It was easy enough to slip into the library at the back of the house. The room, although not officially open to guests, had not been locked. Emmy unlatched the tall doors that opened onto the narrow wrought-iron balcony and slipped through. The cool night air brought goose bumps to her skin.
Below her, the indistinct shapes of well-tended trees and bushes disappeared into the darkness of the garden. She clutched the rail and forced herself to look down. To her right, only a few feet away, an identical balcony belonging to the Carringtons protruded from the dressed stone. Pushing down a wave of nausea, she lifted her skirts and climbed over the metal rail. It was cold, even through her gloves.
She hated heights.
The French had a phrase, l’appel du vide, “the call of the void.” She felt it, always, that intrinsic urge to jump from high places, despite her fear.
With a heart-stopping stretch, she reached over and caught the other railing, first with her hand, then her left foot. For an awful moment she froze, suspended like a starfish over the drop, one foot and one hand on each balcony. The sudden ridiculous thought of someone happening to come outside and glance up—they would see right up her skirt to her scandalous navy silk underthings—made her stifle a snort of nervous laughter.
A push, a lurch, and she transferred her weight to the opposite side and climbed gratefully over the rail. It would have been a lot easier if she’d been able to wear her breeches, but the cut of her dress had not allowed for her to wear them underneath.
There. Worst bit over.
Her palms were damp inside her gloves but the window catch Sally had bent out of shape ensured the window opened easily. Emmy strained her ears, listening for any hint of sound from within, but heard nothing. She slipped through the narrow window.
The Carringtons’ house was a mirror image of the ambassador’s, but their library didn’t have half as many books. Every one of her senses stretched as she made her way through the house. What trap had Harland laid for her? Since he himself was still on the dance floor, he couldn’t be lying in wait, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t arranged for other Bow Street agents to be here.
Emmy crept forward, studying every lumpy sofa, every suspiciously billowing curtain, but failed to detect any other presence. Her blood was a pounding rush in her ears as she crept up the stairs to Lady Carrington’s bedroom.
The ruby was exactly where Luc had said it would be, in a red leather–covered box at the back of the armoire. The key, as promised, under the Meissen parrot on the mantel. How Luc had discovered this information Emmy had no idea, but since Lord Carrington was known to turn a blind eye to his wife’s blatant flirtations, she suspected there were plenty of gentlemen with intimate knowledge of her bedroom who might have been persuaded to share the information.
She was sure her brother hadn’t felt the need to make a personal investigation of Lady Carrington’s “valuables” himself. He was too dedicated to Sally.
The claw setting of the ruby snagged her glove as she twisted the pendant free from its place in the center of the necklace, and she quashed a faint twinge of guilt at the destruction of the piece. The ruby didn’t belong here.
Emmy lifted her hand to her hair, plucked one of the black feathers from her coiffure, and placed it neatly inside the jewelry box. She considered pushing the ruby into her cleavage, but since her breasts weren’t as abundant as Sally’s, it would make an obvious, uncomfortable lump beneath her corset. She reached up and poked it into the center of her intricate topknot instead. Her hair had always been thick, like a horse’s tail. It would be safe up there.
Still unable to believe that Harland hadn’t set some fiendish trap, she made her way down the stairs, her slippered feet silent on the thick carpet runner. Instead of going back across the balconies, she planned to descend another level, to the entrance hall, and leave via the garden. She listened, alert for the slightest noise, unable to beat down her innate suspicion.
Where was Harland? His men? This was too easy. It was impossible that he’d planned nothing, especially after his verbal hints that he was on to her—
The door to the servant’s quarters opened, and she stilled.
Blast the man. She’d been right.
She ducked behind a pillar, her heart pounding, but instead of Harland’s mocking voice ordering her to give herself up, she heard a hushed female giggle and a corresponding masculine rumble, then the swift patter of shoes on the marble hallway tiles below.
“William, we can’t!” the female whispered, in a breathless tone that quite clearly said William, we must!
“Of course we can,” William growled. “They won’t be back for hours. And besides, do you know how many times I’ve watched you bend over that hearth to set the fire and wanted to catch you in my arms?”
“A hundred?” the girl guessed teasingly.
“A thousand.”
“Oh, William!”
Emmy grinned as the unmistakable silence of kissing ensued.
“Come on,” William groaned. “Let’s see if ’is lordship’s desk is as sturdy as it looks.”
More rustling, the click of a door, and the metallic tumble of a lock being turned. Emmy sent the amorous couple a mental toast, glad they were enjoying their evening. She envied their freedom.
The laughter and murmured conversation of the remaining servants below stairs floated up from the basement kitchen. They seemed to be having just as much fun, if not more, than the guests in the ballroom next door. Emmy smiled. One of the reasons the Nightjar always left a feather behind was to ensure that none of the menial staff were ever accused of stealing. That, at least, was one thing she didn’t have on her conscience.
With a swift glance left and right, she made her way to the back of the house and let herself out into the Carringtons’ garden. Music and laughter from the ambassador’s house spilled out the open windows, but the weather was too cool to have tempted guests onto the terrace. Only a low stone balustrade separated the two gardens, and she stepped over this final hurdle with a little bounce of triumph.
Take that, Alexander Harland, with your veiled warnings and your oblique threats! Tonight, the game is mine.
Emmy approached the tall glass structure at the rear of the house and slipped inside. The ambassador’s conservatory was almost overflowing with tropical abundance. It was as if her own bedroom wallpaper had come to flowering, riotous life. A midnight forest, in three dimensions.
Wafts of sultry air made her shiver as she padded along one of the narrow brick pathways toward the main part of the house. It was quite dark. A couple of small Chinese-style paper lanterns had been placed at odd intervals along the narrow walks, but their tiny puddles of light were swallowed up in the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the glass panes high above, but the dark slash of leaves, palms, or tropical ferns, created a shivering lattice overhead, obscuring the light.
Emmy inhaled deeply, trying to calm her residual nerves. The scent of the place was strangely comforting: warm earth, rich vegetal fecundity, sweet flowers, and mossy loam. A wave of belated relief overcame her, and she sank onto one of the knee-high brick walls that divided each section. Her hands were shaking.
Silly, but this always seemed to happen. During a heist, she was completely focused, able to control her nerves. But afterwards, when she was safe, and alone in her bedroom, then she became scared. She shook. Sometimes she cried. She’d think of everything that could have gone wrong, even as she hugged herself in elation.
The door at the far end of the conservatory opened, admitting a brief blast of raucous noise, and her head snapped up. A blast of cooler air stirred the damp hairs at her neck. She shrank back onto the foliage, glad that her dark dress would prevent her from being easily seen. Someone must have wanted a break from the party. Probably a drunken reveler needing some air.
Boot heels, definitely masculine, clicked on the pathway, and Emmy tensed as they came closer. Damn it. Why couldn’t he have chosen a different path? She hadn’t gone through all this to be caught in some ridiculous, compromising situation with a stranger.
A figure appeared, tall and menacing, and all the hairs on her arms rose in warning. An awful trickle of foreboding ran down her spine. Emmy stood, not caring that it gave away her position, as the unmistakable, inevitable voice of Alex Harland rumbled through the darkness.
“Ill-met by moonlight, Miss Danvers.”