Page 4 of To Catch an Earl

“Maybe he doesn’t sell them. He could be an avid collector who keeps them in a private collection somewhere for his own pleasure?”

Conant snorted. “Dammed odd thing to find pleasure in, I say. Rocks? What’s wrong with cards and women, eh?” He chuckled heartily.

Alex drummed his fingers on his thigh, his mind already whirring with possibilities. He’d been praying for something to occupy his time, some challenge to enliven his current ennui. Here, at last, was an adversary worth pursuing.

“Maybe they’re being smuggled out of the country? Or maybe money’s not the Nightjar’s primary goal. You say he could steal more but restrains himself? Perhaps he has some moral code about not stealing more than one piece from any individual?”

“Moral code? Ha! A thief like that has no morals, Harland. Nor any honor. Whatever his reasons, he’ll get no mercy when he’s caught, tried, and convicted. The law is the law. We’ll see him hanged from Tyburn tree, you mark my words.”

Conant slapped his palms on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. “Rundell and Bridge aren’t keen to publicize this, obviously. They want you to investigate quietly, but I’m counting on you to catch the slippery devil. The Prince Regent demands it.” He strode to the door. “I imagine you’ll want to take a look at the crime scene. It’s over in Ludgate Hill.” He shot Alex a teasing smile. “I’m sure you already know that. No doubt you’vepurchased plenty of pretty baubles there yourself since your return from Waterloo.”

Alex hid a wince at the man’s uncanny perspicacity. He’d been at the jeweler’s only last month to buy a parting gift for Alicia, his mistress. The discreet widow had been disappointed but pragmatic when he’d ended their month-long liaison. She’d been hoping for more than a casual physical relationship—a wedding band, in truth—but he’d never pretended to be looking for a wife. He doubted he’deverbe looking for a wife.

Not that there was anything wrong with the married state, of course; witness Benedict’s current blissful existence with his heiress Georgiana. But unlike Alex, Benedict wasn’t practically blind in one eye, nor as cynical when it came to women. As a second son, Alex was under no pressure to marry and produce heirs. He enjoyed women, their company, their bodies, but he’d never felt the need to limit himself to just one.

Except once. Almost four years ago, at a masked ball on the eve of his leaving for the Peninsular, he’d met the woman of his dreams. A woman who’d not only excited him physically but challenged him mentally. A woman whose husky laugh and intoxicating scent had wrapped themselves around his heart and ensnared it so completely, he’d almost forgotten his own name.Un coup de foudrethe French called it. A thunderclap. And they were right. He’d felt a deep sense of inevitability, of utter rightness. An absolute conviction that, against all odds, here, finally, was the woman for him.

They’d talked. Danced. Flirted. They’d shared one perfect kiss.

Then she’d disappeared.

He’d never even discovered her name.

Alex closed the file in front of him with a snap and exhaled deeply. God, what a naïve fool he’d been backthen. Three years in the King’s Own Rifles had beaten such optimism out of him. He’d traipsed through Spain and Portugal, France and Belgium, and witnessed the true horrors of war, the brutal nature of both men and women. It had taught him the futility of such dreams.

He still dreamed of her, though. Not every night, but often enough. He’d wake with the lingering scent of her perfume on the breeze—an exotic scent he’d never encountered since. The feel of her lips on his. And a cock hard enough to hammer nails into solid steel.

It was ridiculous. He didn’t know her hair color—she’d been wearing a powdered wig in the antiquated style of the French court some fifty years before. He didn’t know the color of her eyes—they’d been hidden behind a ludicrous mask that covered the top half of her face.

The thought of her had nearly driven him to distraction. He’d been so frustrated, never solving the mystery, never knowing if she was someone’s wife, someone’s mistress, or someone with whom he might have considered a future.

Alex rolled his shoulders. He should have forgotten her by now. It wasn’t as though he’d remained celibate over the past four years. He doubted she would have either. And yet, he’d found himself searching for her ever since he’d been back in town. He scanned every room he entered, every face, paradoxically convinced that if he just saw her—just once—he’d recognize her. His body would recognize hers. Hissoulwould recognize her.

He huffed air out of his nostrils, irritated with himself. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? As the co-owner of a gambling den, he was more than capable of calculating the odds of such a probability: long to the point of absurdity. She was doubtless a married matron by now with a parcel of brats driving her to distraction.

And he was blissfully free, a bachelor of means, witha handsome face to match his handsome fortune. He could, within reason, have any woman he wanted with the lift of an eyebrow, the flash of a smile.

Except that one. The one that got away.

Was that it? Perhaps the reason his mystery woman still plagued him was the sense of unfinished business. He’d have tired of her within a month if they’d ever been properly introduced. It was merely the attraction of the unknown that allowed her to retain her unholy allure.

The same principle applied to the Nightjar; it was the challenge of the unknown. Alex hated to 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 thepresumed 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.

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