“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’ssmall enough to fit in a barrel,” Alex murmured.
Chapter 6.
Alex watched the young woman, trying to place her in the role of thief. It was unlikely that someone from the midst of thetonshould have adopted such an unlawful sideline, but not impossible.
The fact that her family had wealth was significant, since the Nightjar didn’t seem to profit from his crimes. His thefts were based on high-minded patriotic principle.
Three years of warfare had shown Alex that noble concepts like honor and justice were used only by those who could afford them. To a starving man, or a woman desperate for medicine for her sick child, the moral argument of whether stealing was wrong took second place to necessity.
Was Miss Danvers bored? In need of a challenge? Alex could sympathize with that sentiment. He worked for Bow Street even though he didn’t need the money. His investment in the Tricorn too gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He relished the challenge of managing the place alongside Benedict and Seb.
Women of thetonhad it far worse than men. Most of them were expected to do little else in life but attract a wealthy suitor—preferably one with a title—and settle down to a life of dreary domesticity while producing the next generation of aristocrats. He could hardly blame Miss Danvers if she craved a little excitement. But the law was the law.
Alex’s mouth curved in a faint cynical smile as her gaze swept the room over Eversleigh’s shoulder. She was cataloguing the exit points. As a soldier, a sniper, he automatically did the same thing, whether at the opera or a dockside tavern. He scanned for the highest vantage points too, the best place from which to take a shot. The stage, a balcony, a raised terrace. Seb and Benedict did it too. Old habits died hard.
Was it because she wanted to escape from the obnoxious Eversleigh? Or was it the ingrained habit of a thief? Alex watched her note the tall sash windows, the servants’ door partially disguised in the papered wall to her left, the door to the dining room, and the double doors that led out onto the terrace.
A thief would hate to be cornered. A thief would always want to know his options for escape.
Heroptions, he amended silently. Her name was Emmeline. Emmeline Danvers.
Could she be the Nightjar?
The idea of being the one to corner her sent a shiver of excitement through him. It was more than the mere thought of bringing a miscreant to justice. The delicious possibility that his thief might turn out to be this attractive young woman gave him an almost sexual thrill.
Alex shook his head. He’d been too long without a woman. It had been almost a month since he’d given Alicia her marching orders.
He glanced over at the girl again and his blood surgedin anticipation. He’d never desired any of the criminals he’d been after before—not entirely surprising considering they were usually unwashed smugglers, pox-ridden whores, and toothless crones. His attraction wouldn’t sway him or distract him from his goal, of course, but it would certainly add a little piquancy to the game.
“Do you know what a nightjaris?” Seb asked suddenly. “I looked it up this afternoon. It’s a nocturnal bird. Its plumage is brown and speckled and resembles bark or leaves. It is exceptionally good at blending into its environment.”
Emmeline Danvers was doing an admirable job of effacing herself on the other side of the room. She blended into the shadows beautifully.
“They’re found all around the world,” Seb continued, “and are mostly active in the late evening, early morning, and at night. That describes our thief rather well, don’t you think?”
“It does indeed.” Alex smiled.
Emmy could barely concentrate.
She’d followed Harland’s progress through the room, watched as he directed that easy charm at everyone in his path. He knew just what to say. How to flatter, how to charm, and then skillfully extricate himself, leaving them wanting more.
