by Riley Cole
While plans could be refined to the slightest degree, and steps measured to the second, human beings had an unfortunate tendency to muck about at the worst possible times. That being a certainty, even her secondary plans had secondary plans.
At least the man had the sense to invest in a proper safe. He had to be one of the first in the city to install the delightful Dreadstone Superior model.
She couldn’t wait to get her hands on it.
Ooof. A sharp elbow to the back shoved her even closer to the glass case guarding the priceless artifact.
Far from living up to its billing as the most honored guest at the ball, the little statuette looked tired. And rather bemused. Not so differently from the way she herself felt about the whole ridiculous crush.
She leaned closer to the case, careful not to press her nose against the thick glass as she studied the delicate artistry.
“Don’t go getting too attached to ‘er, now, Miss Sweet.” A short man at her left elbow spoke quietly. “Word has it the Jonquil’s got his eye on that pretty thing.”
Meena stiffened. “Yes, well the Jonquil generally has his eye on quite a lot of pretty things, doesn’t he?”
The elderly thief snorted. “If that isn’t the truth.” He laid a bony hand on her arm. “I know he was soft on you awhile past, but it wouldn’t do to cross him. There’s plenty more sparkly bits in this jumped up hall for the taking.”
Meena watched her old acquaintance study the crush of guests, clearly calculating the price of every expensive necklace, pocket watch, tiara, and bracelet within reach.
She snatched a shrimp toast off the tray of a passing waiter. “No need to concern yourself, Mr. Tandish. I have no intention of stepping on Spencer Crane’s toes. Indeed, I am most hopeful I will never see those toes again.”
“You always were a sensible thing.” Tandish nodded absently and wandered off after a large matron with an even larger diamond pendant glittering beneath her chins.
“I would, however, most terrifically enjoy stomping up and down on them a few times, should the occasion arise,” Meena confessed to her new Egyptian friend.
Before she could raise the canapé to her mouth, it was lifted from her fingers. “Much thanks for the warning.”
Meena seemed to float right out of her body. She’d imagined this meeting a thousand times.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t imagined herself to be unarmed.
Meena glared down at Spencer Crane’s highly polished boots. She took slow, even breaths, just as she had practiced so very many times in the event of just such an occasion. “That would be most excellent advice, Crane.”
The man grinned and popped her canapé into his mouth. She could only hope the shrimp had gone off hours ago. How terribly unfair that his looks had not.
She studied him as he chewed. Still tall, still broad shouldered and slim-hipped, and that mouth… still unspeakably kissable.
A one-man bundle of utter destruction.
The man was built to please women. To plunder their mouths with sinful kisses. To run those beautiful hands over their bodies until they cried out in passion. And then, in the end, to crush their hearts to dust.
Crane brushed an imaginary crumb from his waistcoat. “You look well, Meena.”
“Nice of you to say.” Liar.
If she weren’t exquisitely aware that he preferred a far different sort of female, she could almost convince herself that his eyes sparkled with interest.
Oh, she fancied up well enough, but Meena didn’t fool herself into thinking she could compare with the wealthy wicked women swirling about the room with their diamonds and rouge.
She could play one well enough. But she couldn’t be one. Meena had enough self-honesty to admit she lacked their love of the hunt. Their preoccupation with sensuality. Their willingness to subordinate all to win a man.
“You’ll excuse, me?” She moved to plunge into the surging crowd, hoping to lose herself in the sea of pastel satin.
Crane grabbed her wrist. “You should heed Tandish. Blackborough’s not a man to trifle with.”
Meena pulled out of his grasp and blinked up at him as if she hadn’t a brain in her head. “Oh? Do tell.”
The rueful smile that played at the corners of his mouth was just the sort of thing that would have sent her heart aflutter four seasons past. Now it made her want to slap him.
“Just this once, Meena, don’t be so blindingly stubborn.”
“And leave this little gem for you? I think not.” All the better if he, too, thought she was after the figurine.
Crane caressed the corner of the case. “I’ll have to get it first, then.” His supreme arrogance would have been stunning in a less-talented thief.
Meena laughed. “Best of luck to you.”
His thin smile bloomed into an all out grin. “I never need luck.”
How maddeningly true. Meena wanted to kick him. Instead, she studied the room, searching out the large case clock on the wall opposite the overwrought orchestra.
Exactly time. “Sadly, Crane, I must be going.” She turned away.
“You used to call me Spencer.”
Meena paused. Her fingers crushed the sleek green satin of her scandalous new gown. She refused to acknowledge the way his soft voice squeezed her heart. “I used to do a lot of silly things. Good bye, Crane.”
Her back prickled as she fought her way through the chaotic tide of ruched silks, bustled satins, and dark, tailored evening coats to the far side of the ballroom. Someday, he’d have no power over her. His smile would have no effect on her pulse. His seductive gaze would fail to make her breath catch. His mere presence would in no way command every ounce of her attention.
She fussed with the pins holding her hair up in the Grecian style Briar had so carefully created. The slender lock picks remained in place, artfully twisted into her coiffure. Putting Crane firmly out of mind, Meena tried to visualize each step she’d need to take once she made it into Blackborough’s study. Her fingers twisted right, then left, then right again, as if she could already feel the safe’s lock giving way.
But her mind strayed. She risked a quick glance back toward the artifact.
The glass case stood alone next to the orchestra, tall and stiff and unaccompanied, like the other wallflowers.
He’d moved on.
The fact was more deflating than it should have been. Of course, he had. With so very many hungry wives and bored widows to choose from, it would take him all night to make a selection.
Damnation, but her new gown itched. She squirmed her shoulders around as much as she dared in the low-cut dress. Better torture by tickling than torture by Spencer Crane.
Over the loud mix of music and laughter, Meena caught the clock striking midnight. She glanced back across the room. Briar, in her black and white maid’s costume, had maneuvered herself between the orchestra and the artifact.
Exactly as they had rehearsed.
If all went to plan, they’d end the evening by saving a young man’s career.
Then, maybe, she could get about the business of forgetting Spencer Crane.
Again.
The two young lords were blazingly drunk—and far too close to the door of Blackborough’s study for Meena’s comfort.
But for the drunken party goers, the hallway was empty. For the moment. Hands fisted on her hips, she blew out a sharp breath. Edison would be cutting off the gas to Blackborough’s bloated mansion any moment.
She eyed the flame in the wall sconce above her head. Was it already dimming? The instant the light failed, she needed to get through that door. A tiny fission of fear, like the smallest prick of a knife, crawled up her neck.
She resisted the urge to cosh the pickled lordlings on the head.
“Thish is a bang up row,” the taller one observed.
His companion was busy loosening his cravat. “Tip top,” he agreed, and staggered backwards as if struck by a giant gust of wind.
Brandy fumes sharp eno
ugh to burn her eyes rolled off the pair. This had not been one of the contingencies she’d anticipated.
“B’lieve I’ll take a lil’ rest now.”
As she watched in horror, the first lordling stumbled back against the door. By the time he slid to the ground, he was unconscious.
Swaying alarmingly, his companion bent forward to examine him. “Harrington?” He gave the man’s chest a hearty poke.
The lights in the hallway flickered.
Meena yanked the neckline of her gown even lower and hurried toward the pair. “Oh, Harrington, there you are, you goose.” She nudged the fallen man’s leg with her foot. “Harrington?” At her prodding, the man’s head rocked slightly on his rubbery neck.
She frowned up at his companion, affecting a spoiled pout. “He promised he would meet me in the garden. It was terribly difficult to get away from Mama. She’s constantly on the lookout for fortune hunters.” For added effect, she toyed with her diamond necklace.
The man blinked for a long moment. “I—” He cleared his throat and started again. “I could meet y-you in th’ garden.”
She bit her lower lip and trailed a finger down the man’s chest. “Would you?”
Though she barely touched him, he staggered to the side. “Be my pleasure, Miss…?” His unfocused eyes scanned her face.
“Wollstonecraft.” She squeezed his fingers. “Mary Wollstonecraft.”
“I’ll meet you in a tick, Mish Woll… Miss W.… Miss.” He glanced around the deserted hallway. “I jesh need the ah… ah….”
“I believe the facilities are that way.” Meena gestured back toward the ballroom.
The man tottered off just as the lights flickered out.
Meena squatted next to the unconscious man and gave him a hearty shove. He toppled sideways, his crumpled body leaving just enough space for her to get around him.
A quick check of the doorknob told her the study was locked. Exactly as she had anticipated. She pulled her lock picks out of the curls coiled atop her head and slid the first into the keyhole. Two quick twists of the second and the door popped open.
Meena slipped inside and clicked the lock shut behind her. She shook her head. One would think a criminal mastermind like Blackborough would invest in finer security.
Unless he relied on his reputation for butchery to keep his possessions safe.
The thought made her heart thump hard against her ribs.
Though she’d been prepared for complete darkness, she couldn’t help trying to blink it away. An acrid note of stale cigar smoke and the lighter, softer scent of polished leather spoke of a man’s room. A center of power. Of fear.
She rested there, her back against the closed door and calmed her mind, visualizing the layout of the room as she’d seen it the week before. Straight ahead was Blackborough’s desk, built into the wall behind it, the safe. The man hadn’t even bothered to conceal it. It was nestled into the paneling behind his great behemoth of a desk, not even a bad painting hung over the door.
Even in the complete darkness, she could picture the unique lock of the Dreadstone Superior.
Her fingers twitched. She’d been dying to try one.
Outside the thick door, voices rose in confusion as darkness filled every corner of the great house. Edison had played his part to perfection.
Careful not to make a sound, she felt her way across the room and around the desk. The large dial of the Dreadstone was cold to the touch, but it spun smoothly beneath her fingers. A magnificent piece of machinery.
“What happened to the lights?” Voices, sharp with confusion, sounded out in the hallway. “Bring candles. Quickly.”
She had but seconds.
Meena reached back into the hidden pocket of her bustle and extracted her stethoscope and the faux journal. Then she closed her eyes and began the calming mantra she’d used so many times to focus her concentration.
A breath in. A breath out. A breath in.
As it always had, the energy began flowing from her very center, through her shoulders, down her arms, out to the ends of her fingers.
She seated the ear pieces of the stethoscope in her ears and pressed the diaphragm to the door of the safe. A moment’s pause allowed her ears to adjust to the tiny sounds now coming from the instrument. The piece was sensitive enough to pick up the sound of the blood flowing through her fingers. Once acclimated to the background noise, she spun the dial ever so slowly to the right. The first tumbler fell in to place with the barest click and a lessening of tension that she could feel in her sensitive fingertips.
“Find out what’s going on!” Blackborough’s cigar-roughened voice came from just outside the door. “Now!”
Fear squeezed her chest, making her heart pump harder, making it difficult to hear the subtle scrape of metal on metal that helped her find the combination. The energy focussed in her fingertips zinged through Meena’s body like an electrical current, almost making her lightheaded. She took her fingers off of the dial. What had she been thinking? Blackborough was the biggest crime lord in London. In the whole of England, more like. What a man like that would do to her if he found her now…
But he wouldn’t. She was mere seconds away from finishing the job.
A breath in. A breath out. A breath in.
Blackborough’s heavy footsteps faded down the hall, a host of lighter steps following. Meena blew out a long, deep breath and pressed the stethoscope back to the door of the safe. A quick spin to the left and the second tumbler fell. With utter deliberation, she moved the dial once again to the right, alert for the feel of the final tumbler dropping.
A body slammed against the outer wall of the study, making her jump. “Blazing hell.” The curse escaped her mouth before she could stop it.
She backed away from the safe and took another deep, calming breath. And another. In. Out. In. Out.
The energy moved back into her fingertips, and her breathing calmed enough for her to hear the safe’s mechanism moving as she turned the dial one last time.
And done.
The final tumbler gave way. With a sharp, downward pull of the handle, the door swung silently open.
She pulled the earpieces of the scope out of her ears and let the instrument fall around her neck like a necklace, then she patted the inside of the safe, feeling for the journal. There, atop what felt like a thick stack of bank notes, her fingers grazed it. She lifted the palm-sized book out of the safe. With the other hand, she scooped up the fake she’d set on the desk.
“I’ll take that.”
Meena lashed out, her body reacting before she had time to think. The spine of the journal connected with something hard, eliciting a gratifying grunt of pain.
“Damn it all to bleeding hell.” The voice was strangely muffled.
Meena shoved at the intruder’s chest, meaning to throw him off balance and run.
And then she froze, a book in each hand. That voice. That mix of Talbot’s Lime Elixir. Licorice. Pure man.
“Crane?”
“My nose. I think you broke it.”
Tension drained from her body, only to be replaced by a hot rush of righteous anger. “It would entertain me greatly to be so fortunate.”
A match flared to life. Meena blinked against the sudden light. She thrust the real journal behind her back, feeling desperately for the hidden pocket in her bustle. A corner of the book snagged the opening, and she dropped it into place.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “The artifact’s in the ballroom.”
“Yes, I know.” He took the slightest step toward her.
Meena held her ground. Shock, anger, and a great deal of annoyance swirled through her like a toxic fog. She’d expected him here. Well, not here, exactly. At the ball, of course. With a prize like Blackborough’s statue for the taking, why wouldn’t he be? But what was he doing in the study, besides irritating the living tar out of her?
She glared at him. “What’s here that’s worth more than Blackborough’s new
toy?”
He pointed at the decoy journal.
She snatched it up and took a healthy step back. “Too late.”
A great sigh escaped him. Slowly, carefully, he wiggled his nose.
And then he lunged for her.
Meena scrambled backwards, cursing herself for all kinds of a fool. She should have fled the instant she smashed him in the face. He was quick and strong and —as she had great cause to know— entirely ruthless when it came to getting his way.
And she needed to put the new journal back in the safe.
Her free hand grazed the heavy leather desk chair. Another step back put it between them. With a great whoosh of air, she blew out the match, yanked the chair out from behind the desk, and shoved it at Crane.
“Ouch! Damn it, Meena, that was my shin.”
“Come any closer and it’ll be something much worse.” She raced for the safe, but her foot caught on the corner of an end table, sending her sprawling.
She clawed at the rug, trying to push herself up.
“Don’t take this so hard.” He was inching toward her, as if time was of no import, as if he were a tiger stalking its prey. “I’m doing this for a client. I’ll give you a cut. You know that.”
“I most certainly do not know that.”
Meena managed to get her feet under her and sprang up, just as Crane crashed into her from behind. She sprawled across the floor next to the desk, the air forced from her lungs as he fell atop her with an oath.
But she still had the journal. “Get off me,” she commanded.
“I think not.” He let the weight of his body press her further into the floor. “I rather like it here.”
She wasn’t sure she liked the tinge of surprise she detected in his voice. Grunting with effort, Meena folded the arm holding the book beneath her chest. “You are exceedingly vulgar.”
His laughter rippled through her. “Not all women believe that to be a bad thing.”
Her cheeks flamed. It was a bad thing. A terrible, awful thing. A thing that had brought her nothing but trouble.