by Kate Bateman
“A criminal?” he supplied smoothly.
She inclined her head but refused to admit it out loud. “And you’re—”
“Not?”
“Indeed. So we shall ever be on opposite sides. Like Wellington and Napoleon. But I like to think we could have been friends.”
He snorted. “As well ask a prosecutor and a defense lawyer to be friends.” He gave her a look from under his lashes that made her stomach twist. “I think we’re destined to be passionate enemies instead.”
There was an awkward pause.
“There’s no walking away from this,” he said softly. “You know that, don’t you?”
Her delight at their banter evaporated, replaced by a heavy sense of fatalism.
“Talk to me,” he commanded. “Tell me how you became the Nightjar. This is not something you’ve taken on suddenly. Your skills must have taken years to hone. Who taught you? Your father?”
Emmy closed her eyes. So it began. The relentless questions designed to wear down her resistance. There really was no point in trying to wriggle out of it. He would break her eventually. He wouldn’t stop until he had the answers, the evidence he needed. Even if she stalled him now, it would only be a temporary reprieve. It might even be a relief to finally confess.
She sat up straighter in her chair and tried to emulate Camille’s worldly confidence. “I did everything in my power not to become a criminal, but it was inevitable, given my father’s decisions. And since I had no choice in the matter, I decided to see it as a personal challenge. If I was going to be a thief, then I would be the best thief London has ever seen.”
Harland’s expression of surprise was delightful. He clearly hadn’t expected to get a confession out of her so easily. She smiled. “I am a damned fine criminal, if I do say so myself.”
“You were,” he said brutally. “Until you got caught.”
Her chest tightened at that irrefutable truth.
“Why jewels?” he asked. “And why only ones from the French royal collection?”
Ah, so he’d made that connection. She’d thought as much. How else could he have predicted she’d go for Lady Carrington’s ruby and not some other prize?
She gave a sad half smile. “What is that phrase? ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions.’”
He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingertips on the arms. “You do know the true, legal definition of stealing, do you not? As in, taking something that doesn’t belong to you without intending to return it?”
A burst of righteous anger welled up inside her. “I have every intention of returning them! Just not to the people from whom I stole them. They will go back to their rightful owner.”
“And I suppose you’ve determined who that rightful owner is?” The sarcasm in his voice could have cut glass.
“Of course. The people of France.”
The silence that followed her pronouncement was profound. Harland stared at her as if the concept of her actually having a noble reason for stealing the jewels had never entered his head. She felt vaguely insulted. Had he really thought her so venal?
“You feel no remorse for what you have done?” It was more statement than question, but Emmy answered it anyway.
“Honestly? No. I feel pride. If you‘re expecting an apology, you’ll be waiting until doomsday. I will never apologize for doing my duty. My duty to my father, and my patriotic duty to France.”
Stealing back the jewels was morally the right thing to do. Emmy truly believed that. She just wished the responsibility had been foisted on someone else. Patriotism was all well and good, but in pitting her against Harland, a man she cared for, it had removed any possibility that they might have had a future together.
He sighed. “The diamond you took from Rundell and Bridge belonged to the Prince Regent. He wants it back.”
“Well, he can’t have it. It’s not his.”
“Tell me where it is.”
“I can’t,” she said in perfect honesty. She had no idea what Danton had done with it.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You little fool! This isn’t a game. It’s a damn risky business. Who put you up to this? Your brother? Your grandmother?”
“Nobody. It was all me. Working alone.” She curled her fists against her thighs. “You don’t understand. I had to do it.”
His eyes flashed, and she desperately tried to think of something that might appease him. “What if I collaborate?” she said quickly. “I’ll return the diamond, and the blue from the British Museum, in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”
She had no idea how she’d get the jewels back from Danton, but still—
“The Prince will never accept that. He wants the Nightjar punished to the full extent of the law. And what about all the other jewels that have been stolen over the years? We’re just supposed to forget about those, are we?”
He let out a long, frustrated exhale. Emmy turned her face to the wall and focused on the bottle of her perfume that still sat on the side table. She was in no position to negotiate. She was doomed. But she could still drag Danton down with her.
“All right. I’ll tell you who ‘put me up to it.’ A man named Emile Danton, a Frenchman.”
She told him about Danton’s letters. His threats and demands. The Rundell & Bridge heist and the one at the museum, making sure not to implicate Luc, Sally, or Camille in her testimony. To his credit, Harland didn’t interrupt her. He just sat and listened, and when she’d finished, she felt strangely light and unburdened.
His chair scraped backwards as he stood, his expression impossible to read. “I have to go out.”
“Where?”
“To Bow Street. I’ll have your brother released.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief, even though Luc was only being freed because she’d condemned herself so thoroughly. “Thank you.”
He nodded, crossed to a handsome mahogany chest, and pulled out a cravat. Emmy thought he’d put it on, but he disappeared into the bedroom, and she was mystified to hear the splash of water in the porcelain washbowl. He returned with the dripping length of cloth twisted in his hands.
“Cotton is stronger when wet,” he said by way of explanation. “Put your hands behind the chair.”
Emmy gave a groan of protest, even though she hadn’t truly expected him to leave her alone in the room, unsecured. “I promise I won’t run.”
He didn’t justify that with an answer. She tried to ignore the feel of his warm breath on her neck as he crouched behind her and secured the wet cotton around her wrists.
“This seems to be a theme in my life recently,” she said lightly, to cover her panic. “I am forever being confined in places I have no wish to be. Barrels. Sarcophagi. Gentlemen’s chambers.”
“I apologize,” he said gruffly. “It won’t be for long.”
No, of course it wouldn’t. He’d probably return from Bow Street with a set of Emmy-sized iron shackles. She was surprised he didn’t have a pair lying around the place, ready to use in just such a situation.
He gave the bindings a final tug and stepped back, apparently satisfied. She gave her wrists an experimental twist and bit back a curse. They really were inescapable, damn him.
She heard the rustle of clothing from behind her but staunchly refused to look as he finished dressing. When he stepped in front of her, she had to suppress a scowl. He was unreasonably handsome. His broad shoulders and long thighs—both of which had been intimately pressed against her only hours ago—were outlined by his tan breeches and immaculately cut jacket.
She wanted to kick him in the shins.
His eyes rested for a moment on her flushed face, as if memorizing her features, then dropped to her chest where her breasts were pushed forward by the unnatural position of her hands. He raked his fingers through his hair in a distracted gesture and a flush darkened his cheekbones.
She raised her brows at him imperiously.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
Sh
e sent him an exasperated look to remind him just how ridiculous that was. “Go away.”
* * *
Alex locked the door, pocketed the key, and strode down the corridor, desperate to leave the confounding woman behind. He could barely contain his need to do violence. Not to Emmy, but to the bastard who’d placed her in such an untenable position.
The irony of the fact that he’d completely reversed his position, from being angry at her to being angry for her, did not escape him. The desire to protect her, from Danton, from herself, from her own foolish choices, was almost overwhelming.
He’d witnessed the infinite possibilities of violence in his three years of war. He knew the damage that could be inflicted on the human body. The thought of someone hurting Emmy made him break out in a cold sweat. If this Danton harmed a single hair on her head, he’d tear him apart with his bare hands.
Alex exhaled slowly and tried to calm the pounding in his blood. He needed distance. Not proximity. Emmy Danvers was dangerous. She sucked all the air from his lungs. No wonder he couldn’t think straight; his poor brain was permanently deprived of oxygen whenever he was near her.
What did he want from her? He let out a despairing laugh. He wanted her to be a different woman. He wanted her to be the perfect, innocent girl he’d held fast in his memory for so long. He wanted her not to be a criminal.
What if she hadn’t been the Nightjar? He forced himself to complete the thought. What if he’d simply recognized her across a dance floor as the girl from the garden and learned she was a paragon of virtue, perfectly socially acceptable. Would he have been contemplating marriage?
He doubted it. Because although he might have been physically attracted to her, he couldn’t imagine having much in common with a paragon. He’d have been bored with a perfect, automaton, society wife who only wanted to throw dinner parties and go shopping. It was Emmy’s passion for adventure, her bravery, her brilliance, that attracted him.
He usually lost interest in a woman once he’d bedded her. The thrill of the chase was gone, the mystique shattered. He should have been immune to her by now. But he was even more drawn to her this morning than last night, if that were possible. Even after she’d confessed.
He should be feeling elated. He’d captured the Nightjar and made her admit her crimes. But that paled in comparison to the triumph he’d felt when he’d joined his body with hers, the satisfaction of holding her in his arms. He wanted her again.
No. Last night’s lapse could be dismissed as temporary insanity brought on by shock and a whole host of other, contradictory emotions. Taking her to bed a second time would be a colossal mistake for which there was no excuse. He’d averted complete disaster by not finishing inside her last night, but he didn’t trust himself to be able to repeat the task if he got carried away again. She made him forget his own name.
He regretted the need to restrain her. The sight of her, her chest rising and falling in anger, should not have filled him with such lustful thoughts. He knew there were places, clubs, in London that catered for those with such proclivities, and he’d never imagined he’d find it titillating to have a woman bound and at his mercy. Until now. He was still hard in his breeches.
Bloody woman. What was he going to do with her?
Chapter 28.
Harland didn’t return for what felt like hours. Emmy could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the bedroom but couldn’t see it. She shuffled her chair around in tiny increments to face the door. Several times she heard heavy footsteps outside—presumably the Tricorn’s mountainous manservant, but nobody came in.
Her grumbling stomach reminded her she’d had no breakfast, and hunger did nothing to improve her temper. A procession of dire thoughts chased one another around her head. Not knowing what was going to happen to her was maddening. Finally, the door clicked open and Harland strode in, bringing a gust of pine-scented air with him. The grim set of his features did not suggest good news.
Her pulse spiked in alarm. “What is it? What has happened? Is it Luc?”
Instead of answering her immediately, he crouched behind her chair and untied her hands. They fell to her sides like lead weights, and she shook her wrists to restore the circulation.
He took the seat behind the desk. “Your brother is well. I went to Bow Street and had him released.”
“And?” Emmy prompted, certain from his expression that there was more.
“While I was there, I met my colleague, Sebastien Wolff. He’d just returned from Gravesend.”
Emmy sent him a mystified look. “Why had he gone there?”
“To check up on the one jewel you hadn’t got around to stealing. The Ruspoli sapphire.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You know where it is?”
“We had a little help from the French head of la Securité, Vidocq.”
“I’m impressed. I hadn’t even begun to trace it. Who has it?”
His brows lowered. “It was owned by a disgraced Italian diplomat by the name of Franco Andretti. Unfortunately, Seb arrived just in time to visit a crime scene. Andretti was murdered last night.”
All the breath left Emmy’s lungs. “What?”
“The killer left a black feather at the scene.”
She choked back a gasp of horror. “It was made to look like the Nightjar’s crime?”
It was one thing to be thought a jewel thief, quite another to be suspected of murder. Danton. It must have been him. He’d threatened violence, but she hadn’t imagined he meant anything as serious as murder. The madman would clearly stop at nothing to gain the jewels. That he’d implicated the Nightjar in such a heinous crime was a clear warning. Her family would be next if she did not do what he asked.
Oh, God. How could she retrieve the cache her father had hidden if she was imprisoned here, or locked in the cells at Bow Street?
Emmy suddenly couldn’t breathe, no matter how quickly she inhaled. She bent forward and pressed her forehead to her knees in an effort not to faint. Harland’s hand settled on the small of her back and rubbed up and down her spine in a comforting gesture so effective, she almost whimpered in gratitude.
“Take deep breaths,” he commanded. “Slowly.”
The dizziness eased and she sat back up. Harland returned to his position on the other side of the desk.
“Did the killer take the sapphire?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
“Yes. The safe was open, but empty. The thief forced Andretti to open it, then shot him in cold blood.”
“So now the Nightjar is wanted for murder.” Her lips felt numb. She could barely get the words out.
Harland nodded.
“Surely a judge will realize that this is the work of an imitator?” She could hear the desperate edge to her own voice. “The Nightjar’s never even broken a window before. It’s out of character.” A knot of impotent fury balled in her chest. Danton had sullied her father’s memory, his legacy.
Harland’s slate-blue gaze burned her from the inside out. “I doubt a judge will bother to sift through the evidence. The presence of a black feather is damning. The thefts alone would be enough to send the Nightjar to the gallows. This just adds weight to the inevitable sentence.”
He didn’t need to say what that sentence would be. Death. Emmy leaned forward and reached across the desk toward him. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. “Let me write to my family. I need to warn them. Please.”
His eyes narrowed on her face. “You think Danton did this, don’t you?”
“Who else could it be?”
* * *
Alex studied her from across the desk. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, the freckles on her nose more prominent than usual. Her lips, however, were bright pink, either from where she’d gnawed at them in worry, or from their passionate encounter last night. His body flushed in memory.
The look in her eyes was so fearful, so hopeless, it made his chest ache. He fisted his hands against the temptation to leap over there, drag her
against his chest, and tell her that everything would be all right. He was no white knight. He couldn’t promise her anything.
Her throat worked as she tried to speak.
“Help me,” she said finally. Her eyes sparkled with a new determination. “Danton will contact me soon to see if I’ve managed to steal the real ruby.” She glanced over at the jewel in question, still sitting on the side table next to her perfume bottle. “If he discovers I’ve been arrested, he’ll hurt my family. Let me return home—just until he contacts me. I’ll arrange to meet him with the ruby, and you can lay a trap for him.”
Her eyes met his, and Alex experienced that now-familiar jolt. He couldn’t help but admire the way she faced her problems head-on without flinching. She was like some poor, brave aristocrat proudly mounting the steps to the guillotine. Damned, but still defiant.
“I won’t try to escape,” she said, anticipating his next comment. “I’m quite prepared to be tried for the Nightjar’s thefts, but I refuse to be punished for a murder I’ve had no hand in. Danton must be stopped. Catch him, and you’ll have both your murderer and the jewels. You’ll be a hero.”
The curl of her lips made it clear he was anything but heroic if he returned the gems to the Prince Regent.
Alex was about to answer her when a commotion in the hall caught his attention. An agitated female voice merged with Mickey’s much deeper tones in animated altercation. He opened the door just in time to see a beautiful, buxom woman duck under Mickey’s restraining arm and sprint up the stairs toward him, advancing like an avenging fury.
“Alexander ’Arland?” she demanded, and just her way of shouting his name was enough to indicate she came from the East End. “What’ve you done wiv Emmy, you scoundrel? I know she’s ’ere!”
“Sally!”
Emmy flashed past him through the doorway. Alex made a grab for her collar, but she was too quick. She launched herself into the arms of the disheveled stranger with a strangled cry of delight. The two women hugged, then separated, both of them talking at once.
