“God, I've been found at last! I thought I'd die here, lost in the bowels of this bloody majestic house!” It never hurt to compliment a man's wealth, especially when displayed with such vulgar abandon.

It was not his host who stood in the doorway of the study. It was a girl—a woman, actually, but a young one. Lord Beardsley had no wife or daughter. The woman wore an evening gown, so she wasn't a maid.

Elliot casually lifted his candle-stub and lighted a branch of candles on Beardsley's desk. He needed to properly assess his new acquaintance.

The gown wasn't terribly fine but it was tight in the bosom and worn without petticoats. He could see the faint outline of her limbs backlighted by the sconces in the hall beyond. Not a timid Society miss, that was certain.

A prostitute? He secretly hoped not. She looked...nice, at least, not like a jade.

An amateur prostitute? A young woman attending a vile soiree like the one downstairs wasn't looking for a husband—she was looking for a protector. If she already had one, she'd be dressed more expensively. If she'd had any idea what she was about, she would be dressed more temptingly.

Not that it wasn't a fine view, what with the revealing lighting behind her. She was pretty, with a fresh complexion and large green eyes, but then he'd always been partial to red-haired ladies with freckles that showed even through her powder. Really, very pretty.

It was too bad she was a whore.

All of that assessment flowed through his mind before the girl could do more than blink at him in surprise.

“Is this your house?” she asked. “I mean to say...are you Lord Beardsley himself?”

Elliot let out a breath. A girl on the hunt sneaking in to introduce herself. Pretty but possibly not too bright. Excellent.

“Not a bit like it, I'm afraid.” He bowed. “Just any old bloke. Ordinary as mud.”

She tried to hide her disappointment, but she didn't do a very good job of it. “I saw you come in here, so naturally I thought…”

You thought you'd put yourself in the great man's gun sights. Silly twit.

Beardsley was a first-class bounder, cruel and prone to violence, according to the intelligence Elliot had been given. The last place a young lady should want to be was in that man's bed.

Not his worry. After all, he was just an over-indulgent wastrel, soaking up another man's brandy. He slid a charming, slightly drunken smile onto his face. “I hoped Himself kept the good stuff in his study. Would you like a glass?”

She shot a look at the decanter on the side table next to the strongbox. “I dare not,” she said, swaying slightly. “I’ll be too much in my cups and then I might do something untoward!”

She was adorable. Alas, it was time to get out of this room.

“Shall we rejoin the dance?” Elliot offered his arm, bowing far enough to fake a stumble upon rising.

She batted her lashes at him and bit her lower lip. “Well… I was looking for his lordship.…”

For quite possibly the first time in his life, Elliott wished he were the sort of fellow he portrayed. The shining red hair and emerald eyes and charming freckles—not to mention the way she filled out her enchanting little dress—added up to quite an intriguing package. Elliot the wastrel would be just the sort to secure a mistress...

“…but I do dearly love to dance.” She smiled invitingly.

Elliott didn't waste any time getting her out of the study and back to the ballroom. She snuggled into his arm as they walked down the hall, and when she squeezed his bicep and cooed over the bulk of his arm beneath his sleeve, he liked it. Dangerous master of intrigue or not, he was still a young man and young men liked it when pretty girls complimented their muscles.

* * *

For all the balls Amie had attended uninvited, she had never yet taken the time to dance.

Speed was essential. Get in, get the brass, get gone.

This time, someone had beaten her to the strongbox.

It had been the dim line of light beneath the study door that had warned her. His lordship would have had a brace of candles blazing. Even a housemaid would have good light to assure a careful cleaning, not that any staff could be spared from such a well-attended ball.

The study door was unlocked, of course. She turned the latch slowly and soundlessly. No need to worry about creaky hinges in such a fine house.

She only opened it a few inches, but she gained a very excellent view of a figure in a formal coat kneeling before the open strongbox, sorting through the contents.

Blast.

What to do, what to do...

It could actually go in her favor. The competition had already cracked the lock. All she needed to do was to deliver him of his ill-gotten gains before he left the ball.

Silently, she stepped back and closed the door, thinking quickly. He'd looked youngish from behind. Fit as well—that had been an exceptionally well-muscled bum!

She had so little experience with distracting men. If this fellow was intelligent enough to crack that strongbox, then he would be far too clever to fall for her earlier gambit.

What would Ruby do?

When Amie heard the faint sound of the strongbox's spring-loaded locks clunking back into place, she bent over and shook her bosom a bit higher into her bodice, then straightened, pinched her cheeks, bit her lips and warmed up her eyelashes with a few practice flutters.

A creak and a rattle of the latch later, she opened the door onto the fairly believable scenario of a spoiled young gentleman sneaking a bit of his lordship's best brandy.

When he'd asked her to dance, she'd realized a waltz would be an excellent moment to try his pockets.

Then he'd taken her into his arms and every larcenous thought had drained from her mind. His hand on her waist was so warm...and the way his other hand held hers so gently, yet with total assurance. He took the lead and she had no impulse to do anything but follow him.

I'm dancing...

She gazed up at her partner in wonder. He was handsome. She'd been so busy thinking, always thinking, that she'd scarcely taken in his appearance. Now, so close, she could see the light from the chandeliers gleaming off his fair hair. Something about the way his cheekbones angled into his square jaw made her insides feel a bit unsteady.

He smiled down at her as if she pleased him as well, his gray-green eyes twinkling. Her blood began to heat in her veins. She took a deep breath to steady herself, but his clean, spicy, manly scent struck like a lightning bolt to parts better left unmentioned.

The music swelled. He swung her easily around the floor. The colors of the many brilliant gowns around her blurred in her vision, like a blooming garden seen through tears.

His hand slipped farther around, until it rested in the center of her back and then he was close—so close—

Mind your task, Amethyst.

Mama's voice, time-faded but true, snapped Amie back to herself. Now, she wasn't dreamily chopping carrots in the kitchen, but risking everything she had for everyone she loved.

Right. On with the job.

* * *

Elliot's pretty partner was still a bit tipsy, for she suddenly stumbled and giggled, and turned left when she should've turned right. Elliot didn't mind one bit. It was a very pleasant collision. All sorts of soft places pressed against his body.

He was beginning to feel little inebriated himself. She smelled like apple blossoms and vanilla, like summer in the country. Outside it was the dark of winter. Inside, the candles were bright above them and she was a warm, soft armful. Once she'd landed against him, she didn't move away again. Their turn about the floor became less a waltz and more of a cuddle. Right in front of all concerned, not that anyone would care at this sort of party.

Being a spy for the Crown didn't leave much time for young ladies, especially not for dancing too close, or losing oneself in the scent of feminine warmth, or—

The music ended. Prompted by habit and the conditioning of his governess's oft-applied cane, Elliot stepped back, snapped his heels together and bowed, as one did to a lady after a dance. “Might I beg your name, miss?”

When he straightened, his warm, bright companion was gone. Though he looked sharply all around the ballroom, she was nowhere to be found.

A sudden thought chilled him. He clapped his hand over his secret left inner breast pocket. The thick packet of folded copies was a reassuring bulk beneath the silk of his evening coat.

Then he checked for the jewels in his right inner pocket.

At the complete and total lack of anything resembling pearls and emeralds held within the lining of his specially constructed coat, he gave a bitter laugh and shook his head.

Bloody hell. He'd been quite deliciously taken by a most delectable thief.

As he turned to leave the ball, weaving just enough to be believable but not enough to call attention to his exit, he quite honestly thought the dance might just have been worth it.

* * *

In the last hour before dawn, Amie finally arrived at her own back gate. She'd come home the long way, as she always did after a job. Her father had drilled into all three of them that they ought not to lead possible pursuers to their home base.

So, even tired as she was, she'd given her imaginary shadow a merry chase through the alleys and side streets of London. Passing as a boy made this bit easier but she was careful never to pause, nor to rush in a suspicious manner or to remain exposed in the light from a window or lantern for too long.

Move from shadow to shadow, so that even if someone sees you, by the time they look back there will be nothing to see.

The months had not dimmed Papa's gravely voice in Amie's memory, nor his face, lined with pain and years and loss, or his eyes, filled with affection.

Papa had been known for three things in his life. Firstly, for being the finest rooftop man in London until a terrible fall broke both his legs. Secondly, for wearing the gaudiest, most dreadful weskits to ever see needle and thread.

And thirdly, for betraying a certain group of Crown spies to a French infiltrator, bringing about multiple murders with that treachery.

The other thing, of which the world had no notion, was that he'd been a loving and protective papa to three devoted daughters.

No matter what the world had thought of him, thief or failure or even traitor, to Amie he would always be the man who cared enough to teach her the true way of the world, to teach them all to survive.

When she finally let herself through her own back gate and crossed the utilitarian garden toward the kitchen of the house she shared with her two sisters, she was exhausted and somewhat saddened. The ordinary house appeared sad and rundown in comparison to the glittering mansion she'd danced in only a few hours before.

It wasn't really that she wanted to attend that sort of ball, where people did questionable things for questionable reasons. It was only that it was a kind of life she would never live.

Her father had been as common as gutter mud but her mother had not. Lady Dorothea Montgomery had run away with a man she'd caught rifling through her grandmother's jewels and never looked back. She'd been happy with her little house, her rakish but devoted husband and her three little daughters.

Mama could never have known what she did to Amie with her stories of her sparkling life and her grand debut. They were simply her memories, told without regret or melancholy.

But for Amie, those stories caused a rift in her world. Although they were the grand-daughters of a duke, she and her sisters would never be presented to the Prince Regent at Court.

Amie would never waltz with a handsome young man—or tell him her real name. She would never spend giddy hours choosing gowns and bonnets and gloves.

Most of the time those activities seemed silly and wasteful to her. Yet once in a while, the glimpses she had of that other life while she worked a mark made her feel like a hungry child staring in a window at a grand feast, shivering unnoticed in the cold while others sated themselves in warmth and laughter and plenty.

Then as she came close to the house she could see into the window of her own kitchen. The room glowed even though candles were spare and the fire was as much for cooking as it was for comfort. Her two sisters, Emma and Ruby, bustled around the kitchen although it was still dark outside. And she didn't have to linger outside this warmth. It was rightfully hers.

Amie opened the back door and stood in the narrow entrance hall shaking out her boy's coat. Before the gathered mist could even drip to the floor her sisters were there for her.

“I’ll take that,” Emma said as she reached for Amie's rucksack.

“You look so cold.” Ruby took off her own shawl and draped it over Amie's shoulders. “Come and sit down. Emma has just finished the baking.”

Within moments, Amie sipped weak tea and munched on one of Emma's special biscuits—the ones she managed to concoct with almost no butter and only one egg.

Emma unpacked the rucksack with her usual efficiency. She shook out the green gown and examined it for rips or stains. “Oh, excellent. I wasn't sure those beads would stay on. I've re-trimmed this thing so many times it's a wonder the fabric has any integrity whatsoever.”

Ruby, who was only eighteen after all, jiggled impatiently, almost dancing from one foot to the other. “Did you get anything?”

Amie tried to hide it, because Ruby was very easy to tease. But she couldn't keep the smile from growing slowly on her face as she bent over her tea.

Ruby spotted it once and clapped her hands in excitement. “I knew it. I just knew it!”

At that moment, Emma pulled the handkerchief-wrapped packet from the bottom of the rucksack, underneath the secret flap that would've withstood the searching hands of anyone who didn't know where to look. Emma laid it on the table and they all gazed at it reverently for a moment.

Why not take a moment to relish something so important? This was a new day. No more slipping into one house at a time, slipping out with a single silver candlestick or a porcelain dog from the mantel of a little used room. Goodness, last winter she'd been too terrified to steal anything but food from a few larders!

Then, patience spent, Ruby was on it with a leap, as Ruby was on everything. Amie and Emma sat back and watched their youngest sibling unfold the handkerchief and roll out a pile of gleaming jewels and shimmering pearls.

The loot gleamed in the dimness of the kitchen and the light of the two candle stumps that still burned.

Amie sat up and raised a brow. “Not bad.”

Emma slid her a glance. “Didn't you know?”

Amie carefully didn't look at her sister. “It was dark and—” I stole it from the man who stole it. “And I needed to be quick.”

She could have told them about the handsome thief in the study, but then she would have had to tell them about the dance. She'd been so intrigued by the combination of his flirtatious grin beneath his serious eyes. Heavens, he had smelled so good when she'd pressed close enough to pull the jewels from his pocket. The scent of him, that spicy mix of man and clean, light cologne, had made her thighs tighten beneath her gown.

Was it so wrong to want to keep the experience to herself a little longer? The interference hadn't mattered in the end, after all. She still ended up with the goods.

Meanwhile, Ruby parted the tangled strands of pearls with deft fingers and laid them out to one side. Emma bent to peer at them. “Matched. Excellent. The pink pearls will bring a good price, but we'll have to be careful. They're very easy to remember.”

Then from the jumble on the table Ruby lifted a chain from which dangled an astonishing emerald in a square of rose-cut diamonds. It was the size of a horse's eye and glowed in the candlelight with a perfect green light. They all regarded it in appalled silence.

“Oh no.” Ruby's eyes were enormous. “That must be at least twelve carats. Do we even know how to sell it?”

Amie made a slight face. It was a blow, to be sure. Important jewels, jewels that made a statement and were memorable, had led to many a thief's capture in the past. “Papa wouldn't touch that.”

Emma tapped a single finger to her lips in thought. “If we knew a cutter…” She held out her hand and Ruby dropped the stone into it. Emma held it to the candle turning left and right. “The diamonds are easy.”

She pulled a jeweler's loupe from her apron pocket and swiveled the lens free. She held the small magnifier to her eye. “They're not terribly remarkable, although good enough to bring a bit of coin.” She turned the pendant over to look at the setting more closely. “It's beautifully made. A lovely design. Perhaps we should hold it for the future.”

Amie nodded. Papa had always kept a stash of easily identifiable jewels. He called it his bribery box. A pretty something came in useful, to wave before a greedy magistrate's eyes, to dazzle and sway someone in authority just long enough to beat a retreat and disappear. That left the difficulty of disposal in the hands of some unsuspecting grafter.

“I’ll put it in Papa's box.” Amie reached for the gem.

“I’ll do it!” Ruby took the necklace and bustled from the kitchen.

Emma watched her go with reluctance in her gaze. “I could learn to cut.”

“Emeralds are too brittle. The job requires a master.” Amie smiled wearily at her. “And we don't have time.”

“No.” Ruby reentered the kitchen and plunked down in her chair. “We can't go to a cutter. Even if we found one, we don't know if we could trust them. Papa claims cutters are more interested in the gems than in profit. If they saw something like that”—she indicated the emerald—“they'd never desecrate it.”

Amie gazed at her sisters, looking from one to the other. She knew better than to let her concern show, but she knew them better than anyone in the world. Papa claims...

Ruby was the youngest, and although she had known Papa for the fewest years, she was the only one who still spoke of him in the present tense.

As if he were still alive. Concerning as that was, the more immediate issue was…

“Is it enough?”

Both Amie and Ruby gazed at Emma and waited. Emma sorted through the jewels touching each one, her lips moving slightly as she calculated the probable sale price. When she was done she sat back and let out a small sigh.

“We'll be able to keep the house. It will be enough to calm our debtors for a time…but only just.” She brightened slightly. “Still, we should have enough left to buy a bit of food.”

“Ham!” Ruby sang out. “Oranges!” She beamed at Amie with pride. “See, it is Christmas, after all!”

Amie found herself, as she sometimes did, riveted by her little sister's uncommon beauty. Ruby was all flashing dark eyes and shining black curls, vivid and lively. Her figure already stopped men in their tracks, whether they be dukes or dockworkers.

Emma had a quieter loveliness, like Mama's. The cool, restrained perfection of a marble goddess. Those quiet ones are the ones you have to watch out for, Papa used to tease Mama. Or they'll run off with the first charming thief who comes along!

Emma's hair was almost more blond than red and her figure elegantly slim. If Ruby bounced when she moved, then Emma danced. Both were extraordinarily beautiful, in their individual ways.

Amie tried not to compare herself, for she didn't believe sisters should compete. She herself was tall and freckled and blotched most dreadfully when she blushed. Emma claimed she looked like Mama, too, but all Amie could see in the mirror was Papa's ginger hair, his height and his early ability to climb anything.

You are not an extraordinary creature. You are not a goddess. You are only a rather good thief.

For the first time, the dismaying thought occurred to Amie that, had she not caught her handsome counterpart in the act, he might never have noticed her at all.