Harland’s timing was unfortunate.
Emmy, Luc, and Camille had just sat down to an early dinner so they could go and watch one of Sally’s friends, Molly, perform at the Haymarket Theatre.
An impatient pounding on the front door had Emmy and Camille glancing at one another in wide-eyed alarm. Emmy’s first thought was that it was Danton, come to demand not only the Rundell & Bridge diamond but also the blue one she’d stolen the previous night. Both lay on the white tablecloth between them.
Quick as a flash, Emmy seized the blue stone and dropped it into the bowl of soup in front of her. It was, thankfully, leek and potato, and therefore opaque. Beef consommé would have been a disaster. Camille, with a chuckle, did the same with the clear diamond. It made a distinct splash just as Sally reappeared in the doorway and announced, “Lords Melton and Mowbray to see you.”
Emmy was certain her face must be an incriminating shade of pink, but Camille merely dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and said loudly, “At this hour? How singular. Still, I suppose it must be something important.”
“Shall I put them in the salon, ma’am?” Sally asked.
“Heavens no. You may show them in here. If they will come visiting at dinnertime, they should expect people to be eating dinner.”
A wave of excitement that bordered on nausea rose up as Harland and his friend appeared in the doorway. Camille gave them both a radiant smile and batted her eyelashes. Emmy almost rolled her eyes. Sometimes her grandmother acted more like a girl of sixteen than a woman of seventy. “My lords, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Good evening, Countess. Danvers. Miss Danvers.”
Harland’s voice did fluttery things to her insides. Emmy tried to keep her eyes on the soup but failed. The instant she looked up, his blue gaze bored into hers, and she pressed her lips together to stop a completely inappropriate smile. He looked harried. Angry. Harassed. He’d definitely discovered the note, then.
Camille rose from her seat, and Emmy did the same. Luc, however, remained seated. “To what do we owe the pleasure, gentlemen?”
“I apologize for interrupting your dinner.” Harland swept the table with a brief glance and Emmy quelled the urge to cover her soup bowl with her napkin. He made a motion with his hand. “Please, sit down.”
Camille sank back into her chair, as did Emmy, although she would have preferred to remain standing. Harland loomed over her at the best of times. There was no need to add to the height difference.
“I was wondering if I might have a brief word with Miss Danvers?”
Luc’s eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted.”
“We met at the British Museum yesterday,” Camille supplied brightly.
“And what do you wish to speak to her about?” Luc asked, in the tone Emmy had long ago christened his protective-big-brother voice.
Harland shot her an indecipherable glance from under his lashes. “This is not a social call. I’m sorry to report that shortly after Miss Danvers and the countess visited the museum, it fell victim to the thief known as the Nightjar. A stone of some considerable value was stolen from one of the galleries.”
Camille made a convincing little gasp of shock. “Oh, dear. But what can that possibly have to do with us?”
“I have reason to believe that the thief may have been present in the museum at the same time as you, preparing for the heist.”
Emmy bit her lip. He knew. He knew it was her. He was just playing with them, like a cat with a mouse.
“I was hoping you might be able to furnish us with descriptions of the other visitors you encountered.”
Camille nodded. “Of course. We would be delighted to help. But my memory is not what it once was. I’m sure Emmy will be able to provide you with a more complete list of those she remembers.”
Emmy shot her a furious glance. She didn’t want to give Harland an example of her handwriting. She’d made some effort to disguise it when she’d penned that taunting note, but why give him something with which to make a comparison? He might use it as evidence.
“We’ll send it over to Bow Street tomorrow,” Camille said. “Will that be all?”
“There is one more thing,” Harland said silkily. “I was wondering if I might visit Miss Danvers’s bedchamber.”
Luc glowered at him. “I fail to see what bearing that could have on your investigation, Lord Melton.”
Harland gave him a smile that was both innocent and, to Emmy’s mind, utterly diabolical. He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew two familiar black feathers. “The Nightjar left these at his last two crimes.”
He lifted them to his nose and inhaled, and Emmy felt a cold wave of dread sweep over her.
“They have a very distinctive scent. Almost like a woman’s perfume. When I met Miss Danvers yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice that her perfume is very similar to that of these feathers. A happy coincidence, you might say.”
Emmy narrowed her eyes. A happy coincidence, my arse. He knew. But at least he wasn’t accusing her of being the Nightjar directly. Not yet, anyway.
“I had no idea you had such an excellent nose, Lord Melton,” Luc said acidly.
Harland’s smile was wicked. “I daresay I’ve had some experience in recognizing female perfumes.”
She didn’t want to know about his experience with other women, the fiend.
“If Miss Danvers would be so kind as to show me the scent she uses, I’ll know what I’m looking for. It may be that the Nightjar is, in fact, a woman.”
“It could just be a man who gets his feathers from a woman’s fan or headpiece,” Camille suggested. “What are they, anyway? Ostrich feathers?”
Harland stroked them back and forth along his jaw. Emmy couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing sight. There was something horribly sensual about it.
“I believe ostrich feathers are larger. These are goose feathers, dyed black. Unfortunately, they’re too common to track down their source. They’re used in everything from pillows to hats. But the scent is rather distinctive. Identifying this particular perfume might well be the key to identifying the culprit.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. She should have listened to her father. She’d never imagined feathers could absorb scent to such a degree. Or that Harland would have such a delicate nose.
Emmy finally found her voice. “Of course. If you’ll just excuse me, I’ll ask Sally to go and get a bottle of my perfume from my room.”
Camille shot her a wicked, laughing look. “Oh, Sally’s far too busy in the kitchen. You go, Emmy dear.”
Emmy and Luc shot her identical incredulous stares. Surely Camille wasn’t matchmaking at a time like this? But one glance at her grandmother’s wide smile and sparkling eyes confirmed it. The woman was meddling.
“Well, we can’t let Lord Melton go, can we?” Camille said with mock innocence. “That would be most unseemly, to have a gentleman poking around in your drawers.”
Emmy glared at her for the deliberate innuendo.
Wolff, Harland’s companion, smiled broadly, and Emmy had a sudden vision of Harland searching through her very French, very lacy underthings. The thought of those big hands touching the delicate silk of her negligees made her feel molten inside. She stood with a decisive motion. “All right, then.”
Harland watched her every move as she rounded the end of the table. He and Wolff stepped aside so she could pass through the door.
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.”