by Nora Roberts
“Roger?” Adrianne linked arms with her hostess and started down the wide checkerboard-tiled hallway. Like most women, Helen would assume that a woman’s moods depended on a man. “You’re behind, Helen. That’s been dead for weeks. I’m a free agent these days.”
“We should be able to fix that. Tony Fitzwalter has separated from his wife.”
“Spare me. There’s nothing worse than a man newly released from holy wedlock.”
The ballroom, with its polished floors and ivory-papered walls, was already filled with people and music. There was the glint of wine in crystal, the scents of perfume, male and female, and the shimmer of jewels. Millions of pounds, Adrianne thought, in stones and metal. She was going to take only the tiniest percentage.
Most of the faces were familiar. That was one of the problems with these parties. The same people, the same conversations, the same underlying boredom.
She spotted an earl whom she’d relieved of a diamond and ruby ring six months earlier, and Madeline Moreau, the French ex-wife of a film star she hoped to hit next spring. With a smile for both, she slipped a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
“Everything looks lovely, as always, Helen.”
“Such a dreadful amount of work for such a short time,” she complained, though she’d done nothing more strenuous than try on the dress she was wearing. “But I do so love to entertain.”
“One should enjoy what one does well,” Adrianne said before she sipped. “By the way, you’re looking smashing. What have you done to yourself?”
“A little trip to Switzerland.” Helen ran a hand over one whittled-down hip. “There’s the most marvelous spa there, if you ever feel the need. They starve you to death, then exhaust you until you’re grateful for the few leaves and berries they toss your way. Then, when you’re about to chuck it all, they pamper you with facials and massages and the most exquisite Roman bath. An experience, my dear, I’ll never forget. And I’ll kill myself if I ever have to go back.”
Adrianne had to laugh. Helen’s light, nonsensical conversation was always delightful. It was a pity she and her husband worshiped the British pound above all else. “I’ll do my best to avoid your spa.”
“While you’re here, you must get a glimpse of the Countess Tegari’s bracelet. It’s from the Duchess of Windsor’s collection. She outbid me.”
The glint of avarice in Helen’s eyes helped soothe away a twinge of guilt Adrianne had felt. “Really?”
“She’s much too old for it, of course, but that’s neither here nor there. You know almost everyone, darling, so do mingle and perk things up while I play hostess.”
“Of course.” She’d need only fifteen minutes to scout out the safe in the master bedroom. Thinking ahead, Adrianne moved toward Madeline Moreau. It wouldn’t hurt to find out if she had any plans for spring trips.
Philip saw her the moment she walked in. She was the kind of woman a man was compelled to notice. She fit well into a room filled with the beautiful and the glamourous. Yet, as a man trained through necessity and desire to observe, she seemed just a few degrees too detached and aloof.
She wore a black tunic with a high, jeweled neck. It fit low and snug over her hips before it flared out in a gold-flecked illusion skirt that showed off her sheerly clad legs. Only the best legs could risk it. As Philip sipped from his glass, he decided hers did nicely.
Her hair was held back from her face by diamond pins that matched the starbursts at her ears. Even as he approved he recognized her, and wondered.
Why had this beauty been walking alone on a damp London night, away from the clubs and restaurants and night spots? And where had he seen her face before?
At least one puzzle could be solved easily. Philip tapped the arm of the man beside him and nodded in Adrianne’s direction. “The small woman with the gorgeous legs. Who is she?”
The man whose biggest claim to fame was being a cousin twice removed of the Princess of Wales zeroed in. “Princess Adrianne of Jaquir. Gorgeous from head to foot and a heart-breaker. She doesn’t give a man more than the time of day until he’s groveled for several years.”
Of course. The tabloids, which his mother read religiously, always carried some juicy little bit about Adrianne of Jaquir. She was the daughter of an Arab tyrant and an American film star of some note. Had the mother committed suicide? There was some scandal there, but Philip couldn’t pin it down. Now that he knew who she was, he found it even odder that he’d seen her walking late at night near the house of their hostess.
Philip’s informant picked at a brochette from the banquet of tidbits that had already been ravaged. “Want an introduction?” He made the offer without enthusiasm. He’d made a play for the elusive Adrianne himself, and had been brushed away like a mosquito.
“No, I’ll handle it.”
Philip watched her awhile longer, his suspicion growing that she wasn’t truly a part of this scene, but, like he, an observer. Intrigued, he wound his way through the crowd until he was at her side.
“Hello again.”
Adrianne turned. The recognition was instant. His weren’t eyes she would forget. In a matter of seconds she calculated, then smiled. Better to acknowledge, her instincts told her, than to rebuff with a blank stare.
“Hello.” She drained her champagne, then handed him the empty glass with just enough of an imperial quality to the gesture to distance him. “Do you often walk at night?”
“Not often enough or I would have seen you.” Smoothly, Philip signaled a waiter. He replaced the empty glass and selected two fresh ones. “Were you visiting here?”
She considered the lie, then rejected it in the same instant. If he chose, though God knew why he should, he could find her out. “No, just walking. I wasn’t looking for company that evening.”
Nor had he been, but he’d found her. “You made a picture that stayed with me—all wrapped in black with fog at your feet. Very mysterious and romantic.”
She should have been amused, but she wasn’t. It was the way he looked at her, as though she could have all the secrets she wanted, but he would find them out, one by one. “Nothing romantic about jet lag. I’m often restless the first night after a long flight.”
“From?”
She studied him over the rim of her glass. “New York.”
“How long will you be in London?”
It was small talk, nothing more, nothing less. Adrianne wished she knew why it made her uneasy. “Another few days.”
“Good. Then we can start out with a dance and work our way up to dinner.”
When he took the glass out of her hand, she didn’t protest. She knew how to handle men. With a neutral smile she pushed her hair behind her back. “We can dance.”
She allowed him to lead her through the fringes of the crowd in front of the orchestra. His hand surprised her. He looked to be a man who was well suited to formal dinner jackets and cummerbunds, yet the palm of his hand was hard with a ridge of callus running under the fingers and along the tips.
Workingman’s hands, an aristocratic face, and a suave manner. It added up to a dangerous combination. Adrianne forced herself not to stiffen when he drew her into his arms. Something hid clicked when their bodies brushed, something she didn’t want to feel or acknowledge. Sexuality was part of her image, but the image was only skin deep. No man had had her, and she had decided years before that no man would.
She felt his hand firm at her back, felt the slope of muscle in his shoulder where she rested her palm. She had felt muscle before, and the hard line of a man, but she hadn’t been disturbed by it. Until now. The band was playing a low and intense tune. Despite the champagne, her mouth was dry. Because it was, she lifted her lace and kept her eyes on his.
“Are you good friends with Lord and Lady Fume?”
“Acquainted,” Philip told her. She had a unique scent. Something that brought pictures of dimly lit, hushed rooms redolent with incense and female secrets. “We were introduced through a m
utual friend. Carlotta Bundy.”
“Yes, Carlotta.” Adrianne matched her steps to his. He danced as he spoke, smoothly, without a ripple. Another time, another place, she would have enjoyed it. But like everything else about him, his way of moving made her uneasy. “I don’t believe I’ve seen her here tonight.”
“No, she’s in the Caribbean, I think. On her newest honeymoon.” Testing only, he moved her an inch closer. She complied, but he didn’t miss the wariness in her eyes. “Are you free tomorrow?”
“I make it a habit to be free.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“Why?”
It wasn’t a coy question, but a direct one. He found himself drawing her closer this time for no reason other than to enjoy her scent. “Because I prefer having dinner with a beautiful woman, particularly one who takes lonely walks.”
She felt his fingers tangle lightly with the tips of her hair. She could have ended that subtle flirtation with a look. But she let it pass. “Are you a romantic?” He had the face for it, she thought, poetic, lean, with eyes that could be quiet or intense.
“Yes, I suppose I am. You?”
“No. And I don’t have dinner with men I don’t know.”
“Chamberlain, Philip Chamberlain. Shall I arrange for Helen to give us a more formal introduction?”
The name meant something, stirred some memory that nagged, then slipped away. She decided to dig it out later, but for now it might be more interesting to play the game. The slow song blended into one with a quicker tempo. He ignored it and continued to move in the same slow rhythm. Why that should have made her pulse throb she didn’t know. Intrigued, she continued to sway with him.
“What would she tell me about you?”
“That I’m unmarried and discreet about my affairs, business and otherwise. That I travel extensively and have a mysterious past. That I live most of the year in London and have a country home in Oxfordshire. I like to gamble, and prefer winning to losing. That when I’m attracted to a woman, I like to let her know immediately.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, brushing her knuckles.
It wasn’t easy to ignore the heat that raced up her arm. “Is that because you’re honest or in a hurry?”
He smiled, and nearly coaxed her lips to curve in response. “I’d say that would depend on the woman.”
It was a challenge. A challenge from a man had always been difficult for Adrianne to refuse. She made the decision on impulse, knowing she’d regret it.
“I’m at the Ritz,” she told him as she drew away. “I’ll be ready at eight.”
Philip found himself reaching for a nonexistent cigarette as she walked away. If she jangled his nerves after one dance, it would be more than interesting to see what she did to him during an entire evening. He signaled the waiter for another glass of champagne.
It took Adrianne over an hour to slip away. She’d been in the Fumes’ London house only once before, but she had a very good memory, which had been refreshed by the floor plans she’d bought. The first problem was to avoid Lady Fume, the ever-anxious hostess, and the staff of efficient servants. In the end, she decided on the bold tack. Experience had taught her that often subterfuge was effective under a mask of brazen action. She took the main stairs as though she had every right to wander the second floor.
The music was muted here and the hallways smelled more of lemon oil than the mums and hothouse roses that crowded the tables in the rooms below. All the doors were painted Wedgwood blue against the white walls, and all were closed. Adrianne counted down four on the right, then as a precaution, knocked. If anyone answered, she had the ready excuse of a raging headache and the search for an aspirin. When no one answered, she took a quick look left, then right, before pushing the door open. Once it was closed again, she took a slim flashlight out of her evening bag and scanned the room by its narrow beam.
She wanted to know the placement of every stick of furniture. If she entered the room while her host and hostess were sleeping, it wouldn’t do to bash into a Louis Quinze table or a Queen Anne chair.
Carefully, she made mental notes of the layout while privately deciding that Lady Fume could use a more creative decorator. Fortunately, the security was no more imaginative. The safe was hidden behind a rather bland seascape on the wall opposite the bed. The safe itself was a simple combination affair that she estimated would take no more than twenty minutes to crack.
Moving quietly, she checked the windows. They were the same style as those on the main floor, and could be jimmied easily enough if it became necessary. There was a trace of dust on the sill. Adrianne clucked her tongue. Lady Fume’s housekeeper should be more conscientious.
Satisfied, she took a step back just as she heard the doorknob tam behind her. Swearing under her breath, Adrianne took a dive into the closet and found herself surrounded by Lord Fume’s peer-of-the-realm suits.
She held her breath. Her eyes, accustomed to the dark, made out the movement of the door through the louvers of the closet. As it opened, some of the dim light from the hallway spilled in. Enough light, as it happened, to allow her to see Philip clearly.
Adrianne set her teeth and cursed him even as she racked her brain for some reason for his being there. He simply stood in the doorway while his gaze moved from one end of the room to the other. Alert, she thought again. Too alert, and too ready. And he looked dangerous. It must have been the way the light behind his back haloed his head while condemning his face to the shadows.
A dangerous man, Adrianne thought as she peered through the slats. No matter how sophisticated his manners or cultured his speech, he would handle himself well on the street.
Adrianne damned him to hell and back as he stared at the closet door. The fact that he didn’t belong in there any more than she did wouldn’t offset being discovered in Lord Fume’s closet. She damned him again and held her breath. A chance encounter on a deserted street, a one-in-a-million coincidence, and he’d ruined a job she’d planned for weeks.
Then he smiled, and the smile worried her even more. It was as though he smiled at her directly, personally, through the panel of wood that separated them. She almost expected him to speak, and felt as if she should be searching for some plausible response when he turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
She waited a full two minutes before stepping out of the closet. Always cautious, she fluffed out her skirts and smoothed her hair. Perhaps she’d been right to agree to have dinner with him. Something told her she’d be better off keeping an eye on him rather than trying to avoid him.
Philip Chamberlain was forcing her to change her plans. She took a last glance around the darkened bedroom. Lady Fume was going to keep her emeralds, at least for a while. But she’d be damned if the trip and her time would be wasted. She cast one regretful look at the seascape.
She would keep Philip Chamberlain occupied for a few hours at dinner, return to her suite, and change into her working clothes. Madeline Moreau was going to lose her sapphire pendant a little ahead of schedule.
Chapter Thirteen
Refocusing her plans on Madeline Moreau kept Adrianne up late, and had her up and on the job early. Figuring in the factor of Philip Chamberlain might have tilted the odds on the Fume job, but it didn’t mean The Shadow had to leave London empty handed.
As a thief, Adrianne was very successful. Part of the reason was caution. Another part, perhaps a larger part, was flexibility. The blueprints and specs she’d carried over from New York would wait. The Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund wouldn’t.
At eight forty-five, Madeline’s day maid, Lucille, opened the door to an attractive, bearded young man in gray overalls.
“May I help you?”
“Pest control.” Adrianne grinned through a sandy-colored beard and sent Lucille a broad wink. Under a battered cap she wore a straggly blond wig, a bit on the dirty side, that skimmed over her ears. “Got six flats to do this morning, luv, and you’re number one.”
“Pests?” Lucille hesitated, blushing as the exterminator gave her a long, interested study. “The mademoiselle said nothing about pests.”
“Building superintendent ordered it.” Adrianne held out a pink sheet. She wore workingman’s gloves, frayed, that reached past her wrists. “Got some complaints. Mice.”
“Mice?” On a muffled squeal, Lucille snatched her hand back. “But my mistress is asleep.”
“No skin off my nose. You don’t want Jimmy to kill the little buggers, I’ll just toddle along to the next on my list.” She offered the sheet again. “You want to sign this? It just says you didn’t want the service. Gets the super off the hook if any rodents crawl up your leg.”
“But no.” Lucille lifted a hand to her mouth and chewed on her nails. Mice. Even the thought of them made her shudder. “You will wait here. I will wake up the mistress.”
“Take your time, luv. I get paid by the hour.”
Adrianne watched Lucille scurry off. Setting down her tank, she moved quickly around the room, lifting paintings, shifting books. She smiled a little when she heard Madeline’s voice rise from a room down the hallway, apparently unhappy to have her beauty sleep interrupted. When Lucille came back out, Adrianne was leaning aginst the door, whistling between her teeth.
“Please, you will start in the kitchen. Mademoiselle wishes to leave before you go through the bedrooms.”
“At your service, luv.” Adrianne hefted the tank. “Want to keep
