Page 30 of To Catch an Earl

“And?” Seb shrugged. “What does that signify? She can’t be the only woman in London with that particular perfume.”

“As a matter of fact, she probablyis. It’s a rather unusual scent, by all accounts. As individual as personalized snuff.” Alex pulled out his penciled notes. “It was invented by a Frenchman named Houbigant, who madeperfumes for Marie Antoinette and the Empress Josephine. According to Fargeon, he’s been making the same scent for Miss Danvers ever since her sixteenth birthday. He makes it only for her.”

Alex squinted at the paper, trying to read his own handwriting. “He says it evokes ‘a classic French garden’ with ‘headnotes of bergamot and lemon, a midrange of jasmine, rose, and orange blossom, and base notes of sandalwood and ambergris.’ Whatever that means.”

Fargeon had been quite the character. He’d maintained that every scent told a story, weaved a spell. He claimed that just by un-stoppering a bottle, he could transport a man to Arabia or the shores of the tropics.

Or to a moonlit garden, with an armful of fragrant, deceitful woman.

Alex frowned. The scent of her still haunted his bedroom, thanks to the bottle he’d commandeered. The taste of her still lingered in his mouth, even after a day. What in God’s name had he been thinking, to kiss her like that? He was deranged. He should have been trying to trick a confession out of her, not kissing her senseless up against a bloody wall.

Seb raised his brows. “A heady concoction. But can he be certain it’s exactly the same? Beyond reasonable doubt?”

“He’s an expert. His opinion’s good enough for me,” Alex said grimly. “When you put it together with her family history and Vidocq’s deductions, it seems clear that she’s the Nightjar.”

“Well, hell,” Seb sighed. “I suppose you’re going to catch her now?”

Alex nodded. “There are only two of the major jewels left to steal. Lady Carrington’s ruby, and the sapphire in Kent.”

“I don’t mind taking a trip out to Kent,” Seb said easily.“I’m getting a bit sick of London. I’ll see if I can drag Benedict away from marital bliss to accompany me.”

“All right. You go; I’ll talk to the Carringtons.”

“You’ll never guess who I just saw in Covent Garden,” Sally said as she breezed into the salon with her arms full of freshly cut flowers. “Your Lord Melton.”

Emmy’s teacup clattered back into her saucer, but she managed a frown. “He’s notmyanything.”

Camille raised her own teacup to her lips and exchanged an amused glance with Sally, which made Emmy want to grind her teeth. “Of course not, darling.”

Emmy hadn’t been thinking about him, or that earth-shattering kiss, for the better part of two days. Not at all. She definitely hadn’t woken that morning from the most wickedly erotic dream of her life with her body throbbing on the verge of climax because she’d been imagining herself beneath Harland. On a bed instead of against a wall.

Do you find this irritating, Miss Danvers?

Not. At. All.

She cleared her throat. “What was he doing?”

Sally fluffed the flowers in a vase. “I was on my way to Floris, to get you another bottle of scent, since he took the last one, and he was just leaving.”

The image of such a masculine man in such a feminine place was an amusing contradiction. A lesser man might have been overawed, but Emmy couldn’t imagine Harland being intimidated by anything. He was the kind of man who made himself at home in a modiste’s dressing room and calmly dictated which underwear his paramour should buy.

Her heart sank. Bother the man. She hadn’t had any perfume for two days, because of him. She felt naked without it. A little less feminine. A little more vulnerable. The thought of him having her scent in his house, ofbeing able to smell it whenever he felt like it, made her feel a little strange.

Neither Luc nor Camille seemed particularly concerned by his ongoing investigations. They believed she was wily enough throw him off the scent. But Emmy could sense the net closing in. The sword of Damocles hovered above her head, held aloft by only the thinnest of threads. Any moment, whenever Harland decided, it would come crashing down upon her neck.

She glanced over at Camille. “I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I say we should postpone stealing the ruby?”

Camille took a dainty bite of teacake. “I do understand your concerns, Emmy, but time is of the essence. Danton has been suspiciously quiet, which worries me. Harland might be suspicious of you, but he will want enough evidence to obtain a conviction before he makes his move. The fact that he hasn’t done anything yet suggests he doesn’t have enough proof.”

“He knows what we’re after,” Emmy urged. “He’s going to try to catch me stealing the ruby.”

“Let him try. You are clever and forewarned. And really, the opportunity on Thursday is too good to miss.”

Emmy sighed. The ruby Danton had demanded was owned by Lady Carrington, who lived on Park Crescent. In two days’ time, her neighbor, the Spanish Ambassador, would be holding a ball in honor of the Russian and French Court. Close to six hundred people would be in attendance; it was one of the most anticipated social events of the year. It would provide an excellent distraction.

“It would be nice,” Emmy said wearily, “to have normal concerns. Like trying to decide which dress to wear, which gloves to purchase. Not whichwindowto climb through.”

Camille smiled. “You are not normal, Emmeline.”

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