to see in the dark as he was, did not stumble. He was impressed by her courage and excited by her presence there in his shadow.
The painting was in the study, at the back of the house adjacent to the room he had first entered. ‘An early study of Philip the Fourth,’ Elliot whispered to Deborah. ‘It’s bigger than I remember. But then, the last time I saw it, it was hanging in a rather larger house.’
She stared at the decidedly ugly subject, resplendent in black and silver. She could see it was beautifully executed, but she could not like it. ‘You said you’ve seen it before?’
‘In Madrid. In the house of one of our senior Spanish allies.’
‘Then how did it get here?’
Elliot shrugged. ‘Plunder. A gift. A bribe. I don’t know,’ he said, pressing the button which released the blade of his knife. Quickly, he cut the painting from its heavy frame and rolled it up before handing it to Deborah.
She took it gingerly. ‘How did you know where to find it?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘You said that before.’
He caught her wrist and pulled her close. ‘This may well be a game to you, but you have to realise, you’re playing with fire. If we are caught …’
‘We won’t be. You’re the Peacock, you never have been yet.’
Her utter confidence in him was flattering, there was no denying it, but a tiny noise outside the door distracted him. Quickly, Elliot pulled Deborah towards the cover of the window curtains. ‘Hush!’
His hand covered her mouth. Her back was pressed into his body. Her heart thudded much too loud. She listened hard, but could hear nothing save the rasp of her own breathing, the softer whisper of his. The curtains smelled musty. They waited, motionless, for what seemed like aeons. Her nose tickled. She was acutely conscious of him, tensed behind her. She was inappropriately conscious of her legs, her bottom, her back, moulded against the front of his body. Everything felt stretched, more real, and yet unreal. The air crackled with tension. Between them, an invisible cord of awareness. She had never felt more alive.
She felt him relax before he moved his hand from her mouth. ‘What …?’
He turned her around. She caught the gleam of his smile, heard the little huff of his chuckle. ‘I thought I heard someone, but it must have been a rat.’
Deborah shuddered. ‘I hate rats.’ Elliot laughed again. She felt it this time, vibrating in his chest against hers. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘You follow me across London in the middle of the night dressed as a man, break into a house and steal a priceless painting with barely a tremble, but a rat makes you shiver. Would you rather we’d encountered the master of the house? He is a rat of an altogether different order.’
‘I’d rather we didn’t encounter anyone.’
‘Then we should make haste.’ From his pocket, Elliot produced the feather and handed it to Deborah. ‘My calling card. Will you do the honours?’
She placed it carefully on the ledge of the empty frame. ‘You made this seem so easy,’ she said.
Elliot, who had been in the process of retrieving his grappling hook from the floor, heard the note of disappointment in her voice. It was ridiculous to add danger to risk, but he sensed it was danger she craved. Hastily, he cut his grappling hook free of its rope and crammed it into his pocket, before securing the long cord by twisting it around the gilded legs of the heavy marble-topped table which filled the window embrasure. ‘Give me the painting,’ he said.
Deborah handed over the rolled canvas. ‘Aren’t we going back down the stairs?’
‘You’ll get a more authentic experience leaving this way. If you dare, that is,’ Elliot replied. They were two storeys up, nothing for one so used to shimmying up and down ropes, but as Deborah leaned cautiously out of the window and peered down, he saw the sheer drop through her eyes. ‘We’ll use the stairs,’ he said, making to pull the rope in.
She stayed his hand. ‘Absolutely not! You’re quite right, what is the use in half an experience?’ she said. ‘Just show me what to do.’
‘You could be badly hurt if you fall.’ Elliot was already regretting having teased her. He should have known she would rise to the challenge.
‘I could hang if we’re caught,’ Deborah retorted. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
She was deliberately courting danger. He recognised that, because he did it so often himself. The tilt of her chin, the determination in her voice made it impossible for him to deny her, much as he knew he ought. She seemed always to have this effect on him. A connection between them crackled and briefly flared. ‘Very well,’ Elliot said, tearing his eyes away, ‘I’ll go first, that way I can catch you if you fall. Watch what I do. Wait until I’m on the ground before you come out.’
A clock chimed in the hallway outside the room, making Deborah jump. ‘What if someone comes?’
Elliot picked up her hat and jammed it back on her head. ‘They won’t. You’re perfectly safe, you’re with the Peacock, remember? Now pay attention. It’s all in the way you hold the rope.’
Deborah watched, heart drumming, as he showed her what to do with her hands and feet. Her palms were damp as she leaned out, seeing him disappear swiftly down, making it seem effortless. It was a long way. If she fell—but she would not fall. She cast another glance over her shoulder at the door. She listened hard, but could hear nothing. The room seemed larger, darker, much more sinister without Elliot’s presence. Fear crept stealthily up from her booted feet, winding its way like a vine, making her legs shake, her hands too. The urge to turn tail, to flee out of the door, down the servants’ staircase to the kitchen, was almost overwhelming. Only the stronger fear, that without Elliot to guide her she would be lost, overturn something, rouse the household, kept her rooted to the spot. Right at this moment, she effectively held his life in her hands. She would not let him down. She would not!
Determination to prove herself worthy uprooted her feet. Deborah’s heart still pounded so hard and fast she felt faint, but she bit her lip hard, wiped her damp palms on her breeches and sat gingerly on the edge of the sill. Elliot was already on the ground, looking up anxiously. She waved. The ground swam. Don’t look down!
She grasped the rope as he had shown her. She edged out. Her legs dangled in the air. Breathing quickly to still the panic, she floundered for the rope with her feet, found it, gripped it tight between her thighs. Her arms were surely too frail to support her. She dangled, half in, half out of the window, for a dreadful moment. Then she kicked away from the ledge and began to descend. Slowly she went, shakily, her hands burning on the rope, losing it, retrieving it, gripping tighter. Her shoulders ached. Her thighs, too. Down. Slowly down, looking neither up at the window nor towards Elliot. One floor. If she fell now, she would probably survive. A broken limb or so. Small consolation. Don’t think about falling. Down. Her arms felt as if they would part company with her shoulders. Thank heavens she wore breeches. Even so, she would be bruised. Down.
‘Not far to go now. Hold on.’
Elliot’s voice sounded strained, for the first time that night. Deborah risked a downward glance. Her foot dangled about a yard from his upturned face. Relieved and triumphant, she grinned. ‘Did you think I would fall on you? As you did at Kinsail Manor?’
Elliot grabbed her ankle. ‘It crossed my mind!’
She covered the final few feet quickly, safe in the knowledge that he had her. If he had not held her when she landed, she would have sunk to the cobbles, for her legs felt as if the bones had been removed. ‘Sorry.’ She clutched at Elliot’s coat. ‘I just need …’
Anxiously casting a glance to the end of the mews where the rumbling of a carriage slowed, Elliot put his arm around her waist. ‘We must make haste. If anyone comes—that rope is rather