To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,5

be beaten. His pride required him to outwit his opponent, to catch the prize, to win the game. He wanted to excel at whatever he put his mind to. His competitive nature would allow nothing less.

He stared deeply into the fire. The Nightjar intrigued him. Whoever the thief was, he was a master of disguise, of guile. Nobody had ever seen him, although his exploits had featured in many a column inch of newspaper print over the past decade.

He opened the thin file beside him and glanced at the report within. Brief, sketchy details about a number of high-profile heists throughout Europe. A remote chateau in Switzerland, halfway up a vertiginous mountain. A highly fortified villa on the shores of Lake Como in Italy. He shook his head. Conant had been right—nobody had the first clue how the Nightjar had managed most of his crimes.

Some of the details remained the same, however. Never any violence. No force of any kind, in fact. No safes had been cracked, no doors blown off their hinges. No servants drugged, nor guards harmed. The most striking characteristic was stealthy, quiet intelligence. Presumably disguise. In several instances, nobody had even noticed the gems were missing for several days after the presumed theft; it was often impossible to say precisely when they had been stolen.

Only once had the Nightjar deviated from leaving a sole black feather at the crime scene. Alex smiled at the report. The thief had inadvertently knocked over a silver sugar bowl in the course of one of his robberies, but instead of stealing the silver, he’d taken the time to sweep up the sugar with a piece of paper and then penned a note of apology.

Signor Locatelli. Please excuse the mess. I regret the necessity of depriving your wife of her very beautiful emerald earrings, but I am sure she will be delighted to shop for their replacements. Pour la gloire de la France.

—The Nightjar

Alex studied the brief handwritten note. An elegant, sloping hand, obviously someone who’d received a formal education. Was he looking for a gentleman thief?

The last reported theft had been four years ago in 1812. And then nothing. Conspicuous inactivity until last night’s little spree at Rundell Bridge & Rundell.

Alex shook his head, bemused. Why the long gap? Was the Nightjar getting old? Losing his taste for adventure? Either way, here, at last, was a problem to sink his teeth into. The Nightjar, ancient or not, was a worthy opponent against whom Alex could test his mettle.

“The law is reason, free from passion,” Aristotle taught, and Alex agreed wholeheartedly. He prided himself on his relentless investigative skills, his ability to look at any situation objectively. He would bring the Nightjar to justice using cool reasoning and impartial logic. Although he, Benedict, and Seb got a financial reward for every case they solved for Bow Street, the cash wasn’t his primary goal. It was the professional satisfaction he gained from the victories that motivated him.

War had taught him that rules and laws existed for good reason. Infantry soldiers formed into squares when under attack to present a united front and protect one other. Any man who broke rank not only made a target of himself, but endangered the lives of the men next to him. Infringement led to danger and anarchy.

In the Rifles, he’d been part of a large force, a cog in a vast machine. As a Bow Street operative, he had the opportunity to do something more individual, to be part of a much smaller team with Benedict and Seb. Any successes were entirely to their credit, any failures, theirs to own. Alex liked the accountability.

He’d fought for three years to protect the innocent inhabitants of this country. With Napoleon safely incarcerated on St. Helena, he would continue to uphold the laws of England, and guard against disruptive criminals like the Nightjar.

He called for Mickey, who arrived mere moments later.

“When Seb finally drags his thick head out of bed, tell him I’ve gone to Ludgate Hill. I’ll be back for lunch.”

Chapter 2.

“The British Museum? You cannot be serious.”

Emmy Danvers, née Emmeline Louise d’Anvers, the daughter of Europe’s most elusive jewel thief, dropped her forehead to the scarred kitchen table with a heartfelt groan. “Nobody in their right mind would attempt it. Why don’t we break into the Tower of London and steal the British crown jewels instead? That way, when we’re caught, the cells and gallows will be already set up for us. It’s impossible!”

Luc, seated at the