Page 5 of To Catch an Earl

Alex shook his head, bemused. Why the long gap? Was the Nightjar getting old? Losing his taste for adventure? Either way, here, at last, was a problem to sink his teeth into. The Nightjar, ancient or not, was a worthy opponent against whom Alex could test his mettle.

“The law is reason, free from passion,” Aristotle taught, and Alex agreed wholeheartedly. He prided himself on his relentless investigative skills, his ability to look at any situation objectively. He would bring the Nightjar to justice using cool reasoning and impartial logic. Although he, Benedict, and Seb got a financial reward for every case they solved for Bow Street, the cash wasn’t his primary goal. It was the professional satisfaction he gained from the victories that motivated him.

War had taught him that rules and laws existed forgood reason. Infantry soldiers formed into squares when under attack to present a united front and protect one other. Any man who broke rank not only made a target of himself, but endangered the lives of the men next to him. Infringement led to danger and anarchy.

In the Rifles, he’d been part of a large force, a cog in a vast machine. As a Bow Street operative, he had the opportunity to do something more individual, to be part of a much smaller team with Benedict and Seb. Any successes were entirely to their credit, any failures, theirs to own. Alex liked the accountability.

He’d fought for three years to protect the innocent inhabitants of this country. With Napoleon safely incarcerated on St. Helena, he would continue to uphold the laws of England, and guard against disruptive criminals like the Nightjar.

He called for Mickey, who arrived mere moments later.

“When Seb finally drags his thick head out of bed, tell him I’ve gone to Ludgate Hill. I’ll be back for lunch.”

Chapter 2.

“The British Museum? You cannot be serious.”

Emmy Danvers, née Emmeline Louise d’Anvers, the daughter of Europe’s most elusive jewel thief, dropped her forehead to the scarred kitchen table with a heartfelt groan. “Nobody in their right mind would attempt it. Why don’t we break into the Tower of London and steal theBritishcrown jewels instead? That way, when we’re caught, the cells and gallows will be already set up for us. It’s impossible!”

Luc, seated at the opposite end of the table, chuckled at her morbid humor. “That’s what you said about Rundell and Bridge, and it went off without a hitch, did it not? It’s not impossible, Em. Just difficult. A challenge worthy of our skills.”

Emmy raised her head and shot her brother a withering glare. “I am sick of such challenges. We will be caught. And hanged. Or transported to the Antipodes. It’s only a matter of time before our luck runs out.”

Camille—who refused to accept the title Grandmèreon the grounds that it made her “feel terriblyold”—took a delicate sip of her tea and nodded.

“Well, we are all in agreement there, ma chère. Your father, God rest his soul, may have been my son, but this quixotic dream of his has left you with a very dangerous legacy. The Nightjar!” She gave an elegant feminine snort. “What a name! I told him he should have called himself ‘The Fox’ or ‘The Conjurer.’ Something with a little more flair.”

Emmy bit back a laugh of despair. That was typical of Camille. The fact that her son had repeatedly broken the law in at least six different European countries over the course of a fifteen-year career was less offensive to her sensibilities than the fact that he’d not done it morestylishly. In her grandmother’s mind, there was very little that couldn’t be forgiven provided one went about it in a suitably dashing manner.

With a family like this, how could she ever have hoped to lead a normal life? Was it any wonder they were in the tangle they were in now?

She glared at the letter that lay, unfolded, on the table between them. It was the latest in a string of similar missives, the first of which had arrived just over a year ago. “He is mad, this Danton,” she said flatly. “How did he discover Father was the Nightjar? How did he find us?”

Luc’s handsome features twisted in a grimace. “Does it matter? He can send us all to the gallows, as he says. We have no choice but to follow his orders.”

Emmy groaned again. For four blissful years, since their father’s death, they’d lived a blameless, crime-free life. Louis d’Anvers’s patriotic whim—to recover the French crown jewels and store them until the Bourbon monarchy had been restored—had been, if not forgotten, at least suspended. Napoleon had been so secure in his rule over France that it had seemed unlikely his reignwould ever end, despite the valiant efforts of Britain and her allies to quell his ruthless empire-building. Even exile on Elba had proved insufficient to stop him.

But with his downfall at Waterloo last summer, their father’s dream of a Bourbon restoration seemed destined to become a reality. Luc and Emmy had just been discussing what they should do with the Nightjar’s ill-gotten gains when the first letter from Emile Danton had arrived.

Danton’s father had been the revolutionary leader Georges Danton, the man their father had publicly denounced for the theft of the French crown jewels. Having been deprived of his true target by their father’s death, the younger Danton had turned his ire on the Nightjar’s family. As far as Emmy could tell, Danton Junior was as corrupt as his sire. He’d demanded not only the cache of jewels their father had already stolen, but insisted they obtain three additional jewels—a white diamond, a blue diamond, and a ruby—that were still at large. She doubted very much that he planned to atone for his father’s sins by returning them to the French government.

Failure to comply, he’d assured them, would result in most unpleasant consequences, not only for Luc and Emmy, but for those they loved. He’d specifically mentioned Camille as a potential target if his wishes were not carried out “in a timely manner.”

Emmy and Luc had had no way of refusing, no way of communicating with their blackmailer. They’d thought to claim ignorance of where the treasure was hidden and tell Danton the secret had gone to the grave with their father, but there was no return address. His demands were always delivered by one of London’s innumerable scrappy errand boys, who, when questioned, could only report that they’d been commissioned by “a dark-haired gentleman” with a “foreign accent.”

With no other options, they’d begun to plan the Rundell & Bridge heist.

The Nightjar had been resurrected.

Emmy had been fourteen the first time her father had involved her in one of his “little jobs,” and that had only been under duress. It had always been tacitly understood that Luc would inherit the role of the Nightjar, but when he’d turned eighteen, he’d insisted on enlisting in the Royal Navy under Admiral Nelson to “do his bit” in tackling Napoleon. He’d been wounded in the leg at Trafalgar only a few months later. His convalescence had been slow and painful, and his resulting disability had rendered him unable to take part in the physical element of the heists.

And so, for four years, from the age of fourteen to eighteen, Emmy had helped her father and brother track down and steal back the crown jewels of France.

She was singularly ill-suited for a life of crime. She was physically small, at only three inches over five feet, and while constant exercise ensured she retained a certain agility, no amount of practice could cure her dislike of heights. She steadfastly refused to steal anything that required being more than ten feet off the ground.

Father had maintained that stealing the jewels back was a moral imperative. If it happened to be contrary to the law, well, then, the law was simply wrong. Committing a few lesser, secondary crimes was necessary to serve justice for a much larger one.

Emmy agreed. The jewels belonged to France. They should undoubtedly be returned.

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