by Kate Bateman
She took a deep breath and tried to think rationally. The Carringtons, either one of them, could have replaced the stone. Lord Carrington could have done it before he presented the necklace to his wife, but it was unlikely. Too many people had seen Lady Carrington wearing the necklace in public—and had a chance to inspect it at close range—for it to have been paste. The eagle-eyed ladies of the ton would have gossiped and speculated about it for weeks.
Lady Carrington could have done it herself. She could have pawned the original and had a paste replacement made if she needed funds and didn’t want to tell her husband. Emmy bit her lip. Or perhaps another thief had beaten her to it? Plenty of people had access to Lady Carrington’s bedroom, if rumor were true.
But none of those explanations took into account the evil genius that was Alexander Harland. He was by far the most likely culprit.
Damn him! He had the real ruby safe somewhere, she was certain. That’s what he’d been doing at the Carringtons’ that day—arranging for its replacement. No wonder he hadn’t set anyone to catch her in the act; he hadn’t needed to. He’d been perfectly content to let her steal something that was almost worthless.
Bastard. She’d known he’d been taunting her with his double-layered words. He’d enjoyed playing with her, watching her sweat. She quashed a wave of reluctant admiration for such a sneaky maneuver. It was precisely the kind of thing she would have done.
Had he been trying to find the fake ruby on her person when he’d kissed her in the conservatory? Had he been feigning desire while she’d been practically swooning in his arms, panting with eagerness?
Emmy took a calming sip of tea. No. She might not have had much experience with men, but his desire hadn’t been feigned. She’d felt the rigid evidence of it pressed against her stomach, heard it in the desperate, throaty groans he’d made against her skin.
So, where did that leave them?
Whatever Harland’s reasons for kissing her, the fact remained that he obviously knew she was the Nightjar. He’d correctly surmised she would steal the ruby. He was probably on his way here right this very moment, to arrest her, with a search warrant.
Emmy stared into the deep red facets of the fake gem and a strange calm slid over her. Where was Luc? The two of them had discussed what they would do if she were ever caught, but it had always been in general, abstract terms. Camille had wanted to avoid all discussion of the subject, thinking it tempted fate to even say the words out loud.
Emmy had always said she’d take the blame. What was the point in all of them being punished? She’d made Luc swear that if she were exposed as the Nightjar, he would take Camille and Sally to France or Spain, anywhere to escape English justice. But that had been years ago. Camille was strong-willed, certainly, but she was over seventy years old. The rigors of travel would exhaust her.
Emmy stood. She wasn’t caught yet. There was still time for them all to leave the country. It would be a wrench, certainly, to leave behind the only life she’d ever known, and running away from a problem had never been her style. But better life as an exile than sentenced to death or transported halfway across the world on a prison hulk.
Decision made, she hastened to the door of the parlor and shouted out orders, even as she started down the stairs.
“Sally! I’m going to the park to get Luc. Wake Camille. Tell her we need to leave. Pack all her jewelry and a couple of dresses and—”
The crash of the door knocker silenced her tirade. Emmy skidded to a halt on the polished marble tiles.
Too late! A sense of fatalistic acceptance washed over her, and she straightened her spine. Very well. The game might be up, but she would accept the consequences of her actions with grace and poise. Her hand barely shook as she unlatched the door and braced herself to meet Harland’s penetrating gaze.
The youth who stood on the doorstep was not the man she expected.
“Letter for you, miss. From Bow Street.”
Emmy accepted it with a frown as the lad tipped his cap at her and scampered off. She ripped open the seal, scanned the contents, and let out a howl of furious disbelief.
Luc had been arrested on suspicion of being the Nightjar. He was being held for questioning at Bow Street regarding the recent break-in at the British Museum. She glared at the arrogant slash of ink at the bottom of the message. It simply read “Harland.”
Double, triple damn.
* * *
By the time Camille came downstairs, Emmy had decided what to do. Harland’s arrest of Luc—presumably while her brother took his customary early-morning stroll around Mount Street Gardens—was clearly designed to provoke her.
She’d initially thought of marching straight over to Bow Street, demanding to see Luc, and then haranguing Harland with a furious diatribe about harassing innocent citizens on the basis of insufficient evidence.
But Harland knew he had the wrong man. Luc’s physical disability ruled him out as the active participant in any of the Nightjar’s recent crimes. He clearly wasn’t the one who’d been leaping between balconies, hiding in barrels, and stowing away in musty sarcophagi. No. Harland, the duplicitous swine, had correctly surmised that threatening her family was a far more effective weapon against her than threatening her own person.
Emmy drummed her fingers on the table. He must have known he planned to arrest Luc when he was kissing her senseless last night, the rotten scoundrel. He probably expected her to race over there, beg for her brother’s release, and give herself up to his tender mercies with a full confession.
Not a chance. The game wasn’t over yet.
The best way to prove Luc’s innocence would be to have the Nightjar commit another crime while he was still incarcerated. Harland couldn’t possibly pursue a conviction then. But what could she steal? Excluding the ruby—which she highly suspected was in Harland’s possession—the only other jewel that remained from Danton’s list was the Ruspoli sapphire. But she and Luc hadn’t even confirmed its location, let alone started to plan for its removal.
Emmy bit her lip. Harland’s persecution of her brother had made this personal.
So she would retaliate in kind.
There was no way of knowing how long Bow Street would hold Luc, so she had to work fast. She still had the key she’d stolen from the Tricorn’s doorman. Tonight, she would break into the club, find a way into Harland’s private domain, and taunt him by leaving a black feather on his pillow. That would prove not only Luc’s innocence, but also provide the arrogant Lord Melton with humbling evidence of his own vulnerability.
Emmy smiled, delighted with the plan. When Camille entered the room, yawning politely behind her hand, Emmy decided not to tell her about Danton’s visit, Luc’s arrest, or her own decision. Camille would only worry about all of them.
Sally could go to Bow Street later and reassure Luc that Emmy had things well in hand.
Emmy only hoped it would be true.
Chapter 22.
Emmy shivered in the predawn mist as she slipped into the mews behind the Tricorn Club. She was wearing her dark shirt and breeches, with short stays underneath.
The Spanish had a word for this time between late night and early morning: madrugada. The English called it the witching hour. It was a strange, lonely time, when the great beating heart of London lay unnaturally still. The only innocent people awake at this hour were the sleepless mothers of newborns and the odd night watchman or ferryman. The night was for criminals like herself—the ne’er-do-wells and cutthroats, prostitutes and thieves.
The Tricorn’s upper windows were satisfyingly dark. It would have been nice to have waited until she was certain of Harland’s absence, but she didn’t have the luxury of time. She’d have to make sure she didn’t wake him; she’d leave the feather on his desk, not on his pillow. She wasn’t foolish enough to breech the sanctity of his bedroom just to make a point.
She inserted the iron key she’d pilfered into the lock on the back door. A tentative jiggle revealed it was not the
right one, and she swore under her breath, even though she hadn’t really expected to be that lucky. She tiptoed down the set of steps that led belowground and tried it in the kitchen door instead. The metal tumblers creaked and ground, and she winced at the noise, but the lock opened with a yielding click.
Success!
The hinges didn’t squeak when she pushed open the door, and there was no growling Brutus to impede her progress this time.
She found herself in the club’s extensive kitchens. Copper pots, pans, and huge bunches of herbs hung from an iron rack suspended above an enormous kitchen work table. Emmy navigated the looming shapes and crept up the stairs into the private half of the house.
None of the wall sconces had been lit, but she recognized the sumptuous corridor she’d been dragged into by Harland. She glanced toward the door at the far end which opened into the public part of the building. He’d kissed her up against that wall. Her pulse rate increased even more.
Ears attuned for the slightest sound, she padded along, peering into a breakfast room and a sitting room. The heartbeat tick of a mantel clock measured out the seconds with satisfying regularity. No doubt this household ran with similar precision. Harland and Wolff were both used to military regimens. She’d bet every need was smoothly anticipated by their staff. Insubordination such as hers would not be tolerated. She bit back an irreverent snicker.
At the top of the stairs, she listened at the first door, but heard nothing. That was expected: Benedict Wylde’s rooms had been empty since he’d moved in with his new wife a couple of months ago.
Emmy had confided her plans to Sally that afternoon, and while the other woman had cautioned her to be careful, she hadn’t tried to talk her out of it. Instead, Sally had disappeared off to Covent Garden and returned with her friend Molly, the actress.
Molly, it transpired, had recently been invited back to the Tricorn’s private salon by Sebastien Wolff, Lord Mowbray, and thus had an excellent insight into who slept where. At first, she’d been reluctant to share the information, but when Sally said that it was Harland’s bedroom Emmy wanted to find, and not Wolff’s, Molly was more forthcoming. The actress clearly still had a soft spot for Wolff.
Harland’s bedroom was the third door on the right.
Emmy tiptoed down the hall and put her ear to the door. Her stomach knotted in mingled excitement and fear. Molly had said that each of the men had their own suite of rooms, consisting of an outer sitting room and an inner bedchamber. All Emmy had to do was open the door without waking Harland and leave the feather on his desk. She could just imagine his shocked face when he discovered it lying there in the morning.
The door opened with a tiny click, and she slipped inside, hardly daring to believe her own audacity. The fire in the grate had been banked for the night, but a few embers still glowed red. She could just make out the door to the bedchamber beyond, closed except for a thin sliver of darkness.
Perfect.
She strained to listen over the pounding of her own blood in her ears, but no snoring or mumbling came from the other room. Harland must be a quiet sleeper. An image of him in bed, his dark hair disordered against the pristine white of his pillow, assailed her.
Think of something else.
She prowled forward. What did this room tell her about him as an opponent? She stroked the top of an upholstered wing chair, then crossed to a dressing stand with a mirror for shaving. A porcelain jug and bowl sat on the top, with a folding razor, leather strop, and a bottle of his cologne. She leaned in close and took a sniff. Mmm. Pine and a hint of brandy. He’d smelled her perfume. Quid pro quo.
In truth, the whole room smelled nice, no, more than nice, as if Harland’s irresistible essence had infused every piece of fabric and leather. She quashed a swirl of yearning in her chest.
Get the job done, Em.
A desk stood in one corner of the room. Emmy reached between her breasts, pulled out the black feather she’d stashed inside her stays, and kissed it for luck. She placed it dead center of the otherwise-clean desk. Mission accomplished.
She turned to go, but a flash caught her eye; her own perfume bottle, right there on the side table. It was almost empty, but she reached out to steal it back anyway. And then her hand stopped, arrested in midair, as she recognized the faceted lump that lay next to it.
Lady Carrington’s ruby.
Hell and damnation! She’d known it was him!
It was the size of a pigeon’s egg, glinting and beautiful even in the dim light. Emmy reached for it just as the rasp of a tinderbox ricocheted through the silence.
Chapter 23.
Emmy twisted around in horror as Harland calmly set a flame to the wick of an oil lamp and turned it up so a warm glow filled the space between them. The door to the bedroom behind him was open—how long had he been watching her from the shadows?
A million permutations of what might happen next flashed through her brain. Words sprang to her lips: I can explain! It’s not what it looks like!
Except she couldn’t explain. Not without dragging Luc and Camille down too. Better to hold her tongue.
The look Harland sent her pierced her to the core. It was filled with such accusation, such knowledge. He wasn’t surprised, damn him. He’d known all along that she’d come. God, she was so stupid! He’d laid a trap, and she’d walked right into it.
He was wearing a shirt—barely. It was open at the neck and the untucked front extended to midthigh. He still wore breeches, thank God, but his feet were bare. Had he been lying in wait for her? Emmy could barely draw in a breath.
It was he who broke the agonizing silence. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms casually over his chest.
“You know, Bonaparte once said ‘Never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake,’ but in this case I felt compelled to intervene. We can’t have you stealing that ruby now, can we, Miss Danvers?”
His voice was a deep growl, scratchy with sleep. He sounded pleasant enough, amused even, but beneath this outward show of courtesy, he was furious, Emmy was sure.
“Do you know what I hate, Miss Danvers?” he continued softly. “I hate being blind.”
Emmy drew her brows together. “I thought you’d only lost—”
He waved that away. “No. I mean that I have been blinded by you. But no longer. The real Emmeline Danvers stands before me.”
His mocking gaze made a slow, thorough inventory of her outfit, from the V of her dark shirt to the way her breeches clung to her legs. Her skin heated. He gestured toward the chair that was stationed in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”
Emmy stepped sideways and dropped into the chair as her legs gave way beneath her.
Oh, God, what would happen to her? Would she hang? Be transported? Sentenced to hard labor?
Harland prowled forward and took the comfortable armchair opposite her, lounging back in it like a king as he regarded her with cynical interest. Emmy dug her nails into her palms. He tilted his head, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “You’re so small,” he mused aloud. “Do dressmakers charge you less because of how little fabric it takes to make your outfits?”
She blinked at the unusual topic. She’d assumed the interrogation would begin immediately: Tell me where the jewels are hidden. Tell me why you did it. Tell me how you did it.
She wouldn’t tell him a thing.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Not that I don’t approve. You in breeches is quite possibly the finest thing I’ve seen all year.” His eyes clashed with hers. “A brand-new fantasy to add to my collection.”
Emmy was sure her heart stopped beating. She sucked in a breath. The interrogation had begun; he meant to scandalize her into submission.
“I have scores of them,” he said darkly. “Of you and me together.” His gaze lasted five whole beats of her heart before he looked away.
Good God.
Something dark and dangerous shivered in the air between them, a mutual awareness. Hunter
and hunted. Predator and prey. Emmy’s heart raced, but mixed in with the fear was a sharp, unwelcome stab of desire. She must be mad.
He was watching her with a smile that was hard to define. She regarded him warily, as she would an unpredictable wild animal, uncertain of his mood.
He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Can I just take this opportunity to say what a pleasure it’s been having you as an opponent? Truly.”
The way he said “pleasure,” slightly drawn out, with his perfect lips pressing together and his tongue rolling around his mouth, sent a shiver of heat through her.
Ugh. She was a twit. A brainless twit with sawdust for brains.
“For weeks you’ve led, and I’ve followed. But now you’ve had a rather delightful comeuppance. No more running, Emmy Danvers. You’ve been caught.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him, ankles crossed. “This is where you profess your innocence.”
The cynicism in his tone made her flinch. Gone was the passionate lover from the ambassador’s conservatory. Here was the hard lawman, the Runner who’d cornered his prey and was about to go in for the kill.
“Aren’t you going to beg me to release you?” he taunted mildly.
Emmy almost snorted. As if that would do any good. There was no softness in him, no forgiveness. Nothing she could say would change his mind.
He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and stroked his lips thoughtfully. A wicked gleam entered his eyes. “It might be interesting to see how far you’ll go.” His pleasant tone held a vibrating undercurrent of anger. “Some females, when faced with the death penalty, plead their bellies.”
Emmy frowned in confusion.
“Women who are pregnant at the time they’re sentenced have their punishment delayed until after the baby is born,” he explained. “In theory, the sentence is then supposed to be carried out, but in practice, there’s so much sympathy for the newborn child that the mother is often pardoned.”
