Lady Caroline Turnbull’s soirée was fashionably crowded by the time Emmy, Luc, and Camille arrived. The sound of animated chatter and a lively English reel greeted them, and Emmy wasted no time in finding a vacant chair at the side of the room for Luc.
After twelve years, he walked with only the slightest limp and required no one’s arm for support. He did use an elegant silver-topped cane, but that was more for ornament than necessity. He was convinced it gave him a rakish edge. Sally mocked him about it constantly.
His injury had been caused by grapeshot—a bag of musket balls set on iron rings that when fired from a ship-mounted cannon resulted in a supersized blast. Luc was fortunate not to have bled to death on the deck, but thankfully the surgeon who’d operated on him had been experienced in dealing with such wounds. Emmy had read about many other poor souls who’d ended up with what they called a “sugar loaf stump,” an amputation performed too close to the bone, resulting in a conical stump which was difficult to heal.
Since Luc was missing only the lower portion of his leg, Camille had instructed a Jermyn Street shoemaker to fashion him a prosthetic foot with a jointed ankle made from wood and leather. It had taken Luc some time to grow accustomed to the contraption—he’d spent many hours leaning heavily on Emmy or Sally and cursing his inability to balance—but now he walked with a confidence that showed little hint of the struggle he’d endured. Emmy had nothing but respect for the way he’d dealt with such a dramatic change in his life.
Even so, she had no doubt their father’s criminal escapades, and her own “miseducation,” had provided her brother with a welcome diversion during his long convalescence. He’d needed something to engage his clever mind. Helping to plan the next heist had stopped him from dwelling on his injury.
With Luc suitably settled, Emmy accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant and proceeded to make herself inconspicuous.
In the animal kingdom, especially when surrounded by carnivores, one of the best strategies is to fade into the background and disappear. She had become adept at avoiding notice, like one of those color-changing lizards she’d seen at the Exeter Exchange. It was not that the ton itself provided any specific threat, but she was ever-conscious of the fact that she was unlike any other woman in the room. She had far more to hide than a penchant for gambling or an illicit assignation with someone else’s husband. She couldn’t afford to let anyone get too close, for fear they would uncover her secrets. Her family had to be protected.
Clusters of people formed, separated, and reformed like the jewel-colored contents of a kaleidoscope. Camille came to stand beside her, and together they looked out over the crush of dancers.
“Lord Eversleigh is here,” Camille murmured, and Emmy didn’t bother to suppress a groan. The man was a corseted fool who persisted in pursuing her despite a complete lack of encouragement.
“He doesn’t even notice when I’m being rude to him,” Emmy whispered back. “He never listens to a word I say. He just stands there and stares at my décolletage.”
“He’s very rich.”
“He’s the most patronizing man I have ever encountered.”
Camille cast a subtly scornful glance at the man who was still half the room away. “I quite agree. No amount of money could make up for having to face that over the breakfast table for the next thirty years.”
Eversleigh considered himself a veritable tulip of fashion. His startling green-and-pink-striped waistcoat was festooned with fob chains and pocket watches. A sparkling diamond stick pin secured the cravat at his throat. Marcasite buckles dazzled on his shoes. Emmy liked to amuse herself by imagining precisely how she would deprive him of every item of jewelry he owned.
“I vow, if the Nightjar weren’t such a noble thief, he would pay my Lord Eversleigh a visit,” she whispered. She could retire for life on the fripperies with which he decorated his person. “He doesn’t know me, nor does he have the slightest desire to do so. He just wants another ornament in his life, one without an opinion, who will not question, demand, or make scenes. I think we can both agree that I am not that woman.”
“And what about Bantam?”
Emmy sighed at the mention of her sweet, persistent suitor. Edward Bantam was a thoroughly nice man. Utterly inoffensive, he’d hovered around her for years, and while not possessed of a rapier wit, he was still a perfectly decent catch. He could always be counted on to ask a lady to dance or to procure another cup of lemonade. He just didn’t make her heart flutter and her stomach drop away.
The way Harland did.
“I wish I could feel more for him than friendship,” she whispered. “But I can’t. If I accepted him, we’d both be miserable. And besides, he would be horrified if he ever discovered the truth about me. He’s an upstanding citizen. He’s probably never broken a law in his life. Even if I wanted to trust him, how does one introduce such a topic into casual conversation? ‘Oh, yes, I’d love a second cup of tea, and—did I mention?—I’m an internationally wanted jewel thief.’” She shook her head with a wry smile. “He’d probably turn me in himself.”
“I want to see you settled,” Camille murmured. “I’m not getting any younger. I want to see your children.” She fanned herself vigorously. “The problem, of course, is that you are uncommonly beautiful.”
Emmy almost choked on her champagne. “You are biased,” she countered. “I’m pretty at best.”
“Bah. I’ve seen half a century of beauties at the most glittering courts in Europe. Believe me when I say, even allowing for a little natural familial bias, that you are très belle, Emmeline.”
Emmy felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sure that’s why we’ve been almost trampled underfoot by the stampede of gentlemen all rushing to offer for me these past few years,” she said dryly.
Camille shrugged. “Most men are fools. They’re too blind to appreciate what is right in front of them. You’re subtle. They overlook you because you downplay your beauty. But one of these days, you’re going to encounter a connoisseur who’ll see what you’re trying to hide. Your aloofness will only intrigue him. He will be drawn to the mystery.”
“I don’t wish to be a mystery! We don’t want anyone looking at me too closely. Think how dangerous that could be.”
“It would be better if you were plainer,” Camille agreed placidly. “Martha there”—she indicated a pleasant-faced woman to their right who was tapping her foot in time to the music—“she would be an excellent thief. Forgettable, nothing out of the ordinary. Interchangeable with a thousand nursemaids and governesses.”
“My front tooth is crooked,” Emmy persisted.
Camille gave her fan a dismissive flick. “That one tiny imperfection that only makes you more perfect.”
Emmy was about to argue, but at that moment, the footman stationed at the top of the stairs announced in stentorian tones: “The Earl of Melton and the Earl of Mowbray.”
Her heart leaped into her throat.
Alex paused at the top of the stairs. He disliked crowds, hated it when people approached him from his blind side. He didn’t like being ambushed, especially by matchmaking mamas with empty-headed debutantes in tow, or bored married ladies looking for a little excitement. He’d taken to positioning himself with a wall, or Seb, on his right.
At least he didn’t have to dance. The first time he’d attempted it, shortly after he’d returned from Belgium, he’d discovered that while he could see perfectly well straight ahead, his lack of vision to the right meant he was unable to see his partner’s hand when she held it up to hold. He kept bumping into people if they happened to spin too close to him on that side.
The final straw had been when he’d accidentally groped Lady Worthington’s breast during a particularly lively reel. Lady Worthington hadn’t minded one bit, and he’d spent the rest of the evening having to endure excruciatingly overt come-hither looks, right under the nose of her fiercely protective husband.
Alex had avoided dancing after that. He was damned if he’d be called out for besmirching the honor of some innocent young thing merely because his hand happened to fasten on somewhere inappropriate.
“God, what a crush,” Seb muttered as they threaded their way toward the far wall, pausing to nod or exchange a few brief pleasantries with various acquaintances. They stationed themselves to the left of the orchestra, with an arched alcove at their backs, and surveyed the assembled crowd.
“I spoke to Caroline,” Seb said over the din. “The Danverses are here. She said the son would probably be seated. And the countess is wearing a powder-pink gown.”
Alex arched his head to see over the dancers and studied the chairs set up along the opposite side of the room. He dismissed several pink-gowned women as too young, and then his eye was caught by an elderly lady standing next to a handsome, seated man. The dowager’s snow-white hair had been arranged in an upswept style, and while she was obviously of advanced years, it was clear she had once been a great beauty. She retained a certain ingrained elegance.
Seb followed his gaze. “That’s them. The son’s called Luc. And Vidocq’s file omitted one crucial fact that puts paid to your theory he’s the new Nightjar. The man’s an amputee. Lost his right foot at Trafalgar.”
Alex studied him. They were of a similar age, a similar height. Luc Danvers did not appear to be lacking a foot; he must have adopted a prosthesis, like so many others Alex had encountered since the war. A faint bump under his breeches, just below the knee, seemed to confirm that notion.
“He’s almost as tall as either of us.” Alex frowned. “And broad. Even if he wasn’t missing a foot, he’d never have been able to fold himself into that beer barrel at Rundell and Bridge. Whoever we’re looking for, they’re smaller than that.”
“What about the daughter?” Seb asked. “Standing next to her grandmother. Her name is Emmeline.”
Alex moved his eyes to the right and froze.
Amidst the ever-moving gaiety of the ballroom, the woman was standing perfectly still, a sliver of darkness among all the frilly pastels. She was no debutante in ice blue or delicate pink, nor like the matrons in their somber greys and browns. Her dress was midnight blue, so dark it was almost black. Unfussy, unadorned with either ruffles or frills, it was striking in its elegant simplicity.
Alex narrowed his eyes, trying to discern her features. She’d chosen a place in the most shadowed part of the room.
She was a little over five feet. Her face was elfin, with a small nose, a softly pointed chin, and the hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. She looked playful, mischievous. As if she knew an amusing secret and didn’t want to share.
A flash of desire quickened his pulse. The woman’s sly merriment was oddly attractive. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes from this distance, but her teeth flashed white as she smiled at something her brother said.
It was clear that she and the man were siblings. They were both attractive, with the same tilt of eyebrow, high cheekbones, and brown hair. And yet one version was undoubtedly masculine while the other was unmistakably feminine.
Alex watched as the foppish Lord Eversleigh approached the trio. Eversleigh was rich; he regularly lost hundreds of pounds when he played at the Tricorn, usually because he was so often in his cups. His weaving course across the room suggested he’d already sampled Lord Turnbull’s hospitality to the hilt.
He kissed the countess’s hand with a flourish, then turned his attention to the younger woman. After kissing her hand too, he proceeded to address his comments to her bosom, waving his lace-edged handkerchief in the air for emphasis. Her mouth adopted a faint curl of disdain, and Alex felt his own lips quirk in response. She was not impressed with the boorish Eversleigh. An astute judge of character, then.
“She’s small enough to fit in a barrel,” Alex murmured.