“The British Museum? You cannot be serious.”
Emmy Danvers, née Emmeline Louise d’Anvers, the daughter of Europe’s most elusive jewel thief, dropped her forehead to the scarred kitchen table with a heartfelt groan. “Nobody in their right mind would attempt it. Why don’t we break into the Tower of London and steal the British crown jewels instead? That way, when we’re caught, the cells and gallows will be already set up for us. It’s impossible!”
Luc, seated at the opposite end of the table, chuckled at her morbid humor. “That’s what you said about Rundell and Bridge, and it went off without a hitch, did it not? It’s not impossible, Em. Just difficult. A challenge worthy of our skills.”
Emmy raised her head and shot her brother a withering glare. “I am sick of such challenges. We will be caught. And hanged. Or transported to the Antipodes. It’s only a matter of time before our luck runs out.”
Camille—who refused to accept the title Grandmère on the grounds that it made her “feel terribly old”—took a delicate sip of her tea and nodded.
“Well, we are all in agreement there, ma chère. Your father, God rest his soul, may have been my son, but this quixotic dream of his has left you with a very dangerous legacy. The Nightjar!” She gave an elegant feminine snort. “What a name! I told him he should have called himself ‘The Fox’ or ‘The Conjurer.’ Something with a little more flair.”
Emmy bit back a laugh of despair. That was typical of Camille. The fact that her son had repeatedly broken the law in at least six different European countries over the course of a fifteen-year career was less offensive to her sensibilities than the fact that he’d not done it more stylishly. In her grandmother’s mind, there was very little that couldn’t be forgiven provided one went about it in a suitably dashing manner.
With a family like this, how could she ever have hoped to lead a normal life? Was it any wonder they were in the tangle they were in now?
She glared at the letter that lay, unfolded, on the table between them. It was the latest in a string of similar missives, the first of which had arrived just over a year ago. “He is mad, this Danton,” she said flatly. “How did he discover Father was the Nightjar? How did he find us?”
Luc’s handsome features twisted in a grimace. “Does it matter? He can send us all to the gallows, as he says. We have no choice but to follow his orders.”
Emmy groaned again. For four blissful years, since their father’s death, they’d lived a blameless, crime-free life. Louis d’Anvers’s patriotic whim—to recover the French crown jewels and store them until the Bourbon monarchy had been restored—had been, if not forgotten, at least suspended. Napoleon had been so secure in his rule over France that it had seemed unlikely his reign would ever end, despite the valiant efforts of Britain and her allies to quell his ruthless empire-building. Even exile on Elba had proved insufficient to stop him.
But with his downfall at Waterloo last summer, their father’s dream of a Bourbon restoration seemed destined to become a reality. Luc and Emmy had just been discussing what they should do with the Nightjar’s ill-gotten gains when the first letter from Emile Danton had arrived.
Danton’s father had been the revolutionary leader Georges Danton, the man their father had publicly denounced for the theft of the French crown jewels. Having been deprived of his true target by their father’s death, the younger Danton had turned his ire on the Nightjar’s family. As far as Emmy could tell, Danton Junior was as corrupt as his sire. He’d demanded not only the cache of jewels their father had already stolen, but insisted they obtain three additional jewels—a white diamond, a blue diamond, and a ruby—that were still at large. She doubted very much that he planned to atone for his father’s sins by returning them to the French government.
Failure to comply, he’d assured them, would result in most unpleasant consequences, not only for Luc and Emmy, but for those they loved. He’d specifically mentioned Camille as a potential target if his wishes were not carried out “in a timely manner.”
Emmy and Luc had had no way of refusing, no way of communicating with their blackmailer. They’d thought to claim ignorance of where the treasure was hidden and tell Danton the secret had gone to the grave with their father, but there was no return address. His demands were always delivered by one of London’s innumerable scrappy errand boys, who, when questioned, could only report that they’d been commissioned by “a dark-haired gentleman” with a “foreign accent.”
With no other options, they’d begun to plan the Rundell & Bridge heist.
The Nightjar had been resurrected.
Emmy had been fourteen the first time her father had involved her in one of his “little jobs,” and that had only been under duress. It had always been tacitly understood that Luc would inherit the role of the Nightjar, but when he’d turned eighteen, he’d insisted on enlisting in the Royal Navy under Admiral Nelson to “do his bit” in tackling Napoleon. He’d been wounded in the leg at Trafalgar only a few months later. His convalescence had been slow and painful, and his resulting disability had rendered him unable to take part in the physical element of the heists.
And so, for four years, from the age of fourteen to eighteen, Emmy had helped her father and brother track down and steal back the crown jewels of France.
She was singularly ill-suited for a life of crime. She was physically small, at only three inches over five feet, and while constant exercise ensured she retained a certain agility, no amount of practice could cure her dislike of heights. She steadfastly refused to steal anything that required being more than ten feet off the ground.
Father had maintained that stealing the jewels back was a moral imperative. If it happened to be contrary to the law, well, then, the law was simply wrong. Committing a few lesser, secondary crimes was necessary to serve justice for a much larger one.
Emmy agreed. The jewels belonged to France. They should undoubtedly be returned.
She just wished the role had fallen to someone—anyone—else.
Father had never asked his children to complete his task. Not in so many words. But Emmy had always felt the weight of his silent expectation on her shoulders. The pressure to finish what he’d started.
The back door banged open, interrupting her brooding thoughts.
Sally Hawkins, who’d left her job as a costumier at Covent Garden Theatre eight years ago to become their “cook-housekeeper,” bustled in, looking artlessly seductive in a crimson shawl. As she dropped a basket full of fruit on a stool and unbuttoned her matching cherry-striped pelisse, Emmy suppressed an envious sigh at her friend’s voluptuous figure. Sally needed neither corset nor stays to achieve that gorgeous hourglass outline.
“Mornin’, all.”
Sally slapped a folded newssheet onto the table in front of Luc, who made a valiant effort not to stare at the cleavage that appeared in front of his face as she leaned over. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes closed as if he were in acute pain.
Sally settled herself on one of the kitchen chairs, and Emmy half smiled at her efforts to avoid touching Luc as she did so. Even a blind man could see the attraction between the two of them, but as far as Emmy knew, neither of them had ever done anything about it.
It had been Sally who’d helped Emmy nurse Luc during those terrible first few months of his convalescence. Sally on whom his gaze lingered whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. And yet there seemed to be some intangible barrier between them, some tacit agreement to keep their distance.
Emmy sometimes wondered whether Luc thought of himself as less of a man because of his prosthetic foot, an unsuitable mate for the beautiful Sally. As an aristocrat, albeit a French one, he was socially her superior. Sally had been born in the roughest part of London’s East End, and her voice still retained the accent of her youth. She was sharp as a pin, utterly unapologetic for the fact that she’d made her own way in the world, and possessed of a canny ability to read people’s true intentions.
Their father had first encountered her as she fended off an armed assailant in a Covent Garden back alley. Sally had coshed her attacker around the head with a wooden sewing case and rendered him unconscious without any assistance. Impressed, Emmy’s father had helped her move the body out of the road and escorted her safely home.
Sally’s father, it transpired, had been George Barrington, one of London’s most infamous gentleman thieves. As a child, Sally had assisted him in creating costumes and disguises for his various jaunts, but when Barrington was convicted of pickpocketing and transported to Sydney, she’d found work as a seamstress and makeup artist at the rowdy Covent Garden theatre.
Emmy’s father had offered her a job—one that didn’t require fending off unwelcome advances from drunk theatregoers on a regular basis—and Sally had quickly made herself indispensable in providing disguises for the Danverses’ various criminal escapades. She was a genius with a needle and a pot of rouge. She could turn Emmy into a chimneysweep, a flower seller, or a duchess, at the drop of a hat.
And when Luc had returned from Trafalgar so badly injured, she’d proven an invaluable nursemaid too. Emmy was sure it had been Sally’s gorgeous face and cheeky demeanor that had convinced Luc not to give up on life after all.
“The Times is reportin’ the theft at the jewelers. Front page news too,” Sally said. “Bow Street’s been brought in to investigate.”
Emmy’s heart gave a leap, but she schooled her features into a polite mask.
Of course Bow Street was investigating the robbery. Ludgate Hill was within their purview. There were dozens of officers who could have been assigned to the case. There was no reason to think it would be him. The man she longed for and avoided with equal fervor.
Alexander Harland.
She pushed back from the table and stood.
“Where are you going?”
Emmy ignored her brother and turned to her grandmother. “Camille, do you fancy a trip to Ludgate Hill? I saw the prettiest little straw bonnet in the window of a shop there.”
Camille took another sip of her tea and shot her a knowing glance. “Would that be the milliners next door to Rundell and Bridge, by any chance? This is a dangerous game, Emmeline. You would be far wiser to stay away. You know what they say: ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’”
Emmy wrinkled her nose.
Curiosity was, undoubtedly, her most besetting flaw. As her father had pointed out on numerous occasions, a good thief does not have the luxury of being curious. He must be single-minded in his pursuit of the specific goal. He cannot allow himself to be distracted. He must take only that which he has come for and ignore everything else, or risk being caught. A thief should not indulge in curiosity.
She knew this. Being curious about Alexander Harland could only lead to trouble of the worst sort.
And yet.
Trouble was exciting, addictive. Alexander Harland drew her like a moth to a flame. He’d been her weakness for years and years, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. The object of her foolish affections didn’t even know her name.
“You risk drawing unnecessary attention to yourself, Emmy.” Luc scowled.
She shot him a chiding glance. “Are you suggesting I can’t blend into the background, Luc Danvers?” She’d been doing just that for years: hiding. She was an expert at becoming invisible. “I just want to find out who they’ve sent to investigate us, that’s all. It’s always good to know the enemy. I’ll be careful, I promise.”