Chapter 4

Was it her?

Devorlane cursed beneath his breath as he escorted her across the checkered floor of the pillared hallway. How could he even think such a thing—was it her? Was he stark, raving mad? It was perfectly plain it was her with clogs on. He’d be a damned fool to think otherwise just because her coral lips had him. They’d had him all those years ago too.

In addition to her many other abilities—nabbing; eluding capture; slipping things into his pocket, while her hand rested where she should have kept it off; seeing him off to the military for ten years; and parading herself here, talking such awful damned rot about being a poor grief-stricken widow, he would, under other circumstances, struggle to contain his mounting laughter—why the hell must she also have lips that made him want to wish it wasn’t her?

He bowed slightly as they reached the piano, then he stepped back.

And it wasn’t just her lips that had him. Her touch was so cool, even through the layer of silk, it seemed to burn him. Him, who in ten years a flame had never touched.

When he thought of this moment, the one he should be having now, not this one where he wanted to kick himself, he’d imagined chucking Tilly and Belle, who were naturally choking on their handkerchiefs about it, out the front door. He’d imagined he might let his younger sister stay if she pleaded nicely enough. It wasn’t as if she’d disbelieved him after all. She was too young.

Not once, in the course of these imaginings, these plans, which also included turning this place into a pleasure palace, had he dreamed of opening the library door to see her sitting there. How could he? That kind of good fortune was reserved for his wildest dreams. And these were things he never had.

What the hell was there in Chessington so illustrious a thief could want that she’d go to these lengths to get it? If this was her. Widow’s garb. Worming in with Belle. Blush as absurdly pretty as a dawn sky. Eyes so diamond hard, it made his eyes ache to look at them.

Lapis lazuli. Gemstones of the Kokcha River. There was an old name for them. Something he’d read once in a book, probably right here, in this very house.

Yes. He’d been a studious boy. Every Sunday evening spent poring over passages of rich prose from the beautifully tooled library volumes. That was probably the reason he could so clearly remember. The name had resonated from the Sar-e-Sang mine to Mesopotamia. Amazing.

Particularly that old name, first forged at Sar-e-Sang and known by Sumerians and Assyrians alike …

Sapphire.

The reason she was here? The one he’d entirely overlooked?

The only one that would entice her back to this area?

The Wentworth emeralds.