by Eva Devon
Once they'd dressed Amie completely, her stays tied, her shoes buckled and her thievery tools cleverly concealed, Amie sent Emma on her way. Well before the party began, her sister blew her a kiss before she strode purposely out the door carrying an empty dress box as if she had every right in the world to be where she was.
Now, hours later, Amie stepped into the ballroom. The earl's house was much grander than Lord Beardsley's. The ballroom truly glittered and instead of just a few musicians, there was a full orchestra playing in the mezzanine. Truly, she could have fit the Jackham house and entire garden into the room!
The ball itself was far more elaborate and respectable than the one where she'd first seen the Liar. The dance floor was quite full already and there were quite a few women in bustled gowns and powdered hair, so Amie's costume wasn't even unusual.
She had to wonder if they'd gotten theirs out of the attic, too. Somehow she doubted it.
Steady on. Through the ballroom, up the opposing stairs and into the house. She decided she must be looking for a particular lady. She plucked a name from a conversation as she moved past. Lady Mantleworth. Should she be stopped, she would lower her intelligence, flutter inconsequentially, and claim she had become lost looking for Lady M.
On her way, she saw quite a few gentlemen give her a glance, and then another, without ever managing to raise their gaze to take an actual look at her face. Perhaps the bosom would come in handy after all.
She had marked the location of the study earlier in the day, as they looked for the nursery. She strode confidently toward it—no, wait. She was supposed to be quite silly, wasn't she? So she drifted toward it, moving vaguely as if she'd already begun celebrating her Christmas Eve.
The study door was locked. She leaned against it, fanning herself, as another couple walked down the hall from the guest wing toward the ballroom. When they had passed, she pulled two pearl-tipped lock picks from her piled and stiffened hair, careful not to dislodge any of the actual pins, and had the study door open in the blink of an eye.
Once inside the study, the strong box was not immediately obvious. Then she saw a large cabinet the size of a wardrobe between two bookshelves. Could it be inside there? It would have to be a sturdy piece of furniture to hold an iron strong box, but surely the earl could afford any sort of furniture he liked.
The cabinet also had a small lock which gave her picks no trouble whatsoever. Amie's swung the doors open wide and blinked.
This was no common strongbox. The grand Armada chest before her was as tall as she and thrice as wide. Clearly the earl intended to intimidate any would-be thieves.
There was just one thing. The large iron case, strapped with more iron, covered in iron-upon-iron ornamentation, was just like a sketch in one of Papa's journals.
The standard style iron Armada chest is a three-lock combination to be done in a specific order. The first lock exposes the second and the second lock exposes the third. Each lock operates its own set of tumblers. A three lock system will in fact operate six iron bolts that hold the door closed.
To Amie and her sisters, that paragraph was like a nursery rhyme they had learned before they were out of braids. She almost felt a fondness for the great monstrous chest, as if it were an old friend she had not expected to see again.
Three key holes. The first one would be small and hidden. From a wide leather garter strapped around her thigh, Amie took out Papa's ring of keys.
The ring itself was as large as an orange and held eighteen keys. It weighed a great deal. Ruby had wrapped it round many times with ribbon to spare Amie's soft skin from the teeth of the keys and to keep them from jingling as she moved. Amie unwrapped the festive red ribbon and tucked it into her bodice to use again when she was done.
The first of the delicate keys, of which there were six, did not work. Amie took a breath, calmed her nerves, and reminded herself to breathe.
“Light on your feet, quick on the pull, nothing on your mind.”
Finally, the first lock slid to the turn of her wrist. Even as the bolt drew back, another small decoration flipped aside and revealed the second keyhole. Amie selected another size of key. Breathe.
At the turn of the key, several inches to the right another bit of decoration drew back and exposed the largest keyhole yet.
She took another breath and began to try the largest keys. On the ninth and last key, she was yet unsuccessful. Her hand began to tremble. It wasn't going to work. It was all for nothing. She was risking her life for a final score to save her family and she was going to fail. Again.
The key would not move. She dropped her forehead to the cold iron of the door and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Try again.
She started at the beginning with the large keys, this time moving each one in and out slightly hoping something would catch. Nothing happened. She tried the ninth key again. It had to be this one. But nothing moved.
Locks are very simple mechanisms, pet. There simply aren't that many arrangements for the teeth to take. I could make a million pounds tomorrow if I could invent a lock that fit only one key in the entire world.
Amie quelled her rising panic and stepped back to eye the door with a narrowed gaze.
And then she remembered. A lock in the center of the door most likely manages vertical locks into the top and bottom of the strongbox.
Of course! The vertical bolts were heavy and turning the lock would require lifting a shaft of iron by at least three inches. Amie took the key in both hands and turned hard. The iron bruised her fingers but the key began to move. Encouraged, she went up on tiptoe and put all her weight into the twist of the key.
She felt the bolts slide on their tracks and then, at last, clunk into place.
She'd done it. She reached out a hand to the heavy handle and hauled the great iron door open.
Surprisingly, the strong box looked nearly empty. There was a large jewel casket on a shelf above a tooled leather sack nearly the size of her fist on the floor.
She untied the top of the sack to peer inside and caught her breath at the sheen of the gold guineas that filled it near to bursting. Liquid assets!
A shiver went through her, a thrill of relief. Gold spent everywhere. No need to negotiate with pawnbrokers. In a few hours their bags could be packed and the ladies Jackham would never more be hiding in the London shadows, in constant fear of discovery.
Quickly, she rifled through the jewels, choosing diamonds and pearls. No significant emeralds, thank you very much!
She hiked up her gown and tugged her padded bustle sideways in order to reach into it. Ruby had sewn a clever purse into the padding. The leather bag and the jewels went inside. Amie dropped her skirts with a nod of fierce satisfaction. No one would find it there.
Before she closed the strongbox, she spotted something on a high shelf. Reaching it down, she found a single leather-bound folio. She opened it to glance through the pages. It was nonsense, gibberish.
It was code.
Furthermore, she found tucked into the back of the folio a stack of French land grants. She had enough French language to make her widen her eyes at the amounts. The paper franc had devalued in recent years, but land grants were forever.
The Earl of Chadwick was taking bribes from the French? Such a collection could be innocent, but then why hide it? And code? Code was always suspicious.
She gazed at the small stack of paper, perhaps twenty sheets of it, covered front and back with nonsense and then locked away in what was probably the most secure strongbox in London belonging to a very important earl.
Highly suspicious indeed, my lord.
Clearly, the earl was a very mistrustful person—and now that he'd been robbed, he would only increase his already formidable security. No one would ever lay eyes on these particular documents again, she would wager.
She bit her lip. She might hate the Liars for what they had done to Papa, but she knew they served a purpose. That was one of the things that made them so frightening—their inde
lible loyalty to the good of the Crown, no matter the cost.
If she managed to get her sisters safely out of the city tonight, might she be able to see this information then fell into the right hands? Not that she would ever lift a finger to help those animals, but she was an Englishwoman and a patriot even so. She would be helping her country, not the Liars.
On impulse, she rolled the documents tightly enough to fit into the compartment in her bustle. That left little room for anything else.
She picked up the small leather bag and pushed it into her bodice under one breast. She took up the jewels. These she stuffed beneath the other breast to rest cold and lumpy beneath it. Her bosom then levitated higher than ever. Blast it.
Within moments the study was just as she had found it. She patted a strand of hair into place, smoothed the silk of her gown, adjusted her bodice as well as possible, lifted her chin, and stepped out of study into the hallway beyond.
First she would save her family, then she would worry about the Crown.
“Good evening, Miss Jackham.”
Chapter 10
His quarry looked astonishing and wicked, mysterious and alluring. She was a powdered and painted beauty from another time.
Oddly, Elliott found that he rather missed her freckles. Still, there was that expanse of creamy bosom to console him in his loss.
He spread his hands, indicating her costume. “My heavens, Miss Jackham. Is this all for me?”
She sidestepped and tried to evade him, but he knew perfectly well that other than instigating a full-on row in the hallway, she had no alternative but to play along for the moment.
Elliott bowed, then straightened and extended his arm. “A dance, Miss Jackham?”
“Oh. No, thank you.”
Elliott smiled but allowed a little steel to enter his gaze. “Oh. Yes, thank you.”
She looked at him warily, her green eyes dark as a forest behind her mask. Elliott merely waited, his arm proffered. After a long moment, she slid her hand to rest upon it. He could feel her fingers trembling.
They began to walk down the hall toward the ballroom. Elliott could hear her breathing and could nearly feel her pulse pounding. She no longer seemed like a cool and detached professional. She seemed like a terrified woman trying not to flee him.
He didn't want her frightened. He wanted her apprehended and properly trained, to protect herself and to be an asset to the Crown! He had not confessed this secret desire to James or Dalton. He imagined that they themselves had something similar in mind. She was too good to leave loose, too dangerous by half—yet Elliott believed that she could be reached. Some few thieves were spurred on by greed alone, but somehow he didn't think that that was her sole ambition. He hoped not.
Damn, that was an exceedingly enjoyable bodice. He thought the current style of gowns quite pretty. They looked comfortable and they did nice things for a lady's figure. But he had to admit that a few decades ago, they'd really known how to tempt a fellow.
The Liar and the Thief entered the ballroom just as the musicians struck up a new waltz tune. The orchestra was excellent and the music came falling clearly down upon them uninterrupted by the usual ballroom chatter and racket.
Elliott could not resist sweeping her into his embrace and melting into the crowd of other dancers on the floor. She stiffened in his arms, clearly still alarmed.
Alarmed by him? It must be his costume. He was a good fighter, but he knew that his foppish good looks and easy smile led most people to underestimate him. She seemed to see directly past his facade.
Perhaps it was his dark mask or his leather trousers but he felt dangerous tonight. When more dancers joined the floor, he pulled her close and then closer still.
Amie set aside the largest portion of her mind to dance with him and to follow the music. Another small secret room she kept closed off. There was a panicked creature running in circles in that little room—clawing at the walls, shivering and shaking and crying to be set free. She locked that fearful bit of her away.
Simply dance. That's all you are required to do at this moment. Dance… And think. Think fast. Think for your life.
Her captor did not seem inclined to cart her off to prison or to dump her in the Thames. His sole interest in her seemed to be this moment, this waltz, this dance of enemies in a glittering ballroom.
She risked gazing up into his face. The dark hunter's mask seemed to be setting a new sort of man loose in those gray-green eyes. Or perhaps it simply revealed him. She felt something inside her quivering in response, like a plucked string ringing in harmony with his.
She desired him. She savored this moment. As dire and fearful as it was, she knew that deep down she enjoyed the danger. Heat coiled and simmered deep in her belly. She breathed in his marvelous scent and closed her eyes, all the better to enjoy it.
I am in a great deal of trouble, yet I care not. She tried to think what Papa would tell her, what Mama would say. For once, there was no one speaking in her mind except herself—she was beginning to fear that herself was the last person she should trust.
Her feet stumbled in the unaccustomed heels. It was only a slight misstep but another guest trampled on her hem and she was pulled off balance. In another gown, she could've twisted and saved herself from a fall, but the uncompromising whalebone stays that did such unnatural things to her figure now prevented her from easy movement. She staggered, her arms flailing. She felt a strange disconnection from herself. She never fell. Where was her grace? Where was her catlike ability to squirm out of any situation? Who was she in this moment, fearless thief or damsel in distress?
Strong arms swept about her waist and caught her up. He set her on her feet to one side of the crush, her fearless Huntsman come to her rescue. No wait, it was her capture.
She was so confused. How could she love the feeling of his strength and his hands upon her? He was the enemy. He threatened everything she knew and loved. He threatened her very life and the lives of her sisters.
“Are you all right? Are you ill?” The concern is his masked gaze seemed strangely real.
She shook her head and pressed her hands against his chest trying to ease herself away from him. “I—I simply need a bit of air.”
He lifted his head and shot his gaze around the ballroom. Was he looking for something? He pressed his lips together and seemed to come to a decision. “The terrace is just this way. Let us get you out of this throng.”
He took her hand and guided her through the crowd to the doors at the end of the ballroom. The mullioned glass was lined in frost, but she could see that it looked out onto the terrace and the snowy grounds beyond. “Do you need a wrapper? Do you need your cloak?”
It was an excellent notion. Unfortunately, she hadn't thought to bring one. Or to own one, for that matter. I gave away my good coat to escape you. Then she thought about the grounds and somehow possibly reaching the wall past them.
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” He pushed open the terrace doors and led her outside. The terrace had been swept clean of snow and small decorative lanterns placed here and there, leaving enticing shadows. He led her into one.
She went directly to the stone balustrade and leaned her back against it, facing him, unwilling to turn her back on him.
The air was crisp and icy but there was no wind. After the heat caused by the crowd and her own physical confusion, it felt wonderful. This was exactly what she needed. A bit of quiet. A moment to think, to clear her head, to fix upon a plan.
Then he kissed her.
His mouth was hot and hard. The large hand that he slipped around the back of her neck was warm and supportive. It was fair to say that he did not steal the kiss so much as begin it…
Wherein she decided to finish it. All by themselves, her arms flew up and her hands clasped behind his neck. She pulled him down to her even as she stood upon her tiptoes. The touch of his lips had opened a floodgate to a reservoir of something she had not even known she contained.
&nb
sp; Something wild and fierce and heated erupted from her, obliterating her conscious thoughts before it. She could hear the small sounds she made in her throat as he deepened the kiss. His hard hands slipped fully around her and he pulled her tightly against him.
When he growled a deep and needful sound, it vibrated through her to resonate urgently in a place she'd ignored for most of her life.
Oh yes. Oh please. More…
His huntsman's cap fell off his head and onto the stones as she ran her fingers up into his hair. She tightened her fists to drag herself closer. But there was no closer. She could not… It wasn't…
Then his hot hand released one of her breasts from her low bodice. The icy air tightened her nipple but only for a moment before his heated palm covered it. He hefted her breast, lifting it.
His mouth left hers and he took her rigid nipple into his mouth.
Oh…
The throbbing between her thighs grew to almost pain, such a terrible, empty ache! He pressed her body back against the balustrade with his hips. She braced herself with her hands as he leaned her over his arm and devoured her nipples, one turn on another. She could feel the rigid thickness in his trousers press against her.
She had an idea what that was. She'd seen some of paintings Papa had brought home at the height of his career, before he had later sold them. She knew what men kept there, and she knew that women were made to receive it.
But no one had ever told her about the searing, blazing heat she experienced at the very thought of taking him inside her.
Then she felt him lift him up her skirt with one hand. For a moment she nearly panicked but he was on the wrong side of the garter with the keys.
Then again, what did it matter? He knew she was a thief. In that moment, she realized for the first time why he was able to reach her this way. He was her enemy, but he was also her equal.
There were no lies between them. He knew she was a thief. She knew he was a spy. They may be costumed and masked, yet she had never been more revealed to a man than she was at that moment.
