Emmy drummed her fingers on the table. He must have known he planned to arrest Luc when he was kissing her senseless last night, the rotten scoundrel. He probably expected her to race over there, beg for her brother’s release, and give herself up to his tender mercies with a full confession.
Not a chance.The game wasn’t over yet.
The best way to prove Luc’s innocence would be to have the Nightjar commit another crime while he was still incarcerated. Harland couldn’t possibly pursue a conviction then. But what could she steal? Excluding the ruby—which she highly suspected was in Harland’s possession—the only other jewel that remained from Danton’s list was the Ruspoli sapphire. But she and Luc hadn’t even confirmed its location, let alone started to plan for its removal.
Emmy bit her lip. Harland’s persecution of her brother had made this personal.
So she would retaliate in kind.
There was no way of knowing how long Bow Street would hold Luc, so she had to work fast. She still had the key she’d stolen from the Tricorn’s doorman. Tonight, she would break into the club, find a way into Harland’s private domain, and taunt him by leaving a black feather on his pillow. That would prove not only Luc’s innocence, but also provide the arrogant Lord Melton with humbling evidence of his own vulnerability.
Emmy smiled, delighted with the plan. When Camille entered the room, yawning politely behind her hand,Emmy decided not to tell her about Danton’s visit, Luc’s arrest, or her own decision. Camille would only worry about all of them.
Sally could go to Bow Street later and reassure Luc that Emmy had things well in hand.
Emmy only hoped it would be true.
Chapter 22.
Emmy shivered in the predawn mist as she slipped into the mews behind the Tricorn Club. She was wearing her dark shirt and breeches, with short stays underneath.
The Spanish had a word for this time between late night and early morning:madrugada.The English called it the witching hour. It was a strange, lonely time, when the great beating heart of London lay unnaturally still. The only innocent people awake at this hour were the sleepless mothers of newborns and the odd night watchman or ferryman. The night was for criminals like herself—the ne’er-do-wells and cutthroats, prostitutes and thieves.
The Tricorn’s upper windows were satisfyingly dark. It would have been nice to have waited until she was certain of Harland’s absence, but she didn’t have the luxury of time. She’d have to make sure she didn’t wake him; she’d leave the feather on his desk, not on his pillow. She wasn’t foolish enough to breech the sanctity of his bedroom just to make a point.
She inserted the iron key she’d pilfered into the lockon the back door. A tentative jiggle revealed it was not the right one, and she swore under her breath, even though she hadn’t really expected to be that lucky. She tiptoed down the set of steps that led belowground and tried it in the kitchen door instead. The metal tumblers creaked and ground, and she winced at the noise, but the lock opened with a yielding click.
Success!
The hinges didn’t squeak when she pushed open the door, and there was no growling Brutus to impede her progress this time.
She found herself in the club’s extensive kitchens. Copper pots, pans, and huge bunches of herbs hung from an iron rack suspended above an enormous kitchen work table. Emmy navigated the looming shapes and crept up the stairs into the private half of the house.
None of the wall sconces had been lit, but she recognized the sumptuous corridor she’d been dragged into by Harland. She glanced toward the door at the far end which opened into the public part of the building.He’d kissed her up against that wall.Her pulse rate increased even more.
Ears attuned for the slightest sound, she padded along, peering into a breakfast room and a sitting room. The heartbeat tick of a mantel clock measured out the seconds with satisfying regularity. No doubt this household ran with similar precision. Harland and Wolff were both used to military regimens. She’d bet every need was smoothly anticipated by their staff. Insubordination such as hers would not be tolerated. She bit back an irreverent snicker.
At the top of the stairs, she listened at the first door, but heard nothing. That was expected: Benedict Wylde’s rooms had been empty since he’d moved in with his new wife a couple of months ago.
Emmy had confided her plans to Sally that afternoon, and while the other woman had cautioned her to be careful, she hadn’t tried to talk her out of it. Instead, Sally had disappeared off to Covent Garden and returned with her friend Molly, the actress.
Molly, it transpired, had recently been invited back to the Tricorn’s private salon by Sebastien Wolff, Lord Mowbray, and thus had an excellent insight into who slept where. At first, she’d been reluctant to share the information, but when Sally said that it was Harland’s bedroom Emmy wanted to find, and not Wolff’s, Molly was more forthcoming. The actress clearly still had a soft spot for Wolff.
Harland’s bedroom was the third door on the right.
Emmy tiptoed down the hall and put her ear to the door. Her stomach knotted in mingled excitement and fear. Molly had said that each of the men had their own suite of rooms, consisting of an outer sitting room and an inner bedchamber. All Emmy had to do was open the door without waking Harland and leave the feather on his desk. She could just imagine his shocked face when he discovered it lying there in the morning.
The door opened with a tiny click, and she slipped inside, hardly daring to believe her own audacity. The fire in the grate had been banked for the night, but a few embers still glowed red. She could just make out the door to the bedchamber beyond, closed except for a thin sliver of darkness.
Perfect.
She strained to listen over the pounding of her own blood in her ears, but no snoring or mumbling came from the other room. Harland must be a quiet sleeper. An image of him in bed, his dark hair disordered against the pristine white of his pillow, assailed her.
Think of something else.
She prowled forward. What did this room tell her about him as an opponent? She stroked the top of an upholstered wing chair, then crossed to a dressing stand with a mirror for shaving. A porcelain jug and bowl sat on the top, with a folding razor, leather strop, and a bottle of his cologne. She leaned in close and took a sniff.Mmm.Pine and a hint of brandy. He’d smelled her perfume. Quid pro quo.
In truth, the whole room smelled nice, no, more than nice, as if Harland’s irresistible essence had infused every piece of fabric and leather. She quashed a swirl of yearning in her chest.
