Emmy’s dress for the Ambassador’s ball was dark-blue silk, an exquisite French-inspired creation that skimmed her shoulders and waist before falling in artless swirls around her legs. It felt as decadent, as smooth, as double cream.
Sally had pinned her hair up in elaborate coils on the top of her head, with a trio of black feathers and a diamond-studded clip, which added inches to Emmy’s diminutive stature. The feathers matched her black satin gloves and ostrich-feather fan.
Camille also looked magnificent, very much “la Grande Dame” in a gown of pale-green brocade shot with gold thread that shimmered when she turned in the light. Her upswept hair highlighted her excellent bone structure and piercing blue eyes.
“Well, don’t we look marvelous?” Camille laughed, her eyes sparkling. “The men of London should guard their hearts tonight.”
“Let’s just hope Lady Carrington isn’t guarding her ruby,” Emmy muttered. “If she’s wearing it, we’ll have to come up with another plan.”
Luc, handsome in a black satin evening jacket, shrugged. “You’re good at improvising, Em. You’ll think of something.”
Park Crescent was teeming with carriages when they arrived. Light blazed through the open front door of the ambassador’s house as a stream of people waited to be admitted by the liveried servants. Since the Prince Regent was rumored to be attending, along with several of the royal dukes, members of the cabinet, and Wellington, a squadron of the Royal Horse Guards had been placed on duty in the street in case of any disturbance.
Emmy glanced over at the Carringtons’ house. As expected, only a few lights burned in the upstairs living quarters. Some of the staff had been given the night off, since they weren’t needed to attend to their master and mistress, and the rest were gathered in the basement kitchen, peering out between the railings to watch the fantastic creatures arriving next door.
As she ascended the staircase to the huge ballroom that occupied the front of the house, Emmy was relieved to catch a glimpse of Lady Carrington wearing a sparkling diamond choker. She’d left her rubies at home. Thank goodness.
Luc made his way to the room that had been set aside for cards and took a seat, while Emmy left Camille talking to some friends and made her way to the ballroom.
Couples, with elbows high and hands clasped, swirled around the inlaid wooden floor to the accompaniment of a string quartet playing Schubert. Conversations rose and fell in rhythmic cadences like the sea. Fans fluttered, jewels flashed, turbans bobbed. It was a dizzying, glorious spectacle. Emmy took up position between a decorative wooden pillar that had been painted to look like marble and a side table held aloft by a grotesque gilt dolphin.
She became aware of Harland when the back of her neck prickled in warning. His huge, warm body materialized behind her, a solid masculine presence impossible to ignore. He must have learned such tactics in the army; how to sneak up on an enemy unobserved. How to take advantage of the terrain and natural cover to gain an advantage.
She tamped down a delirious sense of anticipation. She’d known he would seek her out. His presence just added another level of excitement, of danger to the game. She had the feeling he would always be within arm’s reach. Was that a desirable thing or not?
His low voice came from over her shoulder. “Miss Danvers. Fancy seeing you here.” His tone was drier than a desert.
Her whole body seemed to light up, like a breathed-upon ember. “Lord Melton,” she said coolly.
Had she really kissed him senseless a few days ago? It seemed impossible. She wanted to do it again.
“Tell me one thing about yourself that very few people in this room know,” he said.
Emmy kept her gaze on the dancers. I’m a brazen, unrepentant jewel thief. She shouldn’t even be talking to him. Every piece of information might be used against her. But politeness won out.
“Very well. I enjoy discovering foreign words that have no direct English translation.” She glanced over her shoulder and caught his look of mild surprise. Any other woman would have told him she liked embroidery or playing the pianoforte or sketching.
“Hmmm.” The sound he made was encouraging, as if he’d received the pleasantly satisfying answer to a puzzle that had been plaguing him for some time. Emmy decided to elaborate.
“The French have several of them. L’esprit de l’escalier, for example. It literally means ‘staircase wit’ and is used to describe that perfect, clever retort you think of only after someone’s left and you’re going back upstairs.”
Harland smiled—a wide, genuine smile that lit his eyes—and her heart seized in her chest. His smile was a thing of beauty, something rare and wonderful. She wanted to make it appear again.
“Sortable is the adjective to use for friends and family members you can take out in public without fear of being embarrassed,” she said.
He was très sortable. Any woman would preen to have him on her arm.
Now that she’d started, Emmy couldn’t seem to stop. “The Scots have a good one: tartle. It’s that panicky hesitation just before you have to introduce someone whose name you cannot quite remember.”
“That is a good word,” he said. “I have definitely been tartled, on occasion.” He tilted his head, still not looking at her. “I’ve travelled extensively on the continent—Bonaparte’s unofficial Grand Tour. I must have picked up a few words to add to your collection. Let me think.”
He gazed out across the dance floor, apparently deep in thought, and Emmy stole a glance at the clean line of his jaw and firm lips. Her skin tingled.
“I have one,” he said finally. “See that annoying fellow over there? In mustard-yellow pantaloons.”
“Lord Eversleigh?”
“Indeed. The Germans have a word for him.”
She raised her brows in silent question.
“Backpeifengesicht,” he supplied.
“Bless you,” she said, straight-faced.
He shot her a chiding sideways glance. “It means ‘a face badly in need of a fist.’”
Emmy quelled a snicker of amusement. “Interesting.”
“The Russian soldiers I met had plenty of entertaining phrases too. Most of them were related to drinking. They have a whole host of words to convey various levels of intoxication. Soosh-nyak, for example, is that dry feeling you get in your throat when you wake up after a night of heavy drinking.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Emmy said virtuously. “But no doubt you’re intimately acquainted with the sensation.”
He ignored that little jibe. “They have another word that describes the disappointment of seeing a woman who appears pretty from behind but not from the front. I can’t remember what it is, though.”
“That’s very helpful,” she said with faint irony.
The realization of how much she was enjoying herself crushed her chest. This easy, teasing banter was a tantalizing glimpse of what could have been, had circumstances been different. But any friendship between the two of them was an impossibility. These brief, forbidden moments were all she could ever have.
The dance ended, and another set began to form. Harland stepped past her and caught her hand. “We should dance.”
She didn’t have time to voice an objection. He led her onto the dance floor and turned her neatly in his arms. The heat of his palm warmed through her glove where their hands were joined. His left hand settled easily at the small of her back.
She braced herself to look him in the eye, and the predictable flash of lightning sparked between them. What an unreasonable attraction.
His gaze rested for an instant on her mouth, then flitted away. Emmy was aware of curious glances being sent their way, a flurry of speculative whispers. Any woman with Alex Harland would be an object of envy. With his height and sinfully dark good looks, he was utterly compelling, and her heart fluttered at being the center of attention. The cattiest amongst them were probably wondering how a freckled little thing like her was dancing with a demigod like him.
“Wait, you don’t dance!” she recalled belatedly. “You haven’t danced since you returned from the Peninsular.”
His eyebrows rose, and she could have bitten off her tongue for betraying how much she knew about him. His lips quirked. “It’s true I haven’t danced, but that doesn’t mean I cannot do so. I’ve just chosen not to. Until now. I never found a suitable partner.”
Her pulse fluttered. What did that mean?
“You’ll have to help me, Miss Danvers,” he murmured. “I cannot see our joined hands, nor the couples in our periphery. If it looks as if we are about to cause a collision, do let me know.”
She glanced round in alarm. “Really, there’s no need. We should—”
“Afraid?” he taunted softly.
That did it. She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”
His chuckled exhale sluiced against her temple. He pulled her tighter into his embrace and squeezed her hand. “In that case, try to keep up.”
The music started, another Viennese waltz, and Emmy’s breath lodged in her throat. Her first steps faltered, but Harland spun her out and back into his embrace with consummate skill.
Had she truly imagined that he would be clumsy? His footwork was perfect, his body straight and tall. He seemed to be touching her everywhere: his hand at the small of her back, gently guiding, at her elbow, around her waist, sliding easily around her hip.
The ballroom dissolved into a breathless succession of dips and swirls, advance and retreat. Heat spread throughout her limbs. Her skin began to glow. Every nerve in her body was attuned to his presence. She wanted to press herself closer still, to feel the extraordinary breadth of his chest against her cheek, the rippled muscles of his stomach beneath her palms. The press of his mouth on hers.
No. No. No. She was becoming befuddled by his nearness. She couldn’t trust him an inch. He was here to catch her in the act of stealing the ruby. Why else would he have been at the Carringtons’ house two days ago?
Had he warned them? Had they moved the ruby? Was she about to walk into a trap?
She’d been plagued by visions of opening Lady Carrington’s jewelry case and finding nothing but a taunting black feather. Of turning to see Harland’s huge hands and triumphant face materializing from the darkness, blocking her only escape.
Last night, she’d awoken from a hot, confusing dream of being chased and caught, of being held against a rock-hard chest, her wrists manacled by unrelenting fingers. She’d been begging, sobbing, but for what? For freedom? For forgiveness? For more of that wicked, forbidden heat? She’d been simultaneously aroused and terrified.
She couldn’t wait until this was over. When Danton was appeased, she could start chasing her own desires, her own dreams. Except the only thing she’d ever truly desired was this man who’d stop at nothing to see the Nightjar brought to justice. Ha.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, you know.” Harland’s murmur jolted her back to the room.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do. You’re very good at hiding, aren’t you, Miss Danvers? You pretend to be stupider than you are. You disguise your beauty behind drab colors. But not tonight,” he conceded, flicking an appreciative glance down at the silk of her dress. “Tonight you look like a jewel, ripe for the plucking.”
She stepped on his toe in surprise. What a choice of words. Deliberate? Or mere coincidence? She didn’t believe in coincidence. Everything this man said had a deeper meaning.
He glared down at her as if he could see into her soul. As if every misdeed and wicked thought lay naked to his gaze. Emmy bit her lip against the insane urge to confess everything. Good lord, no wonder this man was so successful at Bow Street. He only had to look at a perpetrator to have them spilling their secrets.
He bent his head and his breath tickled her cheek. “A word of advice, Miss Danvers. Only play a game if you are certain you can win.”
“That’s an interesting comment, coming from a man who owns a gambling club.”
He shrugged. “An individual might encounter a streak of luck, it’s true, but sooner or later, that luck will run out. The odds are always stacked in the bank’s favor.”
Her own luck couldn’t possibly continue. But did he think she had any choice in the matter? She had to play the game. “I stand forewarned, my lord,” she said lightly.
The waltz ended on two final, joyously uplifting chords.
Enough. She needed to stop torturing herself with the pleasure-pain of his proximity and get on with the real business of the night.
“Thank you for the dance, my lord. And the advice.” She bobbed him a curtsey then sent him a sidelong look full of mock sympathy. “Oh dear. I see a whole raft of ladies expecting a waltz, now you’ve finally set foot on the dance floor. You’ve opened Pandora’s box.”
His alarmed glance at the flock of women hovering on the periphery of the room was a joy to see. Emmy used his momentary distraction to step away. She had a ruby to steal.