Page 27 of To Catch an Earl

It had been a mistake, opening that bottle of perfume again in his room. The tantalizing scent had filled his nose, filled his lungs, invaded his private domain. It had been far too easy to imagineherlying naked on his sheets, that sweet mouth curved in welcome. Alex growled as the blood pooled in his groin, a heavy ache of frustration. He turned to go back downstairs, but a flash of navy blue caught his eye.

It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t dare!

It was.

He drained the rest of his brandy in one gulp.

She was threading through the crowd in the wake of a man who, from his silver-topped cane and slightly uneven gait, could only be her brother. Danvers wasn’t a member. How the hell had they gained entry?

Emmeline Danvers was wearing the same dress she’d had on earlier, at dinner. It left her shoulders deliciously bare and provided a tantalizing glimpse of the pale mounds of her breasts, especially from Alex’s lofty vantage point. Her waist was tiny—he was sure he could span it with his hands—and he’d watched that pert bottom of hers swish up the stairs. His imagination had dutifully supplied all manner of depraved ideas. Like following her up and discovering exactly what the inside of her bedroom looked like. Like discovering if those freckles covered the rest of her body.

Alex scowled down at the pestilent woman. She’d added a black half mask that covered her from her eyebrows to the tip of that ridiculous nose, but he’d recognize her anywhere, even in the dark.Especiallyin the dark. He seemed unnaturally attuned to her presence.

A hot ball of anger formed in his gut. The last time she’d been masked, he’d imagined himself in love with her. Now, four years later, he almost hated her for putting them both in such an impossible position. If she was the Nightjar—and he was almost certain that she was—then he would have no choice but to turn her in. Her capture at his hands was inevitable. He was too good at his job not to prevail.

She would be prosecuted. She would lose not only her freedom, but quite possibly her life. What the hell was she thinking, coming here, flaunting herself in his kingdom? Did she think herself invincible? Did she think he was a fool?

Christ, if she was as guilty as he thought she was, she should be taking a carriage to Scotland or catching a boat across to France. She should be removing her sweet, thieving behind from the country, getting as far away from him, and Bow Street, and justice, as possible.

Chapter 14.

Emmy wanted to look everywhere at once, but she kept her head down and tried to look inconspicuous.

She’d never been inside a gentleman’s club before, never imagined the noise, the luxury, the smell. Dice rattled in cups, roulette balls bounced and clattered in their wooden wheels, cards snapped and scraped over green baize. The air was an almost tangible fog of alcohol, tobacco, and warm bodies. Masculine shouts, curses, cheers, and groans formed a constant wave of sound, augmented by the odd feminine laugh. It was a world away from the staid formality of Almack’s with its lukewarm lemonade.

Emmy was amazed at the colossal sums being transferred at the tables. She gambled with her life every time she stole something, and it seemed that the stakes were equally high here. The whim of a single card could make or ruin a man.

A wave of anger toward the players seized her.Shehad good reasons for risking it all. She did it reluctantly, against her will. What excuse did they have? Why chooseto skirt ruin, merely for fun, for the thrill of it? It seemed an irresponsible way to find pleasure.

Luc joined a game of whist, and she stood behind him, feigning interest. She’d never liked cards. She lacked the patience. She passed an idle glance around the room, her heart in her throat, searching for a familiar face.

Did the owners of the club spend much time on the gaming floor? Or did they stay in their private apartments, ensconced in solitary splendor? If the private half of the Tricorn was anything like the luxury of this public side—the place positively exuded subtle yet expensive taste—then they must live like kings.

Out of habit, she catalogued the exits. The main door led to the curving flight of stairs they’d taken from the marbled entrance foyer. A dining room branched off to the left. A billiard room, judging from the occasional crack of ivory balls from within, on the opposite side. She glanced up. A minstrel’s gallery, with a balcony like an opera box, overlooked the room, fed by a single door. That was where she would stand, given the choice.

Emmy recognized a few of the gentlemen in attendance. Eversleigh was impossible to overlook, in his pocket watches and a lurid yellow-striped waistcoat. He looked like a boiled sweet and seemed impressively inebriated. Lord East was there too, with an orange-haired woman who was most definitely not his wife.

Emmy’s spirits drooped a little. There was no sign of Harland, nor his friend Wolff. She hadn’t expected to see the third owner of the club, Benedict Wylde. He’d recently married Georgiana Caversteed, the shipping heiress, and it was rumored to be a love match. Emmy rather hoped he had better things to do with his evenings than oversee a crowd of intoxicated thrill-seekers.

Perhaps Harland was having dinner. Perhaps he wasn’t even in the building.

Perhaps he was with a woman.She clenched her teeth.

Luc pushed back his chair. “I need to go to the necessary, but I don’t want to leave you alone,” he murmured. “I should never have let you and Camille to talk me into this. I dread to think what will happen if somebody recognizes you. Come with me. It’s downstairs.”

Emmy nodded, and together they made their way back to the staircase. Luc was clearly enjoying himself. He had a formidable intellect; he could probably devise a method of breaking the bank if he put his mind to it, but she was just glad to see him having fun. He’d missed out on several years’ worth of evenings like this when he’d been an invalid.

The Tricorn’s giant doorman, a man named Mickey, pointed Luc in the direction of the bathroom, and Emmy took advantage of his momentary inattention to palm the key that he’d left on a table near the door.

For all she knew, it opened something completely useless, like the Tricorn’s wine cellar, or coal shed, but if she were lucky, it might prove more interesting—like the key to the back door, for example. Or to the private apartments. She slipped it into her reticule. No telling when something like that might come in handy.

As Luc lumbered off in the direction given, Emmy loitered at the far end of the corridor, feigning interest in the surprisingly good paintings that hung on the burgundy damask walls. A paneled door to her right opened, and she turned, expecting to see a servant, but instead, she encountered a familiar pair of slate-blue eyes.

Of all the—

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Harland took one swift glance down the deserted corridor, caught her elbow, and tugged her through the door.

Emmy was too surprised to do more than gasp as heclosed it behind them with a heavy click and swung her round so her back was pressed against the wall.

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