Tess Gerritsen - Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

And once again, he thought wearily, it’s faithful old chum Jordan Tavistock to the rescue. Not that Veronica didn’t need rescuing. Not that he didn’t want to help her. It was simply that this request of hers was so bizarre, so fraught with dire possibilities, that his first instinct was to turn her down flat.

He did. “It’s out of the question, Veronica,” said Jordan. “I won’t do it.”

“For me, Jordie!” she pleaded. “Think what will happen if you don’t. If he shows those letters to Oliver-”

“Poor old Ollie will have a fit. You two will row for a few days, and then he’ll forgive you. That’s what will happen.”

“What if Ollie doesn’t forgive me? What if he-what if he wants a…” She swallowed and looked down. “A divorce,” she whispered.

“Really, Veronica.” Jordan sighed. “You should have thought about this before you had the affair.”

She stared down in misery at the folds of her silk gown. “I didn’t think. That’s the whole problem.”

“No, it’s obvious you didn’t.”

“I had no idea Guy would be so difficult. You’d think I broke his heart! It’s not as if we were in love or anything. And now he’s being such a bastard about it. Threatening to tell all! What gentleman would sink so low?”

“No gentleman would.”

“If it weren’t for those letters I wrote, I could deny the whole thing. It would be my word against Guy’s then. I’m sure Ollie would give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“What, exactly, did you write in those letters?”

Veronica’s head drooped unhappily. “Things I shouldn’t have.”

“Confessions of love? Sweet nothings?”

She groaned. “Much worse.”

“More explicit, you mean?”

“Far more explicit.”

Jordan gazed at her bent head, at the seed pearls and russet hair glimmering in the lamplight. And he thought, It’s hard to believe I was once attracted to this woman. But that was years ago, and he’d been only twenty-two and a bit gullible-a condition he sincerely hoped he’d outgrown.

Veronica Dooley had entered his social circle on the arm of an old chum from Cambridge. After the chum bowed out, Jordan had inherited the girl’s attentions, and for a few dizzy weeks he’d thought he might be in love. Better sense prevailed. Their parting was amicable, and they’d remained friends over the years. She’d gone on to marry Oliver Cairncross, and although Sir Oliver was a good twenty years older than his bride, theirs had been a classic match between money on his side and beauty on hers. Jordan had thought them a contented pair.

How wrong he’d been.

“My advice to you,” he said, “is to come clean. Tell Ollie about the affair. He’ll most likely forgive you.”

“Even if he does, there’s still the letters. Guy’s just upset enough to send them to all the wrong people. If Fleet Street ever got hold of them, Ollie would be publicly humiliated.”

“You think Guy would really stoop so low?”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’d offer to pay him off if I thought it would work. But after all that money I lost in Monte Carlo, Ollie’s keeping a tight rein on my spending. And I couldn’t borrow any money from you. I mean, there are some things one simply can’t ask of one’s friends.”

“Burglary, I’d say, lies in that category,” noted Jordan dryly.

“But it’s not burglary! I wrote those letters. Which makes them mine. I’m only retrieving what belongs to me.” She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly glittering like blue diamonds. “It wouldn’t be difficult, Jordie. I know exactly which drawer he keeps them in. Your sister’s engagement party is Saturday night. If you could invite him here-”

“Beryl detests Guy Delancey.”

“Invite him anyway! While he’s here at Chetwynd, guzzling champagne-”

“I’m burgling his house?” Jordan shook his head. “What if I’m caught?”

“Guy’s staff takes Saturday nights off. His house will be empty. Even if you are caught, just tell them it’s a prank. Bring a-a blow-up doll or something, for insurance. Tell them you’re planting it in his bed. They’ll believe you. Who’d doubt the word of a Tavistock?”

He frowned. “Is that why you’re asking me to do this? Because I’m a Tavistock?”

“No. I’m asking you because you’re the cleverest man I know. Because you’ve never, ever betrayed any of my secrets.” She raised her chin and met his gaze. It was a look of utter trust. “And because you’re the only one in the world I can count on.”

Drat. She would have to say that.

“Will you do it for me, Jordie?” she asked softly. Pitifully. “Tell me you will.”

Wearily he rubbed his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Then he sank back in the armchair and gazed resignedly at the far wall, at the paintings of his Tavistock ancestors.

Distinguished gentlemen, every one of them, he thought. Not a cat burglar in the lot.

Until now.

At 11:05, the lights went out in the servants’ quarters. Good old Whitmore was right on schedule as usual. At 9:00 he’d made his rounds of the house, checking to see that the windows and doors were locked. At 9:30 he’d tidied up downstairs, fussed a bit in the kitchen, perhaps brewed himself a pot of tea. At 10:00 he’d retired upstairs, to the blue glow of his private telly. At 11:05 he turned off his light.

This had been Whitmore’s routine for the past week, and Clea Rice, who’d been watching Guy Delancey’s house since the previous Saturday, assumed that this would be his routine until the day he died. Menservants, after all, strived to maintain order in their employers’ lives. It wasn’t surprising they’d maintain order in their own lives, as well.

Now the question was, how long before he’d fall asleep?

Safely concealed behind the yew hedge, Clea rose to her feet and began to rock from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood moving through her limbs. The grass had been wet, and her stirrup pants were clinging to her thighs. Though the night was warm, she was feeling chilled. It wasn’t just the dampness in her clothes; it was the excitement, the anticipation. And, yes, the fear. Not a great deal of fear-she had enough confidence in her own ability to feel certain she wouldn’t be caught. Still, there was always that chance.

She danced from foot to foot to keep the adrenaline pumping. She’d give the manservant twenty minutes to fall asleep, no longer. With every minute that passed, her window of opportunity was shrinking. Guy Delancey could return home early from the party tonight, and she wanted to be well away from here when he walked in that front door.

Surely the butler was asleep now.

Clea slipped around the yew hedge and took off at a sprint. She didn’t stop running until she’d reached the cover of shrubbery. There she paused to catch her breath, to reevaluate her situation. There was no hue and cry from the house, no signs of movement anywhere in the darkness. Lucky for her, Guy Delancey abhorred dogs; the last thing she needed tonight was some blasted hound baying at her heels.

She slipped around the house and crossed the flagstone terrace to the French doors. As expected, they were locked. Also as expected, it would be an elementary job. A quick glance under her penlight told her this was an antique warded lock, a bit rusty, probably as old as the house itself. When it came to home security, the English had light years of catching up to do. She fished the set of five skeleton keys out of her fanny pack and began trying them, one by one. The first three keys didn’t fit. She inserted the fourth, turned it slowly and felt the tooth slide into the bolt notch.

A piece of cake.