20. Chapter 20
Friday evening, Emma entered the nursery.
The boys were tucked into their beds, asleep.
She gave each small cheek a kiss goodnight.
She walked along the hallway. The flame of her candle danced in the dark.
Next, she peeked in to say goodnight to Margie and Abby.
The girls were tucked in together, heads bent over what was no doubt the latest Gothic novel. They looked up at her with owlish eyes.
“You two should go to sleep. You’ll hurt your eyes reading with only that taper for light.”
Abby set the candle down on the nightstand, and her sister tucked the book under the pillow.
“Blow it out,” Emma commanded. With a roll of her eyes, Abby blew out the candle and settled back against the pillows.
Emma closed the door. She headed to the wing she and Lucy shared.
Her last stop was to see that her sister was dressed and ready to go to Almack’s tonight with the duchess and Lady Caroline.
She was required to wear all white for this rite of passage.
Emma, thankfully, had been able to bow out of the event.
She had said she was not up to crowded ballrooms just yet after having been sick most of the week.
She leaned against the doorjamb. “You look lovely, Lucy. I am sure you will get through tonight without issue.”
“I hope so.” Lucy turned to face her, running her hands down the front of her gown. “I have heard it’s an awful crush. I guess I understand why you wouldn’t be feeling up to it yet.”
“I promise to be rested for tomorrow night. We will go to Lady Heathrow’s ball and see your Lord Davenport.” Emma gave her sister a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun tonight.”
Emma walked swiftly to her room. When she was sure her sister had left the house, she changed into her men’s clothing, donning the shirt, pants, and loose jacket.
She braided her hair, winding it high on her head.
Using soot from the fireplace and her dingy oversized cap, she transformed herself into a dirty street urchin.
The theatre performance always ran at least three hours with the intermission. It should leave her plenty of time to pinch the necklace and make her way home. Her blood thrummed through her veins. Giving Fergus a scratch on the head, she said, “Wish me luck.”
Then she hopped onto the windowsill and jumped with ease over to one of the large tree limbs. Climbing down to the grass, she made her way across the darkened garden and into the alley beyond.
The evening air chilled her even through her jacket.
As November bled into December, the nights had become increasingly cold.
Clouds blew across the sky, covering the moon.
The darker the better. She strode through the park, enjoying the freedom of movement her boy’s clothing allowed.
Spotting a low-hanging branch, Emma jumped up to swipe a leaf from its branches.
She could never do that in layers of skirts.
Grinning, she sprinted the last fifty yards to the street corner.
As she reached the street Miss Hunt resided on, she strolled by to assess the house.
It was past ten, so Miss Hunt should still be at the opera.
No lights shone from the front of the house.
Based on earlier surveillance, Emma knew the lady’s bedroom faced the street on the second floor.
Which meant she would have to enter through a back bedroom and cross the hallway.
Doubling back, she made her way down the alley between the houses.
The back garden gate lay closed right in front of her.
Praying it wasn’t rusted, she carefully pushed the gate open and walked into the garden.
The kitchen door swung open. Light spilled onto the grass.
Emma ducked behind a tree, flattening herself against its trunk.
A husky feminine chuckle came through the open doorway. “Come on, Betsy. Let’s go have some fun. You know the missus doesn’t like anyone in the house when she is entertaining her gentleman friends. Let’s go to Vauxhall Gardens. I hear they have a tightrope walker!”
Two women emerged from the house together.
She didn’t hear the scrape of a lock. “Well, it will be right nice to have some entertainment, maybe get a pint of mead.” The servants passed right by where Emma hid, chatting animatedly, then out the gate to the alley.
Emma remained still in her spot until the women’s voices faded.
Smiling to herself, she emerged. What luck! Not a soul home.
She entered the house through the unlocked kitchen door and made her way up the narrow back stairs.
The second floor was comprised of only three rooms, two bedrooms in the back and one large one in the front.
Emma slipped soundlessly into the front bedroom.
She would start her search at the lady’s vanity.
But after rifling through all the drawers, she found nothing but perfume bottles and hairbrushes, so she moved to the wardrobe. She found no jewelry there either.
Emma let out a frustrated breath. All right, Miss Hunt was not careless with her valuables.
She stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, considering the possibilities.
If she wanted to keep her jewelry in a safe place, where would she hide it?
Her gaze scanned the room in a slow sweep.
Then she spotted the shadowed form of a lock box tucked in a corner under the desk. Aha!
This lift might not be as easy as she anticipated.
Picking the lock on a safe box required more time and patience than the average door lock.
Getting down onto her knees, she peered at the small iron box, using her fingers in the dark to evaluate what kind of lock it had.
She pulled out her leather roll of picks and chose the tools she needed for this delicate lock.
After a little finessing, the lock turned, and the lid popped up.
She rolled her picks back up and tucked them away in her jacket pocket.
Inside the box lay a large stack of money and several velvet boxes.
Choosing the largest, she brought it over to the window to have more light to see its contents.
As she opened it, a small sigh of pleasure escaped her lips as dozens of diamonds twinkled in the moonlight.
From downstairs, a male voice boomed. “Next time, remind me that I find the theatre boring before dragging me to another opera. I couldn’t sit through another minute of that blather.”
Emma froze. Then her survival instincts kicked in. She stuffed the necklace into her jacket pocket and, quickly crossing the room, she returned the velvet box and closed the lid to the lock box. She moved to the open doorway to listen.
“Darling, I know just what will make you forget all about that idiotic play.” Female giggling drifted up the stairs.
They were headed up the front stairs. Emma slipped out of the room.
As she pulled the door closed behind her, it let out a loud creaking sound.
She halted, one hand on the doorknob. Blast, it hadn’t creaked when she opened it before.
She silently moved across the hallway, hoping her dark clothing would help her blend in with the shadows.
“Hey! Stop! What are you doing in here?” Damn! Mr. Caldwell and Miss Hunt were already at the top of the main stairs.
Emma raced down the short hallway to the back stairs that led to the kitchen and her exit.
Panic, thick and bitter, rose in the back of her throat.
The loud report of a pistol rang out right before her arm erupted in pain.
The force of the shot bounced her against the wall of the stairwell, then she stumbled, falling down the rest of the stairs.
At the bottom, she pushed herself up and shook her head to clear it.
A dark figure loomed at the top of the stairs.
Emma scrambled to her feet, panic propelling her through the kitchen and out into the night.
Another shot blasted into the brick wall next to her as she raced out the back gate.
Lungs burning, she ran for the park as fast as her legs would carry her.
The dark, hulking shapes of the houses lining the street blended together in a blur as she ran for her life.
Was he following her? She couldn’t hear any footsteps from behind her over the thunderous beating of her heart.
Emma didn’t dare look back until she reached a familiar grove of trees.
She stepped into the bushes behind one giant oak and tried to catch her breath.
Then doubled over as the pain in her shoulder and arm sent her to her knees.
She ran her fingers gingerly along her right arm.
Wetness seeped through her jacket. Pulling her hand away, her fingers glistened with blood and her hand shook violently.
She’d been shot. She knelt in the bushes, terrified she would hear footfalls running in pursuit.
But when several minutes went by in silence, she took in an unsteady breath.
Emma slowly stood, keeping to the deep shadows provided by the tree. She’d lost her hat somewhere. The long braid of her hair had come loose and was hanging down her back. She pushed at wisps of loose hair stuck to the side of her sweaty face.
She could not go home bleeding and battered; she would scare Lucy and the children to death.
Closing her eyes, she swayed on her feet.
God, the scandal it would cause if she was found in the middle of the park, unconscious with a gunshot wound.
Lucy would never be able to marry decently, and the boys would inherit a bankrupt title smeared in disgrace.
Her vision blurred, the edges darkening.
Panic coursed through her once again. Emma leaned against the rough bark of the tree, trying to breathe through the pain.
She refused to die out here on the edge of Hyde Park.
Then, with sudden clarity, she knew what to do.
Stumbling forward, she headed to the only person she knew who was powerful enough to help her.