Page 31 of To Catch an Earl

“A phrase every girl longs to hear.”

Camille waved her hand. “If you weren’t a thief, you would be like all the other girls out there. Unforgivably dull. You’d have no conversation at all. You’re so much more interesting this way, darling.”

“How can I be interesting when I can’t talk to anyone about it? I must pretend to be vapid and almost mute and suffer idiots explaining things badly to me. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to empty my glass of champagne over Lord Bolton’s head when he tried to tell me that rubies and spinels were the same.”

“Don’t forget that diamonds are only produced under immense pressure. It can be the same for people. You have produced your greatest work, attained your greatest potential, because you were put under pressure.”

“Yes, but—”

Camille’s eyes took on a roguish twinkle. “I’ve discovered it’s often the case with husbands too. A combination of applying pressure—and the right amount of heat—usually produces diamonds. Necklaces mainly.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “And what fun it was to provide the heat! Ah, me. I do miss your grandfather.”

“Grandmère!”

“Bah. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt an equal amount of heat for your Lord Melton.”

Emmy groaned into her teacup, wishing she could deny it.

“It is rather an inconvenient attraction.” Camille sighed. “Considering your respective professions.”

Emmy gave a cracked laugh. “It is notinconvenient.Inconvenient is snapping your parasol on the hottest day of the year. Inconvenient is being unable to find a matching pair of stockings. This is a disaster.”

“I know how you like to collect words that have no English translation, Emmeline. So here is one for you:the Russians call what you havetosca.” Camille nodded sagely. “It is a melancholy yearning, a longing, a love sickness. An unbearable feeling that you need to escape but lack the hope or energy to do so. It is an awful feeling. But withouttosca, there cannot be delirious happiness.”

Emmy frowned into the tea leaves that swirled at the bottom of her cup. “I don’t want to be attracted to him. He’s not a man, he’s a bloodhound. Sniffing us out. Hunting us down. He is relentless. He will catch us and rip us to pieces—”

“How terribly bloodthirsty.” Camille laughed. “But I have seen the way he looks at you. It is not ice in his veins, but fire. There is passion beneath the hauteur. A man like that is slow to kindle, but when he does? Ooh la la.” She raised her brows. “You distract him, Emmeline. And that gives you power. Distracted, he will make mistakes. If you rile him enough, he will snap.”

“I don’t want to see him snap,” Emmy said, quite honestly. “He’s dangerous.”

Camille tilted her head. “Au contraire, I think it could be extremely exciting. But it takes a brave woman to deal with that kind of man. You must meet him head-on. He is not comfortable, I think. But he would be so very worth it.”

“He will show me no mercy if he catches me.”

Camille nodded. “Sometimes the chase is such fun that the catching is quite a disappointment.” She took another bite of teacake. “On the other hand, sometimes being caught is only the start of the adventure.”

“Being caught would be the start of a trip to the gallows,” Emmy said sharply. “Nothing more.”

Sally’s reappearance at the doorway precluded any further argument. “Ready for a trip to Park Crescent?”

Emmy gave a resigned nod.

Chapter 16.

Emmy put both hands on the small of her back and arched her spine—the universal movement of a heavily pregnant woman trying to relieve the weight she carried in front—then took hold of the bottom of Sally’s ladder to steady it.

Luc had driven around Park Crescent late last night, flicking white, watery paint at several of the first-floor windows. This morning Sally and Emmy, happily disguised as itinerant window washers, were doing a brisk trade cleaning off the “pigeon droppings.”

Sally had excelled this time. Tied to Emmy’s waist by an ingenious series of straps and buckles was a pig’s bladder—thoroughly cleaned—filled with water. It gave the realistic appearance of a pregnant belly; the weight of it added to the authenticity of her posture.

Sally always said that for a disguise to be truly effective, the wearer must have an attitude to match. If you were supposed to be a ballet dancer, every movement, every action had to mirror that belief. You should keepyour head up, chin high, be graceful. Conversely, if you were supposed to be a vagabond, you should hunch, and drag your feet, and scratch as if you had vermin. She’d learned such things from her days at the theatre.

Emmy felt very much like a woman who wanted to sit and relieve her aching feet. An apron tied over the top of her skirts added to her apparent bulk, as did the scratchy wig she wore beneath an unsightly bonnet that shielded her face.

Lady Carrington’s servants had been all too happy to delegate the task of window washing to Sally, who had turned herself into a strapping young lad. She was currently whistling tunelessly at the top of the ladder, gaily swiping at the “droppings” with a wet rag.

They’d done what they needed to do. While washing the back of the Carringtons’ house Sally had deformed one of the window latches just enough to prevent it from fully closing. Everything was set. Emmy had wanted to leave at once—Luc was waiting for them with the carriage just around the corner in Harley Street, but Sally had insisted they wash a few more windows along the street to allay suspicion.

Emmy cursed softly as a splash of water from Sally’s bucket landed squarely in her eye. It stung. Sally maintained the secret to a perfectly shiny window was vinegar in with the water.

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