The Duke and the Diamond (The Paragon Mystery #1)
Prologue
LONDON, EASTCLERE ESTATE
It should have been simple.
Steal the Paragon Diamond.
Remove its contents.
Return it to its place.
No one would ever know, and all would be set to right.
But even the best plans could go wrong.
8:52 p.m.
The party should have started twenty minutes ago. Would that alter the timeline? Hopefully not. Timing was everything. All had to be pushed back accordingly.
There — finally. The musicians struck up a loud reel, the notes carrying down the corridor from the massive ballroom. Good. The noise would cover any stray footsteps.
No one was about — wait. A shadow. Time to slip behind a tapestry until the person passed.
A breath. Another. The corridor cleared again, leaving an unobstructed path to the narrow servants’ passage.
The shaking hands were not ideal, but for a first criminal undertaking, not unexpected.
8:54 p.m.
A quick glance through the hidden viewing slit into the jewel gallery revealed one guard slumped against the wall, bored beyond measure, his eyes fixed on the Paragon Diamond glittering in its case directly before him.
A second guard leaned out, flirting with a lady’s maid, while the steward lingered in the ballroom, fussing with lighting cues instead of the diamond. Perfect. One less set of eyes.
Timing held.
8:55 p.m.
The guards stepped away for their brief walkabout, taking their places for the chandelier lighting, locking the gallery door behind them.
The duplicate key was already in hand. No one was to view the diamond yet — its grand unveiling was scheduled for later, when the crowd was thick and the Marquess of Eastclere could revel in the drama.
The key slid into the lock. A turn — a horrible jam — then, finally, a soft click.
The gallery door opened.
8:56 p.m.
Cold air within. Only a single lantern burned, casting a dim, steady glow.
The remaining lanterns waited along the wall, destined to blaze when the moment was right.
At the center of the room, the Paragon Diamond shimmered like frost where it rested beneath its glass dome. A quick sweep left and right.
A whispered, “Forgive me.”
Tools in hand, the hinge yielded just enough to lift the dome.
No sound.
No crack.
No trace of interference. Everything could be restored once the task was done.
8:57 p.m.
The chandeliers were extinguished in the adjoining room. Darkness reigned. Twelve seconds.
The dome lifted. Fingers traced the velvet cushion, found the nearly invisible seam, and opened the hidden compartment in the diamond’s frame. Inside was the brittle, rolled document — meant to release with one precise press of the stone.
But it did not move.
Again.
Again.
Nothing.
Jammed.
Bollocks. Time was nearly gone. The chandeliers would blaze at any moment.
There was only one option.
Lift the diamond.
Slip it into the padded pouch.
Reset the dome.
Latch the hinge.
Leave.
Finished not a moment too soon. A cry of surprise, followed by applause, rose as the gallery doors opened and the chandeliers flared to life. Footsteps approached — guards returning. A dive into the shadows, breath frozen, heart hammering.
8:58 p.m.
The door shut softly. A quick dart through the olive-green tapestry and back into the bustling ballroom. Noise, laughter, bodies. Blend in. Keep moving. No one had any reason to notice.
9:00 p.m.
The grand unveiling. A shout tore through the night at the absent jewel.
Escape to the stables to hide it until return.
This wasn’t theft. Only borrowing.
9:05 p.m.
Back into the ballroom to be accounted for.
“What’s wrong?” a friend asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Suspicious glances flickered, but the answer accepted — for now.
By morning, the theft was confirmed.
The Paragon Diamond was gone.
And the Marquess of Eastclere would go to any lengths to bring it back.
Any lengths at all.