had cautioned her to be careful, she hadn’t tried to talk her out of it. Instead, Sally had disappeared off to Covent Garden and returned with her friend Molly, the actress.
Molly, it transpired, had recently been invited back to the Tricorn’s private salon by Sebastien Wolff, Lord Mowbray, and thus had an excellent insight into who slept where. At first, she’d been reluctant to share the information, but when Sally said that it was Harland’s bedroom Emmy wanted to find, and not Wolff’s, Molly was more forthcoming. The actress clearly still had a soft spot for Wolff.
Harland’s bedroom was the third door on the right.
Emmy tiptoed down the hall and put her ear to the door. Her stomach knotted in mingled excitement and fear. Molly had said that each of the men had their own suite of rooms, consisting of an outer sitting room and an inner bedchamber. All Emmy had to do was open the door without waking Harland and leave the feather on his desk. She could just imagine his shocked face when he discovered it lying there in the morning.
The door opened with a tiny click, and she slipped inside, hardly daring to believe her own audacity. The fire in the grate had been banked for the night, but a few embers still glowed red. She could just make out the door to the bedchamber beyond, closed except for a thin sliver of darkness.
Perfect.
She strained to listen over the pounding of her own blood in her ears, but no snoring or mumbling came from the other room. Harland must be a quiet sleeper. An image of him in bed, his dark hair disordered against the pristine white of his pillow, assailed her.
Think of something else.
She prowled forward. What did this room tell her about him as an opponent? She stroked the top of an upholstered wing chair, then crossed to a dressing stand with a mirror for shaving. A porcelain jug and bowl sat on the top, with a folding razor, leather strop, and a bottle of his cologne. She leaned in close and took a sniff. Mmm. Pine and a hint of brandy. He’d smelled her perfume. Quid pro quo.
In truth, the whole room smelled nice, no, more than nice, as if Harland’s irresistible essence had infused every piece of fabric and leather. She quashed a swirl of yearning in her chest.
Get the job done, Em.
A desk stood in one corner of the room. Emmy reached between her breasts, pulled out the black feather she’d stashed inside her stays, and kissed it for luck. She placed it dead center of the otherwise-clean desk. Mission accomplished.
She turned to go, but a flash caught her eye; her own perfume bottle, right there on the side table. It was almost empty, but she reached out to steal it back anyway. And then her hand stopped, arrested in midair, as she recognized the faceted lump that lay next to it.
Lady Carrington’s ruby.
Hell and damnation! She’d known it was him!
It was the size of a pigeon’s egg, glinting and beautiful even in the dim light. Emmy reached for it just as the rasp of a tinderbox ricocheted through the silence.
Chapter 23.
Emmy twisted around in horror as Harland calmly set a flame to the wick of an oil lamp and turned it up so a warm glow filled the space between them. The door to the bedroom behind him was open—how long had he been watching her from the shadows?
A million permutations of what might happen next flashed through her brain. Words sprang to her lips: I can explain! It’s not what it looks like!
Except she couldn’t explain. Not without dragging Luc and Camille down too. Better to hold her tongue.
The look Harland sent her pierced her to the core. It was filled with such accusation, such knowledge. He wasn’t surprised, damn him. He’d known all along that she’d come. God, she was so stupid! He’d laid a trap, and she’d walked right into it.
He was wearing a shirt—barely. It was open at the neck and the untucked front extended to midthigh. He still wore breeches, thank God, but his feet were bare. Had he been lying in wait for her? Emmy could barely draw in a breath.
It was he who broke the agonizing silence. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms casually over his chest.
“You know, Bonaparte once said ‘Never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake,’ but in this case I felt compelled to intervene. We can’t