here.

  Emmy lifted her hand to her hair, plucked one of the black feathers from her coiffure, and placed it neatly inside the jewelry box. She considered pushing the ruby into her cleavage, but since her breasts weren’t as abundant as Sally’s, it would make an obvious, uncomfortable lump beneath her corset. She reached up and poked it into the center of her intricate topknot instead. Her hair had always been thick, like a horse’s tail. It would be safe up there.

  Still unable to believe that Harland hadn’t set some fiendish trap, she made her way down the stairs, her slippered feet silent on the thick carpet runner. Instead of going back across the balconies, she planned to descend another level, to the entrance hall, and leave via the garden. She listened, alert for the slightest noise, unable to beat down her innate suspicion.

  Where was Harland? His men? This was too easy. It was impossible that he’d planned nothing, especially after his verbal hints that he was on to her—

  The door to the servant’s quarters opened, and she stilled.

  Blast the man. She’d been right.

  She ducked behind a pillar, her heart pounding, but instead of Harland’s mocking voice ordering her to give herself up, she heard a hushed female
giggle and a corresponding masculine rumble, then the swift patter of shoes on the marble hallway tiles below.

  “William, we can’t!” the female whispered, in a breathless tone that quite clearly said William, we must!

  “Of course we can,” William growled. “They won’t be back for hours. And besides, do you know how many times I’ve watched you bend over that hearth to set the fire and wanted to catch you in my arms?”

  “A hundred?” the girl guessed teasingly.

  “A thousand.”

  “Oh, William!”

  Emmy grinned as the unmistakable silence of kissing ensued.

  “Come on,” William groaned. “Let’s see if ’is lordship’s desk is as sturdy as it looks.”

  More rustling, the click of a door, and the metallic tumble of a lock being turned. Emmy sent the amorous couple a mental toast, glad they were enjoying their evening. She envied their freedom.

  The laughter and murmured conversation of the remaining servants below stairs floated up from the basement kitchen. They seemed to be having just as much fun, if not more, than the guests in the ballroom next door. Emmy smiled. One of the reasons the Nightjar always left a feather behind was to ensure that none of the menial staff were ever accused of stealing. That, at least, was one thing she didn’t have on her conscience.

  With a swift glance left and right, she made her way to the back of the house and let herself out into the Carringtons’ garden. Music and laughter from the ambassador’s house spilled out the open windows, but the weather was too cool to have tempted guests onto the terrace. Only a low stone balustrade separated the two gardens, and she stepped over this final hurdle with a little bounce of triumph.

  Take that, Alexander Harland, with your veiled warnings and your oblique threats! Tonight, the game is mine.

  Emmy approached the tall glass structure at the rear of the house and slipped inside. The ambassador’s conservatory was almost overflowing with tropical abundance. It was as if her own bedroom wallpaper had come to flowering, riotous life. A midnight forest, in three dimensions.

  Wafts of sultry air made her shiver as she padded along one of the narrow brick pathways toward the main part of the house. It was quite dark. A couple of small Chinese-style paper lanterns had been placed at odd intervals along the narrow walks, but their tiny puddles of light were swallowed up in the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the glass panes high above, but the dark slash of leaves, palms, or tropical ferns, created a shivering lattice overhead, obscuring the light.

  Emmy inhaled deeply, trying to calm her residual nerves. The scent of the place was strangely comforting: warm earth, rich vegetal fecundity, sweet flowers, and mossy loam. A wave of belated relief overcame her, and she sank onto one of the knee-high brick walls that divided each section. Her hands were shaking.

  Silly, but this always seemed to happen. During a heist, she was completely focused, able to control her nerves. But afterwards, when she was safe, and alone in her bedroom, then she became scared. She shook. Sometimes she cried. She’d think of everything that could have gone wrong, even as she hugged herself in elation.

  The door at the far end of the conservatory opened, admitting a brief blast of raucous noise, and her head snapped up. A blast of cooler air stirred the damp hairs at her neck. She shrank back onto the foliage, glad that her dark dress would prevent her from being easily seen. Someone must have wanted a break from the party. Probably a drunken reveler needing some air.

  Boot heels, definitely masculine, clicked on the pathway, and Emmy tensed as they came closer. Damn it. Why couldn’t he have chosen a different path? She hadn’t gone through all this to be caught in some ridiculous, compromising situation with a stranger.

  A figure appeared, tall and menacing, and all the hairs on her arms rose in warning. An awful trickle of foreboding ran down her spine. Emmy stood, not caring that it gave away her position, as the unmistakable, inevitable voice of Alex Harland rumbled through the darkness.

  “Ill-met by moonlight, Miss Danvers.”

  Chapter 19.

  Emmy frowned in the darkness. Shakespeare? She vaguely recalled the scene. It was from A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Oberon and Titania, the feuding married couple of the underworld. Very apt. Except, of course, she was nowhere near married to Harland, thank the lord.

  She pressed her gloved hand to her throat, not having to feign her jittery shock. “Lord Melton. You startled me. I was just getting a little air. I was about to leave.”

  He tilted his head. “Whereas I have just arrived. It seems we’re destined to be forever at odds, Miss Danvers. Adversaries, if you will.”

  She managed a nervous laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, my lord.”

  “Would you not?” He paused a moment, as if considering. “What would you say we are, then? I don’t think we can really class ourselves as friends.”

  Emmy ignored the twinge of hurt at his easy dismissal of friendship and managed a careless shrug. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’d have thought you have more than enough adversaries from your work for Bow Street, however.”

  He took another step closer. She tried to retreat, but the low brick wall behind her prevented her escape.

  “That’s true.” He sounded relaxed, gently amused. “But there’s definitely something to be said for a good adversary. There’s something … invigorating about it, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never thought about it,” Emmy lied.

  “I have. An enemy keeps you on your toes, brings out your full potential. I’d never have honed my sharpshooting skills, for example, if I hadn’t been forced to fight Napoleon’s troops for so long. I’d never have learned how to chase down criminals if I didn’t work for Bow Street.”

  A diamond is only produced under great pressure. He and Camille were of the same mind.

  “You sound as if you enjoy the chase,” she said, and hated the way her voice quavered. She needed to be bold and flirtatious, not reeking of guilt and nerves.

  His smile flashed in the darkness as he took another step closer. A shaft of moonlight illuminated one half of his face, caressing his cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the wicked curl of his lips.

  “Oh, I do. Catching a criminal elicits a wonderful sense of triumph—all the better if I’ve been led a merry chase.” His low murmur, almost a purr, sent a shiver through her. “Things are always so much more satisfying if you’ve had to wait for them, don’t you think?”

  His gaze dropped to her lips and without thinking, Emmy pulled in her lower lip, biting it with her top teeth. His expression became almost pained. He glanced back up and slanted her a look from beneath his lashes that made her insides liquefy.

  “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of having the Nightjar at my mercy, for example?”

  Her heart began to pound. He knew.

  No! He didn’t know for sure. He was just trying to goad her into saying something incriminating. She pressed her lips together to stop words spilling out.

  He answered for her. “A long time. And I know exactly what I’m going to do when I catch him.”

  Emmy let out a silent sigh. Him. He’d said him. She was only imagining the double meanings to his words. She was still safe. For now. “What will you do?”

  “Exact retribution,” he sighed dreamily. “I’ve fantasized of the moment over and over again. I cannot wait to have him in my power.”

  Oh, God. The heat of him was mere inches away. Emmy inhaled his scent and entertained a brief, startling fantasy of stepping forward and letting her body soften and curve into his, of resting her head against all that masculine warmth and strength. She sidestepped instead. “I really must be getting back to the ballroom.”

  He moved to the side to block her and her heart gave a panicky squeeze in her chest. The rich scent of earth and hothouse flowers made her head reel.

  He leaned forward conspiratorially, as if the darkness engendered confidences. “So, what are you doing out here in the dark? Here to meet a
lover?”

  Emmy gasped. “No! I’m not meeting anybody! I just needed to catch my breath. It’s so crowded in there.”

  Flustered, she turned and sniffed at the nearest flower, a peony in full bloom. Peonies were her absolute favorite, with their extravagant abundance of petals and gorgeous sweet scent. She closed her eyes. How on earth was she going leave, with him blocking the path?

  * * *

  Alex frowned at her tempting profile. The woman was utterly infuriating. Why couldn’t she be like all the other vapid, innocent women out there in the ballroom? He bit back a growl and studied the charming tilt of her nose, the satin softness of her sweetly lying lips. Why the hell couldn’t he be attracted to any of those other women?

  Her presence out here had nothing to do with meeting a paramour. The only illicit assignation she’d arranged tonight was with Lady Carrington’s jewelry case.

  Oddly, the thought of her meeting another man annoyed him just as much as the fact that she was a thief, but he didn’t want to examine that contradiction too closely. He didn’t care how many men she kissed in dark corners. Really.

  He narrowed his eyes. Wearing those feathers in her hair was practically flaunting the fact that she was the Nightjar. She must think him as dense as the rock she’d labelled at the museum. She’d only been out of his sight for a few minutes, but he’d bet his life that if he ventured next door, he’d find one of those feathers in Lady Carrington’s jewelry box.

  Fury burned in his chest, both at himself and at her. She was a scheming little liar, as guilty as he suspected. So why was he so reluctant to unmask her? Why did he want to stop time and stay in this state of not knowing just a little longer? Why did he feel the insane urge to hold her in his arms one last time before everything went wrong?

  Self-loathing lashed him like a whip. He never learned, did he? He still wanted to ignore the facts, to believe in the innocence of a beautiful face, just as he’d done in Spain. He wanted to be blind to her sins. He choked back a bitter laugh. Maybe the injury to his eye was the perfect poetic justice, the physical embodiment of his greatest flaw: willful blindness.