Chapter Six

HE EXHALED A LONG, HOT BREATH AND HESITATED before taking another, knowing it would be stale and reeking of camphor.

He wished to hell Lady Pembroke’s maid had not been quite so diligent in her application of the foul-smelling compound, which was supposed to keep moths from attacking the woolen clothes and furs that had been relegated to that wardrobe for the summer. He began to count, timing how long he could go without air. Boredom had driven him to practice this trick while he waited, and he was actually becoming quite good at it. He flexed his fingers a half dozen times, fanning and rippling the appendages like a pianist. Then he slowly rotated his wrists, his shoulders, his neck, encouraging the flow of blood to the stiff, aching muscles. After his upper body had been sufficiently exercised he focused his attention on the lower, flexing the complex structure of bones in his feet and ankles, tightening and releasing the muscles of his calves and thighs, shifting his weight from one hip to the other in an effort to ease the tension that had mounted over the hours in his back. He wanted to crack the wardrobe door open to let in a hint of cooler air, but his unyielding discipline would not permit it.

Victory was in the details.

It was a lesson his father had taught him, and it was a lesson he had learned well. The door to the guest room he had chosen could open any time, as Miss Kent had so aptly demonstrated several nights earlier, revealing some earnest maid or footman who had been directed to fetch something, or to prepare the chamber for an unexpected guest, or to open the window to create more ventilation in the night’s stifling summer heat. If a servant noticed the door to the wardrobe was ajar, that might entice him or her to walk over and inspect it.

Better to endure the heat.

His lungs were burning now, protesting their lack of oxygen. A painful band of pressure cinched his body, creating a pounding of hot blood in his face and skull as he fought the impulse to breathe. He could feel the veins of his neck swell and pulse in protest, the ramming of his heart against the muscled wall of his chest, the painful pleas of his rib cage as it struggled to fill itself. Breathe, his body urged, begging him to succumb to his weakness. His head was pounding and his ears rang with the sick, dizzying pressure of his lungs and veins and arteries. The darkness was getting heavier and he could no longer hear anything beyond a distant roar.

Just a few more seconds. Just a few more…

His body contorted like the lash of a whip and his mouth flew open, greedily inhaling a long draft of the wardrobe’s sweltering air. He sucked it in quickly, efficiently, silently. After a moment, his lungs sufficiently sated, he sat back once again, no longer focused on the musty heat or the uncomfortable lack of space. He had managed to push himself beyond his previous limit without taking a breath.

It was a good sign.

He shifted his head from side to side, releasing the tension in his neck and upper spine, then held himself perfectly still, listening. It had been at least an hour since Lord and Lady Pembroke had departed in their carriage. In that time the servants had relegated themselves to the tasks that were required of them before their employers returned. Lady Pembroke’s maid had likely tidied her mistress’s bedchamber, straightening up and putting away all the brushes and pins and pots of cosmetics that had been pulled out to make her ladyship presentable. She had then probably arranged Lady Pembroke’s dresser, emptied the slops from her washbasin and chamber pot, turned down her bed, laid out her night clothes, and put out the lamps. The evening was sufficiently hot that a fire would not be needed, so that had ended her responsibilities for the evening—at least until her ladyship returned. She would be summoned again at three or four in the morning to light the lamps, help her ladyship take off her gown, hoops, and corset, unpin her hair, remove and put away her jewelry, bring her fresh water for washing, and once again remove any slops. Until then, she would join the other members of the household downstairs in the kitchen, where they would share a meal, drink a little ale or gin, and gossip voraciously about their employers.

It was time for him to go to work.

He silently pushed open the wardrobe door, listening carefully. He heard nothing except the distant sound of raucous laughter. Obviously the servants had opened the gin. Good. He extracted himself from the wardrobe and stood a moment, letting his body adjust to the sudden profusion of space. Once he was certain he could move without stumbling, he stole along the richly patterned carpet and went to the door. He turned the handle slowly, carefully, preparing for a squeaking protest from either the knob itself or from the hinges on which the door rested. But some diligent servant had kept the hardware well oiled, and the door swung open in cooperative quiet.

He crept along the hallway to Lady Pembroke’s bedchamber and pressed his ear against the door. Silence. He glanced down at the narrow strip of space beneath the door and the floor. Darkness. He laid his hand on the door handle and carefully eased the door open, hoping that the same conscientious servant had doused the hinges of this one with oil as well. They had.

He slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he went directly to the window drapes, opened them, unlocked the window, then quietly eased it open. Because of the Dark Shadow’s activities many of the wealthiest households in London had recently taken to locking their windows at night, despite the oppressive summer heat, as a way of protecting themselves. But the days were long and stifling, and since it would be unendurable to do otherwise, the windows remained open then. That gave him ample opportunity to slip inside before evening fell, and find some out-of-the-way niche in which he could hide. No one suspected the Dark Shadow might actually be lurking within their home for hours before he actually stole anything.

He glanced down at the narrow balcony below the window with its handsome stone balustrade, and the one after that, quickly assessing how he would creep along them to get to the Corinthian column that rose along the side of the front entrance. Once he reached it he would climb down, then jump below the street level to the area just in front of the kitchen door. Hidden from view he would remove his mask and cap and don the expensive hat and coat he had left wrapped in a bundle in the corner. Then he would light a cigar and calmly walk home, looking like nothing more than a perfectly respectable gentleman out for a stroll on a hot summer evening.

He moved to Lady Pembroke’s dressing table, which was now bathed in the faint wash of moonlight streaming in through the window. An elegant arrangement of crystal jars and bottles were neatly grouped beside an engraved sterling silver brush, mirror, and comb set. No jewelry chest. Unperturbed, he began to methodically search each of her drawers.

Nothing.

Growing slightly irritated, he looked about the room. It wasn’t on her night table, or on the elegantly carved writing desk situated in one corner of the boudoir. Obviously his thefts were having an effect on how the rich ladies of London stored their precious baubles. He stalked over to the bed, lifted the edge of the silk embroidered coverlet and felt under the mattress. Nothing.

He dropped to his knees and swept his arm beneath the bedstead, searching. It wasn’t there.

He stood and gazed about the room, trying to think where else Lady Pembroke might have hidden her jewelry chest before going out. The excessively carved doors of her wardrobe caught his attention. Of course. She probably thought no one would think to search for jewelry in that ornate monstrosity. He moved toward it swiftly, eager to find the magnificent ruby-and-diamond necklace she had been wearing the previous night at the Marstons’ ball. He knew she and her husband were only attending a small dinner party on this particular evening. He was counting on her vanity to have kept her from wearing the very same jewelry. No self-respecting woman of affluence wanted people to think her husband could only afford to give her one decent necklace. He grasped the handle of the wardrobe and silently eased it open.

A pair of booted feet rammed into his stomach, sending him flying back like an arrow.

“Good evening,” drawled his attacker. “I was beginning to worry that maybe you weren’t coming after all.”

He inhaled a deep breath, fighting to master the pain in his gut, and looked up to see a veritable duplicate of himself standing over him. The man’s face and hair were completely hidden by a black mask and cap. The rest of his clothes were dark, making him barely a shadow in the thinly lit room.

“I believe you are looking for this.” His attacker reached into his own pocket and withdrew Lady Pembroke’s glittering ruby necklace. “And no wonder—it really is a spectacular piece. As someone who also appreciates the splendor of fine jewelry, I must commend you on your exceptional taste. I imagine it was at the Marstons’ ball that you first noticed it, wasn’t it?”

He regarded his assailant warily, saying nothing. He was not about to reveal himself because this reflection of him felt like chatting.

“You’ve been rather busy these past few months, haven’t you?” the man continued. “Breaking into houses all over London, slipping in and out like a ghost. It’s really been quite impressive. Unfortunately, however, your career as a jewel thief is over.” He dropped the necklace into his pocket, then pulled a length of rope from the other one. “Now be a good burglar and give me your hands.”

He sat up slowly, obligingly holding his fists together at the wrists. His captor bent to secure them with a rope.

Enabling him to smash both his fists into the arrogant prick’s face.

The blow was hard, but so was his assailant. His head snapped back as his hands shot forward, grabbing him by his shoulders. A fist drove into his jaw, cracking his teeth together which such force he staggered into Lady Pembroke’s writing desk. The delicately carved piece collapsed, smashing everything upon it. The acrid smell of kerosene from a shattered oil lamp filled the room. He knew in a moment or two the servants would come running. His assailant was on him again, growling with rage. He fought him hard, but his attacker was powerful and equally determined. They both went crashing to the floor, each scrambling to gain the advantage. Agitated voices were in the corridor now. He clawed ferociously at his would-be captor, tearing off his black cap and mask in the process.

“Bryden!” The word escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

Harrison’s hand clamped around the Dark Shadow’s wrist like a manacle, refusing to let him escape. “You can’t get away,” he grated out furiously. “It ends here.”

The Dark Shadow relaxed slightly, his shoulders slumped in apparent defeat. He finally had him, Harrison thought, triumphant. It was over. The rush of adrenaline that had filled him a moment earlier began to seep away, making him acutely aware of every aching muscle and bone. He really was getting too goddamn old for this. Now he had to somehow explain his presence to the servants…

A blade whipped across his hand, slicing open his glove and the skin beneath. His hand contracted in a spasm of pain, causing him to let go.

“It’s over for you, Bryden,” the man snarled. “Not me.” He drove his knee with savage force into Harrison’s testicles.

Stars exploded all around him. For a moment he thought he would vomit. Instead he collapsed to the floor beside the bed, curled up like an infant and equally helpless.

The Dark Shadow pulled Lady Pembroke’s necklace from Harrison’s pocket and flew to the window.

“Stop, thief!” roared a servant from the doorway, unable to see Harrison as he pointed a quivering pistol at the figure in the window.

The escaping thief did not hesitate. He hurled his blade at the man, sending the speeding shaft directly into the poor servant’s chest.

The pistol fired and a shower of plaster rained from the ceiling as the injured servant crumpled to the floor.

The Dark Shadow did not look back. With the agile grace of a cat he leapt over the windowsill and disappeared from Harrison’s sight.

Harrison looked over to see the groaning man lying upon the floor, a scarlet stain weeping through the white of his shirt. There was nothing he could do for him, he realized bleakly, except pray the other servants would be able to fetch a doctor quickly. He had to get the hell out of there himself, before he was arrested for murder.

He dragged himself off the floor and staggered to the window, then heaved a leg over the sill.

“Oh, my God—help!” shrieked a voice behind him as another servant ventured fearfully into the room. “Murder!! Murder!!”

Harrison did not look back. He moved clumsily along the narrow stone balcony in front of the window, then grunted as he shifted to the next one. He awkwardly made his way down part of the column beside the door, then gave up on the thing and jumped. His body crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, sending a streak of pain up one knee. He forced himself to get up and quickly limped down the street, then rounded a corner.

He did not know which direction the Dark Shadow had taken, and at that point, he didn’t give a damn. He began to thread his way through the dimly lit streets, listening as the agitated shouting and screaming behind him grew fainter.

He would head toward Drury Lane, he decided, breathing heavily. It was always noisy and crowded at that time with dozens of people spilling in and out of taverns. No one would notice him there, not even in his current unkempt, staggering condition. If anything, he would fit right in. He would buy a drink and wait a while before hiring a carriage to take him home. The driver would give him at least some semblance of an alibi for part of the evening, should the need arise.

He thought it unlikely that either of the two servants who had burst into the room had seen his face clearly, but prudence demanded that he take precautions just the same. He had to be careful. The Dark Shadow had recognized him, which meant the bastard had the advantage.

Now he was the one who would be hunted.