To Catch an Earl--A Bow Street Bachelors Novel

by Kate Bateman

  “I thought he’d given her up long ago?”

  “Apparently not. And that’s not the half of it. According to Rundell, the vendor of the diamond is none other than Prinny’s own wife, Princess Caroline. Both sides swore Rundell to secrecy. She told Rundell she was given it by her father, the Duke of Brunswick.”

  Seb let out a long, low whistle. “Now that is awkward.

  “As you can imagine, Conant’s keen to keep the whole thing under wraps to avoid any scandal.”

  Seb crossed to the bow-fronted sideboard and picked up a sheaf of papers. “He sent these over while you were out. Lord Sidmouth, at the Home Office, has been in contact with our counterparts across the channel. He asked for any information they had on the Nightjar, and got this from Eugène Vidocq.”

  Alex grimaced. “Not five minutes ago the French were our mortal enemies. Now we’re swapping information like one big happy family.” His tone was bitter. “It’s as if the past ten years of bloody warfare never happened.”

  “It is hard to forget, when you think of all the men we lost—”

  “Harder still when you’ve got a blind spot as a daily reminder of French ‘hospitality.’”

  Alex sighed. Enough. The war had been over for almost a year. The world was a different place. He had to move on. “What did the head of the Sûreté have to say about his fellow countryman?” he asked dryly. “As an ex-criminal himself, one can only assume he’s all admiration for the man’s skill.”

  The French head of police, Vidocq, was a most unusual character. He’d passed the first half of his adult life as a soldier, thief, smuggler, gambler, and convict. He’d escaped from one prison after another, often through the use of ingenious disguises. A decade ago, while still locked up in La Force, he’d begun to pass along cellblock gossip to the authorities. Later, when a set of emeralds belonging to the Empress Josephine went missing, Napoleon—under the logic of using a thief to catch a thief—tasked Vidocq with investigating the crime. Vidocq used his underworld contacts, his keen observational skills, and the previously unheard-of technique of undercover investigation, to track down Josephine’s emeralds, the thieves, and their buyers, in less than three days. He earned both a formal pardon and the Emperor’s continued favor.

  In keeping with the man’s rather warped sense of humor, he’d begun a new career with the Paris police, at first informing on his former companions in crime, then tracking down the culprits behind various robberies and killings. Within a year, he’d founded a plain-clothes unit called the Brigade de la Sûreté and become its first chief. He regularly hired ex-convicts and prostitutes as agents and attempted to prevent crimes, not just solve them. Under his command, the Sûreté had captured thousands of criminals over the past few years.

  “Funny you should say that,” Seb said, tapping the folder with his hand. “Conant seems to think that Vidocq never tried very hard to catch the Nightjar. Sounds like he has a certain professional respect for the man.”

  He paused, and Alex narrowed his eyes. Seb was deliberately withholding information for dramatic effect.

  “And?” Alex prompted.

  “He did, however, have a suspicion as to who the Nightjar might be. An aristocrat named Louis d’Anvers. The son of the Comtesse de Rougemont.”

  Alex exhaled slowly. “That’s not a name I’m familiar with.”

  “He was born here in England. The family changed the name to Danvers to sound more English.” Seb opened the file and selected a handwritten report. “Unfortunately, Louis d’Anvers died four years ago. So even if he was the Nightjar, he can’t have committed the Rundell and Bridge job last night.”

  Alex held out his hand for the folder of documents and skimmed through them.

  “What of the rest of the family?”

  “Danvers’s mother, the comtesse, is still alive. Danvers married one Emily Chadwyck, a gentleman’s daughter from Leicestershire. They had two children, a boy and a girl. The wife died giving birth to a stillborn son when the daughter was only three years old. The children live with their grandmother in Waverton Street, between Hyde Park and Berkeley Square. The son is thirty, the daughter, twenty-three.”

  “The son could have reprised his father’s role. Or this new theft could be a copycat crime.”

  “The Nightjar is dead; long live the Nightjar,” Seb said wryly.

  Alex extracted a yellowed newspaper clipping from the file. He began to read, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. “The man’s identity isn’t the only lead Vidocq’s given us. We have a motive here too. Look at this.”

  He angled the page toward Seb. It was an excerpt from La Mercure, the Parisian newspaper, dated April 1800; sixteen years ago. The headline was “J’accuse—!”

  The Nightjar had written an open letter to the editor, publicly denouncing revolutionary leader Georges Danton as a traitor to France. He claimed the theft of the French crown jewels from the Louvre had been an inside job, masterminded by Danton himself. The jewels, he said, had been used as bribes to purchase support for the Republique and, later, for the Emperor Napoleon, from foreign powers such as the Austrians and the Prussians.

  “I vow to steal back our country’s bounty from those who have received it unjustly,” the Nightjar had written. “The jewels shall be recovered for the glory of France and held secure until the upstart Napoleon has been ousted and the Bourbons are once more restored to their rightful place upon the throne.”

  Alex sat back in his chair with a slow exhale. As a declaration of intent, it was certainly impressive.

  On the following page Vidocq had compiled a list of the jewels missing from the national archives and correlated them with the gems the Nightjar was known to have stolen. They matched perfectly. The Nightjar had, apparently, been doing exactly as he’d promised.

  “The thefts aren’t random at all,” Alex said. “He’s stealing back the crown jewels of France.”

  “Exactly.”

  Alex pointed at one of the lines on the list. “The diamond taken from Rundell and Bridge must be this one the French call the ‘Regent’s Diamond.’ Which means there are only three major jewels still unaccounted for. The blue diamond they call the ‘Bleu Du Roi,’ a ruby, and a thirty-carat sapphire known as the ‘Ruspoli.’” He flipped through the remaining pages. “Do we know the location of these three jewels?”

  Seb leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “As a matter of fact, we do. Vidocq didn’t discover where any of the jewels had gone until Napoleon declared a twenty-year statute of limitations on crimes committed during the Revolution. Since the original theft occurred in 1792, that meant nobody could be prosecuted for the crime after 1812. As the deadline neared, Vidocq told his agents to listen out for information regarding the gems. Sure enough, not two days after the statute of limitations expired, a London jeweler named John Francillon sold a forty-five-carat blue diamond to the diamond merchant Daniel Eliason. Vidocq believes that stone is the ‘Bleu Du Roi,’ cut down and reshaped to disguise its origins.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Seb tapped another piece of paper. “Eliason failed to find a buyer. Perhaps afraid of having it stolen from his own premises, he decided on what you might call the old ‘hide-in-plain-sight’ tactic. He loaned it to the British Museum. For the past three years, it’s been on public display in their rocks and minerals gallery.”

  Alex couldn’t prevent a chuckle. “Clever. And what of the others?”

  “The ruby has been incorporated into a necklace that was purchased by Lord Carrington for his wife, Lady Sophia. She’s worn it on numerous occasions in public. During the season, they reside on Park Crescent. The sapphire, according to Vidocq’s sources, is in the possession of a disgraced Italian diplomat named Franco Andretti who now lives in a small village just outside Gravesend.”

  Alex took a deep draught of wine. “If this information is correct—and provided this new Nightjar has the same goal as his predecessor—then we have an excellent chance of predicting where he�
��ll strike next.”

  “Indeed we do.”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow we’ll investigate the security arrangements at both the British Museum and the Carringtons’ town house. And I want to know more about the family of Louis d’Anvers. Especially his son. Do they ever attend any functions in the ton? Do we have any common acquaintances who might make an introduction?”

  Seb shot him a cocky grin. “I knew you’d say that, so I strolled over to visit my great-aunt Dorothea, the Dread Dowager Duchess, this morning. She expressed amazement at seeing me clothed, shaved, and sober before midday. The old battle-ax knows everybody in the ton, and she has the memory of an elephant. Never forgets a thing. She’s like a walking, talking Debrett’s.”

  Alex gestured for Seb to get on with it.

  “Turns out Dorothea is good friends with the comtesse. She couldn’t believe I’d never made her acquaintance, although she did concede that being absent for three years ‘fighting that odious Bonaparte’ was a partial excuse. She confidently expects to see the comtesse and her grandchildren this very evening at Caroline Turnbull’s soirée.”

  Alex smiled. “I’m sure Caroline will be delighted to see us.”

  Chapter 5.

  Lady Caroline Turnbull’s soirée was fashionably crowded by the time Emmy, Luc, and Camille arrived. The sound of animated chatter and a lively English reel greeted them, and Emmy wasted no time in finding a vacant chair at the side of the room for Luc.

  After twelve years, he walked with only the slightest limp and required no one’s arm for support. He did use an elegant silver-topped cane, but that was more for ornament than necessity. He was convinced it gave him a rakish edge. Sally mocked him about it constantly.

  His injury had been caused by grapeshot—a bag of musket balls set on iron rings that when fired from a ship-mounted cannon resulted in a supersized blast. Luc was fortunate not to have bled to death on the deck, but thankfully the surgeon who’d operated on him had been experienced in dealing with such wounds. Emmy had read about many other poor souls who’d ended up with what they called a “sugar loaf stump,” an amputation performed too close to the bone, resulting in a conical stump which was difficult to heal.

  Since Luc was missing only the lower portion of his leg, Camille had instructed a Jermyn Street shoemaker to fashion him a prosthetic foot with a jointed ankle made from wood and leather. It had taken Luc some time to grow accustomed to the contraption—he’d spent many hours leaning heavily on Emmy or Sally and cursing his inability to balance—but now he walked with a confidence that showed little hint of the struggle he’d endured. Emmy had nothing but respect for the way he’d dealt with such a dramatic change in his life.

  Even so, she had no doubt their father’s criminal escapades, and her own “miseducation,” had provided her brother with a welcome diversion during his long convalescence. He’d needed something to engage his clever mind. Helping to plan the next heist had stopped him from dwelling on his injury.

  With Luc suitably settled, Emmy accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant and proceeded to make herself inconspicuous.

  In the animal kingdom, especially when surrounded by carnivores, one of the best strategies is to fade into the background and disappear. She had become adept at avoiding notice, like one of those color-changing lizards she’d seen at the Exeter Exchange. It was not that the ton itself provided any specific threat, but she was ever-conscious of the fact that she was unlike any other woman in the room. She had far more to hide than a penchant for gambling or an illicit assignation with someone else’s husband. She couldn’t afford to let anyone get too close, for fear they would uncover her secrets. Her family had to be protected.

  Clusters of people formed, separated, and reformed like the jewel-colored contents of a kaleidoscope. Camille came to stand beside her, and together they looked out over the crush of dancers.

  “Lord Eversleigh is here,” Camille murmured, and Emmy didn’t bother to suppress a groan. The man was a corseted fool who persisted in pursuing her despite a complete lack of encouragement.

  “He doesn’t even notice when I’m being rude to him,” Emmy whispered back. “He never listens to a word I say. He just stands there and stares at my décolletage.”

  “He’s very rich.”

  “He’s the most patronizing man I have ever encountered.”

  Camille cast a subtly scornful glance at the man who was still half the room away. “I quite agree. No amount of money could make up for having to face that over the breakfast table for the next thirty years.”

  Eversleigh considered himself a veritable tulip of fashion. His startling green-and-pink-striped waistcoat was festooned with fob chains and pocket watches. A sparkling diamond stick pin secured the cravat at his throat. Marcasite buckles dazzled on his shoes. Emmy liked to amuse herself by imagining precisely how she would deprive him of every item of jewelry he owned.

  “I vow, if the Nightjar weren’t such a noble thief, he would pay my Lord Eversleigh a visit,” she whispered. She could retire for life on the fripperies with which he decorated his person. “He doesn’t know me, nor does he have the slightest desire to do so. He just wants another ornament in his life, one without an opinion, who will not question, demand, or make scenes. I think we can both agree that I am not that woman.”

  “And what about Bantam?”

  Emmy sighed at the mention of her sweet, persistent suitor. Edward Bantam was a thoroughly nice man. Utterly inoffensive, he’d hovered around her for years, and while not possessed of a rapier wit, he was still a perfectly decent catch. He could always be counted on to ask a lady to dance or to procure another cup of lemonade. He just didn’t make her heart flutter and her stomach drop away.

  The way Harland did.

  “I wish I could feel more for him than friendship,” she whispered. “But I can’t. If I accepted him, we’d both be miserable. And besides, he would be horrified if he ever discovered the truth about me. He’s an upstanding citizen. He’s probably never broken a law in his life. Even if I wanted to trust him, how does one introduce such a topic into casual conversation? ‘Oh, yes, I’d love a second cup of tea, and—did I mention?—I’m an internationally wanted jewel thief.’” She shook her head with a wry smile. “He’d probably turn me in himself.”

  “I want to see you settled,” Camille murmured. “I’m not getting any younger. I want to see your children.” She fanned herself vigorously. “The problem, of course, is that you are uncommonly beautiful.”

  Emmy almost choked on her champagne. “You are biased,” she countered. “I’m pretty at best.”

  “Bah. I’ve seen half a century of beauties at the most glittering courts in Europe. Believe me when I say, even allowing for a little natural familial bias, that you are très belle, Emmeline.”

  Emmy felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sure that’s why we’ve been almost trampled underfoot by the stampede of gentlemen all rushing to offer for me these past few years,” she said dryly.

  Camille shrugged. “Most men are fools. They’re too blind to appreciate what is right in front of them. You’re subtle. They overlook you because you downplay your beauty. But one of these days, you’re going to encounter a connoisseur who’ll see what you’re trying to hide. Your aloofness will only intrigue him. He will be drawn to the mystery.”

  “I don’t wish to be a mystery! We don’t want anyone looking at me too closely. Think how dangerous that could be.”

  “It would be better if you were plainer,” Camille agreed placidly. “Martha there”—she indicated a pleasant-faced woman to their right who was tapping her foot in time to the music—“she would be an excellent thief. Forgettable, nothing out of the ordinary. Interchangeable with a thousand nursemaids and governesses.”

  “My front tooth is crooked,” Emmy persisted.

  Camille gave her fan a dismissive flick. “That one tiny imperfection that only makes you more perfect.”

  Emmy was about to argue, but at that
moment, the footman stationed at the top of the stairs announced in stentorian tones: “The Earl of Melton and the Earl of Mowbray.”

  Her heart leaped into her throat.

  * * *

  Alex paused at the top of the stairs. He disliked crowds, hated it when people approached him from his blind side. He didn’t like being ambushed, especially by matchmaking mamas with empty-headed debutantes in tow, or bored married ladies looking for a little excitement. He’d taken to positioning himself with a wall, or Seb, on his right.

  At least he didn’t have to dance. The first time he’d attempted it, shortly after he’d returned from Belgium, he’d discovered that while he could see perfectly well straight ahead, his lack of vision to the right meant he was unable to see his partner’s hand when she held it up to hold. He kept bumping into people if they happened to spin too close to him on that side.

  The final straw had been when he’d accidentally groped Lady Worthington’s breast during a particularly lively reel. Lady Worthington hadn’t minded one bit, and he’d spent the rest of the evening having to endure excruciatingly overt come-hither looks, right under the nose of her fiercely protective husband.

  Alex had avoided dancing after that. He was damned if he’d be called out for besmirching the honor of some innocent young thing merely because his hand happened to fasten on somewhere inappropriate.

  “God, what a crush,” Seb muttered as they threaded their way toward the far wall, pausing to nod or exchange a few brief pleasantries with various acquaintances. They stationed themselves to the left of the orchestra, with an arched alcove at their backs, and surveyed the assembled crowd.

  “I spoke to Caroline,” Seb said over the din. “The Danverses are here. She said the son would probably be seated. And the countess is wearing a powder-pink gown.”