his expression had changed to one of cynical animosity. He was glaring at her now as if she’d committed some unpardonable sin. Which she had, of course, many times, but there was no way he could possibly know that.
A chill swept over her, immediately followed by a flash of heat. Her stomach turned over in panic. She’d forgotten the impact of him close-up. His eyes were remarkable, a steely, inky, fathomless blue. The precise color of the diamond she was going to steal.
The only other time she’d been this close to him had been the night they’d danced, and then the full effect of those eyes had been hidden behind his black half mask. Now, he was staring at her openly, as he had done last night, and the effect was truly unnerving. Did he focus such attention on everyone? Or was she, in particular, of interest? She sincerely hoped not.
Good lord, he was tall. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She had to tilt her neck to see his face. A strange mixture of danger and excitement swirled in her belly. How easy it would be for him to catch her around the waist with those huge hands and lift her up. Her mouth would be level with his—
No! She didn’t like tall men. He was the enemy.
“I heard a rumor that you work for Bow Street, Lord Melton,” Camille said easily. “I do hope you’re not here to investigate a crime?”
Emmy opened her eyes in a wide, innocently amused expression and found her voice. “One wonders where you will start.”
Harland’s brows rose. “What do you mean, Miss Danvers?”
“Why, only that I suspect a good ninety percent of everything around us, from the Rosetta Stone over there”—she waved toward the Egyptian room behind them—“to these marbles Lord Elgin ‘rescued’ from the Parthenon in Greece, have been pilfered from somewhere.”
“One could argue that they’re safe in here,” he said. “Being preserved for future generations.”
She gave him her widest smile. “Hmm. Is stealing something for a noble reason ever an acceptable excuse? Is stealing something that’s already been stolen truly a crime? They’re interesting moral questions.”
His eyes flashed grey-blue from under his lashes. “The general principle in criminal law, Miss Danvers, is that theft is theft, regardless of the status of the object itself. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“I quite agree. It is pleasant for people like me to be able to enjoy these items here in London, but it would be even better to see them in their original environment. They should be returned home, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He inclined his head in polite acknowledgment and turned to Camille. “And to answer your question, ma’am, no. I am not investigating a crime here. Mr. Franks has the security arrangements well in hand. But I do, on occasion, lend my services to Bow Street. As part owner of the Tricorn Club I have a number of useful connections. You may have read about an incident at Rundell and Bridge in which I have become involved?”
Camille fanned herself gently. “Ah, yes. The Times suggested it was the work of that notorious criminal the Nightjar.” She placed her hand at her throat, as if her pearls were in imminent danger of being snatched. “How dreadful! One hardly feels safe in one’s bed. Do you think you will catch him, Lord Melton? When so many others have failed?”
Harland’s smile was almost predatory. “Oh, I know I will, madame. I will chase him to the ends of the earth if need be. There will be no escape. Justice will be served.”
He sent Emmy another strange sideways glance, and she suppressed a shiver of foreboding. This man was a hunter. His languid exterior belied a steely inner determination; if he set his mind on something, he would be relentless in his pursuit. She turned away and feigned interest in a pair of statues flanking the door.
“You’re a fan of Italian sculpture, Miss Danvers?” he asked, moving so they stood side by side. He leaned forward to read the information card, and his cuff rode up his arm as he extended his hand.
Emmy’s mouth went dry as she glimpsed a scant inch of masculine wrist. Hairs, veins, sinews. It made her feel light-headed. Good lord, if this was how she reacted over the tiniest bit of skin, imagine what it would be to see him—
“These are by Buonarotti. Dying slaves, apparently,” he murmured.
She forced her attention back to the sculptures. Parts