In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (29 page)

“More explicit, you mean?”

“Far more explicit.”

Jordan gazed at her bent head, at the seed pearls and russet hair glimmering in the lamplight. And he thought,
It’s hard to believe I was once attracted to this woman.
But that was years ago, and he’d been only twenty-two and a bit gullible—a condition he sincerely hoped he’d outgrown.

Veronica Dooley had entered his social circle on the arm of an old chum from Cambridge. After the chum bowed out, Jordan had inherited the girl’s attentions, and for a few dizzy weeks he’d thought he might be in love. Better sense prevailed. Their parting was amicable, and they’d remained friends over the years. She’d gone on to marry Oliver Cairncross, and although
Sir
Oliver was a good twenty years older than his bride, theirs had been a classic match between money on his side and beauty on hers.

Jordan had thought them a contented pair.

How wrong he’d been.

“My advice to you,” he said, “is to come clean. Tell Ollie about the affair. He’ll most likely forgive you.”

“Even if he does, there’s still the letters. Guy’s just upset enough to send them to all the wrong people. If Fleet Street ever got hold of them, Ollie would be publicly humili-ated.”

“You think Guy would really stoop so low?”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’d offer to pay him off if I thought it would work. But after all that money I lost in Monte Carlo, Ollie’s keeping a tight rein on my spending. And I couldn’t borrow any money from you. I mean, there are some things one simply
can’t
ask of one’s friends.”

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“Burglary, I’d say, lies in that category,” noted Jordan dryly.

“But it’s not burglary! I wrote those letters. Which makes them
mine.
I’m only retrieving what belongs to me.” She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly glittering like blue diamonds. “It wouldn’t be difficult, Jordie. I know exactly which drawer he keeps them in. Your sister’s engagement party is Saturday night. If you could invite him here—”

“Beryl detests Guy Delancey.”

“Invite him anyway! While he’s here at Chetwynd, guzzling champagne—”

“I’m burgling his house?” Jordan shook his head.

“What if I’m caught?”

“Guy’s staff takes Saturday nights off. His house will be empty. Even if you
are
caught, just tell them it’s a prank. Bring a—a blow-up doll or something, for insurance. Tell them you’re planting it in his bed. They’ll believe you. Who’d doubt the word of a Tavistock?” He frowned. “Is that why you’re asking
me
to do this?

Because I’m a Tavistock?”

“No. I’m asking you because you’re the cleverest man I know. Because you’ve never, ever betrayed any of my secrets.” She raised her chin and met his gaze. It was a look of utter trust. “And because you’re the only one in the world I can count on.”

Drat. She would have to say that.

“Will you do it for me, Jordie?” she asked softly. Pitifully. “Tell me you will.”

Wearily he rubbed his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

Then he sank back in the armchair and gazed resignedly at the far wall, at the paintings of his Tavistock ancestors.

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Distinguished gentlemen, every one of them, he thought.

Not a cat burglar in the lot.

Until now.

At 11:05, the lights went out in the servants’ quarters.

Good old Whitmore was right on schedule as usual. At 9:00 he’d made his rounds of the house, checking to see that the windows and doors were locked. At 9:30 he’d tidied up downstairs, fussed a bit in the kitchen, perhaps brewed himself a pot of tea. At 10:00 he’d retired upstairs, to the blue glow of his private telly. At 11:05 he turned off his light.

This had been Whitmore’s routine for the past week, and Clea Rice, who’d been watching Guy Delancey’s house since the previous Saturday, assumed that this would be his routine until the day he died. Menservants, after all, strived to maintain order in their employers’ lives. It wasn’t surprising they’d maintain order in their own lives, as well.

Now the question was, how long before he’d fall asleep?

Safely concealed behind the yew hedge, Clea rose to her feet and began to rock from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood moving through her limbs. The grass had been wet, and her stirrup pants were clinging to her thighs. Though the night was warm, she was feeling chilled. It wasn’t just the dampness in her clothes; it was the excitement, the anticipation. And, yes, the fear. Not a great deal of fear—she had enough confidence in her own ability to feel certain she wouldn’t be caught. Still, there was always that chance.

She danced from foot to foot to keep the adrenaline pumping. She’d give the manservant twenty minutes to fall asleep, no longer. With every minute that passed, her window of opportunity was shrinking. Guy Delancey
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could return home early from the party tonight, and she wanted to be well away from here when he walked in that front door.

Surely the butler was asleep now.

Clea slipped around the yew hedge and took off at a sprint. She didn’t stop running until she’d reached the cover of shrubbery. There she paused to catch her breath, to reevaluate her situation. There was no hue and cry from the house, no signs of movement anywhere in the darkness.

Lucky for her, Guy Delancey abhorred dogs; the last thing she needed tonight was some blasted hound baying at her heels.

She slipped around the house and crossed the flagstone terrace to the French doors. As expected, they were locked.

Also as expected, it would be an elementary job. A quick glance under her penlight told her this was an antique warded lock, a bit rusty, probably as old as the house itself.

When it came to home security, the English had light years of catching up to do. She fished the set of five skeleton keys out of her fanny pack and began trying them, one by one.

The first three keys didn’t fit. She inserted the fourth, turned it slowly and felt the tooth slide into the bolt notch.

A piece of cake.

She let herself in the door and stepped into the library.

By the glow of moonlight through the windows she could see books gleaming in shelves. Now came the hard part—

where was the Eye of Kashmir? Surely not in this room, she thought as the beam of her penlight skimmed the walls. It was too accessible to visitors, pathetically unsecured against thieves. Nevertheless, she gave the room a quick search.

No Eye of Kashmir.

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Tess Gerritsen

She slipped out of the library and into the hallway. Her light traced across burnished wood and antique vases. She prowled through the first-floor parlor and solarium. No Eye of Kashmir. She didn’t bother with the kitchen or dining areas—Delancey would never choose a hiding place so accessible to his servants.

That left the upstairs rooms.

Clea ascended the curving stairway, her footsteps silent as a cat’s. At the landing she paused, listening for any sounds of discovery. Nothing. To the left she knew was the servants’ wing. To the right would be Delancey’s bedroom.

She turned right and went straight to the room at the end of the hall.

The door was unlocked. She slipped through and closed it softly behind her.

Through the balcony windows moonlight spilled in, illuminating a room of grand proportions. The twelve-foot-high walls were covered with paintings. The bed was a massive four-poster, its mattress broad enough to sleep an entire harem. There was an equally massive chest of drawers, a double wardrobe, nightstands and a gentleman’s writing desk. Near the balcony doors was a sitting area—two chairs and a tea table arranged around a Persian carpet, probably antique.

Clea let out an audible groan. It would take hours to search this room.

Fully aware of the minutes ticking by, she started with the writing desk. She searched the drawers, checked for hidden niches. No Eye of Kashmir. She moved to the dresser, where she probed through layers of underwear and hankies. No Eye of Kashmir. She turned next to the wardrobe, which loomed like a monstrous monolith
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against the wall. She was just about to swing open the wardrobe door when she heard a noise and she froze.

It was a faint rustling, coming from somewhere outside the house. There it was again, louder.

She swiveled around to face the balcony windows.

Something bizarre was going on. Outside, on the railing, the wisteria vines quaked violently. A silhouette suddenly popped up above the tangle of leaves. Clea caught one glimpse of the man’s head, of his blond hair gleaming in the moonlight, and she ducked back behind the wardrobe.

This was just wonderful. They’d have to take numbers to see whose turn it was to break in next. This was one hazard she hadn’t anticipated—an encounter with a rival thief. An incompetent one, too, she thought in disgust as she heard the sharp clatter of outdoor pottery, quickly stilled. There was an intervening silence. The burglar was listening for sounds of discovery. Old Whitmore must be deaf, thought Clea, if he didn’t hear
that
racket.

The balcony door squealed open.

Clea retreated farther behind the wardrobe. What if he discovered her? Would he attack? She’d brought nothing with which to defend herself.

She winced as she heard a thump, followed by an irritated mutter of “
Damn
it all!” Oh, Lord. This guy was more dangerous to himself than to her.

Footsteps creaked closer.

Clea shrank back, pressing hard against the wall. The wardrobe door swung open, coming to a stop just inches from her face. She heard the clink of hangers as clothes were shoved aside, then the hiss of a drawer sliding out.

A flashlight flicked on, its glow spilling through the crack 278

Tess Gerritsen

of the wardrobe door. The man muttered to himself as he rifled through the drawer, irritated grumblings in the queen’s best English.

“Must be mad. That’s what I am, stark raving. Don’t know how she talked me into this….” Clea couldn’t help it; curiosity got the better of her. She eased forward and peered through the crack between the hinges of the door. The man was frowning down at an open drawer. His profile was sharply cut, cleanly aristocratic. His hair was wheat blond and still a bit ruffled from all that wrestling with the wisteria vine. He wasn’t dressed at all like a burglar. In his tuxedo jacket and black bow tie, he looked more like some cocktail-party refugee.

He dug deeper into the drawer and suddenly gave a murmur of satisfaction. She couldn’t see what he was removing from the drawer.
Please,
she thought.
Let it not
be the Eye of Kashmir.
To have come so close and then to lose it….

She leaned even closer to the crack and strained to see over his shoulder, to find out what he was now sliding into his jacket pocket. So intently was she staring, she scarcely had time to react when he unexpectedly grasped the wardrobe door and swung it shut. She jerked back into the shadows and her shoulder thudded against the wall.

There was a silence. A very long silence.

Slowly the beam of the flashlight slid around the edge of the wardrobe, followed cautiously by the silhouette of the man’s head.

Clea blinked as the light focused fully on her face.

Against the glare she couldn’t see him, but he could see
her.
For an eternity neither of them moved, neither of them made a sound.

Then he said, “Who the hell are
you?
”
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* * *

Slowly Jordan played his torchlight down the length of the intruder, noting the stocking cap pulled low to the eyebrows, the face obscured by camouflage paint, the black turtleneck shirt and pants.

“I’m going to ask you one last time,” Jordan said.

“Who are you?”

He was answered with a mysterious smile. The sight of it surprised him. That’s when the figure in black sprang like a cat. The impact sent Jordan staggering backward against the bedpost. At once the figure scrambled toward the balcony. Jordan lunged and managed to grab a handful of pant leg. They both tumbled to the floor and collided with the writing desk, letting loose a cascade of pens and pencils. His opponent squirmed beneath him and rammed a knee into Jordan’s groin. In the onrush of pain and nausea, Jordan almost let go. His opponent got one hand free and was scrabbling about on the floor. Almost too late Jordan saw the pointed tip of a letter opener stabbing toward him.

He grabbed his opponent’s wrist and savagely wrestled away the letter opener. The other man struck back just as savagely, arms flailing, body twisting like an eel. As Jordan fought to control those pummeling fists, he snagged his opponent’s stocking cap.

A luxurious fountain of blond hair suddenly tumbled out across the floor, to ripple in a shimmering pool under the moonlight. Jordan stared in astonishment.

A woman.

For an endless moment they stared at each other, their breaths coming hard and fast, their hearts thudding against each other’s chests.

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A woman.

Without warning his body responded in a way that was both automatic and unsuppressibly male. She was too warm, too close. And very, very female. Even through their clothes, those soft curves were all too apparent. Just as the state of his arousal must be firmly apparent to her.

“Get off me,” she whispered.

“First tell me who you are.”

“Or
what?
”

“Or I’ll—I’ll—”

She smiled up at him, her mouth so close, so tempting he completely lost his train of thought.

It was the creak of approaching footsteps that made his brain snap back into function. Light suddenly spilled under the doorway and a man’s voice called, “What’s this, now?