a faint twinge of guilt at the destruction of the piece. The ruby didn’t belong here.
Emmy lifted her hand to her hair, plucked one of the black feathers from her coiffure, and placed it neatly inside the jewelry box. She considered pushing the ruby into her cleavage, but since her breasts weren’t as abundant as Sally’s, it would make an obvious, uncomfortable lump beneath her corset. She reached up and poked it into the center of her intricate topknot instead. Her hair had always been thick, like a horse’s tail. It would be safe up there.
Still unable to believe that Harland hadn’t set some fiendish trap, she made her way down the stairs, her slippered feet silent on the thick carpet runner. Instead of going back across the balconies, she planned to descend another level, to the entrance hall, and leave via the garden. She listened, alert for the slightest noise, unable to beat down her innate suspicion.
Where was Harland? His men? This was too easy. It was impossible that he’d planned nothing, especially after his verbal hints that he was on to her—
The door to the servant’s quarters opened, and she stilled.
Blast the man. She’d been right.
She ducked behind a pillar, her heart pounding, but instead of Harland’s mocking voice ordering her to give herself up, she heard a hushed female giggle and a corresponding masculine rumble, then the swift patter of shoes on the marble hallway tiles below.
“William, we can’t!” the female whispered, in a breathless tone that quite clearly said William, we must!
“Of course we can,” William growled. “They won’t be back for hours. And besides, do you know how many times I’ve watched you bend over that hearth to set the fire and wanted to catch you in my arms?”
“A hundred?” the girl guessed teasingly.
“A thousand.”
“Oh, William!”
Emmy grinned as the unmistakable silence of kissing ensued.
“Come on,” William groaned. “Let’s see if ’is lordship’s desk is as sturdy as it looks.”
More rustling, the click of a door, and the metallic tumble of a lock being turned. Emmy sent the amorous couple a mental toast, glad they were enjoying their evening. She envied their freedom.
The laughter and murmured conversation of the remaining servants below stairs floated up from the basement kitchen. They seemed to be having just as much fun, if not more, than the guests in the ballroom next door. Emmy smiled. One of the reasons the Nightjar always left a feather behind was to ensure that none of the menial staff were ever accused of stealing. That, at least, was one thing she didn’t have on her conscience.
With a swift glance left and right, she made her way to the back of the house and let herself out into the Carringtons’ garden. Music and laughter from the ambassador’s house spilled out the open windows, but the weather was too cool to have tempted guests onto the terrace. Only a low stone balustrade separated the two gardens, and she stepped over this final hurdle with a little bounce of triumph.
Take that, Alexander Harland, with your veiled warnings and your oblique threats! Tonight, the game is mine.
Emmy approached the tall glass structure at the rear of the house and slipped inside. The ambassador’s conservatory was almost overflowing with tropical abundance. It was as if her own bedroom wallpaper had come to flowering, riotous life. A midnight forest, in three dimensions.
Wafts of sultry air made her shiver as she padded along one of the narrow brick pathways toward the main part of the house. It was quite dark. A couple of small Chinese-style paper lanterns had been placed at odd intervals along the narrow walks, but their tiny puddles of light were swallowed up in the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the glass panes high above, but the dark slash of leaves, palms, or tropical ferns, created a shivering lattice overhead, obscuring the light.
Emmy inhaled deeply, trying to calm her residual nerves. The scent of the place was strangely comforting: warm earth, rich vegetal fecundity, sweet flowers, and mossy loam. A wave of belated relief overcame her, and she sank onto one of the knee-high brick walls that divided each section. Her hands were shaking.
Silly, but this always seemed to happen. During a heist, she was completely focused, able to control her nerves. But afterwards, when she was safe, and alone in her bedroom, then she became scared. She shook. Sometimes she cried. She’d think of everything that could have gone wrong, even as she hugged herself in elation.
The door