the odd name of the alley leading off it: Naked Boy Court. London’s streets were a never-ending treasure trove of bizarre names. Surely there was an amusing story behind that one.
They still weren’t close enough to see inside Rundell & Bridge. Emmy paused to inspect the bonnets displayed in the premises of Charles Vyse, straw hat manufacturer, then admired the silk stockings in the bow window of Ebenezer Flint, Hosier and General Outfitter. They passed the premises of Mr. Sharp, Perfumer to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and finally stopped in front of Mr. Blade’s lighting emporium, directly across the street from the focus of her insatiable curiosity.
“I don’t know what you hope to achieve by coming here, my love,” Camille murmured. “Luc is correct. The theft went off without a hitch. Why return to the scene of the crime?”
Emmy barely heard her. A dark, masculine shape was inside the shop, talking to Mr. Rundell’s mild-mannered nephew, Edmond. She squinted, using the reflection of the window and the shiny surfaces of the lights displayed in front of her to glimpse a tantalizing flash of broad back and dark blue tailcoat.
Tall, slim, brown-haired. Her heart skipped a beat.
The man turned, and her suspicions were confirmed; Alexander Harland’s handsome reflection was magnified a hundred times, duplicated in the myriad faceted glass droplets of the chandelier before her. As if one version weren’t dazzling enough.
She sipped in a breath. Harland always dressed immaculately. Crisp white cuffs, snowy cravat, beautifully cut jacket that outlined his impressively large physique. Buff breeches that molded almost indecently to his long, muscular legs. Black hessian boots polished to a military shine.
“Ah.” Camille gave a wry, worldly chuckle. “Now I see the appeal.”
Camille was, in her own words, a “connoisseur of gentlemen.” Having been born into the French aristocracy, she’d been a friend of Queen Marie Antoinette and had spent her youth flirting and intriguing at the glittering court of Versailles. Entirely pragmatic about marrying for financial security, she’d wed her first husband, the wealthy Comte de Rougemont, thirty years her senior, when she was only seventeen. He’d died of an apoplexy three months after the wedding, leaving Camille a very rich, very merry widow.
Her second husband, Le Chevalier Hugo, had been “an absolute rake, but impossibly charming.” Camille had seemed genuinely fond of him. “There was never a dull moment with Hugo,” she often said. “Of course, then he went and fell from his horse. I told him it wasn’t wise to take that fence after a second bottle of Burgundy, but the fool wouldn’t listen. Ah, well. I suppose it was all for the best. After all, if darling Hugo hadn’t broken his neck, I’d never have met your grandfather, would I?”
Emmy’s grandfather had been the last of the countess’s husbands, and by all accounts, it had been une affaire de coeur. Her grandmother, having fled the Revolution and settled in England, had taken one look at Anthony d’Anvers—dashing diplomatic aide and fellow French exile—at the ambassador’s reception and fallen “head over heels.” Emmy’s father had been born a slightly scandalous eight months after their wedding.
Having found bliss in the arms of a wonderful husband, Camille’s goal in life was to see Emmy equally happily settled. She was entirely dismissive of powdered, fashionable dandies and held a great appreciation for rakes, rogues, and scoundrels of all kinds. She was especially fond of a man in military uniform.
Her sharp elbow jostled Emmy’s ribs. “Enlighten me, Emmeline. Who is that wonderful specimen?”
Emmy sighed. She might as well make a clean breast of it. There was no keeping secrets from Camille. “That ‘specimen’ is Alexander Harland, Lord Melton.”
Camille gave an appreciative sigh as she half-turned to study him covertly. “Ooh la la. I congratulate you, Emmeline. Your taste is superb. Quel homme!”
Camille always became more French whenever she was excited.
Emmy frowned at Harland’s reflection. He was preparing to leave; he’d picked up his gloves from the counter. “Unfortunately, Lord Melton is an obstacle we must avoid if we wish to keep our heads. I’ve heard that he and his two friends, Benedict Wylde and Sebastien Wolff, are employed by Bow Street to solve crimes just like this one. I was afraid he would become involved.”
Camille nodded sagely. “I see. We stand forewarned.”
A glistening black carriage pulled up outside the jewelers and blocked their view. Unable to resist one final glimpse of her nemesis, Emmy tugged Camille across the street and around the back of the carriage. The coachman