Page 18 of To Catch an Earl

“Besides, everything is ready for tomorrow night,” Camille murmured soothingly. “Mister Franks has agreed to meet Sally at the White Lion at five o’clock. You know the floor plan by heart. The delivery’s all set up.” She patted her reticule. “And I have another delicious treat for Brutus, when we pass by the gardens. He’s such a sweetheart.”

“He weighs the same as me,” Emmy grumbled. “And he’s slobbery.”

Camille gave a wistful sigh. “Oh, darling. If I were twenty years younger, I’d come with you.”

“You’d probably be better than me.”

Her grandmother had nerves of steel. Nothing flustered her. She could stare people out of countenance at the drop of a hat. Whereas Emmy quite often veered between elation and terror, between resentment that such a career had been forced upon her, and resignation that stealing the jewels was, morally at least, the right thing to do.

If she were perfectly honest, she often experienced a thoroughly wicked rush of pleasure from robbery too. Instead of feeling guilty, she felt a confusing delight in the danger and excitement, at least once it was all over. It was the thrill of a job well done. The gleeful sense of getting away with it.

Perhaps she was more like her father than she’d thought.

Camille gazed down at the grey-blue gemstone between them, and her expression softened. “I remember this before it was cut down, you know. It used to be twice this size. The Sun King, Louis’s grandfather, used to wear it as a hat pin, but Louis had it set in a sash for the Order of the Golden Fleece. He wore it at all the ceremonial functions. Marie Antoinette used to tease him that he out-glittered the stars in the sky.” She sighed. “Ah, such happy days.”

Emmy straightened and squeezed her arm. “Come on. I’ve seen enough here. I need some food before I get into that ridiculous coffin.”

Chapter 9.

The worst thing about the British Museum plan was the sarcophagus. Emmy forced herself not to think of its previous occupant as she lay down in the cramped wooden space and glared up at Luc.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

“Uncomfortable.”

Her brother grinned. “Well, it wasn’t meant for live people, you know.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You only have to be in there a short while. And it’s better than that beer barrel. At least you get to lie down flat. And you’ll be transported a lot more respectfully.”

“The beer barrel didn’t once belong to a dead person,” she said. “And it smelled considerably more pleasant.”

“I’ve made you plenty of air holes. Try it.”

Emmy gave a resigned sigh and folded her hands across her chest. Luc, with Sally’s help, slid the heavy lid across her field of vision. It made a horrid grating noise. As the light was cut off, she forced herself to breatheslowly through her nose. It smelled musty, like being entombed inside a hollow tree trunk, and she was glad she’d compensated by giving herself a few additional dabs of perfume to mask the smell.

When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she realized that numerous small round holes pierced the lid; she was speckled all over with a smattering of tiny light spots. She moved, trying to see how much space she had. Her elbow bumped painfully on the side.

Luc’s muffled voice filtered through the thick wooden lid. “See? It’s a good thing you’re so small, Em. I’d never have been able to fit in there. Now push the lid off. You have to be able to move it on your own.”

Emmy wriggled and cursed, pushing sideways and upward with her palms on the underside of the lid. It was a struggle, but she managed to shift it enough to get her fingers through a gap at the side. She pushed the lid off completely and sat up. Sally gave her a round of applause, and Luc nodded approvingly.

“Perfect.”

Camille entered the kitchen and smiled at seeing Emmy sitting inside the ancient sarcophagus on top of the table. The fact that this wasn’t the strangest thing Emmy had ever been cajoled into doing was indicative of just how odd her family truly was.

“It’s time,” Camille said. “The cart is waiting in the mews. Sally, you look wonderful!”

Sally gave a sarcastic curtsey. She’d made an effort to look even more ravishing than usual, since she was meeting Henry Franks, the museum curator, for a post-work tipple in a tavern across the square from the museum. Her hair had been left partly down, and one stray lock curled enticingly over her rounded shoulder. Her milky-white bosom was shown to devastating effect in a pale blue cambric dress. A more perfect distraction would be hard to find.

Luc narrowed his eyes. “Franks had better not try anything untoward,” he growled.

Sally gave him a wide, confident grin. “I can ’andle ’im, don’t you worry.”

“The thought of you ‘handling’ him is precisely what concerns me, madam,” Luc muttered.

Sally chuckled. She stroked a light caress across his jaw and bent to press a playful kiss on his cheek. “You have nothing to worry about, my lovely.”

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