Page 11 of To Catch an Earl

“He’s very rich.”

“He’s the most patronizing man I have ever encountered.”

Camille cast a subtly scornful glance at the man who was still half the room away. “I quite agree. No amount of money could make up for having to facethatover the breakfast table for the next thirty years.”

Eversleigh considered himself a veritable tulip of fashion. His startling green-and-pink-striped waistcoat was festooned with fob chains and pocket watches. A sparkling diamond stick pin secured the cravat at his throat. Marcasite buckles dazzled on his shoes. Emmy liked to amuse herself by imagining precisely how she would deprive him of every item of jewelry he owned.

“I vow, if the Nightjar weren’t such a noble thief, he would pay my Lord Eversleigh a visit,” she whispered. She could retire for life on the fripperies with which he decorated his person. “He doesn’t know me, nor does he have the slightest desire to do so. He just wants another ornament in his life, one without an opinion, who will not question, demand, or make scenes. I think we can both agree that I amnotthat woman.”

“And what about Bantam?”

Emmy sighed at the mention of her sweet, persistent suitor. Edward Bantam was a thoroughly nice man. Utterly inoffensive, he’d hovered around her for years, and while not possessed of a rapier wit, he was still a perfectly decent catch. He could always be counted on to ask a lady to dance or to procure another cup of lemonade. He just didn’t make her heart flutter and her stomach drop away.

The way Harland did.

“I wish I could feel more for him than friendship,” she whispered. “But I can’t. If I accepted him, we’d both be miserable. And besides, he would be horrified if he ever discovered the truth about me. He’s an upstanding citizen. He’s probably never broken a law in his life. Even if Iwantedto trust him, how does one introduce such a topic into casual conversation? ‘Oh, yes, I’d love a second cup of tea, and—did I mention?—I’m an internationally wanted jewel thief.’” She shook her head with a wry smile. “He’d probably turn me in himself.”

“I want to see you settled,” Camille murmured. “I’m not getting any younger. I want to see your children.” She fanned herself vigorously. “The problem, of course, is that you are uncommonly beautiful.”

Emmy almost choked on her champagne. “Youare biased,” she countered. “I’m pretty at best.”

“Bah. I’ve seen half a century of beauties at the most glittering courts in Europe. Believe me when I say, even allowing for a little natural familial bias, that you aretrès belle, Emmeline.”

Emmy felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sure that’s why we’ve been almost trampled underfoot by the stampede of gentlemen all rushing to offer for me these past few years,” she said dryly.

Camille shrugged. “Most men are fools. They’re too blind to appreciate what is right in front of them. You’re subtle. They overlook you because you downplay your beauty. But one of these days, you’re going to encounter a connoisseur who’ll see what you’re trying to hide. Youraloofness will only intrigue him. He will be drawn to the mystery.”

“I don’t wish to be a mystery! We don’t want anyone looking at me too closely. Think how dangerous that could be.”

“It would be better if you were plainer,” Camille agreed placidly. “Martha there”—she indicated a pleasant-faced woman to their right who was tapping her foot in time to the music—“she would be an excellent thief. Forgettable, nothing out of the ordinary. Interchangeable with a thousand nursemaids and governesses.”

“My front tooth is crooked,” Emmy persisted.

Camille gave her fan a dismissive flick. “That one tiny imperfection that only makes you more perfect.”

Emmy was about to argue, but at that moment, the footman stationed at the top of the stairs announced in stentorian tones: “The Earl of Melton and the Earl of Mowbray.”

Her heart leaped into her throat.

Alex paused at the top of the stairs. He disliked crowds, hated it when people approached him from his blind side. He didn’t like being ambushed, especially by matchmaking mamas with empty-headed debutantes in tow, or bored married ladies looking for a little excitement. He’d taken to positioning himself with a wall, or Seb, on his right.

At least he didn’t have to dance. The first time he’d attempted it, shortly after he’d returned from Belgium, he’d discovered that while he could see perfectly well straight ahead, his lack of vision to the right meant he was unable to see his partner’s hand when she held it up to hold. He kept bumping into people if they happened to spin too close to him on that side.

The final straw had been when he’d accidentallygroped Lady Worthington’s breast during a particularly lively reel. Lady Worthington hadn’t minded one bit, and he’d spent the rest of the evening having to endure excruciatingly overt come-hither looks, right under the nose of her fiercely protective husband.

Alex had avoided dancing after that. He was damned if he’d be called out for besmirching the honor of some innocent young thing merely because his hand happened to fasten on somewhere inappropriate.

“God, what a crush,” Seb muttered as they threaded their way toward the far wall, pausing to nod or exchange a few brief pleasantries with various acquaintances. They stationed themselves to the left of the orchestra, with an arched alcove at their backs, and surveyed the assembled crowd.

“I spoke to Caroline,” Seb said over the din. “The Danverses are here. She said the son would probably be seated. And the countess is wearing a powder-pink gown.”

Alex arched his head to see over the dancers and studied the chairs set up along the opposite side of the room. He dismissed several pink-gowned women as too young, and then his eye was caught by an elderly lady standing next to a handsome, seated man. The dowager’s snow-white hair had been arranged in an upswept style, and while she was obviously of advanced years, it was clear she had once been a great beauty. She retained a certain ingrained elegance.

Seb followed his gaze. “That’s them. The son’s called Luc. And Vidocq’s file omitted one crucial fact that puts paid to your theory he’s the new Nightjar. The man’s an amputee. Lost his right foot at Trafalgar.”

Alex studied him. They were of a similar age, a similar height. Luc Danvers did not appear to be lacking a foot; he must have adopted a prosthesis, like so many others Alex had encountered since the war. A faint bumpunder his breeches, just below the knee, seemed to confirm that notion.

“He’s almost as tall as either of us.” Alex frowned. “And broad. Even if he wasn’t missing a foot, he’d never have been able to fold himself into that beer barrel at Rundell and Bridge. Whoever we’re looking for, they’re smaller than that.”

---