She just wished the role had fallen to someone—anyone—else.
Father had never asked his children to complete his task. Not in so many words. But Emmy had always feltthe weight of his silent expectation on her shoulders. The pressure to finish what he’d started.
The back door banged open, interrupting her brooding thoughts.
Sally Hawkins, who’d left her job as a costumier at Covent Garden Theatre eight years ago to become their “cook-housekeeper,” bustled in, looking artlessly seductive in a crimson shawl. As she dropped a basket full of fruit on a stool and unbuttoned her matching cherry-striped pelisse, Emmy suppressed an envious sigh at her friend’s voluptuous figure. Sally needed neither corset nor stays to achieve that gorgeous hourglass outline.
“Mornin’, all.”
Sally slapped a folded newssheet onto the table in front of Luc, who made a valiant effort not to stare at the cleavage that appeared in front of his face as she leaned over. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes closed as if he were in acute pain.
Sally settled herself on one of the kitchen chairs, and Emmy half smiled at her efforts to avoid touching Luc as she did so. Even a blind man could see the attraction between the two of them, but as far as Emmy knew, neither of them had ever done anything about it.
It had been Sally who’d helped Emmy nurse Luc during those terrible first few months of his convalescence. Sally on whom his gaze lingered whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. And yet there seemed to be some intangible barrier between them, some tacit agreement to keep their distance.
Emmy sometimes wondered whether Luc thought of himself as less of a man because of his prosthetic foot, an unsuitable mate for the beautiful Sally. As an aristocrat, albeit a French one, he was socially her superior. Sally had been born in the roughest part of London’s East End, and her voice still retained the accent of her youth. Shewas sharp as a pin, utterly unapologetic for the fact that she’d made her own way in the world, and possessed of a canny ability to read people’s true intentions.
Their father had first encountered her as she fended off an armed assailant in a Covent Garden back alley. Sally had coshed her attacker around the head with a wooden sewing case and rendered him unconscious without any assistance. Impressed, Emmy’s father had helped her move the body out of the road and escorted her safely home.
Sally’s father, it transpired, had been George Barrington, one of London’s most infamous gentleman thieves. As a child, Sally had assisted him in creating costumes and disguises for his various jaunts, but when Barrington was convicted of pickpocketing and transported to Sydney, she’d found work as a seamstress and makeup artist at the rowdy Covent Garden theatre.
Emmy’s father had offered her a job—one that didn’t require fending off unwelcome advances from drunk theatregoers on a regular basis—and Sally had quickly made herself indispensable in providing disguises for the Danverses’ various criminal escapades. She was a genius with a needle and a pot of rouge. She could turn Emmy into a chimneysweep, a flower seller, or a duchess, at the drop of a hat.
And when Luc had returned from Trafalgar so badly injured, she’d proven an invaluable nursemaid too. Emmy was sure it had been Sally’s gorgeous face and cheeky demeanor that had convinced Luc not to give up on life after all.
“The Timesis reportin’ the theft at the jewelers. Front page news too,” Sally said. “Bow Street’s been brought in to investigate.”
Emmy’s heart gave a leap, but she schooled her features into a polite mask.
Of course Bow Street was investigating the robbery. Ludgate Hill was within their purview. There were dozens of officers who could have been assigned to the case. There was no reason to think it would behim. The man she longed for and avoided with equal fervor.
Alexander Harland.
She pushed back from the table and stood.
“Where are you going?”
Emmy ignored her brother and turned to her grandmother. “Camille, do you fancy a trip to Ludgate Hill? I saw the prettiest little straw bonnet in the window of a shop there.”
Camille took another sip of her tea and shot her a knowing glance. “Would that be the milliners next door to Rundell and Bridge, by any chance? This is a dangerous game, Emmeline. You would be far wiser to stay away. You know what they say: ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’”
Emmy wrinkled her nose.
Curiosity was, undoubtedly, her most besetting flaw. As her father had pointed out on numerous occasions, a good thief does not have theluxuryof being curious. He must be single-minded in his pursuit of the specific goal. He cannot allow himself to be distracted. He must take only that which he has come for and ignore everything else, or risk being caught. A thief should not indulge in curiosity.
Sheknewthis. Being curious about Alexander Harland could only lead to trouble of the worst sort.
And yet.
Trouble was exciting, addictive. Alexander Harland drew her like a moth to a flame. He’d been her weakness for years and years, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. The object of her foolish affections didn’t even know her name.
“You risk drawing unnecessary attention to yourself, Emmy.” Luc scowled.
She shot him a chiding glance. “Are you suggesting I can’t blend into the background, Luc Danvers?” She’d been doing just that for years: hiding. She was an expert at becoming invisible. “I just want to find out who they’ve sent to investigate us, that’s all. It’s always good to know the enemy. I’ll be careful, I promise.”
Chapter 3.
Emmy’s hired coach rattled down Fleet Street and passed beneath the ancient arched portal in the city wall that gave Ludgate Hill its name. Over the past few years, the area had become almost as popular as Bond Street for shopping, and the streets were bustling with well-dressed ladies and au courant gentlemen.
