by Kate Bateman
She’d already dressed for the opera. Her gown was a watered silk, royal blue with black velvet trim and black-dyed lace at the half-sleeves. It made a lovely satisfying swish when she walked.
Harland’s gaze bored into her back as she ascended the stairs. For a panicked moment, she considered giving him a bottle of Camille’s perfume instead.
No, she couldn’t do that. He’d already managed to identify her scent from hundreds of others. The thought was disturbing. How was that even possible? It was akin to finding a needle in a haystack. The man must have an almost supernatural gift. Had his sense of smell somehow become more acute since he’d lost some vision, in compensation?
Emmy glanced around her bedroom with new eyes, imagining she were Harland. Would he think it strange? Decadent? She adored the hand-painted wallpaper she’d chosen. The flowering branches, blossoms, and birds were lush and exotic; she always felt as if she were sleeping in a jungle, instead of a town house in Mayfair. Flecks of real silver leaf had been added to the panels and reflected the candlelight to give a magical feel.
She’d imagined him in here. Would the real man sit on her bed? Touch her sheets? Leave the scent of his cologne hanging in the air?
Stupid.
There was an almost-finished bottle of scent on her dressing table. Emmy snatched it up and hurried out, keen to have him out of the house.
He was waiting in the hall. She thrust the bottle at him with a jerky movement.
“Here. Not that it will be of much use. The ingredients aren’t listed on the label. It’s made for me by Floris. They keep the precise recipe at their shop.”
Harland’s gloved fingers touched hers as he took the small glass bottle. It looked ridiculously delicate in his hands. “Thank you, Miss Danvers.”
To her amazement he un-stoppered it and lifted it to his nose. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and her heart turned over in her chest. It seemed so intimate, somehow. He was breathing in her essence, drawing it down into his lungs, inside himself. She felt a little light-headed, as if she were the one inhaling so deeply. When he opened his eyes, they seemed all pupil, almost entirely black. Emmy couldn’t look away.
Camille’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Won’t you stay for dinner, my lords?”
Harland’s gaze dropped to her lips, as if he were contemplating taking a bite of her. “Thank you, but I’m afraid we must decline. I have what I came for.”
“Perhaps we’ll see you at Lady Carrington’s annual ball next week?” Camille called.
His dark gaze bored into hers. “Perhaps.” It was a promise and a threat.
Wolff stepped into the hallway, breaking the charged moment, and Harland executed a neat bow. “Good evening.” He turned on his heel and left her standing in the hall.
As soon the front door closed, Emmy let out a relieved whoosh of breath and stalked back into the dining room. She glared at Camille, the septuagenarian matchmaker. “What was all that about? Are you trying to get us arrested?”
Camille chuckled and fished the diamond out of her soup with her spoon. “We could hardly refuse his request, could we?” she said reasonably. “And the man can’t arrest you for owning a bottle of perfume.”
“He knows,” Emmy said. “He’s just biding his time, gathering evidence before he pounces.”
Camille dried the diamond on her napkin and placed it on her bread plate. “He is delicious. Emmeline, if you do not snap him up immediately, I shall be exceedingly cross. What a fine specimen!”
Emmy gave her an exasperated frown. “He’s not a horse.”
“I should say he is. A stallion.” Camille chuckled bawdily. “I’d take a canter on him any day of the week.”
Luc looked scandalized. “Really!”
Camille took a sip of wine. “Pish. You youngsters these days are far too straitlaced. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the opposite sex. If I were twenty years younger, I’d have him myself.”
Emmy gave an appalled laugh. “You’re welcome to him.”
Chapter 13.
Emmy couldn’t concentrate on the theatre performance. The acting was good and the story was full of drama, but she was bored and restless. Without Harland’s electrifying presence, the whole evening felt like flat champagne that had lost its fizz. Life was no fun without someone to annoy. Or evade.
When the lights came on to signal the intermission, Camille leaned over and caught her fan, which Emmy had been tapping on her knee. “Why don’t you go home? Or better still, why don’t you use those tickets Lord Mowbray sent over?”
Luc leaned forward in his seat. “To the Tricorn?” He shot Emmy a questioning glance.
Barely an hour after Harland had left Waverton Street, a note had arrived for Luc containing two admittance cards for the Tricorn. The accompanying sheet had simply been signed “Mowbray.”
Whether Harland knew about the invitation or not was impossible to guess.
Camille nodded. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been dying to try your hand at the Tricorn’s tables ever since it opened, Luc Danvers.” She turned to Emmy. “And don’t you pretend you haven’t been burning with curiosity to see what kind of place Harland inhabits.” She patted their hands with her own and gave them each a gentle smile. “I know you both too well, mes enfants.”
Emmy bit her lip. Camille was right; she’d dreamed of getting a peek inside the hallowed portals of the Tricorn for months. She wanted to see Harland’s lair. “What if someone recognizes me?”
Camille reached into her reticule and pulled out a black silk half mask with a thin ribbon tie. She blinked in mock innocence. “Oh, look. I must have left this in here after the Colcroft’s masquerade.”
Emmy took it with a dry snort. “How convenient. Some might even say unbelievably convenient. What are you up to, Camille?”
Camille shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with doing a little reconnaissance on the opposition, darling. Just to see what we’re up against. He’s already called on us, remember. We’re simply returning the favor.”
Emmy fidgeted in her seat, plagued by indecision. The night was suddenly alive with possibility, but common sense dictated she keep her distance. This could be a trap, although how, exactly, she couldn’t imagine. There was nothing she planned to steal from the Tricorn. And it wasn’t as if she was going to get caught cheating at cards; she didn’t know how.
Camille waved her fan. “Don’t worry about me. I can share a carriage home with Lady Sutherland.”
Emmy glanced over at Luc. “Why not?”
She’d take care not to be identified by anyone. And the chance to gain some insight into Harland’s private world was too tantalizing to resist. Knowledge was power and all that. She wanted to see him on his home turf.
Luc gave a resigned sigh. “Oh, all right, then. Come on.”
* * *
Alex suppressed a yawn as he gazed out over the main room of the Tricorn from his favored position up in the minstrel’s gallery. It was warm up here near the ceiling, but the elevated position made him feel comfortable, master of all he surveyed. Well, one-third master, as least.
He’d squandered plenty of his own fortune in gaming hells like this one before he’d left for the continent. He’d been adrift in the ton, gambling and drinking, with no real aim in life save for having fun. The structure of the army had come as a welcome change; every mission had been clearly defined. Storm that citadel. Secure the mountain pass. Protect those townspeople. He’d thrived on the challenge.
Running the Tricorn gave him a similar sense of satisfaction, a feeling that he was doing something worthwhile with his life, instead of squandering his talents and time. It was a legacy, of sorts. Something he could pass down to the next generation.
Not that he was anywhere close to producing that next generation, of course. He’d have to find a woman he could stomach as a wife first. Some hope. The only woman he’d ever seriously considered might well be a criminal mastermind.
His stom
ach rumbled—he’d skipped dinner, chasing after little Miss Miscreant. He should have accepted her grandmother’s offer of food. That would have annoyed her.
Unlike White’s or Brooks’, the Tricorn provided its members with a decent supper in addition to high-stakes games of chance. Benedict had convinced Alex and Seb to hire an outrageously expensive French chef, Rene Lagrasse, to run the kitchens. Given the fact that they’d done nothing but try to kill Frenchmen for the previous three years, the two of them had needed some convincing, but once they’d tasted Lagrasse’s mouthwatering fare, they’d been in full agreement.
Now, almost a year since the Tricorn had opened its doors, there was a waiting list of two hundred gentlemen clamoring for membership, both aristocrats and wealthy cits. The three of them were well on the way to making their fortunes.
Alex smiled thinly. The Tricorn was an equal-opportunity club. Everyone, whether banker, mill owner, tradesman, or duke, was equally welcome to throw their money his way.
As a second son, he would inherit no title or property from his father’s estate. That would all go to his older brother, James. And yet Alex had never resented his brother’s position. James had no ability to choose the course of his own life. There had never been any question that he would attempt to join the army and fight against Napoleon. Their distant, unloving father would never allow his heir to endanger himself in such a manner.
Alex, however, had always been the “spare,” an insurance policy against the extinction of the illustrious Harland name. Ironically, that made him free.
Did his brother resent the cage of his seniority? Did he feel emasculated by his lack of choices? Alex had, after all, been able to prove his mettle in the army, both to himself and to his disapproving father. He’d made his fortune on his own.
The earldom that had recently been bestowed upon him by the Prince Regent had been the icing on the cake. Alex was justifiably proud of it; he’d earned that title, not simply been handed it for being born first.
Perhaps that was why the thought of the Nightjar getting away with it annoyed him so much. Stealing jewels wasn’t the same as earning them.
Alex shook his head and checked the various employees down on the floor. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Each gaming table had an operator to deal the cards and two croupiers, who watched the play and ensured the players didn’t cheat the operator. Mickey, the ex-boxer, doubled up as both doorman and, on occasion, dunner, to collect any debts owed to the bank. A couple of waiters hovered between the tables to offer the players plenty of drink from the Tricorn’s excellent wine cellar.
It was crowded tonight. A couple of tables hosted noisy hands of whist and loo, while others dealt macao. Fortunes changed hands with alarming speed.
Most of the women on the floor were courtesans in the company of male members. Their brightly colored silks and satins glowed like so many precious jewels amongst the dark evening attire of the men. Fans fluttered and feathers bobbed from outrageously elaborate hairstyles. A couple of the women wore masks to add to the air of mystery. Or perhaps to hide less-than-perfect complexions, Alex mused cynically.
He took an appreciative sip of his brandy, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat, and felt the tension begin to leech out of him.
It had been a mistake, opening that bottle of perfume again in his room. The tantalizing scent had filled his nose, filled his lungs, invaded his private domain. It had been far too easy to imagine her lying naked on his sheets, that sweet mouth curved in welcome. Alex growled as the blood pooled in his groin, a heavy ache of frustration. He turned to go back downstairs, but a flash of navy blue caught his eye.
It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t dare!
It was.
He drained the rest of his brandy in one gulp.
She was threading through the crowd in the wake of a man who, from his silver-topped cane and slightly uneven gait, could only be her brother. Danvers wasn’t a member. How the hell had they gained entry?
Emmeline Danvers was wearing the same dress she’d had on earlier, at dinner. It left her shoulders deliciously bare and provided a tantalizing glimpse of the pale mounds of her breasts, especially from Alex’s lofty vantage point. Her waist was tiny—he was sure he could span it with his hands—and he’d watched that pert bottom of hers swish up the stairs. His imagination had dutifully supplied all manner of depraved ideas. Like following her up and discovering exactly what the inside of her bedroom looked like. Like discovering if those freckles covered the rest of her body.
Alex scowled down at the pestilent woman. She’d added a black half mask that covered her from her eyebrows to the tip of that ridiculous nose, but he’d recognize her anywhere, even in the dark. Especially in the dark. He seemed unnaturally attuned to her presence.
A hot ball of anger formed in his gut. The last time she’d been masked, he’d imagined himself in love with her. Now, four years later, he almost hated her for putting them both in such an impossible position. If she was the Nightjar—and he was almost certain that she was—then he would have no choice but to turn her in. Her capture at his hands was inevitable. He was too good at his job not to prevail.
She would be prosecuted. She would lose not only her freedom, but quite possibly her life. What the hell was she thinking, coming here, flaunting herself in his kingdom? Did she think herself invincible? Did she think he was a fool?
Christ, if she was as guilty as he thought she was, she should be taking a carriage to Scotland or catching a boat across to France. She should be removing her sweet, thieving behind from the country, getting as far away from him, and Bow Street, and justice, as possible.
Chapter 14.
Emmy wanted to look everywhere at once, but she kept her head down and tried to look inconspicuous.
She’d never been inside a gentleman’s club before, never imagined the noise, the luxury, the smell. Dice rattled in cups, roulette balls bounced and clattered in their wooden wheels, cards snapped and scraped over green baize. The air was an almost tangible fog of alcohol, tobacco, and warm bodies. Masculine shouts, curses, cheers, and groans formed a constant wave of sound, augmented by the odd feminine laugh. It was a world away from the staid formality of Almack’s with its lukewarm lemonade.
Emmy was amazed at the colossal sums being transferred at the tables. She gambled with her life every time she stole something, and it seemed that the stakes were equally high here. The whim of a single card could make or ruin a man.
A wave of anger toward the players seized her. She had good reasons for risking it all. She did it reluctantly, against her will. What excuse did they have? Why choose to skirt ruin, merely for fun, for the thrill of it? It seemed an irresponsible way to find pleasure.
Luc joined a game of whist, and she stood behind him, feigning interest. She’d never liked cards. She lacked the patience. She passed an idle glance around the room, her heart in her throat, searching for a familiar face.
Did the owners of the club spend much time on the gaming floor? Or did they stay in their private apartments, ensconced in solitary splendor? If the private half of the Tricorn was anything like the luxury of this public side—the place positively exuded subtle yet expensive taste—then they must live like kings.
Out of habit, she catalogued the exits. The main door led to the curving flight of stairs they’d taken from the marbled entrance foyer. A dining room branched off to the left. A billiard room, judging from the occasional crack of ivory balls from within, on the opposite side. She glanced up. A minstrel’s gallery, with a balcony like an opera box, overlooked the room, fed by a single door. That was where she would stand, given the choice.
Emmy recognized a few of the gentlemen in attendance. Eversleigh was impossible to overlook, in his pocket watches and a lurid yellow-striped waistcoat. He looked like a boiled sweet and seemed impressively inebriated. Lord East was there too, with an orange-haired woman who was most definitely not his wife.
Emmy’s spirits drooped a litt
le. There was no sign of Harland, nor his friend Wolff. She hadn’t expected to see the third owner of the club, Benedict Wylde. He’d recently married Georgiana Caversteed, the shipping heiress, and it was rumored to be a love match. Emmy rather hoped he had better things to do with his evenings than oversee a crowd of intoxicated thrill-seekers.
Perhaps Harland was having dinner. Perhaps he wasn’t even in the building.
Perhaps he was with a woman. She clenched her teeth.
Luc pushed back his chair. “I need to go to the necessary, but I don’t want to leave you alone,” he murmured. “I should never have let you and Camille to talk me into this. I dread to think what will happen if somebody recognizes you. Come with me. It’s downstairs.”
Emmy nodded, and together they made their way back to the staircase. Luc was clearly enjoying himself. He had a formidable intellect; he could probably devise a method of breaking the bank if he put his mind to it, but she was just glad to see him having fun. He’d missed out on several years’ worth of evenings like this when he’d been an invalid.
The Tricorn’s giant doorman, a man named Mickey, pointed Luc in the direction of the bathroom, and Emmy took advantage of his momentary inattention to palm the key that he’d left on a table near the door.
For all she knew, it opened something completely useless, like the Tricorn’s wine cellar, or coal shed, but if she were lucky, it might prove more interesting—like the key to the back door, for example. Or to the private apartments. She slipped it into her reticule. No telling when something like that might come in handy.
As Luc lumbered off in the direction given, Emmy loitered at the far end of the corridor, feigning interest in the surprisingly good paintings that hung on the burgundy damask walls. A paneled door to her right opened, and she turned, expecting to see a servant, but instead, she encountered a familiar pair of slate-blue eyes.
Of all the—
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Harland took one swift glance down the deserted corridor, caught her elbow, and tugged her through the door.