To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,27

Emmy had bitten back the sarcastic retort that nobody would care what she was wearing when they clapped her in irons and put a rope around her neck.

The one piece of Father’s advice Emmy had failed to follow was his moratorium on soap. He’d warned her to bathe only in hot water and to eschew powder and scent before a job, but Camille had disagreed. She said a woman was “as good as naked” if she left the house without perfume.

Emmy smiled in fond memory. For her sixteenth birthday, Camille had taken her to Floris, her favorite parfumier in St. James’s. She’d helped Emmy choose her own customized scent, a combination of peony, rose, neroli, and orchid. Emmy had felt so grown-up. She’d worn the same perfume ever since; each spray was an extra layer of invincibility, of feminine armor.

It was time to get to work.

A door led into Franks’s office and Emmy smiled in triumph as she spied the perfectly labelled row of cabinet keys mounted on the wall. She pocketed cabinet 4A—Rocks and Minerals.

Thieving was an odd profession, rather like being a soldier, she imagined. It consisted of long periods of boredom interspersed with brief moments of terrifying activity. She waited an extra ten minutes, just to be certain that Franks had really gone to meet Sally, and then untied the brown paper packet Camille had given her. She cracked open the door that led into the main wing of the museum and whistled.

“Brutus! Here, boy!”

The rhythmic click of canine claws scrabbling on polished wooden floor ensued, and Emmy kept her body behind the door, using it as a shield. Thus far, her acquaintance with Brutus had been conducted with the confidence-inducing iron bars of the museum’s garden railings between them.

A low growl made her insides curdle as the huge dog skidded around the corner. He was fearsome, some kind of hound, a Doberman perhaps? Black and tan, with pointy ears and a full complement of extremely sharp teeth. He looked like the jackal-headed deity painted on her sarcophagus.

Emmy wasn’t a fan of any dog larger than a dachshund. A dachshund she could outrun or escape by climbing on a chair. Brutus was a good seven stone of pure muscle. She doubted the door could stop him.

The beast stopped a few paces away and regarded her suspiciously.

“Hello, Brutus, my lovely,” she cooed. “It’s only me. Your friend Emmy. The one who brings you tasty presents.” She produced a strip of steak from her package and threw it toward the dog’s front paws. “Look what I’ve brought for you today.”

Brutus bent his head and sniffed the steak.

“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” Emmy coaxed. “Of course you are. Men are always hungry.” At least, Luc always was.

Brutus finally recognized her. His entire demeanor changed, and Emmy sagged in relief. With a bark of welcome, he gulped down the steak and trotted forward, his tail wagging expectantly. She opened the door and gave him another steak, careful to keep her fingers well away from his snapping jaws.

“Good boy!” She breathed shakily. If only all large, intimidating males of her acquaintance could be subdued in such a manner. She set off down the corridor toward the main staircase with Brutus, either hopeful of more steak or having appointed himself her temporary guardian, trotting at her heels.

The blue diamond was in exactly the same place as it had been earlier, and Emmy reached inside her pocket and produced the Nightjar’s signature black feather.

The small handwritten card she’d also brought was doubtless a mistake. She could hear her father’s voice in her mind: Just steal the jewel—only the jewel—and get out. This note would break the rules. It would bring all sorts of complications. But some wicked imp compelled her. She simply couldn’t resist.

Emmy unlocked the cabinet, lifted the hinged lid, slipped the blue diamond into her shirt pocket, and replaced it with the feather. Then she studied the rest of the rocks, searching for the perfect one with which to tease Alexander Harland.

Obsidian, volcanic glass? She bent to read the description. An igneous rock. Derived from the Latin ignis, meaning fire, formed by the solidification of lava. Alex Harland certainly raised her temperature by a few hundred degrees, but that wouldn’t do. The comparison was far too flattering.

She glanced at the next lump. Granite? A hard stone. His eyes were certainly hard—glittering and accusatory. His heart, at least where women were concerned, was doubtless just as petrified. His thighs, and the muscles