Emmy put both hands on the small of her back and arched her spine—the universal movement of a heavily pregnant woman trying to relieve the weight she carried in front—then took hold of the bottom of Sally’s ladder to steady it.
Luc had driven around Park Crescent late last night, flicking white, watery paint at several of the first-floor windows. This morning Sally and Emmy, happily disguised as itinerant window washers, were doing a brisk trade cleaning off the “pigeon droppings.”
Sally had excelled this time. Tied to Emmy’s waist by an ingenious series of straps and buckles was a pig’s bladder—thoroughly cleaned—filled with water. It gave the realistic appearance of a pregnant belly; the weight of it added to the authenticity of her posture.
Sally always said that for a disguise to be truly effective, the wearer must have an attitude to match. If you were supposed to be a ballet dancer, every movement, every action had to mirror that belief. You should keep your head up, chin high, be graceful. Conversely, if you were supposed to be a vagabond, you should hunch, and drag your feet, and scratch as if you had vermin. She’d learned such things from her days at the theatre.
Emmy felt very much like a woman who wanted to sit and relieve her aching feet. An apron tied over the top of her skirts added to her apparent bulk, as did the scratchy wig she wore beneath an unsightly bonnet that shielded her face.
Lady Carrington’s servants had been all too happy to delegate the task of window washing to Sally, who had turned herself into a strapping young lad. She was currently whistling tunelessly at the top of the ladder, gaily swiping at the “droppings” with a wet rag.
They’d done what they needed to do. While washing the back of the Carringtons’ house Sally had deformed one of the window latches just enough to prevent it from fully closing. Everything was set. Emmy had wanted to leave at once—Luc was waiting for them with the carriage just around the corner in Harley Street, but Sally had insisted they wash a few more windows along the street to allay suspicion.
Emmy cursed softly as a splash of water from Sally’s bucket landed squarely in her eye. It stung. Sally maintained the secret to a perfectly shiny window was vinegar in with the water.
“Get a move on!” Emmy muttered at Sally’s breeches-clad bottom.
Sally glanced down, and her white smile split the grimy oval of her face. “Almost done, missus.” She chuckled. “Don’t want to leave no streaks.”
Emmy cast a wary glance down the stately curve of Park Crescent. The row of elegant terraced houses had been designed by Prinny’s favorite architect, John Nash. They formed a gentle semicircle around a central green park. A couple of the upper-class residents were strolling along the well-kept paths toward the verdant swathe of Regent’s Park a little farther down the street.
Emmy ducked her head as she recognized Lord Denman, Chief Justice of the Court of Queen’s Bench, leaving his house. After the Lord Chancellor, Lord Denman was the second-most important judge in England. She had no intention of gaining his notice, either inside or outside a courtroom.
When she glanced up again, she almost swallowed her own tongue. Alex Harland was striding along the crescent, heading directly toward her. She pressed herself to the foot of the ladder with a whispered curse.
“It’s Harland!” she hissed.
Sally turned to look and gave an appreciative sigh from her elevated vantage point. “Good lord. Just look at those shoulders. Camille’s right, that man is—”
“Come on!” Emmy whispered.
He was almost upon them. Emmy ducked, bending over her large belly with difficulty, and nudged the bucket of water closer to the foot of the ladder, ostensibly to get it out of his way. She felt a swish of air behind her as he passed by and breathed a sigh of relief when he spared herself and Sally only the briefest glance. He turned into the gate of the Carrington residence.
Emmy’s palms began to sweat. She’d been right! He knew they were going to steal the ruby, although how, she couldn’t fathom. True, her father had once proclaimed the Nightjar’s intentions in print, but that had been sixteen years ago, back in Paris. How likely was it that Harland would have stumbled across something so obscure? And yet his sources must have managed to dig it up. How irritating.
Sally, finally, seemed to catch her urgency. She descended the ladder, tossed the wet rag in the bucket, and joined Emmy as she started to waddle down the street.
The pregnant woman was a good disguise, but it was useless for a speedy escape.
Emmy reached into her apron, flicked open the small folding knife she carried, and made a nick in the water-filled sack. She was immediately treated to a slow, unpleasant trickle of liquid leaking down her right leg. It soaked into her stocking, then slithered into her shoe. Her belly began to deflate. Still, better wet than arrested.
Still whistling, Sally put her arm solicitously around Emmy’s shoulders and bent her head as if murmuring something comforting.
“As soon as we’re ’round that corner, run,” she muttered.
Alex took the steps to the Carrington residence two at a time, then stopped halfway. Something niggled at him, a sniper’s sense that something wasn’t right.
He shot a glance down the street, wondering what had prickled his attention. A carriage rattled along. A child played with a yappy dog over in the park. And a tuneless whistling floated back to him from the young window washer who was escorting his pregnant wife along the road.
Alex frowned. The boy’s ladder was still propped up against the front of the house. The bucket was still there. Why were they leaving without their equipment? Alex narrowed his eyes. That boy had a suspiciously rounded pair of hips. And that pregnant woman seemed to be walking faster with every step.
He checked his pockets for his watch. Had he been pickpocketed? No.
Still suspicious, he bounded back down the steps and started after them.
“Hoi! Madam!”
The pair started walking faster. Neither of them looked around—a sure indication of guilt. Alex quickened his pace. They turned the corner. He broke into a trot.
He rounded the last house just in time to see the “pregnant woman” standing in a puddle of water, and suddenly as slim as a reed. Alex let out a shout. He heard a distinct feminine gasp as she hitched up her sodden skirts and bolted down the street in the wake of the shapely window washer.
He hastened in pursuit.
The two of them dodged nimbly through the pedestrians on Harley Street, dashed across the road in front of a draper’s cart, eliciting a flurry of abuse from the driver, and dived into a nondescript black carriage. The driver—an elderly cove with grizzled sideburns and an apparent hunchback—whipped the horses with a shout and the whole lot galloped off before Alex could catch up.
He stopped, panting, in the middle of the street and made use of every single swear word he’d ever learned. He hadn’t seen the woman’s face, but he was convinced that expectant mother had been Emmy Danvers.
Bloody, bloody hell.
The fact that she was here, quite clearly studying the location for her next crime, should have filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction. He’d correctly predicted where she would strike. He would catch her. He doubted she’d be sensible enough to abort the plan to steal the Carringtons’ ruby, even knowing he was close on her tail. Whatever her reasons—and he strongly suspected a touch of insanity at this point—she seemed unwilling to stop her larcenous hobby.
A wave of impotent fury balled his hands into fists as he stalked back to Park Crescent. Bloody woman! Could she not see how this would end? What did she think was going to happen when she was caught? That her pretty face and aristocratic name would protect her from the full weight of the English judiciary system? It would not.
The punishment for stealing was harsh. A person could be executed for taking anything worth more than five shillings, be that a handkerchief or a sheep. Did she think if she made those stardust eyes fill with tears that a judge would be moved to clemency? Would those irresistible lips spout lie after lie?
Alex shook his head. Or did she think that he would be the weak link? That she could somehow sway him from turning her in? A muscle ticked in his jaw. Did she plan to seduce him into letting her go? His groin throbbed in an enthusiastic yes!
God knew, he would be tempted.
He frowned, irritated at himself. No. He would not be swayed, however persuasive that sweet body and those glorious lips might be. The law was the law. Reason free from passion. Just as Aristotle said.
Half an hour later, having spoken to Lady Carrington, Alex had learned two things. One, that Lady Carrington deserved to have her ruby necklace stolen. When he’d asked to see where she kept her jewels, the woman had complied willingly; the endeavor required a trip to her bedchamber. Licking her lips—which were thin and not at all tempting in the way that Emmy Danvers’s lips were—she’d casually mentioned that her “incredibly dull” husband would be “away for hours at some stuffy parliamentary debate.” Perhaps Alex would like to see her newly redecorated boudoir? Alex had politely declined.
The second thing he’d learned was that the Carringtons’ neighbor, the Spanish Ambassador, would be holding his annual ball on Thursday night. Which meant the odds were high the Nightjar would use the crowds and confusion to strike.
Alex bounded down the steps with a spring in his step, his pulse thumping in anticipation. Emmy Danvers was going to get caught.