Emmy had just come to a decision when Harland forced her hand.
A note from Camille, passed via Sally and Molly, informed her of his masterstroke: Bow Street had told the Prince of Wales that they’d successfully recovered the French crown jewels. The delighted prince had decided to hold an impromptu celebration at Carlton House. On Friday.
Harland had sent her an invitation.
Emmy sucked in a horrified breath. As a gesture of “solidarity and friendship between two great nations,” the prince would be holding an “intimate gathering” to present the missing crown jewels of France to the French ambassador. Miss Emmeline Danvers was most cordially invited to attend.
It went without saying that she was expected to bring the jewels too.
Emmy sat heavily on the edge of the lumpy mattress in Molly’s attic and stared at the invitation in her hand. Harland was a fiend. He was calling her bluff, as if this were a game of faro, demanding that she put all her cards on the table. All or nothing. The ultimate dare to see which of them would fold.
She should have expected nothing less from the owner of a gambling club.
Irritation roiled in her breast. The nerve of the man! She could practically feel the weight of his expectation pressing down on her. What a risk he was taking. If she didn’t show up with the jewels, not only would he be humiliated, but so would all of his colleagues at Bow Street, and the Prince Regent himself. His arrogant belief that she would “do the right thing” had given her the power to cause an international diplomatic disaster.
Emmy frowned at the neat, confident slashes of his handwriting. How could he trust her with something so monumental? She could ruin him, and his friends, and embarrass the monarchy, all in one fell swoop. What was he thinking? She’d betrayed him on numerous occasions. Why did he think this time would be any different?
Was his faith in her so strong? A tiny warm glow spread in her chest, but she beat it down ruthlessly. She’d already come to the decision to hand over the jewels on her own. If she returned them now, he’d think it was because of what he’d done. He’d be smug and arrogant and assume she’d caved in due to the pressure of his bold move.
She should call his bluff. She should catch a packet to Calais or sail off to the Americas with the treasure. That would teach him. But, of course, she wouldn’t do that. He seemed to know her better than she knew herself. It was maddening.
She couldn’t imagine what kind of deal he was going to offer her. In truth, she still didn’t entirely trust that there would be one. She didn’t have Camille’s confidence. Even if Bow Street could prove Danton had been responsible for killing the owner of the sapphire, she couldn’t believe they’d be willing to let a thief as prolific and infamous as the Nightjar go unpunished. Or remain at liberty. Still, she’d made her choice. Harland’s confidence in her was not misplaced, damn him.
She rose and went to sit at the small desk in the corner. Molly had provided her with paper, ink, and quills. She dashed off a reply to her grandmother, confirming she would be there on Friday, but telling her not to inform Harland. The beast deserved to sweat a little. It would be a small victory, but she’d take whatever she could.
She would attend the party, even though it might be her last. And she would do it looking her very best. Camille was right about that. If one was going to be arrested and imprisoned, one might as well do it in style.
The Prince Regent always kept his apartments overly warm. Alex tugged at the folds of his neckcloth. He certainly wasn’t nervous. Of course not. Emmy would come. She was fashionably late, that was all. She was making a point. He refused to believe the worst of her.
She had to come. He’d given his word to Conant the jewels would be here. He’d even persuaded the prince to give over “his” diamond too, in a grand gesture to the French.
If it ever bloody arrived.
His throat was parched. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing servant and took a healthy gulp. It wasn’t just his employment at Bow Street that was at stake, it was his honor as a gentleman. The honor of the entire bloody nation. What had he been thinking, to let it all rest on the unpredictable whim of a thief?
The Regent had already settled himself in the Council Chamber under a crimson canopy to receive the French delegation. The French ambassador, René-Eustache, the Marquis d’Osmond, had already arrived, as had half the French aristocracy. They’d all come out of the woodwork, despite the short notice, since half of them were still living in exile in London. Alex almost groaned when he saw the seventy-nine-year-old Louis Joseph, Prince de Condé, and his cousin, the thirty-eight-year-old Charles Ferdinand d’Artois, Duke de Berry. If Emmy didn’t show, this could be a disaster of epic proportions.
Where the hell was she?
The rest of her family had already arrived. The Comtesse de Rougemont—Camille, as she’d begged Alex to call her—was over by the door with Luc and his new fiancée, the termagant who’d pushed her way into the Tricorn.
They’d been in contact with Emmy all week, Alex was certain of it, but they were all fiercely loyal. They’d refused to divulge her location, no matter how many times Alex had asked. Or demanded. Camille had been adamant that Emmy hadn’t left London, but that was all she’d been prepared to say. She’d relayed Alex’s invitation for tonight, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say whether Emmy was coming or not.
Alex realized he was tapping his knuckles against his thigh and forced himself to stop. He’d felt this way countless times during the war, restless and jumpy. Knowing the enemy was out there and just waiting for the attack. Wishing it would come so he could get it over with.
He’d never been like this for a woman, so keen that every sound made him edgy. In the past, when other women had failed to show up at their appointed time, he’d been mildly irritated at the need to change his plans, but the inconvenience—and the woman—were quickly forgotten. He could never forget Emmeline Danvers.
He caught sight of Seb deep in conversation with Benedict and his wife, Georgiana, on the opposite side of the room. There must have been over two hundred people crowded into the place. Prinny’s idea of an “impromptu little gathering” had swelled to include almost every member of the ton still in London. His household staff were probably all in various stages of apoplexy.
Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to experience a very public humiliation. He glanced at an ornate gilt clock above an equally gaudy fireplace and cursed under his breath. She was over an hour late. Had he really misjudged her so badly?
Then he saw her, on the steps leading down from the entrance, and his heart seized before pounding back to life.
Thank God.
He blinked in slow appreciation. She’d clearly decided she no longer needed to blend in. No drab colors for Miss Danvers tonight. Her dress was a deep, rich burgundy, a ravishing, seductive color guaranteed to bring every man in the room to his knees. Alex felt the strangest desire to applaud. She looked incredible, as haughty and as regal as a queen. The low neckline of the dress showed to perfection the rubies—presumably not stolen—that glittered at her ears and throat. Her glorious hair was swept up in an elaborate coil to reveal the pale curves of her shoulders.
She was carrying a large reticule. Could all the jewels fit in there? He bloody well hoped so.
Alex pushed his way through the crowd, determined to reach her before she had a chance to speak to her family. There was no hint of the easy, laughing expression he knew so well. She was coldly beautiful, composed—like a prisoner going to the guillotine. She was fully expecting to be arrested and thrown into prison.
A warm glow of pride formed in his middle. She was brave, this girl. And ironically honorable, for a jewel thief. But her days as the Nightjar were over. It was time to end the game.