To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,39
modiste’s dressing room and calmly dictated which underwear his paramour should buy.
Her heart sank. Bother the man. She hadn’t had any perfume for two days, because of him. She felt naked without it. A little less feminine. A little more vulnerable. The thought of him having her scent in his house, of being able to smell it whenever he felt like it, made her feel a little strange.
Neither Luc nor Camille seemed particularly concerned by his ongoing investigations. They believed she was wily enough throw him off the scent. But Emmy could sense the net closing in. The sword of Damocles hovered above her head, held aloft by only the thinnest of threads. Any moment, whenever Harland decided, it would come crashing down upon her neck.
She glanced over at Camille. “I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I say we should postpone stealing the ruby?”
Camille took a dainty bite of teacake. “I do understand your concerns, Emmy, but time is of the essence. Danton has been suspiciously quiet, which worries me. Harland might be suspicious of you, but he will want enough evidence to obtain a conviction before he makes his move. The fact that he hasn’t done anything yet suggests he doesn’t have enough proof.”
“He knows what we’re after,” Emmy urged. “He’s going to try to catch me stealing the ruby.”
“Let him try. You are clever and forewarned. And really, the opportunity on Thursday is too good to miss.”
Emmy sighed. The ruby Danton had demanded was owned by Lady Carrington, who lived on Park Crescent. In two days’ time, her neighbor, the Spanish Ambassador, would be holding a ball in honor of the Russian and French Court. Close to six hundred people would be in attendance; it was one of the most anticipated social events of the year. It would provide an excellent distraction.
“It would be nice,” Emmy said wearily, “to have normal concerns. Like trying to decide which dress to wear, which gloves to purchase. Not which window to climb through.”
Camille smiled. “You are not normal, Emmeline.”
“A phrase every girl longs to hear.”
Camille waved her hand. “If you weren’t a thief, you would be like all the other girls out there. Unforgivably dull. You’d have no conversation at all. You’re so much more interesting this way, darling.”
“How can I be interesting when I can’t talk to anyone about it? I must pretend to be vapid and almost mute and suffer idiots explaining things badly to me. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to empty my glass of champagne over Lord Bolton’s head when he tried to tell me that rubies and spinels were the same.”
“Don’t forget that diamonds are only produced under immense pressure. It can be the same for people. You have produced your greatest work, attained your greatest potential, because you were put under pressure.”
“Yes, but—”
Camille’s eyes took on a roguish twinkle. “I’ve discovered it’s often the case with husbands too. A combination of applying pressure—and the right amount of heat—usually produces diamonds. Necklaces mainly.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “And what fun it was to provide the heat! Ah, me. I do miss your grandfather.”
“Grandmère!”
“Bah. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt an equal amount of heat for your Lord Melton.”
Emmy groaned into her teacup, wishing she could deny it.
“It is rather an inconvenient attraction.” Camille sighed. “Considering your respective professions.”
Emmy gave a cracked laugh. “It is not inconvenient. Inconvenient is snapping your parasol on the hottest day of the year. Inconvenient is being unable to find a matching pair of stockings. This is a disaster.”
“I know how you like to collect words that have no English translation, Emmeline. So here is one for you: the Russians call what you have tosca.” Camille nodded sagely. “It is a melancholy yearning, a longing, a love sickness. An unbearable feeling that you need to escape but lack the hope or energy to do so. It is an awful feeling. But without tosca, there cannot be delirious happiness.”
Emmy frowned into the tea leaves that swirled at the bottom of her cup. “I don’t want to be attracted to him. He’s not a man, he’s a bloodhound. Sniffing us out. Hunting us down. He is relentless. He will catch us and rip us to pieces—”
“How terribly bloodthirsty.” Camille laughed. “But I have seen the way he looks at you. It is not ice in his veins, but fire. There is passion beneath the hauteur. A man like that is slow to kindle, but when he