The family had retired to their rooms, but not to their beds. As the clocks around the house struck twelve, they all emerged, silently sliding through the shadows, nodding at each other as they passed on their way to their assigned positions.
Lurking in the shadows before the upstairs parlor door, Luc wondered as Portia's and Penelope's apparent lack of awareness. It appeared they hadn't realized anything was afoot. That seemed, to him, so utterly unlikely, yet they'd given not the slightest hint that either was even suspicious.
Easing his shoulders against the door, he mentally set his younger sisters to one side — they were in their rooms on the top floor — they couldn't easily get down without passing either him, Higgs, or Amelia; he had absolute faith that none of the three of them would let Portia and Penelope past them.
Perhaps his younger sisters truly were, even now, falling asleep?
Stifling a disbelieving snort, he listened… but all he heard was the sounds of the house settling into its usual nighttime repose. He knew every creaking board, every squeaky tread on every stair; if any creaked in any unusual way, he would know. Helena's room lay to his left, midway down the west wing. Simon was concealed just before the stairs at the wing's far end; if the thief came that way, Simon would let him pass and follow.
Luc would do the same if the felon chose the main stairs as his route to Helena's room. Amelia was the only other watcher in the corridors on this floor — she was to Luc's right, in the east wing, hovering just past Emily's and Anne's rooms. Anne's was the farthest. Although none of them believed she was involved… if by chance there was some connection, he and Amelia wanted to know of it first.
Not that they'd discussed it, or even said so much in words, however private — they'd simply exchanged a glance, then Amelia had claimed that position as hers.
His mind drifted to her — his wife and so much more — to all he wanted to say to her as soon as fate gave him a chance…
With an effort, he yanked his wits back, focused them on the game at hand, one too fraught with danger to risk distraction. Lucifer was prowling downstairs; Martin was hovering in the shadows of the shrubbery. Sugden was out somewhere near the kennels. From a room at the end of the west wing, Amanda was watching the valley and all a
pproaches from beyond the home farm. Phyllida was in hers and Lucifer's room, which happened to command an excellent view of the rose garden and the gardens farther along, beyond the east wing.
Night fell like a shroud over the house.
Through the depths of the night, they waited for the thief to show his face.
Two o'clock came and went. At a quarter to three, Luc left his position briefly; moving soundlessly through the corridors, he alerted Simon to cover the whole of the west wing, then checked with everyone else, eventually returning to his watch. They were all wilting. No one had voiced it, yet every one of them was wondering if they'd misjudged, and the thief would not, for whatever reason, appear.
Time drifted on; staying awake became increasingly difficult.
Propped up in her bed, Helena had much less difficulty than any of her guards in keeping alert. Old age left her less inclined to sleep, more inclined to lie in peace and sift through her memories.
Tonight, she lay on her pillows and kept watch over her necklace, and remembered. All the good times that had followed the moment when she'd received it — the moment when she'd most unwillingly accepted it, outwitted by Sebastian, and fate.
All the wonders of life, and love.
She was far away, reliving the past, when the door of her wardrobe, directly across the room, swung slowly open.
Chapter 23
Helena watched as a cloaked figure stepped gingerly from the depths of the wardrobe. Glancing fearfully at the bed, the figure hesitated — too small and slight to be a man, but the cloak's hood was up, hiding all clues to identity.
Reassured by Helena's stillness, the figure drew itself up, then glanced around; its gaze fell on the table.
Lit by the faint moonlight slanting through the open window, the pearls glowed with an unearthly radiance.
The figure inched nearer, then nearer still. Then one small hand came out from beneath the cloak, fingers extending to touch the iridescent strands.
Helena saw the fingers shake, saw the last moment of hesitation. Realized in a flash who the figure must be. There was a wealth of kindliness in her voice when she asked, "Ma petite, what are you doing here?"
The figure's head jerked up. Helena pushed upright in the bed. The figure uttered a strangled squeak, halfway to a shriek; frozen, she stared at Helena.
"Come." Helena beckoned. "Do not scream. Come and tell me."
Heavy footsteps shook the corridor. The figure's head jerked toward the door, then she rushed — first this way, then that — in total panic.
Helena muttered a French curse and struggled to rise from the bed.
The figure yelped, rushed to the open window. She learned out — the room was on the first floor.
"No!" Helena ordered. "Come back!" Centuries of command rang in her voice.