To Catch an Earl--A Bow Street Bachelors Novel

by Kate Bateman

  “Sally! What are you doing here?”

  “Em! Thank God! I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “What do you mean?” Emmy clearly noticed the other woman’s disarray; Sally’s hair was loose around her shoulders and she hadn’t bothered putting on either a bonnet or gloves. Alex noted, quite dispassionately, that she had a magnificent cleavage.

  “What’s happened?” Emmy demanded.

  “Another letter,” the woman said darkly. She shot a warning glance over Emmy’s shoulder at Alex, who sent her a sarcastic nod in return.

  “No need for discretion, Miss Hawkins,” he said silkily, deciding this must be Emmy’s housekeeper and co-conspirator, Sally Hawkins. How the woman had managed to disguise those feminine curves under the guise of a window cleaner was a mystery. “Miss Danvers and I have no secrets between us.” He enjoyed the way Emmy’s ears turned pink at his unsubtle insinuation. “What does Monsieur Danton have to say?”

  Sally shot Emmy an accusatory glance, as if disappointed that she’d caved in and told him, then reached inside her ample bosom and withdrew a folded note. Her chest swelled in misery, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears.

  “He’s got Luc!”

  Chapter 29.

  Sally thrust the crumpled letter at Emmy, who scanned it as quickly as she could. Luc, it appeared, had been released from Bow Street and almost immediately apprehended by Danton.

  “I asked one of the sweeper boys,” Sally said. “He saw Luc get into a carriage at the end of the street but didn’t think anything of it. There weren’t no markings or crests on it.”

  Emmy closed her eyes as the threatening note swam before her. Luc was Danton’s hostage.

  She let Harland take the paper from her nerveless fingers.

  Oh, God. She hadn’t thought things could get worse than her own arrest. But now Danton was demanding all of the jewels her father had collected, within twenty-four hours, or Luc’s life would be forfeit.

  If you doubt my claim, he’d written. Take note of the example set by Signore Andretti. Such is the fate of those who defy me.

  Emmy shivered. Was that oblique reference enough to prove Danton had killed the Italian? Surely it was enough to convince Harland to help her?

  “Does Camille know?” she asked.

  Sally shook her head. “Not yet. She was still in her room. I came straight here. What should we do?” Her tears threatened to overflow, and she dashed them away with an impatient hand. “That bastard. If he hurts Luc, I’ll—”

  She didn’t seem able to find a harsh enough expletive to finish that sentence. Emmy caught her elbow and tugged her into Harland’s rooms, and the two of them dropped into the wing chairs that flanked the fire.

  Sally looked around her with wide eyes, doubtless noticing the telltale rumple of sheets through the open door to the bedchamber and drawing her own—entirely correct—conclusions as to why Emmy hadn’t returned last night. She sent Emmy a telling look, but thankfully forbore to comment.

  Harland stepped into the room and turned his penetrating gaze on Sally. “How long ago was this letter delivered?”

  “About an hour.”

  “By messenger?”

  “Yes. One of them errand boys. There’s no way to trace it back to the source. We tried that before. None of ’em know where ’e lives.”

  “Miss Danvers is currently helping Bow Street with its inquiries.”

  Emmy gave an inelegant snort at his linguistic circumnavigation—helping with their inquiries, indeed.

  He ignored her. “Miss Hawkins, you should return to Waverley Gardens and await further instruction. You may tell the countess what has happened at your discretion.”

  Emmy opened her mouth to object to him giving such summary commands concerning her family, but he sent her a quelling glare.

  “Miss Danvers and I,” he continued, “are going to discuss the location of the Nightjar’s ill-gotten gains.”

  Sally sent Emmy another desperate look, and Emmy lifted her shoulders in a what can I do? shrug. In a choice between the Nightjar’s jewels and her brother’s life, there really wasn’t a decision to make. Luc was more important than any patriotic whim. She’d loved her father dearly, but he was dead, whereas Luc—she sincerely hoped—was still alive and well.

  She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that cooperating with Bow Street would in any way lessen her eventual sentence, but she would do anything to save her brother. She sent Sally what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “He’s right. Please go and sit with Camille. Tell her I have everything under control.”

  Sally nodded, apparently convinced by that outright lie. “All right. But you be careful, Em, you hear me.” She sent another meaningful glance toward Harland and stood, shaking out her skirts. “Don’t do anyfink I wouldn’t do.”

  Emmy refrained from saying that didn’t rule out much at all.

  “Mickey will be delighted to escort you home, Miss Hawkins.” Harland indicated the door with an expansive sweep of his arm, as if Sally were a duchess, and she bustled back into the passageway with a mollified sniff. “And Mickey,” he added to the hovering manservant, “tell Sam to saddle up Bey.”

  As soon as the rustle of Sally’s skirts and the thump of Mickey’s boots had receded, he turned back to Emmy with a steely look in his eye. “Enough skirmishing. Where are the rest of the jewels?”

  Emmy gave a disgruntled sniff. “Very well. They’re buried in the grounds of a ruined abbey. In Rutland.”

  “Rutland?” he said aghast. “Near Lincolnshire? Dear God. Why there? I thought they would be here, in London.”

  She shook her head, rather enjoying his irritation. “My grandfather had a hunting lodge out there. You can’t just go and dig the place up, though. Only Luc and I know the exact location of the cache.” She sent him a sweet, triumphant smile. “If you want all the jewels, you’re going to have to take me with you.”

  His eyes narrowed in displeasure. “How do I know you’re not leading me on a wild goose chase? That you won’t try to escape en route?”

  “Apart from the fact that I give you my word?” she countered. “At least credit me with not wanting Luc to be hurt. I’m as keen to get those jewels to Danton as you are.”

  That logic seemed to satisfy him. “How far is it?”

  Emmy suppressed a smile. “About ninety miles. It’s near Stamford, straight up the Great North Road.”

  “Can we get there and back by this time tomorrow?”

  “I believe so. It takes about six hours, with a change of horses.”

  “Can you ride?”

  Emmy shook her head. “Not for that distance. I usually take the mail coach.”

  He gave a put-upon sigh and glanced at the clock on the mantel. “If we leave now, we should get there before dark. I’ll have Sam ready the carriage for you.”

  “But not for you?”

  He shook his head with a grimace of distaste. “I’ll ride.”

  Emmy told herself the dip in her spirits was not disappointment. Was his grimace because he couldn’t stand the thought of being in her presence, or simply because he hated to be confined inside when he could ride? Why did she even care?

  He crossed to the side table, picked up the ruby, and made a point of placing it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Stay here. I’ll see about some food for you.”

  Emmy wrinkled her nose at his departing back, but it was hard to stay annoyed when he was being so considerate. She hadn’t thought he’d care whether she’d eaten or not.

  She was clearly still his captive, but she’d spoken the truth when she’d promised not to escape. With Harland’s assistance, she could return to London with the jewels far quicker than if she’d been on her own, with the added benefit of his protection there and back.

  As long as she delivered the gems to Danton by the deadline and saved Luc, she didn’t care what happened to them after that.

  Emmy shook her head. She’d have the dubious pleasure-pain of Harland�
�s company until tomorrow. She must be a glutton for punishment. Even now, when she ought to resent him, she couldn’t find it in herself to do so.

  A few minutes later a brown-haired serving girl brought in a steaming tray of food, and Emmy almost groaned in delight. Coffee with cream and sugar. Bacon and eggs. Toast and jam. Harland was proving to be a very agreeable jailer. She’d just finished the last slice of toast when Mickey arrived with a carpet bag she instantly recognized as her own.

  “Miss ’Awkins sent this over for yer,” he mumbled. “’Is lordship said you got fifteen minutes to dress and meet ’im downstairs.”

  “Thank you, Mickey.” Emmy smiled and watched the giant’s ears turn pink in embarrassment.

  She opened the bag and almost laughed. Sally had sent two of Emmy’s most stylish dresses, along with a host of other necessary items. She donned a scandalously sheer chemise, stays, and silk stockings, then pulled the pale blue day dress over her head. At least it was cotton, and not some impractical featherweight gauze, but the tiny puff sleeves were hardly enough to keep an inch of her arms warm and the row of little bows along the neckline was pure frivolity.

  Thankfully, Sally had included a matching spencer to wear over the top, in a dark blue velvet with military-inspired gold braid frogging down the front. It buttoned snugly over Emmy’s bosom. She tugged a brush through her hair and secured it in a simple twist at the base of her neck with the pins provided.

  As a final flourish, she crossed to the sideboard, reclaimed her bottle of perfume, and defiantly applied the last few drops to her wrists and neck. The familiar scent calmed her. She donned a pair of cream leather gloves and picked up the small drawstring reticule Sally had provided, which contained a handkerchief, a small circular mirror, a folding mother-of-pearl pocket knife, and a few coins.

  A pistol might have made her feel a little more in control, Emmy reflected, but they’d never kept any firearms in the house, and she had no idea how to use one. Harland was used to serious weapons, rifles and muskets; he’d probably laugh himself silly if she threatened him with a muff pistol.

  When she opened the door, it was to find Mickey waiting to escort her down to the mews. Harland was already out there, in a woolen greatcoat and riding boots, holding the reins of a bay stallion. Her heart quickened when she saw him, waiting with one foot propped up on a spoke of the carriage wheel and conversing with a groom who was seated behind a handsome pair of matched greys.

  He took her hand to help her into the carriage. Her skin tingled as his fingers squeezed hers, despite her gloves. Would she ever cease to be so acutely aware of him?

  He sent her a baleful glare, his lashes a dark tangle against his blue-steel eyes. “Don’t even think about trying to escape. If you run, I will chase you to the ends of the earth. Never doubt it.”

  Emmy suppressed a shiver. She was a fool to find such a declaration thrilling, but her heart was suddenly pounding with desire. The stupid organ clearly couldn’t distinguish between a threat and a promise.

  With a sigh, she sat back against the comfortable leather squabs and tugged a travel rug over her knees. The next few hours might be her last taste of freedom. She would make the most of every moment.

  Chapter 30.

  Emmy peered out of the narrow window as the coach rattled along. It hadn’t taken long to reach the outskirts of London, and the jumble and chaos of the capital had given way to sporadic cottages, fields of swaying barley, and the occasional village turnpike.

  Her chest tightened as bittersweet memories assailed her. She’d taken this journey many times in the company of her father, whenever there had been a new jewel to deposit in the cache. It was achingly familiar: the signposts for Letchworth and Biggleswade, the undulating sweep of English countryside. Never had the fields been so green, the songs of the birds so sweet. Life seemed infinitely precious, now that her days were numbered.

  They stopped to change horses at a posting inn near St. Neots, but apart from providing her with a cup of coffee and a meat pie to eat in the carriage, Harland largely ignored her. She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t want her to show her face. If someone recognized him in the company of a lone female, they would either assume she was his mistress or—worse—that the two of them were eloping. They were, after all, heading north toward Gretna Green.

  The idea should have been amusing, but instead, it added to the ache in Emmy’s heart. She and Harland might have shared a night of passion, but they were far from being lovestruck swains. They weren’t even friends. They were adversaries, under a temporary truce.

  She hadn’t really had time to think, back at the Tricorn, but now, trapped inside a carriage whose masculine scents of leather and horses reminded her so forcefully of Harland, she had plenty of opportunity. Her troubled thoughts were as inescapable as the man himself. Emmy shifted restlessly in her seat.

  She’d given herself to him. His naked body had been next to hers. Inside hers.

  The entire episode seemed almost too incredible to believe—as if she’d made love with some mystical creature who existed only in darkness and disappeared at daybreak—except her body remembered with excruciating clarity, even without visual corroboration. Her skin felt newly sensitized, invigorated, as if Harland’s touch had introduced her to a new world of sensation. Her heart pounded whenever she thought about him, and not in fear or trepidation, but with a wicked kind of anticipation.

  Had last night meant anything to him, or had she been just another willing body in his bed? Emmy wrinkled her nose. He’d seemed involved. His kisses had been ardent, almost desperate. His body had been hard and ready for hers. He’d murmured her name in the darkness too. A little of her tension eased. No, he hadn’t been thinking of anybody else.

  Last night had changed something inside her, changed something between them, irrevocably. She felt as if she’d been pulled apart and put back together in an entirely new configuration.

  Still, she was fiercely glad it had been him. No one else would have done. He was more than a match for her. His steadiness, his resourcefulness, even his bloody-minded determination to catch her, spoke of a strength of character she couldn’t help but admire. Those traits that had led to her capture were the same ones she found irresistibly attractive. He’d outplayed her in this, the ultimate game of chase, and she couldn’t begrudge him that. She had nothing but respect for him as an adversary.

  Emmy smiled sadly. Alex Harland was just as much a thief as she was. He’d stolen her heart four years ago and never given it back.

  His horse drew level with the carriage, and she sneaked a glance at his profile. He looked windswept and sinfully handsome, entirely at ease in the saddle. Although he’d been in the Rifles, not a cavalry regiment, he clearly felt comfortable on horseback. The muscles of his thighs rippled beneath his soft breeches, and the way his hips rocked with the horse’s gait was positively indecent.

  Emmy shoved the travel rug from her lap in irritation. It wasn’t fair. He could discompose her without even trying.

  The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, warming her even further. The brass buttons on his greatcoat flashed, and a wicked idea blossomed in her brain.

  He’d called her aggravating, had he not? She’d show him.

  She reached into her reticule, pulled out the small mirror, and tilted it so the sun’s rays caught the surface. She trained the beam at the side of Harland’s face. The patch of concentrated light danced over his cheek and jaw, then flashed into his eyes.

  He shook his head, momentarily blinded, and turned to locate the source. Emmy hastily hid the mirror in her lap. He flashed her a dangerous, suspicious look, like Lucifer brooding on some secret fantasy of rebellion. Her heart pounded, but she sent him a cheerful smile and a wave. Annoying him was still a pleasure.

  They passed Alconbury, then Stilton—a village famous for its cheese—and finally Wansford, the last stop before Stamford, and their destination. Emmy recalled an amusing tale her father had once told her abou
t how the village had come by its full name: Wansford-in-England. According to folklore, it derived from a local man who’d fallen asleep on a hayrick and, upon awakening, found himself floating down the River Nene. Panicked, he’d asked a traveler on the riverbank where he was, and upon hearing the reply “Wansford,” he’d asked, “Wansford in England?” The simple man had been afraid he’d floated out to sea and across to another country.

  Emmy sighed. If only she could escape her current situation by floating away down a river.

  Frothy white flowerheads of cow parsley and cornflowers the color of Harland’s eyes bobbed in the hedgerows but Emmy glanced doubtfully at the darkening sky up ahead. Despite the sunshine, an ominous bank of clouds hovered on the horizon, threatening rain in the not-so-distant future. It wouldn’t be fully dark until around ten, so they had a few hours before sunset, but she hoped they completed their task quickly. She wasn’t dressed for rain.

  When they stopped for a second time, at the George Inn at Stamford, Harland dismounted and indicated for the driver of her coach to climb down. She slid open the window as he came to the door of the carriage.

  “We’ll go on alone from here,” he said. “Which way?”

  She gave him directions and felt the conveyance tilt and bounce on its springs as he climbed up front. It took another twenty minutes driving back out into the countryside before they reached the spot. “Stop here!” Emmy called.

  He pulled the horses to a halt, and she didn’t wait for him to help her down. She lowered the step herself and jumped into the narrow lane, glad to be out of the confining carriage. They were deep in the country, far from the town, and the road they were on was little more than an overgrown farm track. Trees flanked the high verges on either side.

  “It’s too narrow to take the carriage any farther,” she explained. “We’ll have to walk from here.” She pointed uphill through the trees. “Grandfather’s hunting lodge is just over there, but the ruins are this way. Come on.”

  Harland unhitched the horses from the carriage and secured them where they could crop the grass of the verge. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, threw it into the carriage, then followed her as she started along the narrow lane.