a small victory, but she’d take whatever she could.
She would attend the party, even though it might be her last. And she would do it looking her very best. Camille was right about that. If one was going to be arrested and imprisoned, one might as well do it in style.
* * *
The Prince Regent always kept his apartments overly warm. Alex tugged at the folds of his neckcloth. He certainly wasn’t nervous. Of course not. Emmy would come. She was fashionably late, that was all. She was making a point. He refused to believe the worst of her.
She had to come. He’d given his word to Conant the jewels would be here. He’d even persuaded the prince to give over “his” diamond too, in a grand gesture to the French.
If it ever bloody arrived.
His throat was parched. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing servant and took a healthy gulp. It wasn’t just his employment at Bow Street that was at stake, it was his honor as a gentleman. The honor of the entire bloody nation. What had he been thinking, to let it all rest on the unpredictable whim of a thief?
The Regent had already settled himself in the Council Chamber under a crimson canopy to receive the French delegation. The French ambassador, René-Eustache, the Marquis d’Osmond, had already arrived, as had half the French aristocracy. They’d all come out of the woodwork, despite the short notice, since half of them were still living in exile in London. Alex almost groaned when he saw the seventy-nine-year-old Louis Joseph, Prince de Condé, and his cousin, the thirty-eight-year-old Charles Ferdinand d’Artois, Duke de Berry. If Emmy didn’t show, this could be a disaster of epic proportions.
Where the hell was she?
The rest of her family had already arrived. The Comtesse de Rougemont—Camille, as she’d begged Alex to call her—was over by the door with Luc and his new fiancée, the termagant who’d pushed her way into the Tricorn.
They’d been in contact with Emmy all week, Alex was certain of it, but they were all fiercely loyal. They’d refused to divulge her location, no matter how many times Alex had asked. Or demanded. Camille had been adamant that Emmy hadn’t left London, but that was all she’d been prepared to say. She’d relayed Alex’s invitation for tonight, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say whether Emmy was coming or not.
Alex realized he was tapping his knuckles against his thigh and forced himself to stop. He’d felt this way countless times during the war, restless and jumpy. Knowing the enemy was out there and just waiting for the attack. Wishing it would come so he could get it over with.
He’d never been like this for a woman, so keen that every sound made him edgy. In the past, when other women had failed to show up at their appointed time, he’d been mildly irritated at the need to change his plans, but the inconvenience—and the woman—were quickly forgotten. He could never forget Emmeline Danvers.
He caught sight of Seb deep in conversation with Benedict and his wife, Georgiana, on the opposite side of the room. There must have been over two hundred people crowded into the place. Prinny’s idea of an “impromptu little gathering” had swelled to include almost every member of the ton still in London. His household staff were probably all in various stages of apoplexy.
Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to experience a very public humiliation. He glanced at an ornate gilt clock above an equally gaudy fireplace and cursed under his breath. She was over an hour late. Had he really misjudged her so badly?
Then he saw her, on the steps leading down from the entrance, and his heart seized before pounding back to life.
Thank God.
He blinked in slow appreciation. She’d clearly decided she no longer needed to blend in. No drab colors for Miss Danvers tonight. Her dress was a deep, rich burgundy, a ravishing, seductive color guaranteed to bring every man in the room to his knees. Alex felt the strangest desire to applaud. She looked incredible, as haughty and as regal as a queen. The low neckline of the dress showed to perfection the rubies—presumably not stolen—that glittered at her ears and throat. Her glorious hair was swept up in an elaborate coil to reveal the pale curves of her shoulders.
She was carrying a large reticule. Could all the jewels fit in there? He bloody well hoped so.