Sweet Revenge

by Nora Roberts

  Oxfordshire raising hounds and hunting pheasant.

  He could see himself as a country squire with muddy boots and a faithful staff—as long as it was a couple of decades off.

  Popping another peanut into his mouth, he walked over to look at the panthers. Restless, angry, they stalked back and forth over the length of their enclosure, never quite able to take their captivity as philosophically as other cats. He sympathized. He was fond of their sleek lines and dangerous eyes. He’d been compared to one, by associates, by police, by women. In build and moves only, he supposed, because he was fair in coloring.

  He continued to nibble on peanuts and told himself that when a man was nearing thirty-five he had to think about his health. Cigarettes were a filthy habit and one he had done well to give up. He felt positively self-righteous about it. It was a shame he was so fond of tobacco.

  Taking a bench, he watched people walk by. Since it was remarkably warm for October, nannies and prams were in full attendance. He caught the eye of a young, pretty brunette strolling with a short-coated toddler. She smiled, gave him a quick flirtatious sweep of her lashes, and was more than a little disappointed when he didn’t follow her.

  As he might have, Philip thought, if he didn’t have a meeting. Women had always been of interest to him, not only because they wore, and owned, the bulk of the baubles, but because they were—women. They were one more of life’s luxuries with their soft skin and fragrant hair. He glanced at his watch just as the second hand swept up to the twelve. It was one exactly. Philip wasn’t surprised when a portly, balding man dropped onto the bench beside him.

  “Don’t see why we couldn’t meet at Whites.”

  Philip offered the bag of peanuts. “Too stuffy. You could use the fresh air, old man. You’re looking pale.”

  Captain Stuart Spencer grumbled, but took a nut. The diet his wife had him on was murder. If the truth were known, he was glad to be away from the office, from the paperwork, from the phone. There were days he missed fieldwork, though fortunately they were few and far between. It was more true, though he would never admit it, that the captain had an affection for the trim man beside him. Regardless of, or perhaps due to the fact that Spencer had tried for almost a decade to put Philip behind bars. There was something unceasingly annoying, and therefore satisfying, in working with a man who had skillfully eluded justice.

  When Philip had made the decision to work with rather than against the law, Spencer hadn’t been fooled into thinking that the thief had suddenly repented his crimes. With Philip it was business, first and last. It was hard not to admire a man who made his decisions with such exquisite timing and with personal advancement uppermost.

  Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, Spencer huddled inside his overcoat. He had a blister on his left heel, the beginnings of a head cold, and was approaching his fifty-sixth birthday. It was difficult not to envy Philip Chamberlain his youth, health, and smooth good looks.

  “Damned silly place to meet,” Spencer muttered only because it made him feel better to complain.

  “Have another peanut, Captain.” Philip was too used to Spencer’s black moods to be bothered. “You can look around and think of all the hardened criminals you put behind bars.”

  “We’ve more important things to do than eat peanuts and look at monkeys.” He dipped into the bag again anyway. The taste, and the scent of animals reminded him of Sunday trips to the zoo as a child. He harrumphed away the sentimentality. “There was another robbery last week.”

  Intrigued, Philip leaned back and imagined smoking a leisurely cigarette. “Our same friend?”

  “From the looks of it. An estate on Long Island in New York. Barns worth—wealthy, upper crust. Owns department stores or some such thing.”

  “If you’re speaking of Frederick and Dorothea Barnsworth, they do have a rather pricey chain of department stores in the States. What did they get taken for?”

  “Diamonds.”

  “Always my first choice,” Philip said, reminiscing.

  “Necklace, bracelet. Insured for half a million.”

  Philip crossed his ankles. “Well done.”

  “It’s damned annoying.” Spencer sucked another nut into his mouth, then slapped his worn leather gloves against his palm. “If I didn’t know for certain where you were last week, you’d have some questions of your own to answer.”

  “Flattery, Stuart, after all these years.”

  Spencer drew out a pipe, more because he knew Philip had quit smoking than because he desired it. Taking his time, and puffing clouds of smoke, he settled back. “The fellow’s slick. In and out without a trace, drugged the dogs. Dobermans—nasty, vicious beasts. Brother had one once—detested it. Security system’s top-notch, but he slipped right through. Took only the set of diamonds. Left bonds, securities, a ruby brooch, and a particularly ugly ruby necklace.”

  “He’s not greedy,” Philip mused. He knew how tempting it was, and how foolhardy, to be a greedy thief. Over the past six months he’d developed a fine and very personal admiration for this particular thief. Class, he thought. Class, style, and brains. He grinned. They had a great deal in common. “He wouldn’t interest me so much if he were greedy. How long have you fellows at Interpol been after him now?”

  “Almost ten years.” He didn’t like to admit it. Though it wasn’t true he always got his man, his record was excellent. “The man doesn’t have any pattern. Five hits one month, then nothing for half a year. But we’ll get him. One mistake, he’ll make one mistake, and then we’ll have him.”

  Philip brushed some dust from the lapel of his coat. “Is that what you used to say about me?”

  Spencer deliberately puffed smoke in Philip’s direction, “You’d have made one—we both know it.”

  “Perhaps.” Which was precisely why he’d quit while he’d been ahead. “So, do you think he’s in America?” Philip thought he’d enjoy a trip to the States.

  “I think not. I’m inclined to think he’ll put some distance between himself and the heat. We’ve got a man in New York, in any case.”

  Pity. “What do you want from me?”

  “He seems to prefer hitting the very rich, and doesn’t mind lifting well-known pieces. In fact, if there’s any pattern at all, it’s that he prefers to take well-publicized jewelry. The Stradford pearls, the Lady Caroline sapphire.”

  “The Lady Caroline,” Philip said with a sigh. “I have to envy him that.”

  “We’re keeping an eye on the more posh parties and dos around Europe. Having an agent who’s accepted as part of the inner circle is helpful.”

  Philip only smiled and examined his manicure.

  “It appears Lady Fume is planning a gala.”

  “Yes, I’ve been invited.”

  “And accepted?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t know if I’d be in town.”

  “You’ll be here,” Spencer told him, sucking on his pipe. “Place will be full of baubles. We’d like to have you inside, keeping your eyes on and your hands off.”

  “Captain, you know you can trust me.” He grinned. It was a particularly engaging grin that caused women to think reckless thoughts. “How is that sweet daughter of yours?”

  “There’s something else you’re to keep your hands off.”

  “A purely platonic question, I promise you.”

  “You’ve never had a platonic thought about a female in your life.”

  “Caught.” Philip balled up the empty bag and tossed it in a trash can. “I’d like the report on this last incident.”

  Rogue, Spencer thought, sticking his pipe in his mouth to hide a smile. “You’ll have it tomorrow.”

  “Good. You know, I begin to see how you might have felt a few years back. It’s like an itch….” His eyes, smoke-gray, looked out over the bars. “I find myself thinking about him at the oddest time, his next move, where he lives, what he eats, when he makes love. I’ve been where he is, and yet … well.” With a shake of his head, Philip rose. “I�
��m looking forward to the day we meet.”

  “It may not be a meeting of the minds, Philip.” Favoring his heel, Spencer rose as well. “He could be a very dangerous man.”

  “So could we all, under the right circumstances. Good afternoon, Captain.”

  Adrianne checked into the Ritz in London several days before Lady Fume’s gala. She preferred the Ritz because it was unashamedly grandiose and because it had been her mother’s choice during the one happy trip they’d taken there. The Connaught was more distinguished, the Savoy more grand, but there was something wonderfully extravagant about gilt angels climbing the walls.

  The staff members knew her well, and because she tipped generously and treated them with warmth, they didn’t have to pretend a pleasure in serving her. She took a suite overlooking Green Park and spoke casually to the bellman about spending a few days shopping and relaxing.

  The minute she was alone she did not saunter to the plush bath to soak in salts and bubbles. Nor did she change to see and be seen at tea. All she unpacked was a silver Valentino gown with a plunging neckline. Folded with the tissue paper protecting it were blueprints, floor plans, and the specs for a security system. They’d cost her more than the gown. Taking them into the sitting room, Adrianne spread them on the table and prepared to see if she’d spent her money as well as she believed she had.

  The Fumes’ town house was elegant and Edwardian, tucked quietly in Grosvenor Square with a pretty view of the green. Adrianne thought it was a pity the Fumes weren’t having their gala in their country house in Kent, but beggars, and thieves, couldn’t be choosers. She’d spent a particularly boring weekend in Kent with the Fumes and could have drawn detailed floor plans herself. The house in London was relatively unknown, and therefore she would have to depend on the information she’d purchased and her own observations on the evening of the gala.

  Lady Fume’s emeralds would bring in a pretty penny, she mused. The stingy and snobbish Fumes would, indirectly, contribute to widows’ and orphans’ funds in several cities. And the emeralds really were wasted against Lady Fume’s sallow skin.

  The beauty was the Fumes were so tightfisted they had spent only the minimum on security. They had nothing more than a standard wire system running on the doors and windows. Scanning the specs, Adrianne decided even an average thief could bypass the alarm and gain entrance. And she was much better than average.

  The first order of business was the neighborhood, the proximity of other houses, and the habits of the residents. Adrianne replaced her papers in the tissue, unearthed a black cape, and went out to take a first-hand look at the layout.

  She knew London well, the streets, the traffic, the clubs. If she’d chosen to dip into Annabel’s or the clandestine La Cage, she would have been recognized and welcomed. Another night she would have enjoyed it—the music, the gossip. But this trip to London was business. It would be necessary to put in a few appearances before she left the city. Such things were expected of Princess Adrianne. Just as it was expected that she cause enough of a stir to be talked about. But tonight she had a job to case.

  She drove by first, noting the traffic, both pedestrian and automobile, the proximity of the house to its neighbors, and to the street, which lights were on. Since only the foyer was lit, she imagined they were out—at the theater probably. It took her only one trip around to decide her best approach would be across the lawn. After parking her car on Bond Street, she began to walk.

  The warm snap London had been enjoying was at an end. It was chill and damp, as Adrianne liked it best. Most Londoners were settled in their homes or crowded in clubs so that the walk was lonely, with the sound of leaves skimming across the ground and the evening wind moving through the rapidly molting trees.

  There were fingers of fog at her feet, thin and gray. If she was lucky, it would be thicker and more concealing when she took this trip again. Now it was clear enough to show her the gates and gardens of the houses, and the pretty paned windows she might climb through. The leisurely walk had taken her three and a half minutes. In a dash she could make it in less than two. Moving closer, she checked for annoyances such as dogs or nosy neighbors. It was then she noticed the man loitering on the street watching her.

  It had been impulse as much as instinct that had brought Philip out. There was no guarantee that the Fume house would be a target. But if it were, and if he were targeting it himself, he would certainly have wanted to stroll around the neighborhood, familiarize himself with its habits before the hit.

  In any case, he’d been restless, unwilling to go out in company, and dissatisfied with his own. There were times like these when he missed the excitement, the anticipation of planning a job. The work itself was tense and concentrated and left no room for nervy pleasure. But before, and after, brought the thrill. He envied the man he was seeking to catch those thrills.

  And yet, he’d made the decision to retire from second-story work coolheadedly, practically. He couldn’t regret it. Except on a damp, cool night when he could almost feel the heat from jewels nestled in velvet boxes in airless vaults.

  Then he saw the woman. She was small, and draped in black so that he couldn’t see her face or figure. Still, he sensed youth in the easy swing of her gait, confidence in the casual way her hands disappeared into the folds of the cape. She made an intriguing picture with the fog winding around her feet and leaves racing toward the gutters at her back. But his senses sharpened because he saw that her head was turned toward the house in Grosvenor Square. The same house he’d been watching.

  When she saw him, her hesitation was brief, so brief that he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been waiting for it. He stood where he was, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket, curious to see what she would do. She continued toward him, no faster, no slower. As she drew nearer, her face turned up to his.

  Her features were exotic, and faintly familiar. Not British, Philip thought.

  “Good evening,” he said, wanting to hear her voice return his greeting.

  Her eyes, as dark as her cape, met his levelly. Stunning eyes, he thought, almond-shaped, thickly lashed and shadowed by the night. She only nodded and continued on.

  Adrianne didn’t glance back, though it worried her that she wanted to. He could have been standing there for a dozen plausible reasons, but she didn’t discount the tension at the back of her neck. His eyes had been like the fog, gray and secretive. His stance, though casual, had seemed too alert to her, too ready.

  Silly, Adrianne told herself as she drew the cloak closer at her throat. He was just a man taking in the night or waiting for a woman. British from the accent, extremely attractive with gray eyes and fair hair. There was no reason that the encounter should unnerve her. Except … except that it had.

  Blaming it on jet lag, she decided to make it an early evening.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to go to bed with only a glass of wine on her stomach. It might have been better if she’d gone to Annabel’s and socialized, eaten, worn herself out before she tried to sleep. She could have filled her mind with other memories, with old faces and with new, with idle conversation, flirtations, and simple laughter. She might not have dreamed then, but once the dream began, it was too late.

  Scents stay with us the longest, a whiff of fragrance bringing back memories long buried, feelings long forgotten. This scent was of coffee laced with cardamom, competing with the heavy, opulent scents of perfume. The scent, even the dream scent, took her unerringly back to that night on the eve of her fifth birthday.

  Her own sobbing woke her. Sitting up, Adrianne pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and tried to break out of the dream. When it came strongly, as it had tonight, it tended to linger. While her breathing was shallow, and sweat pooled at the base of her spine, she fought to regain awareness of who she was now.

  She wasn’t a child anymore, curled under the bed praying for her father to stop and leave her mother in peace. That had been a lifetime ago.
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  She rose, fumbling for the light and then her robe. She was never able to bear the dark after one of her dreams. In the bathroom she splashed cold water on her face, knowing that the trembling had to run its course. It was a blessing that this time the nausea didn’t accompany it.

  She had hung from a rope fifty stories above Manhattan, had sprinted down alleyways in Paris, and had waded through a swamp in Louisiana. Nothing, nothing frightened her more than the memories that came back in dreams.

  As long as her hands continued to shake, she leaned against the sink. Once they were steady, she lifted her head to study her own face. She was still pale, but the fear was no longer in her eyes. That was the first thing that had to be controlled.

  The streets of London were quiet. In the sitting room she leaned her forehead against the window, grateful that it was cool. The time was coming, Adrianne thought, and the knowledge both thrilled and terrified her. The date had been chosen, though she hadn’t even confided in Celeste. She would be going back to Jaquir soon, to get revenge on the man who had abused and humiliated her mother. She would take what was hers. The Sun and the Moon.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Darling.” Adrianne brushed the baby soft cheek of Helen Fume. “So sorry to be late.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve not late at all.” Lady Fume wore green silk cut low and snug to show off not only her emeralds but the ten-pounds-lighter figure she’d acquired in the last month in a spa in Switzerland. “But I do have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Oh?” Adrianne unhooked the clasp of her cape.

  “I’ve heard you’ve been in London for days and you haven’t rung me once.”

  “I’ve been hiding out.” Adrianne smiled as she swirled off her cape and handed it to a waiting servant. “Not fit company.”

  “Oh, dear, a tiff with Roger?”