She picked up a glass of white wine and a canapé with her right hand, ensured her left hand remained closed, and wove through the cluster of guests toward the comtesse.
When she approached the comtesse, she dropped her canapé discretely on the marble floor. She stole the bracelet easily.
Gabriella and she had practiced many times before.
But she couldn’t afford for the comtesse, the comte or one of the many burly servants to notice its absence.
So Madeline tripped on the canape.
She’d tripped accidentally before, but this was no such occurrence, and she pushed into the comtesse and dropped her wine glass and the false bracelet.
The comtesse’s attention was immediately on her. “What are you doing?”
“Forgive me,” Madeline said, directing her finger at the now crushed canapé. “Somebody must have dropped it on the floor. I tripped.”
The momentary anger on the comtesse’s face dissipated. Madeline did not look very intimidating. Centuries of painters depicting innocent people with blonde hair and blue eyes had accomplished that.
“Is that yours?” Madeline picked up the forged bracelet. “It must have fallen.”
Relief spilled onto the countess’s face. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re very welcome,” Madeline said.
“I will tell the footman about the spilled canapé.” The countess slid the bracelet onto her wrist. She gazed at Madeline’s silk purse. “Some of your wine has stained it. Let me get a footman to dry it for you.”
Oh, no.
This was not part of the plan.
Madeline’s heart raced.
“It’s really not necessary,” she said.
“Nonsense.” The comtesse smiled and whisked her bag away.
Madeline nodded. She clutched the real bracelet in her hand. She would just have to hold it in her palm for a while longer.
The important thing was she’d accomplished it.
She’d stolen the last piece of the Costantini collection back.
Now she just had to exit the palais, a task that should be far easier than entering it, and she could return to the cottage Gabriella and she had rented. Tonight they would leave for Venice.
She made her way to the ballrooms doors.
At least…she strolled toward them for a few seconds.
Unfortunately, Arthur was there now, surveying the crowd. Madeline’s heart quickened. She turned around, once again fluttering her face with her fan.
Perhaps she would need to wait here just a while longer.
If it had been any other person she knew, she would have been fine. But she’d told him specifically that she was going to Venice. If he saw her, he would be suspicious.
Very suspicious.
Chapter Nine
Comte Beaulieu entered the ballroom and strode toward Arthur. “Did you spy any possible thieves?”
Arthur shook his head. “And your wife is still wearing the bracelet.”
The comte beamed. “Splendid. No one outside either.” He laughed. “Or perhaps they are intimidated by the superior security.”
“Good.”
“This isn’t England,” the comte said. “No jewel thefts will take place.”
Arthur’s smile tightened. It was no use reminding the comte that the most recent theft in England had taken place in the French Ambassador’s residence.
“You should enjoy yourself,” the comte declared. “Live the French life. It’s the most romantic one.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to halt my duty.”
“Nonsense,” the comte said. “Meet the guests. Mingle. There’s even a princess here. And I just met a lovely Swedish countess. A Lady Isberg.”
“You must not concern yourself about me,” Arthur said.
“And yet I do.” The comte gestured in the direction of a group of party goers. “There she is.”
Arthur thought it unlikely a Swedish countess had anything to do with an art theft. Women with money would have no need to steal, and he doubted the crime could have been motivated by a sense of revenge. King Karl Johann was popular in Sweden, despite his French heritage.
“Countess Isberg,” the comte called out. “Oh, she’s not paying attention. But that’s her. Can you see her back?”
The comte pointed, but Arthur had already spotted her. He’d never considered backs to be particularly enticing, but this one certainly belonged to that category.
The countess’s hair was piled into an alluring chignon, and crystals sparkled from golden locks. She held her slender figure very straight, as if she’d practiced holding a book over her head.
Unlike various debutantes, she did not cower or display any signs of discomfort at the sumptuous surroundings so far from her home. She did not cluster with other women, gossiping or giggling to hide any nervousness and to ascertain proof of some dominance, however feeble, in the room.
“Lady Isberg!” the comte called out.
“Ja,” the woman said finally. “Yes?”
Her voice was high-pitched, but still charming.
He supposed the thought should not shock him. Charming women were plentiful in the world.
Then the blonde woman turned around. More jewels sparkled from her neck, but it was her face he was focused on.
Her face was pleasing, just as the comte had indicated.
Candlelight flickered over high cheekbones and a small yet sturdy nose. Her mouth could be compared to rosebuds. He knew that. He’d compared them to the flowers before.
Madeline.
Her dark blue eyes seemed to widen, and for a moment he was transfixed by the flutter of sooty black eyelashes that framed them.
“This is the Swedish countess?” he asked with mirth.
Obviously the comte had made a mistake.
He waited for Madeline’s lips to soar upward. Perhaps her eyes might twinkle, and for just a moment they could be young again, both new to London and life itself.
For a brief moment she tilted her head, as if striving to decide something, but then her face seemed to stiffen.
She nodded.
And then curtsied.
To him.
He’d expected her to explain that she was in fact not Swedish, and that she certainly was not of the Swedish aristocratic variety.
“The Marquess of Bancroft,” she said smoothly in an accented voice.
He blinked. “But you’re not—”
She gave him a stern look. “I believe we’ve met before. Perhaps we can reacquaint ourselves?”
“Oh, how wonderful,” the comte said. “You really must entertain the poor marquess. He is all by himself. Just like yourself.”
“I shall do my best.”
“Yes, do tell me all about life in Sweden,” Arthur said. “How is Stockholm this time of year?”
“I am from Gothenburg,” she said, with a glance at the comte. “And I assure you the climate is far more conducive to snow.”
“I suppose the roads here must appear positively bare.”
“Quite scandalous,” she replied.
He despised the way the simplest words seemed filled with emotion when she spoke. Desire lurched through him.
The comte strode away, seemingly satisfied at having forged a conversation between the two of them.
Arthur stepped nearer her, and her blue eyes darkened further, resembling sapphires or the Mediterranean on a perfect sunshine filled day.
Chapter Ten
Heavens. The man exuded handsomeness, easily exceeding the attractiveness of the carefully conceived figures of sculptors’ and painters’ imaginations.
“May I have this dance?” Arthur swept into an elegant bow, one that managed to emphasize the broadness of his shoulders, the firmness of his torso, and his long, well-shaped legs.
He stretched his hand toward her, and sun-kissed skin peaked from his ebony tailcoat.
It shouldn’t have felt so familiar.
Seven years should suffice in l
ength to forget the broadness of someone’s shoulders, the exact height of the man’s towering form, and it should certainly should be long enough to banish the memory of the exact manner in which his lips pulled into a smile.
Seven years should be long enough to no longer desire to ponder the exact twinkle of his eyes, and her heart certainly shouldn’t warm in his presence.
It was a wonder she had a heart at all after the man had taken such efforts to dismantle it.
She raised her chin and steadied her gaze, ignoring his outstretched hand. Even though marquesses who controlled vast amounts of wealth might be more accustomed to seeing priceless heirlooms than their poorer counterparts, they likely didn’t think jewels made a habit of appearing in women’s palms.
The man’s features dipped into something slightly less reminiscent of cherubic joy.
She dipped into a curtsy. “My lord.”
“My lady.”
She’d managed to convince herself at one point that he’d cared for her. Memories of strolling the Royal Academy of Arts, riding his curricle through Hyde Park, and finding delight in discussing even the most mundane things with him faded.
All ridiculousness.
He clasped her hand, but she tried to pull it away.
They couldn’t dance.
Dancing would be impossible. Utterly.
The bracelet was still in her hand.
His grip tightened, and then his expression changed. He forced her palm open and stared at the sapphire bracelet.
Her heart might be racing, urging her to run from the ballroom, but it was too late.
I’ve been caught.
In a crowded ballroom.
By the man who despised her.
She struggled to control her breathing. She had to think.
Calmness. She had to emanate calmness.
“What did you do?” he growled.
She strove to think of an explanation for why she was holding precious jewels in the palm of her hand.
Unfortunately she couldn’t think of anything.
Madeline gazed downward. She laughed. “The clasp broke on my bracelet.”
“Don’t feign insipidity.” Arthur closed her palm, but his hand remained on her wrist. “I know this doesn’t belong to you.”
“It does—”
“It belongs to the Comtesse Beaulieu. A fact I’m sure you’re aware of.”
Her heart thudded in her chest.
She’d always feared discovery.
And now it had happened.
By someone who knew her, someone to whom she couldn’t give a false identity, someone who—
The melodic notes of a waltz began, and Arthur’s expression hardened. “Dance with me.”
“I—”
“You have no choice,” he said sternly and pulled her into his arms. “See that room in the corner? We’re going to go there.”
The waltz.
Of all the dances in the world, the musicians had to be playing a waltz. There was no opportunity for escape with Arthur’s hands clasping her. Couples swirled about them, and Arthur led them into the dance. She glided in his arms, conscious of the whirl of the silk dresses and vibrantly colored waistcoats of the other guests. The violins hummed pleasantly, and it would be so nice to imagine that they were dancing for another reason.
He maneuvered them elegantly across the marble floor, never lessening his grasp on her hand and waist. The door grew closer, and then he swung it open.
“Inside,” he growled.
She stepped into a small, dark room, and he bolted the door behind them.
“You’re a criminal,” Arthur said.
It shouldn’t matter if he was disappointed in her, but the solemnity in his voice seemed worse than that of any magistrate.
“What on earth were you thinking?” Arthur asked. “You know better than that. Your sense of propriety is renowned.”
Madeline stiffened. “So people like to tell me. I’m the somber Amberly cousin. I don’t have a large family like Rosamund, and I don’t have a budding archaeological career like Fiona. Well that doesn’t mean I’m completely dull, even if I memorized the ways of the ton better than both of them.”
“Obviously not,” he said. “Do you need money? Because a life of crime should never be an option.”
“It’s not about the money.” She darted her gaze about the small room. It contained only a table with some flowers on it, and music still trickled through the door. A window was on one side, but with Arthur here…”
“You can’t run away,” Arthur said. “Tell me now.”
“Or else?”
“Or else I call the others. All I need to do is raise my voice—and trust me, I do know how to make my voice carry, and you will be imprisoned.”
“Who exactly are you?” she asked.
His face darkened. “A guest.”
Madeline didn’t believe it. “You seem to care greatly about letting the French keep the spoils from their invasions.”
He flinched but remained silent.
Madeline sighed. “The French attacked the Italian peninsula.”
“I know.”
“I’m sure,” she said icily. “They destroyed crops and ransacked everything. Sanctioned by Bonaparte of course. Most people would see it as a small crime compared to the murders and assaults the army of peasants also committed. But the thing is, to the families, the jewels mean everything. They are heirlooms and an insurance policy should they ever need money.” She gave a bitter smile. “And I assure you, when your land has been destroyed and everything of monetary value taken from you…you do want the option to sell even things of immense sentimental value.”
He looked at the sapphire bracelet. “So you’re stealing the jewels back?”
“Indeed. I’m returning the jewels to their rightful owners. I only steal them when the people in question have refused to return them,” Madeline declared.
“That doesn’t make it better,” Arthur replied.
“I doubt the comte and comtesse are precisely poor. They didn’t even pay for the bracelet.”
“And what do you gain from this?”
“The satisfaction of doing the right thing.”
“The law would debate it.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “How can you risk your life for small pieces of colored stone?”
“They’re more than that. For the family that owns them—they’re everything.”
“You always were interested in such things.”
“You always noticed.”
“I suppose that’s why you married the baron.” His voice sounded almost wistful, and she gazed at him sharply.
“What you are doing is not safe.” Arthur paced the room in long, furious strides. “You’re a woman—”
She shrugged. “I never travel alone. And my job is perhaps easier, because fewer people suspect me. Did you suspect me?”
“No.” Arthur flushed. “But you can’t simply go about stealing things. Any one of the guards could have shot you if they’d seen you. We’re in a country that has beheaded nobles with glee! You must have picked up a broadsheet once during the war.”
“Naturally. But that doesn’t change the fact that what I’m doing is important.”
“And even if you’re right,” Arthur said. “Do you think a single court will uphold that here? If the people couldn’t get the jewels back through natural means, how are the courts supposed to see it when they’ve done so by illegal means?” He raked his hand through his hair. “Blast it, there’s a process. We’ve just achieved peace with France. A rare thing. We’ve been battling off and on for centuries. You shouldn’t risk the peace. If the French government knew a woman in your position was openly stealing from them—”
“Please don’t imply I want a war with France. I don’t. But that doesn’t mean we can let them do whatever they want. Is that why the battlefields were stained pink with the blood of so many young brave boys? Justice is important. And I am valuing that.”
Voices ushered forth from the ballroom. The waltz had ended, and people were once again chitchatting.
And hopefully not listening at doors.
“I will return the jewels,” Arthur said. “I’ll tell them I apprehended the criminal. You can run away. Out that window. It’s to a courtyard. The window opens onto some bushes. The guards shouldn’t be able to see you from that angle.”
She was silent, and his face reddened. “I am offering to help you.”
It was tempting.
Exceedingly.
But she wouldn’t do it.
She’d come so close to being able to give all the jewels to the Costantinis.
And furthermore—
She sighed. “I don’t trust the guards to not shoot.”
“Then you can turn yourself in. Perhaps they will be less harsh—” His face flickered uncertainty. “I do not advise it though.”
“Then I must do the third option.”
“And what does that entail?”
“Give me the bracelet first,” Madeline said.
“Nonsense.”
“Very well.” Madeline lifted the hem of her dress and removed a pistol from the holster on her leg.
Arthur’s eyes widened. “What on earth are you doing with that?”
“I know,” she said. “It’s small. And it only has one shot.”
“Madeline.” He swallowed hard, but her heart still quickened at the sound of her first name on his lips.
It didn’t matter.
She couldn’t trust him.
She continued to direct the pistol at him. “Do not move. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Madeline.” He spoke softly but distinctly. “Don’t do anything rash. I can’t protect you.”
She stepped toward the window. “Give me the bracelet back.”
“I won’t.”
“Give it to me,” she said sternly.
He slid it across the table, and she grabbed it. “Don’t follow me.”
Arthur stood. “I don’t think you would want to shoot me.”
He moved toward her.
He was going to take the pistol. He knew she wouldn’t shoot at him. He knew—
Her heart sped.
The vase.
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 7
