from Trafalgar so badly injured, she’d proven an invaluable nursemaid too. Emmy was sure it had been Sally’s gorgeous face and cheeky demeanor that had convinced Luc not to give up on life after all.
“The Times is reportin’ the theft at the jewelers. Front page news too,” Sally said. “Bow Street’s been brought in to investigate.”
Emmy’s heart gave a leap, but she schooled her features into a polite mask.
Of course Bow Street was investigating the robbery. Ludgate Hill was within their purview. There were dozens of officers who could have been assigned to the case. There was no reason to think it would be him. The man she longed for and avoided with equal fervor.
Alexander Harland.
She pushed back from the table and stood.
“Where are you going?”
Emmy ignored her brother and turned to her grandmother. “Camille, do you fancy a trip to Ludgate Hill? I saw the prettiest little straw bonnet in the window of a shop there.”
Camille took another sip of her tea and shot her a knowing glance. “Would that be the milliners next door to Rundell and Bridge, by any chance? This is a dangerous game, Emmeline. You would be far wiser to stay away. You know what they say: ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’”
Emmy wrinkled her nose.
Curiosity was, undoubtedly, her most besetting flaw. As her father had pointed out on numerous occasions, a good thief does not have the luxury of being curious. He must be single-minded in his pursuit of the specific goal. He cannot allow himself to be distracted. He must take only that which he has come for and ignore everything else, or risk being caught. A thief should not indulge in curiosity.
She knew this. Being curious about Alexander Harland could only lead to trouble of the worst sort.
And yet.
Trouble was exciting, addictive. Alexander Harland drew her like a moth to a flame. He’d been her weakness for years and years, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. The object of her foolish affections didn’t even know her name.
“You risk drawing unnecessary attention to yourself, Emmy.” Luc scowled.
She shot him a chiding glance. “Are you suggesting I can’t blend into the background, Luc Danvers?” She’d been doing just that for years: hiding. She was an expert at becoming invisible. “I just want to find out who they’ve sent to investigate us, that’s all. It’s always good to know the enemy. I’ll be careful, I promise.”
Chapter 3.
Emmy’s hired coach rattled down Fleet Street and passed beneath the ancient arched portal in the city wall that gave Ludgate Hill its name. Over the past few years, the area had become almost as popular as Bond Street for shopping, and the streets were bustling with well-dressed ladies and au courant gentlemen.
The stately grey dome of Wren’s masterpiece, St. Paul’s Cathedral, kept a benign watch over the area. Emmy caught a glimpse of the great brick walls of Newgate Prison as they neared their destination, and the sight of the looming ramparts dampened her excitement somewhat. The grim edifice was a sobering reminder of what could befall her family if they were ever caught.
She dismissed the morbid thought with a toss of her head.
The coach lurched onto Ludgate Hill and rocked to a stop, the driver having been instructed to deposit them at the far end of the street. Emmy helped Camille down, and together, they began a slow promenade along the thoroughfare.
To the casual observer they were two fashionably dressed women studying the contents of each shop window, and yet Emmy’s awareness was entirely fixed upon the elegant white stone building at number 32. She’d been robbing its basement less than twelve hours ago.
Three stories high, the exterior of Rundell & Bridge was graced with elegant arches held up by fluted columns. The sign, hanging above the door, was of two golden salmon leaning against each other, the significance of which, for a diamond merchant and jewelers, eluded Emmy. She opened her parasol with a practiced flick of her wrist and ushered Camille a little closer.
Her stomach gave a little flutter of anticipation. Bow Street would send their best men to investigate this crime. She knew who it would be.
The delicious scent of strongly brewed coffee and the babble of conversation escaped from the front door of the London Coffee House, which took up two adjoining properties at numbers 24 and 26. Her stomach grumbled longingly. The next shop, Isherwood & Sons, House Decorators, held a display of hand-painted oriental wallpaper, and Emmy suppressed a smile at