by Kate Bateman
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“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
—ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPERY, LE PETIT PRINCE
Prologue
London, 1812.
Only touch what you’re going to steal.
Of the many rules of thieving her father had taught her, that one was key. Emmy Danvers broke it the night of Lady Carlton’s masked ball; she touched Alexander Harland.
She had no intention of stealing him, except from the other eager women in the room. She was simply borrowing him for a single dance.
She was wearing a dress Camille had once worn to Versailles, a gorgeous concoction of watered blue silk adorned with gold braiding. A wig, powdered blue-grey and fixed with silk flowers, hid the true color of her hair. She’d added a coquettish patch to the corner of her mouth, the one the books called “the kissing.” She was hopeful. And since it was a masquerade, she’d worn a cream leather mask which covered the top half of her face. Only her lips and chin were visible. Harland would never know who she was.
Emmy’s heart pounded against her ribs. This was just like a heist. The same nervous excitement as she eyed the prize, the same pulse-pounding fear of discovery. Harland drew her like the shimmering facets of a well-cut sapphire, a tug of attraction she was helpless to ignore.
He was standing with his two constant companions, Benedict Wylde and Sebastien Wolff. The three of them together were a sight to gladden any girl’s heart, each one as handsome as the next.
With a fortifying breath, she stepped in front of the three men and executed a deep curtsey. They had been in the middle of a conversation, but Harland trailed off midsentence when he noticed her, and all three of them turned to stare, no doubt amazed by her shameless effrontery. Women were not supposed to approach men. Then again, women weren’t supposed to steal jewels either. Emmy had never been terribly good at following the rules.
“Mister Harland,” she said. “I believe this is my dance.”
An intrigued smile touched his lips. He gave her a slight bow in return, and she willed him not to refuse her. His blue eyes, through the black mask he wore, regarded her speculatively.
“I don’t recall agreeing to a dance, Miss—?” He let the end of the sentence hang, urging her to provide her name. She gave a light laugh.
“Oh, no! This is a masquerade. Names are forbidden.”
“And yet you have mine.”
“Yes. You are already at a disadvantage.” He would hate that. He struck her as a man who would always want the upper hand. “Perhaps you’ll be able to discover my identity during the course of the dance?”
Wolff nudged him. “You can’t possibly turn down a challenge like that, Alex. Take the lady onto the floor.” His appreciative gaze raked her, and he flashed her an easy smile. “Because if you don’t, then I certainly will.”
“How can I refuse?” Harland chuckled. He stepped forward and offered her his elbow. “You have intrigued me, my lady.”
Emmy’s stomach gave a little flip. He’d accepted!
With his slow, wicked smile and easy charm, he’d been her secret fantasy for so long. A few years older than herself, he’d always been part of a slightly different social set, a glittering, roguish, dangerously thrilling presence at any event he attended. She’d watched from the shadows as he danced with the prettiest girls and cut a swathe through the debutantes, flirting impartially but without serious intent. Having an older brother who was heir to the title, he was the quintessential carefree second son, free to pursue a life of youthful excess.
Emmy had stayed out of his way, wary of his reputation and of his keen intelligence. She’d been afraid he’d take one look at her with those piercing blue eyes of his and see right through the demure wallflower she played in public, to the reckless criminal beneath. She’d been content to watch him from afar and dream impossible dreams. Until she’d heard he was off to fight Napoleon.
What if he was wounded, as her brother, Luc, had been at Trafalgar? What if he was killed? The thought of a world without Alexander Harland in it, even on the periphery of her life, seemed very bleak indeed.
Seize the day, her grandmother Camille had adjured her. Go after what you want, my love, but be careful. Emmy gave a wry smile. Not carpe diem. Carpe hominem. She would seize the man.
She curled her fingers on Harland’s sleeve and allowed him to lead her into the throng of couples forming in preparation of the next dance. The opening strains of a waltz sounded, and she almost laughed in delight. She couldn’t have planned it better.
Harland put his hand at her waist, and her breath caught as he tugged her close and lifted their joined hands to shoulder level. Good lord, he was tall.
“We’ve never been introduced,” he stated with utter certainty as they whirled around the floor in a breathless spin. “I’d remember if we had. Tell me your name, princess.”
Emmy laughed, blissfully aware of the thrilling nearness of his body, the warmth of his hand at the small of her back.
“I’m no princess, sir. For all you know I could be a scullery maid who’s stolen her mistress’s dress. I could be a criminal. A thief.”
“A thief.” He laughed softly. “Now that I can believe. You’ve stolen the breath right out of my lungs. Stolen the heart from my chest.”
His teasing words, which he’d somehow made sound so sincere, made her ache with poignant longing. If only. But handsome princes never ended up with criminals. Not even in fairy tales.
“And you, sir, are a silver-tongued devil,” she countered sternly. No doubt he said such things to every woman with whom he danced. And yet it was so tempting to believe him.
“Who are you?” he murmured. “And where have you been hiding? This can’t be your first London season. You’re no simpering miss of sixteen, just up from the country.”
“That’s true,” Emmy conceded. She didn’t need to think about the steps of the dance. With Harland, it was effortless, as if they’d danced like this a thousand times before. “I live here in town. And this is not my first season. But you are correct; we have never been formally introduced.”
“Have we been informally introduced?” He chuckled, and his low whisper did funny things to her insides.
She shook her head. “No. You wouldn’t recognize me, even without this mask and wig.”
“That’s something I’d like to remedy.”
The dance ended, but he didn’t let go of her hand, or return to his friends. He pulled her out onto the terrace, and Emmy followed, unresisting. Hand in hand, he led her down the steps and out into the moonlit garden. It seemed like something from a dream. They ventured through an iron gate set in a red brick wall and stepped into the kitchen garden, wreathed in shadows. He tugged her under an apple tree.
Suddenly nervous
, Emmy twisted a half-grown apple from a branch and smiled.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Hmm? Oh, this reminds me of a poem I once read about fairies who like to steal apples.” She met his eyes in the dim light. Every one of her senses was alive, prickling with awareness. “It goes: Stolen sweets are always sweeter: Stolen kisses much completer; Stolen looks are nice in chapels: Stolen, stolen be your apples.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. They tingled in response.
“Stolen kisses, hmm?” he murmured. “Maybe we should try it?” He reached up and untied the ribbon holding his mask in place. “Since you already know who I am, I think we can dispense with this.”
He took a step closer, and Emmy’s heart pounded as she studied his face. Strong, straight nose, lips curved in gentle amusement. She dropped the apple and slipped her hands between the lapels of his jacket, flat against his chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, feel the unyielding strength beneath her palms. She had the oddest thought that this was home. The place she was destined to be.
He slid his hands around her waist, his long fingers almost spanning the circumference. “Will you take your mask off, little thief?”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
She lifted herself on tiptoe and pressed closer, tilting her head and offering her lips in shameless invitation. Carpe hominem.
Her heart almost stopped when he bent his head and kissed her. A light, almost questioning touch. He repeated the action, his lips soft yet firm, and Emmy closed her eyes, determined to savor the experience. This might be her one and only kiss with Alex Harland, ever.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips. Without thought, she opened her mouth and he slid his tongue inside to tangle with hers. Emmy stilled in shock, then realized the sensation was extremely pleasurable. She flicked her own tongue tentatively against his and was rewarded with a low groan of encouragement.
His hands came up to cup her face. He angled her head and kissed her again. And again. Deeper. Darker. Drinking her in. It was a revelation. A glorious, swirling taste and tease that turned her bones to jelly. Emmy almost swooned with pleasure. The scent of him filled her nose, the taste of brandy on his tongue made her insides molten.
Minutes, or possibly hours, later, he pulled back, panting. “Your name,” he demanded roughly.
“No.” She hadn’t lost her wits entirely.
He expelled a huff of amused frustration. “If I had more time, I would discover exactly who you are.” He brushed the edge of her jawline with his thumb, then stroked it over her lips in a shiver-inducing caress. “But I’m leaving for Portugal next week.” His arms tightened around her, and his mouth thinned in displeasure. “God, I wish I didn’t have to go. I wish we’d met sooner. I—”
Emmy placed her fingers over his lips to stop the flow of words that mirrored her own feelings so precisely. She pressed her own lips together to stop herself from blurting out, Don’t go, then. Stay here. With me.
Impossible. They were from different worlds, their lives on opposite trajectories. This was the only time they would ever intersect.
The next kiss was tinged with a bittersweet desperation, a mutual acknowledgment that this one, perfect moment was finite. Fragile. Unrepeatable.
“God, you taste so sweet,” he groaned against her lips. “Smell so sweet. I want to breathe you in and keep you in my lungs forever. Does that sound mad?”
“Not at all.”
It was harder than she’d ever imagined to pull out of his arms. Cool air replaced the warmth where his body had been. Tears stung her eyes beneath her mask as she took another step away from him.
“Leaving me, princess?” he murmured.
“I must.”
“Will you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”
She managed a watery smile at his weak attempt at a joke. “No. But I have to go.”
A good thief always knew when to leave the scene of a crime. Kissing Alex Harland had been better than she’d ever imagined, but it might also prove the biggest mistake of her life. Because now she knew precisely what she was missing.
She started back toward the garden gate. He picked up his mask, which he’d dropped on the grass, and retied it. When they reached the steps of the terrace, he caught her hand and tugged her around to face him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him.
“Don’t say goodbye.”
He inclined his head. “All right. Let’s simply say good night, then. Until we meet again.”
He kissed her hand, his lips warm on her skin, and her stomach clenched. She already missed him. How was that even possible? She pulled away and started up the steps.
“I’ll find you,” he vowed at her retreating back. “When I return.”
Emmy bit back a bittersweet smile. He would only find her if she wanted to be found. And she had far too many secrets for that.
“No,” she whispered, too softly for him to hear. “You won’t.”
Chapter 1.
London, 1816.
“That blasted Nightjar has done it again!”
Alexander Harland, Earl of Melton, glanced up from his morning paper. Sir Nathaniel Conant, Chief Magistrate of Bow Street, dropped a sheaf of papers onto the table beside him and lowered himself into a vacant armchair with an irritated exhalation. “That devil—whoever he is—is a menace to society.”
Alex concealed a groan of impatience. He’d barely finished breakfast. At this hour, the Tricorn Club’s salon was usually empty. Benedict, having recently married, had moved out last month; “jumped ship,” as Seb had wryly phrased it. And Seb himself, the third pillar of their unholy triumvirate, was doubtless still sleeping off last night’s boisterous trip to the Theatre Royal. Alex had banked on a good hour of uninterrupted reading before being bothered by anyone.
Clearly, it was not to be. Mickey, the Tricorn’s mountainous doorman, had been given strict instructions to admit Sir Nathaniel whenever he so desired. Alex twisted his head to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Events must be concerning to have roused the elderly peer at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock.
He carefully folded the newspaper and placed it on the table next to him. “Another jewel has been stolen?”
Conant’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “The sneaky beggar’s hit close to home this time, Harland. Pinched a bloody great diamond from Rundell, Bridge and Rundell.”
“The Royal jewelers?” Alex raised his eyebrows as his mouth twitched in reluctant admiration. “You have to give the man credit; he never takes the easy route, does he? I’d have thought their security was tight as a drum.”
“It is. But the Nightjar still managed to breech it. And that’s not the worst of it.” Conant gave a disgruntled sniff. “The blighter couldn’t have stolen a worse piece. The diamond he took belongs to the Prince Regent himself. He’d asked Rundell to fashion it into a pendant. Prinny wants it found as soon as possible—and the culprit prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
Alex’s pulse kicked up at the prospect of a new challenge. Since his return from the continent last summer, he, Benedict, and Seb had helped Bow Street investigate a number of sensitive cases. Two months ago they’d foiled an attempt to rescue Bonaparte from exile on the island of St. Helena via submarine, and the Regent had shown his gratitude by awarding all three of them with titles. Benedict was now the Earl of Ware, Seb had been made the Earl of Mowbray, and Alex the illustrious Earl of Melton.
Not that Sir Nathaniel paid it any heed. He still addressed Alex as Harland.
“Just when everything’s quiet, and I think the sneaky devil’s retired, or dead, he pops up out of nowhere and steals another gem. It’s maddening, Harland. Maddening.”
“What do we know about him?” Alex asked.
“Precious little, to tell the truth.” Conant gestured at the file of papers on the table between them. “Whatever we have, it’s in there. The mode of operation is always the same; he only ever steals
one gem at a time, even when he has the chance to take more. The pieces he takes are always jewels of exceptional quality—but so are the ones he leaves. And the cheeky bugger always leaves a solitary black feather in place of the missing item, as a calling card.” Conant took an indignant breath. “He’s been at it for years. His crimes stretch back over a decade, at least. And I’m sure there have been times when his feather’s been overlooked. Those bumbling clodpolls in the provinces aren’t as meticulous as you and I, when it comes to preserving evidence.”
Alex inclined his head in acknowledgment of the gruff compliment. “Presumably he leaves the feather because he wants the thefts to be known as his work?”
Conant scowled. “But why? Are those from whom he steals supposed to congratulate themselves on being members of an exclusive club? Those with the dubious honor of being one of the Nightjar’s victims?”
“Who knows? But at least it gives us a way of linking the crimes. Perhaps there’s a pattern, some logic to them? They’re not opportunistic thefts.”
“I should say not. Each one has to have been meticulously planned. No two are the same. And no evidence is ever left, save for the feather. It’s as if the man’s a wraith.”
Alex’s lips twitched in amusement. “Oh, he’s flesh and blood, I guarantee it. And sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake. Everyone does. Do you think we’re looking for an older man, since he’s been active for so long? Or a group of thieves working together?”
Conant grunted. “That’s what I expect you to find out.” He steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “The odd thing is, the gems he steals are the kind of stones that make jewelers sit up and take notice, but they never reappear on the market. We constantly check the pawn shops, jewelers, auctions, and gem dealers. They just … disappear.”
“Maybe he doesn’t sell them. He could be an avid collector who keeps them in a private collection somewhere for his own pleasure?”