Delgatto’s breath frozen in his throat.
The Heart of Saharanpur. . . .
He’d seen only one picture of it. Only one painting of the Heart existed in the world, and it was kept under lock and key in a Russian museum. The gem had been immortalized in an ancestral portrait in which the ignorant artist had paid more attention to the queen wearing the necklace rather than the jewel itself. But Delgatto knew the stone as well as if he’d looked at it every day of his life.
The emerald dared to twinkle with something akin to insolence, as if mocking him. Here sat a king’s ransom hung around the neck of a fairy princess.
A royal thief’s dream come true.
He stretched out his hand, overwhelmed by the desire to touch the stone, possess the stone. But someone jostled his elbow.
“Here she is!”
The three young men he’d finessed earlier were now swarming them, effectively blocking him from his lifelong quest.
The tallest of the three spoke quickly to the princess. “The costume contest is about to start, Your Highness, and we believe you’ll win.”
Delgatto had two choices: either grab the necklace and run, or bide his time and choose a more opportune moment to take it And despite his standing as a well-respected professional thief, his most basic nature wanted instant gratification and a chance to admire the gem’s exquisite color as he cradled it in the palm of his very own hand.
Right then and right there.
But he couldn’t allow a lifetime of desperation to make him act in a rash manner.
He also couldn’t let a bunch of turn-of-the-century college frat boys separate him from said lifelong quest. Although not outclassed, he was certainly outnumbered. And, judging by the less than friendly scowls the frats were shooting him, they’d already decided their primary mission was to drive a wedge between him and his fairy princess.
It took all the self-control he could muster to reach for her hand instead of the Heart. “It seems I must bid you adieu for the moment and leave you in these”—he coughed—“capable hands.” He looked into eyes that took his breath away almost as thoroughly as had the sight of the stone. He leaned forward and whispered, “Meet me at the Spring Pavilion. At midnight.”
After a heart-stopping delay, she gave him a small nod before being swept away by her group of admirers. But not all of the young men accompanied her. Two of them stayed behind, one standing on either side of him. They locked their arms in his and pulled him toward the nearest exit.
The last thing Delgatto wanted to do was draw unnecessary attention to himself in the ballroom, so he obliged his companions and accompanied them to an unoccupied hallway. He knew full well what they intended to do and was ready for the first punch with a countering move.
What he didn’t anticipate was a third assailant waiting for them in the shadows. Delgatto managed to keep two attackers at bay, giving as good as he took, but the third man hung back, waiting for a propitious time to strike.
And when he did, it was lights out.
The young man in the court jester’s outfit held Emily’s hand a bit too possessively for her likes as he led her toward the costume judging area.
“I’m sure you’ll win,” he chattered nervously. “Then you’ll truly be the Queen of the Ball.” He tugged her toward the cluster of people standing by a makeshift stage. “And I’d be pleased to be your Royal Jester,” he added, punctuating his remark with a bow.
Although lowly maids like her were never invited to attend The Chesterfield’s famous Christmas ball, Emily had listened to tales of those who had either served at the function or had sneaked in for a few purloined moments. She’d spotted Rupert at the door at least twice, watching the proceedings.
The one thing she knew about the ball was that the winners of the costume contest were the first to unmask at midnight.
And she definitely would not be removing her mask in public tonight!
Emily glanced at an approaching group of dowagers who were also making a beeline for the contest sign-up table. As lovely and inventive as her fairy costume was, it couldn’t compare to the obviously expensive and highly elaborate outfits the approaching ladies wore. However, her court jester escort continued to push her toward the table ahead of the oncoming group. She reluctantly took her place in line to register and receive a paper number to pin to her costume.
“Pardon me,” one older woman sniffed as she shouldered Emily out of the way. The woman wore a Queen of Hearts outfit and had the off-with-her-head attitude to match.
The court jester bristled. “Wait your turn, lady.”
The woman stiffened. “Why, I never!”
“Well, you ought to.” He let out a derisive snort of laughter. “It might give you something to do rather than run roughshod over innocent bystanders.” He turned his back to her and nudged Emily back into her rightful place in line.
“What an insolent young man.” The woman’s voice rose. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
He whirled around and shook a gloved finger in the woman’s face. “That’s because you don’t listen. People have been insulting you for years—you just don’t listen carefully enough.”
All Emily wanted to do was slink away, distancing herself from the rude woman as well as her own unwanted escort. The whole point of attending the ball was to quietly enjoy herself. But her beautiful gown had attracted more attention than she had expected. Her thoughts stopped at the memory of her highwayman and she shivered.
Some of the attention she had liked very much. “What seems to be the problem?” a deep voice boomed.
Emily closed her eyes. And then there was the most unwanted attention of all. . . .
The Major strode toward them, his laurel wreath knocked slightly askew, his dagger bouncing against his hairy leg. He attempted to click his heels, as was his usual military manner, but his sandals failed to make sufficient noise. He tried once more, then gave up, choosing instead to dip his head toward the dowager in acknowledgment. “May I be of some assistance, ma’am?”
She pointed one bejeweled sausage finger at the court jester. “This young man is being very rude. I want him removed at once.”
“Nonsense,” the jester snarled. “She tried to push her way into line, ahead of everyone else.”
“I did no such thing.” She used the same pudgy finger to tap the jester in the shoulder, pushing him hard enough so that he stumbled backward into Emily, knocking her off balance.
She braced herself against the table as a flare of pain shot up from her newly trod toes. To her surprise, her escort paid no attention to the fact he’d just stomped on her foot. Instead, he tightened his hands into fists and faced the Queen of Hearts. “Listen, you old battle-ax—”
Fiery indignation bloomed across the woman’s wide face. “Why you—”
He cut her off with a fierce scowl. “It never changes, does it? Just because you have money, you think you can—”
“Quiet!”
The Major might have been short in stature, but he made up for his lack of height with an abundance of voice. It was an attribute that guests seldom realized, but something the staff lived with every day. Especially at morning muster.
To Emily’s utmost surprise, the Major stepped between both the jester and the queen, not stopping to address them, but instead, facing Emily.
“Are you injured, miss?” he asked with what Emily realized was genuine concern. “Do you need medical attention?”
She probed her foot, determining her injuries were slight, if any. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” He held out a hairy arm. “I’d be glad to escort you myself to the clinic and have Dr.—”
“No,” Emily said quickly, hoping no one thought her objections odd. “No, thank you,” she added. Early in her tenure as a maid, she’d tripped on a loose rug and had been subjected once to the doctor’s rather odd ministrations. She’d vowed from that day on never to get sick or injured again, less she have to take his so-called treatments or bear his damp-palmed touch.
The court jester finally noticed what he’d done. Rather than apologize to Emily, he whirled to face the dowager. “See what you made me do? You made me step on her foot.” He turned to the Major. “You saw her. She pushed me.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” the lady shouted. “All I did was inform you what a boorish, inconsiderate, ill-mannered—”
The Major raised one hand in hopes of halting her tirade. “Please, madam, I don’t think this is the place—”
As the argument escalated, Emily chose that moment to step, or at least limp, away. The last thing she needed was this sort of unwanted and, in her opinion, unnecessary attention. As a hotel maid, she’d learned out of necessity how to deal with rude, demanding patrons without allowing them to make her feel insignificant. And to let it dissolve into name calling? Unforgivable! Too bad neither the dowager nor the jester had ever spent any time working as a servant and learned such important lessons.
As she slipped between the patrons who’d gathered to watch the fracas, she adjusted her mask, lest they get a glimpse of her true identity. What would they do, what would they say, if they knew the maid who had folded their undergarments and made their beds was attending their party as an uninvited guest?
I shouldn’t have come, she repeated to herself as she worked her way toward the nearest door. In the distance, she thought she saw a caped figure in the hallway. Her heart quickened. Her highwayman?
She moved with more haste toward the exit, trying to negotiate an expedient pathway between the partygoers who hadn’t been attracted by the imbroglio. As the crowd shifted, she momentarily lost sight of the highwayman and sped up to compensate. As she emerged into the hallway, she saw the trailing corner of a cape as the costumed man disappeared around the corner.
Emily ran as fast as possible, hampered somewhat by her now throbbing toes. She rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. The hallway was empty. No costumed men. No highwayman.
It was as if he had been a ghost.
But his very real words echoed in her ear: “Meet me at the Spring Pavilion at midnight.”
Delgatto woke up in the dark. A thin sliver of light near his feet suggested he was behind a door, perhaps in a closet. Pushing away something that felt suspiciously like a broom, he fumbled for the doorknob, which pulled loose in his hand. He fought the urge to throw the knob, figuring it would most likely bounce off a wall and smack him in the face.
Instead, he patted the hidden pocket in his cape, pleased to discover his attackers hadn’t rolled him before stuffing him in the janitor’s closet. He pulled out the set of picks he’d modified from various bits of hairpins, bedsprings, and needles he’d pilfered when putting together his costume.
The lock had been designed only to keep out the curious, not protect a fortune in cleaning supplies. It took him no more than one flick of the wrist to free himself, but he stepped cautiously into the hallway, trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden change in lighting. It wouldn’t do to be jumped and stuffed back into the blasted thing. Luckily, no frat boys were hanging around for a second attack.
He rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head. How long had he been out? His stomach did a small tango as he remembered his rather important appointment.
Midnight! Please don’t let it be midnight.
His stomach switched to the rumba. Or after midnight.
He squinted at his wrist, half expecting to find his watch. He allowed himself a few choice curse words as he stumbled down the hallway, furiously plotting the most direct way to his rendezvous with destiny, fortune, family honor . . .
He skidded through the lobby, hearing a clock chime the hour. He counted as he made his way through the other costumed revelers.
One, two, three, four . . .
He spotted one of his attackers. Rather than confront the man, Delgatto ducked behind a rather large woman dressed as a peacock, using her to shield his progress to the door.
Five, six, seven, eight . . .
He made it to the front door. Rather than go down the stairs to the driveway, he stayed on the porch, weaving in and out of the partygoers. The crowd noise began to overpower the chimes.
Nine.
He spotted another of his attackers at the end of the porch. This time, the young man spotted him. Even worse, the young man waved to someone behind Delgatto.
Ten.
Delgatto turned around and saw the first attacker. They began to move toward him, hemming him in.
Eleven.
Left no other recourse, Delgatto chose his only avenue of escape. He leaped to the porch railing, balanced on the thin iron rail for a moment, then executed a flip, aiming his trajectory so that he cleared the shrubbery. Thanks to his two years as an acrobat in a traveling European circus, he landed with a neat tuck and roll.
As he flipped up to his feet, he thought he heard the faint start of the twelfth chime, but it was drowned out by the roar of applause from the crowd, who must have thought he was part of the hotel’s entertainment. He paused long enough to give them a quick bow before speeding off to the gazebo, where he hoped and prayed his fairy princess waited with the Heart of Saharanpur.
He approached the area cautiously, half expecting the third attacker to step out of the shadows. Something bothered him about their need for retribution. All he’d done was encourage them to conduct their competition elsewhere.
No harm, no foul.
Certainly no scam or setup. Yet their response had been more aggressive than the situation warranted.
He circled the wooden gazebo, wondering what he’d find waiting for him. His heart’s desire? Or just some juvenile undesirables?
A cloud of steam hung in the center of the gazebo, partially obscuring his view of the area. He could hear nothing but the soothing gurgle of the hot spring that the gazebo circled.
“Your Majesty?” he called out softy.
There was no answer.
“Queen Mab?”
Still no answer. Maybe she didn’t realize he was addressing her. They hadn’t exactly exchanged names or anything.
“Hey, Tinkerbell . . .”
Only the bubbling spring answered him.
His heart wedged itself in his throat, threatening to cut off his air completely. Still wary of a second attack, he approached the gazebo with every sense tuned to the max. He climbed the stairs, two at a time.
“Olly, olly oxen free . . .”
The gazebo was empty, save for a piece of paper pinned under a smooth rock to one of the benches. Delgatto snagged the paper on the fly, then jumped the gazebo railing and headed for the shadows. He wasn’t going to hang around there and read it out in the open. The note could be a fake, designed to distract him into playing sitting duck.
Safely tucked in the bushes, he found there was just enough light to read the carefully inked words.
Dear Sir,
I’m afraid “sir” sounds terribly impersonal, but since I don’t know your name, it’ll have to do. I debated quite seriously the merits of meeting you as you requested, listening to both my heart and my head.
As you might have guessed, my head won. I’m not who or what you think I am. But I will forever cherish the memory of tonight and thoughts of what could have been.
Thank you,
Your Fairy Princess
The paper pleated unevenly between his clenched fingers. He was too angry to speak. The Heart of Saharanpur had been within his grasp, and instead of romancing it out from beneath its owner, he’d had to play it safe.
He let loose a string of curses that made him feel marginally better. He’d failed in his first attempt to retrieve the Heart. At least he could take some solace in the fact he’d seen it, knew it really existed.
Even better, he knew it was here and in the possession of one of the Chesterfield’s more enchanting guests.
He released his breath.
Now . . . if I can only figure out who in the hell she is.
Emily sat at the writing desk, staring at the pages strewn across it. The note had been far harder to write than she’d ever imagined. She’d started and discarded at least five different versions.
At first, she thought of herself as brazen merely for anticipating a relationship that, in reality, consisted of one complicated kiss and no more. But the more she wrote, the more the potential had become something she couldn’t ignore.
She leaned back in the desk chair and closed her eyes. She’d seen, even known, charming men before. Handsome ones, too. She’d even been kissed once or twice.
But never had she experienced a kiss like his. It was as if during it, she’d heard a lifetime of promises in the flash of that one brief moment.
But who was making those promises?
This total stranger?
Or was she merely putting words in his mouth as he placed his lips against hers? Had she been caught up in the intoxication of the moment to give him motives and actions that weren’t really his?
She stood up and began to march around the room, trying to push away her fantastical thoughts and surrender to the rhythm of logic.
It was just a kiss, she thought in cadence to her steps.
It doesn’t mean a thing. She repeated the thought as she made a circuit around the large room, the words and her steps quickening. It was just a kiss, a kiss, yes, it doesn’t mean a thing, a thing . . .
By the third repetition, she’d made a complete circuit of the room and she took the extra steps to steer around the desk and stand by the bed.
As a child, she’d been taught she could literally drum ill thoughts or untruths out of her head by repeating their antithesis until they became more familiar and comfortable than the lies.
But this time, it wasn’t working.
She launched herself at the large bed and, once the mattress reverberations stopped, buried her face into the nearest pillow.
“It wasn’t just a kiss,” she told the crisp white material. “And it does mean something. . . .”
Dreams punctuated Emily’s sleep.
She dreamed that The Chesterfield wasn’t a resort hotel, but a castle, and she was Cinderella at the royal ball. When the clock bells began to toll midnight, she made her escape, dutifully leaving behind her slipper for the prince to find. She reached her carriage when the clock struck twelve. To her surprise, her transport failed to revert to a pumpkin. Climbing in, she discovered the carriage had been commandeered by none other than the highwayman.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said in a throaty growl.
He reached down, lifted her foot, and removed the remaining slipper. Her skin burned despite his gentle touch.
“Now the prince will have a matching pair,” he explained as he tossed the shoe out the window. He turned his attention back to her, first removing her crown and then untying and pulling free the strings that held her wings in place.
“So you won’t be tempted to fly away . . .”
His smile was wicked, but not half as wicked as the thoughts that filled her imagination.
He motioned for her to turn around. In her dream, it seemed a perfectly normal request that she followed without question. The highwayman began to toy with the tiny row of rose-shaped buttons that started at her neck and plunged far below her waist. With each successful unbuttoning, he celebrated by kissing her newly exposed skin.
As he worked his way down, her emotions and desires built like a whirlwind, picking up speed with each soft brush of his lips against her fevered skin. It was a heavenly feeling, being caused by a devilish man, and she knew she must resist such a glorious sin.
But she couldn’t.
“Who are you?” she managed to say between gasps caused by his exquisite torture. “Who are you?”
His voice changed to a high falsetto. “It’s me, Miss Sparrow.”
Emily shook with a start, bolting upright in bed. She heard the woman’s voice again. “Miss Drewett, you must let me in, quickly!”
All Emily’s sluggish mind wanted to do was to close her eyes and try to recapture the delicious sensations she’d left behind in her dreams. But she couldn’t put aside the instinct to obey her former supervisor and gracious benefactress.
Emily padded across the Persian rug to the door and unlocked it. Miss Sparrow slipped through an impossibly thin opening and shut the door firmly behind her. “We have a big problem, Miss Drewett.”
Emily tried not to yawn as she stretched. “What, Miss Sparrow?”
“The Major is headed this way. Rupert is going to try to stall him as long as possible, but we can’t count on gaining too much time.”
The shocking news succeeded in restoring Emily’s full faculties. “Coming here? But why? Did I do something wrong?”
Miss Sparrow offered her a thin-lipped smile. “You’ve done nothing at all wrong. It’s just that we’ve learned that Mr. VanderMeer’s cousin is scheduled to arrive on the noon train. He’ll be staying in this suite.”
“Today?”
“Unfortunately.” Miss Sparrow scanned the room with a practiced eye. “We must get you and your belongings out of here before the Major arrives. He decided he needed to oversee the cleaning process personally.” The woman marched over to the bed and straightened out the sheets that Emily had tangled in her throes of dream-passion. Emily emptied out the wardrobe, retrieving first her sewing basket, then stuffing it as well as articles of clothing indiscriminately into her carpetbag. As she ducked beneath a table to retrieve an errant shoe, she asked, “Why was there so little notice?”
Miss Sparrow punched the pillow a bit violently. “Edna Jean Barund was at the telegraph office several days ago to pick up a telegram she was expecting. Silas, the operator, had just received one for Major Payne, and Edna Jean offered to carry it back. Unfortunately, she stuffed it into her apron pocket and promptly forgot about it. She found it minutes ago.” The woman’s face darkened. “Three days late.”
Emily grimaced. Although she had never been fond of the terminally grumpy woman, Emily could imagine the volcanic proportions of the Major’s rage. She shivered at the thought, and doubled her efforts. If the Major was on a rampage, the last place Emily wanted to be was in his path.
Or anywhere in the general vicinity.
A stern male voice echoed from the hallway. “Young man, will you cease and desist this interference?”
“Quick!” Miss Sparrow skidded over to Emily’s position and grabbed her by the arm. She pointed to the butler’s door. “Go out there and get dressed! Then come back to the suite by the front door.”
“Huh?” Emily snagged her carpetbag with her trailing hand before Miss Sparrow could tug her off her feet and push her toward the door.
“Your uniform. Put it on!”
Emily ran toward the door, trying to keep her open bag from spilling over. Miss Sparrow followed behind, picking up the trailing clothes. Emily slipped out the butler’s door and turned around in time to get hit in the face with the remainder of her clothing.
“Hurry,” Miss Sparrow said through clenched teeth.
The door slammed closed, and a moment later, the Major’s roar filled the room. Emily picked up only a few words, but she fully understood the gist of what he was saying.
“. . . two hours, forty-six minutes to clean . . . fresh drapes . . . flowers . . . mattress . . . pigsty . . .”
Emily gathered her scattered belongings, shoved them into her bag, and then tiptoed down the servants’ hallway. There was no private place to change clothes, but she found a shadowy corner partially hidden behind an extra chest of drawers being stored there. To her relief, no one stumbled onto her hiding place as she changed into her maid’s outfit. Once dressed, she left her bag in the bottom drawer of the chest and took a roundabout route before emerging in the guest hallway that led to the suite.
As she raised her hand to knock on the door, an odd thought hit her. But why am I doing this? I don’t work here anymore.
Miss Sparrow flung the door open and grabbed Emily by the same arm she’d used to push her away. “Here’s our replacement, Major Payne. I told you I could find a suitable replacement for Miss Barund.” She winked at Emily. “We were very lucky to catch Miss Drewett before she headed home.”
The Major stepped into view. “Ah, yes. Drewett. At least we don’t have to train you. Your duty is to return this suite to its usual pristine condition. Not only did the former maid responsible for its upkeep shirk her duties, she failed to give me some very important information.” He leveled Emily with a stony stare. “I trust you won’t let me down and dishonor yourself like Barund did.”
“N-no, sir. I won’t. I promise.”
“Good.” He turned to Miss Sparrow. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands. Mr. VanderMeer’s nephew will be on the noon train. I want this room spick-and-span new by the first train whistle.”
“Yes, sir,” they responded in chorus. As soon as the door closed behind the Major, Emily and Miss Sparrow turned and faced each other.
“I have my job back!” Emily exclaimed.
Miss Sparrow nodded, gracing her with a rare grin. “Who says you can’t find the good in a bad situation? Although Edna Jean’s incompetence has caused several problems, not to mention the abrupt elimination of your lodgings, her departure also gives you a new position and place to live.” The woman glanced around. “However, your new room will bear little resemblance to this.”
Emily pulled a dustcloth from the tin bucket of supplies at Miss Sparrow’s feet. “Too much luxury is like too much sugar,” she declared. “After a while, you lose the taste for it.” She pulled on her best smile. “My new room may be less luxurious, but it’ll be far easier to keep clean.”
Miss Sparrow nodded. “That’s a good way to think about this situation.”
Emily began to polish the hall table a bit too enthusiastically. It was the only thing she’d allowed herself to think. Anything else, and she’d break out in tears . . . and everybody knew salt water wasn’t good for furniture.