by Alice Gaines
“How did you know that?” Eve demanded of Lord Wesley.
“Sadie here’s been my mother’s dressmaker for years. Mother doesn’t care to know about anything but dresses, but I recognized Sadie for a faker the moment I saw her.”
“’e ’as a good eye, this one,” Sadie declared.
Eve didn’t say anything, as Lord Wesley had already proven his good eye to her, the scoundrel.
“Leave us alone for a moment, won’t you, Sadie?” he said.
“Right enough. I’ve plenty to do out front.”
Before Eve could object, Sadie slipped out from under Lord Wesley’s arm and exited the fitting room, leaving Eve face-to-face with him. Close enough to see the golden flecks in those eyes.
“How did you know when I’d be here?” she asked.
“I didn’t. Sadie sent word around just after you arrived.”
“So you’ve both been in on the little game.”
“A gamester like you can’t object to a little fun.”
She ought to. She ought to get down off the stool and order him from the room so that she could get back into her own clothes. But somehow the smile on his lips and the warmth in his eyes were too tempting to send away just yet. “So, why did you come?”
“I wanted to see you again, and not in some depressing place like St. Giles.”
“That’s my home.”
“I’d still like to know why,” he said.
“And I’m still not going to tell you.”
He sighed. “Very well, as you wish.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a box that was covered with satin. It was the sort of box that usually contained jewelry—expensive jewelry. He opened it and took out a single earring that looked to be an emerald pendant. He lifted it to her ear, the backs of his fingers brushing the skin of her throat in the process. She ought to tell him to keep his hands away from her, but settled for merely holding still instead. Or as still as she could manage. He let his hand linger for several seconds, while her heart did a little jig in her chest.
“Yes, these will do nicely,” he said as he replaced the earring in the box and handed the whole to her.
“What’s this?”
“I should think that would be obvious.”
“Where did you get them?” she demanded.
“I bought them. I could hardly loan you some of my mother’s jewelry, she’d recognize it at the ball.”
“Your mother is going to the ball?” Eve said.
“Nothing could keep her away. Not even my father.”
“Will she be coming to St. Giles to meet me at the church?”
“Good God, no,” he said. “They’ll be attending with friends.”
“Well, thank heaven for that.” She picked up his hand and shoved the jewelry box into it. “Now, take these back.”
“Why? They’re perfectly serviceable emeralds.”
“Because, my dear Lord Wesley, you’re not supposed to be buying jewels for me. We’re supposed to be stealing them. Together. As partners.”
He put the box back into her palm and curled her fingers around it. “But I must insist.”
She pulled open the pocket of his jacket and slipped the box inside. “And I must refuse.”
“Miss Stanhope—” he began.
“Lord Wesley, if you make me take those earrings I shall sell them at the earliest possible opportunity and keep the money.”
He grunted in that pigheaded way men had when they didn’t get what they wanted. “Very well. But I’ll see you at that church in one week’s time. Be there.”
“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.”
He gave her one last sly glance and then left the fitting room. Oh yes, he’d see her in a week, and maybe by then he’d have learned that she was not a woman to be ordered about.
Chapter Five
St. Giles was even worse than Philip remembered it from the very few visits he’d ever made there in the past. Oxford Street looked deserted enough at first glance, but who knew what sort of ruffians and footpads might be hiding in the litter-strewn doorways? He opened the carriage door before Tom, the footman, felt obliged to climb down from his perch. Bad enough Philip should risk his own safety in this godforsaken place. His mother would never forgive him if one of the staff came to harm because her son’s sense of adventure—or folly—had brought the man here.
By all that was holy, why did Eve Stanhope have to live in such a place? A wet wind slapped him in the face as he descended to the street and climbed the short flight of steps to the church. He opened the door and slipped inside, finding the anteroom dark except for the light of one candle. Miss Stanhope sat in its weak glow, a male figure behind her. She rose when she saw him.
“There you are.” She turned and placed her hand on the arm of the man at her back. “You can go home now, Hubert.”
“I’ll wait for you here, my dear,” the man said. A lover? She had a lover, and the man allowed her to languish in places like St. Giles? He allowed her to risk herself stealing jewelry? Such a man was no man at all. Philip ought to take the fellow outside and thrash him, and perhaps he would when they returned. Right now he wouldn’t soil himself by touching the bastard.
“No need to wait for her. I’ll bring her home safely enough,” he said.
“You’ll bring me back here and nowhere else,” she replied. “Go home, Hubert.”
Hubert stepped into the light finally, revealing himself to be an old man—over three score and ten. Philip should have realized that from the man’s voice, and he would have if the sight of Miss Stanhope’s hand resting so easily on another man’s arm hadn’t distracted him.
Hubert looked down at Miss Stanhope with a fatherly concern. “If you won’t let his lordship bring you home, I’ll wait for you here.”
“But we’ll be gone for hours,” she said. “And you’re no safer here than I’d be.”
“I’ll wait for you here,” Hubert reiterated.
“If we don’t leave soon, there won’t be any need for anyone to wait anywhere,” Philip said.
Miss Stanhope straightened her shoulders. “I’m ready.”
Philip took her elbow and escorted her from the church, Hubert right behind. When they got to the carriage he helped her inside, then turned to the older man. “Miss Stanhope is right, you know. You shouldn’t stay here.”
Hubert’s blue gaze darted up the street and back. A visible tremor ran through his slender frame. “Yes, please do bring her home.”
“The address?”
“Around the corner there,” Hubert said, indicating a very dark, very unappealing alley with a gesture of his hand. “Number twelve, upstairs.”
Philip placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of her.”
“See that she enjoys herself if you can, your lordship. She’s had precious little to be happy about in her life, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll do that, too.”
Hubert nodded. “I’ll be off then. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Hubert turned and walked around the corner he’d indicated earlier. The wind picked up, and Philip shivered in it. Suddenly, the thought of Kent’s townhouse—the salon ablaze with lights—and a hot supper, perhaps a whiskey or two, held great appeal. He looked up toward Tom. “We’ll leave now.”
The driver nodded, and Philip climbed into the carriage and closed the door behind him. He sat on the cushion across from Eve Stanhope and studied her.
“You managed to get Hubert to go home, I pray,” she said.
“Yes.” He wouldn’t tell her until the last possible moment how he’d managed—by securing her home address. The evening was young still, and they’d have plenty of time for arguing later.
“Good,” she said. She set aside her simple cloth wrap to expose her shoulders and the gentle slope of her breasts. Sadie had made certain that the bodice of this gown didn’t reveal as much as the one Miss Stanhope had been wearing on the night they
met, but it still exposed enough bosom to get his mind to wondering about how firm her flesh might feel beneath his fingers should he decide to explore.
She caught him staring at her and lifted her chin in a gesture as much of victory as of defiance. “Money well spent, my lord?”
“Why do you resent my admiration so much?”
She smiled. “I don’t resent it. It’s very convenient, actually.”
“You find me convenient?”
She lifted her hands and fluffed out the sleeves of her gown. The silk shimmered against her skin—even in the dim light of the street lamps that penetrated the carriage. The green of her eyes reflected the color of the fabric. “The gown. The carriage. A male escort through a dangerous part of the city. Yes, I’d say you’re convenient.”
“Then perhaps you’ll put these on now.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the emerald earrings he’d tried to give her before. “I’d very much like to see them on you.”
“I told you that I won’t have you buying me gifts.”
“Borrow them, then, for the evening only.” He extended his hand toward her, palm open, offering the emeralds.
She looked at the earrings for several seconds before reaching out and taking them from him. “Oh, very well. But for the evening only.”
He watched as she put the emeralds on. It really was fun to dress and adorn her. Much more fun than it should have been, but perhaps he only enjoyed it because she resisted so strenuously. A truly proper lady would have taken offense at his doing anything for her at all except simper and declare his undying devotion. A harlot would simply take what he offered and maneuver to get more. If he’d heard the stories correctly, a wife would accept everything as her due and only bestow her favors with the utmost reluctance. Eve Stanhope managed to do things her own way, and a very intriguing way it was, too.
“Now, then,” she said, “what shall we steal tonight?”
“The Wonder of Basutoland.”
“Basutoland?” she repeated.
“Part of Cape Colony, in Africa. The area is rich in diamonds, and the Wonder is the finest ever found there.”
Her eyes took on a perfectly avaricious glow. “Won’t our hostess be wearing the thing around her neck?”
“Hardly. It’s an uncut stone.”
She cocked her head and looked at him as if she hadn’t quite heard what he’d said. “You want to steal an uncut stone?”
“Not just any uncut stone. I want to steal the Wonder of Basutoland.”
“What use could an uncut stone be to us?” she asked.
“Really, Miss Stanhope. Have you no vision? No sense of adventure?”
She didn’t answer that, unless one could call crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him an answer.
“It’s an enormous gem,” he said. “Half as big as your fist, and an almost perfect crystal. It ought to be in a museum, but instead Kent and his wife keep it in a modest safe in their home.”
“No one could sell a stone so easily recognized,” she said. “The duke could leave it on the buffet table for anyone to take, and it would be perfectly safe.”
“My partner shows a sorry lack of imagination,” he said and sighed with just enough melancholy to really nettle her. The ploy worked. Anger flashed in her eyes, and she lifted her chin again. If only she knew how feline the gesture made her look—like a small, sleek predator ready for battle. Well, cats could be made to purr, too. All that coiled energy could be put to better purpose, perhaps later this very evening.
She lifted an eyebrow and considered him. “A large stone could be cut into smaller gems, I suppose.”
“Of course, or I wouldn’t have stolen that American cattle baron’s emerald.”
“Oh,” she said from between deliciously pursed lips. “You stole that?”
“The Orchid Thief’s very first adventure.”
“That must have broken down into several valuable stones.”
And indeed, it would have, if he’d had it done. The thing still lay in one piece, hidden at home, but she didn’t have to know that. “The Wonder of Basutoland will produce even more saleable jewels than the emerald did.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“Of course, it will be a bit more difficult to steal.”
Her eyebrow came up again.
“It won’t be in the duchess’s boudoir but in a safe somewhere,” he said.
“A safe?” she repeated. “Somewhere?”
“I imagine so.”
“What safe?” she demanded. “Where are we going to find this safe, and how are we going to get the key?”
“Details, details, Miss Stanhope. The Orchid Thief never bothers with details.”
“Well, I do. I’m not doing this for fun, Lord Wesley,” she said, gesturing impatiently with her hands. “Why should I spend an entire evening searching for a safe so that I can steal a stone that will need to be cut into pieces before it can be sold? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Ah, here we are,” he declared. And, in truth, they had arrived at the Kents’ townhouse. The carriage rumbled up to the entrance and stopped. The house was aglow with candlelight, and the sounds of music and laughter floated to them from inside.
“We’ll talk about this later,” she said.
“And be overheard? I hardly think so.”
Just then, Tom opened the carriage door, making further conversation on the topic of larceny impossible. Miss Stanhope gave Philip one last parting glare and took Tom’s hand to climb out.
Eve survived the evening, as usual. She survived the petty conversations and thinly veiled curiosity about her arrival with Lord Wesley.
Eventually, however, Wesley disappeared and she found herself surrounded by the same assembly of suitors who’d followed the Princess Eugenia d’Armand ever since she’d arrived on the London season. Simpering idiots—every last one of them. One particular simpering idiot didn’t appear to be in attendance, fortunately. Her former employer truly didn’t move in the same circles with a duke. But Arthur might still show up at one of these parties some day, and it behooved her to keep her eyes open for his balding head and her ears attuned for his nasal voice.
“Thank heaven that bore Wesley’s gone,” Lord Neville Ormsby declared. “I can finally have you to myself, Princess.”
Eve glanced around. If by “to myself” he meant he wanted to share her with half-a-dozen other young swains, he’d gotten his wish.
“Take your place in line, Ormsby. The princess granted me this dance,” another of them said. Lord Charles something. What was the man’s name?
“You’re both wrong,” Aldensham proclaimed. “Now that I’ve dispensed with Wesley, the princess is all mine.”
She glanced at him from under her lashes—the fools seemed mesmerized by that ploy. “Lord Wesley? You have made him somehow to disappear?”
Aldensham took her hand, almost crushing it between both of his. “Would that I had that power. I’d make these other chaps follow Wesley into oblivion.”
“I say,” Ormsby replied. “Dashed unsporting of you.”
“I have to agree,” that Charles person said. “If Wesley’s thick-headed enough to wander off and leave the princess unattended, then she’s fair game for all of us.”
Fair game—what an image—like a trussed pheasant, hanging by its feet with its head swinging in the breeze. Where was that blasted Wesley? He was supposed to be pretending to be her escort.
Instead of Wesley, the man’s mother, Lady Farnham, appeared. “Well, there you are, Your Highness. I thought to find you with Philip.”
“He is—” Eve shrugged, “—not here.”
“I suppose he’s wandered off somewhere,” Lady Farnham said. “All the men in the family are distractible. It’s part of their charm.”
Maybe, but Eve would find him a lot more charming if he hadn’t left her alone with all these men and now his mother, too. Lady Farnham chose that moment to grasp Eve’s hand. “Let
’s go find my son, shall we?”
“But of course,” Eve said. At least that would get her away from her fawning admirers.
Lady Farnham led her across the ballroom, skirting the dancers and smiling absent-mindedly at an occasional blue blood who happened to catch her eye. She moved rapidly for a woman who had to be in her sixties. But then she had the same tall, straight bearing as her son, and no doubt the long legs to match. The deep blue satin of her gown rustled as she led Eve this way and that, craning her neck to see through the crowds. Dear God, Lord Wesley and his commandeering manners had been bad enough. Was Eve destined to be pulled around by the entire family?
Lady Farnham stopped abruptly as she spotted another older and very impressive lady seated a short distance away. “Oh, dear. The dowager duchess. I suppose she can’t be avoided.”
“What is this dowage…?” Eve said.
“The duke’s mother. Her sharp tongue most likely sent her husband to his grave. Still, she’ll be a good one for you to meet.” Lady Farnham snatched two glasses of champagne from a tray held by a passing servant and handed one to Eve. “Here. This will help.”
Eve took a healthy gulp of the sweet wine and swallowed against the bubbles.
“Right,” Lady Farnham declared. “Off we go.”
Lady Farnham took Eve by the elbow and led her in the direction of the dowager duchess. The action ran in the family, obviously, along with long fingers and even longer legs. Eve would have happily made do without all of them. But even dancing this now-familiar gavotte seemed preferable to confronting the sour-faced, squinty-eyed woman seated on a thronelike chair as stiffly as if she were the queen herself.
Lady Farnham stopped in front of the old harridan and dropped a curtsy. Eve didn’t. She was supposed to be royalty, and she wasn’t about to start curtsying.
“Your Grace, allow me to present the Princess Eugenia d’Armand of Valdastok,” Lady Farnham said.
The duchess screwed up her face as though she were sucking on something quite sour and scanned Eve from head to toe. “Foreign? Don’t think I approve of foreigners.”
“Enchantée, madame,” Eve said.