they are.”
Colby’s friend latched more firmly onto his arm. “Come away, Colby. And be grateful that you escaped with your life.”
“Yes, I’ll go.” Stubbornly Colby stood his ground and glowered at Richard. His voice was raw with emotion. “I’ll forsake the lady’s raddled charms and I’ll overlook the presumption of a blackguard who can’t name the man who sired him. Not even the Harmsworth Jewel could make either of you fit for decent society. Your names are filth.”
This time the snickers were more pronounced and the crowd surged forward like a turbulent sea, threatening to suffocate Richard. God rot Colby; why must he parade his broken heart in the middle of this crush? The urge to flatten the unmannerly whelp with one blow jammed in Richard’s throat, even as he forced out a light reply. “The Harmsworth Jewel? Good Lord, nobody’s seen that bauble since the Wars of the Roses.”
He was astonished that Colby knew of the jewel’s existence or the legend that its possession confirmed the Harmsworth heir. Richard exaggerated to say that the artifact had been missing since the fifteenth century, but it had certainly been lost to the main branch of the family for more than fifty years.
“Raddled charms?” At his side, Augusta’s silvery laugh rang out. “My dear Colby, you wound me.”
“You’re in remarkable looks, Lady Harmsworth. Ignore this puppy.” Cam, no stranger to family scandal himself, stepped forward, his air of authority cowing even the fuming Colby. “Shall we dance?”
Cam signaled to the orchestra as if he were the host rather than Lord Packham. A waltz began as he and Augusta proceeded to the floor with a regal assurance that dared anyone to utter an impertinent word. Not for the first time, Richard was grateful for his friend’s aplomb in a sticky situation.
With palpable disappointment, the eager audience began to disperse. Yet again, the Harmsworths had skirted outright disgrace, although Colby’s tantrum would provide a delicious on-dit to spice reminiscences of the ball.
“Take his lordship home,” Richard said to Colby’s companion. For once he couldn’t conceal his weariness. He was so bloody tired of all this. Tired of disdain. Tired of pretending that every insult slid off his immaculately dressed hide without leaving a mark. Tired of his mother’s sins crashing down upon his head. Tired above all of being the Harmsworth bastard.
The rage twisting in his belly cooled, set into a determination as hard as an iron bar. He’d find the deuced Harmsworth Jewel and he’d turn the gewgaw into a pin for his neck cloth. He’d brandish it beneath the ton’s noses like a banner of war until they admitted that while he mightn’t be the right Harmsworth, he was the only Harmsworth they were going to get.
Then let any man call him bastard.
Little Derrick, Oxfordshire, September 1827
Damnation!”
A thud followed by a low masculine curse stirred Genevieve from sleep. Even then she needed a few seconds to realize that she was slumped over the desk in her study upstairs at the vicarage. Her candles had gone out and the room’s only illumination was the dying fire. In that faint glow, she watched a dark shape below the windowsill lengthen upward until a man’s form blocked faint starlight from outside.
Choking fear held her motionless. Fear and outrage. How dare anyone break into her home? It felt like a personal affront. Her father and aunt were out, dining with the Duke of Sedgemoor at his local estate. The duke never visited this isolated corner of his vast holdings, so everyone was agog to see him. Genevieve had been invited too, but she’d wanted to stay and work on some research. The servants were away for the evening.
The man at the window remained still, as if checking that the room was empty before launching his nefarious activities. The charged silence extended. Then the tension eased from his lean body and he stepped toward the fire. From her dark corner, Genevieve watched him set a candle to the coals.
Blast his impudence, he’d soon learn he wasn’t alone.
Quickly her hand found the desk’s second drawer and tugged it open, not bothering to conceal the noise as she grabbed what lay hidden inside. The candle flared into life, the intruder turned his head sharply in her direction, and Genevieve lurched to her feet.
As she stepped around the desk on shaky legs, she forced a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice. “You’ll find nothing worth stealing in this house. I suggest you leave. Immediately.”
Instead of reacting with the horrified dismay she sought, the man took his time straightening. Still with that leisurely air, he raised his candle to illuminate Genevieve where she stood. His face was covered with a black silk mask such as people wore to masquerade balls. Not that she had any experience of such events. “You’re dashed well protected if there truly is nothing worth stealing.”
Her hand steady, she raised the gun she’d taken from the drawer. “We live on the edge of the village, as you no doubt noted when you chose this house as your target.” A horrible thought struck her and she waved the pistol at him. “Are you armed?”
He stiffened with shock, as though the question offended. To demonstrate his nonviolent intentions, he spread his hands wide. “Of course not, dear lady.”
This rapscallion was a most bizarre burglar. Her knowledge of the criminal fraternity was limited, but this man’s assurance struck her as remarkable. He spoke like a gentleman and didn’t seem particularly concerned that she had a weapon. Her lips tightened and she firmed her grip on the pistol. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. In your line of work, you must expect opposition from your victims.”
“I make sure the house is unoccupied before I start work.”
“Like tonight,” she said coldly.
He shrugged. “Even master criminals make the occasional mistake, Miss Barrett.”
Her belly knotted with dread. This time not even her strongest efforts steadied her voice. “How do you know my name?”
The lips below the mask twitched and he stepped closer.
“Stay back!” she snapped. Her heart banged so hard against her ribs, surely he must hear it.
Ignoring her pistol with insulting ease, he lifted the candle and subjected her to a lengthy and unnerving inspection. Genevieve’s sense of unreality built. Everything around her was familiar. The shabby comfort of her favorite room. The jumbled items on the desk. The pile of pages covered in her writing. All was as it should be, except for the tall masked man with his indefinable air of elegance and his smile of indulgent amusement. She had an irritating intuition that the reprobate played with her.
Bracing under that assessing regard, she made herself study him like she’d study an artifact, although with his face covered she would never be able to describe him to the authorities. Candlelight glinted on rich gold hair and found fascinating shadows under the open neck of his white shirt. He wore breeches and boots. Despite this basic clothing, his manner screamed privilege. And while she couldn’t see his face, something about the way he carried himself indicated he was a handsome man.
A most bizarre burglar indeed.
“A good thief does his research.” He answered the question that she’d forgotten she’d asked. “Although research occasionally lets one down. For example, village gossip indicated that you attended a soiree at Leighton Court tonight.”
“I wanted to—” She realized she responded as if to any polite enquiry. The hand holding the gun showed a lamentable tendency to droop, pointing the barrel harmlessly at the floor. She bit her lip and hoisted the gun in what she prayed was a convincing gesture. “Get out