The Trouble With Moonlight

Table of Contents

The bulge in the net slowly rolled toward the side, approaching imminent escape. Without hesitation, he sprawled on the wave, overpowering it with the weight of his body. “We’ll have none of that,” he said, feeling it struggle beneath him. “Not until my questions are answered.”

Lord, that sweet exotic scent fairly surrounded him. Miss Havershaw must be near. He grasped one of the smaller ripples and discovered something that felt a bit like bone.

“Get off me, you lying, deceitful blackguard!”

The hot breath of her curse burned his neck, bringing with it the realization that Miss Havershaw did not control the creature, she
was
the creature. The delicious discovery both stunned and thrilled.

She thrashed beneath him, not an entirely unpleasant sensation. Arousing thoughts of this she cat similarly trapped in his bed caused him to momentarily forget the purpose of the encounter. However, a rope knot pressing into his increasingly sensitive groin brought him around.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Miss Havershaw.” He moved his hand to the spot he approximated to be her shoulder. Instead of a collarbone, his fingers pressed into a soft warm mound with a fleshy peak that extended between the ropes.

She gasped and instantly stilled. All his senses tuned to the fingertips that circled and explored the pebbling peak. His groin tightened, not needing to see what his fingers instantly recognized.

“Take your hand off my breast, Mr. Locke.”

THE EDUCATION OF MRS. BRIMLEY
THE TROUBLE WITH MOONLIGHT

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE TROUBLE WITH MOONLIGHT

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2008

Copyright © 2008 by Donna MacMeans.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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eISBN : 978-1-4406-3848-0

BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to offer acknowledgment to some special people who contributed to
The Trouble with Moonlight
in various ways.

First, a very special blessing and gratitude to my daughter, Jessica. Lusinda’s character was born while we chatted over dinner at the airport, waiting for her flight to begin boarding. I’m sure I don’t say enough what a treasure you are. Therefore, I dedicate this book to you.

Thanks as well to Oberon Wonch, who contributed a rough translation of the Russian word for invisible that I corrupted to create “the Nevidimi,” and to Saralee Etter who suggested I consider the Great Game as a backdrop for my story.

Many appreciative thanks to Sherry Hartzler who served as my second pair of eyes and kept me going with her words of encouragement.

A special thank-you to my talented editor, Cindy Hwang, and to my agent, Cori Deyoe, who insists on a high standard.

Finally, all my love to my wonderful husband who has always given me his unfailing support.

IF HIS LIFE—ALONG WITH THOSE OF SO MANY agents faithful to the Crown—didn’t hang in the balance, James Locke knew he would turn and escape Lord Pembroke’s study as silently as he had entered. This mission, however, demanded his legendary skill at cracking safes, a skill, unfortunately, more myth than reality.

The narrow, stuffy room steeped in darkness opened before him much like a tomb. He shuddered, reminding himself he wasn’t in a hellhole prison cell, not this time. Paying no heed to the cold sweat drenching his linen shirt, he looked for a window, knowing he couldn’t risk opening it, but needing to know one existed all the same.

Thick curtains hung on the wall to his right. Swallowing a bit of the desperation he pretended to ignore, he parted the heavy velvet to allow bright moonlight access. The flood of soft ethereal light revealed a Milner Holdfast floor safe near the desk. By his calculations, he had little more than one hour before the servants would be roused to welcome their employer back from the gambling hells.

Kneeling before the hinged black door, he slipped a skeleton key and a holding lever into the narrow slot, letting the delicate tips of his fingers register the lift of a tumbler. Twice the slight tremor in his hand caused the lever to slip, forcing him to start the process from the beginning. He cursed silently but knew he couldn’t abandon the safe, not with so much at stake.

Finally, the lock clicked and he allowed himself the luxury of a deep breath of relief before turning the latch and swinging open the heavy iron door. Inside a series of small compartments held the valuable treasures Lord Pembroke believed secure. James checked each, methodically moving from the top down, searching for the list of British operatives that had presumably fallen into the wrong hands. Just as he had examined the last drawer, the sound of light footsteps in the hall caught his ear. Damn! He carefully closed the safe door, but did not turn the latch as the sound of resetting tumblers might signal his presence. He slipped behind the velvet draperies, hoping the footsteps would pass by, but no. They stopped. Holding his breath, James peeked through the gap in the heavy panels.

The door to the study opened, then closed. Footsteps softly padded across the thick Persian carpet, hesitated, then continued in the direction of the safe. James squinted through the narrow opening but saw . . . no one. Mystified, he carefully pushed a small measure of the dusty velvet aside to give greater visibility. Knowing one’s opponents could be as valuable as locating the elusive list. But no one appeared to be in the room. How could that be?

The heavy safe door slowly swung back. One by one, the compartment drawers slid open, then closed. Stunned, James watched a jewelry case from one of the drawers levitate and hover in midair. Logically, he knew there had to be some explanation for the unbelievable event transpiring before him. But his eyes provided none, and no flute-playing Indian fakir had suddenly taken residence in the study.

The jewelry case opened and a necklace of finely cut rubies escaped from its housing, flashing bloodred in the moonlight. The empty case returned to the drawer, the drawer slid into the safe, the heavy safe door swung back on its hinges, and the latch turned, all without benefit of a human hand. Had he not been cold sober, James would think he was deep in his cups. Were his eyes playing tricks, or was some fiendish jest afoot? His nose pushed further into the drapery, unsettling the accumulated dust. James fought the tickle deep in his nostrils. His eyes burned and watered yet he followed the necklace’s silent flight across the room. As it passed the desk, corners of scattered papers lifted briefly as if in silent salute. An unusual scent, foreign to that of the study’s wood polish and book leather, floated on a stirred current. What the devil?

He couldn’t restrain the sneeze any longer. He tried to swallow the sound, but a strangled harrumph escaped beyond his best efforts. The necklace swung momentarily in his direction. He heard a swift intake of air, almost feminine in nature, then rapid footfalls to the door. The study door flew open. The necklace darted through.

“Wait!” James called in a hissing whisper. Fool. As if a necklace had ears to listen. He dashed from his hiding place in quick pursuit, of what he wasn’t sure, but he was determined to find out. He followed both the sound of running footfalls and the lingering trail of a sweet floral scent down the hall. No time to think about that now. The heavy jewels bounced and swayed in their flight toward the kitchen, then flew in a high arc around a corner. James followed, his hasty exit generating far more noise than his earlier entrance, his heart pounding as if he were the fox and not the hound.

The kitchen doorknob turned before the wooden door opened. The necklace flew into the night. A gasp to his right warned James that he was not alone. He glanced at a wide-eyed scullery maid whose open mouth and frigid paralysis suggested he wasn’t the only one witnessing a flying necklace fleeing the household. Even with her validation, he still wasn’t sure he believed what his own eyes told him to be true.

The necklace proved more elusive in the dark. Only the chance spark of moonlight reflecting on the jewels allowed him to follow in shadow. He had spooked the necklace once; he didn’t intend to do so again. Dashing from hedge to tree to bush, he silently pursued the strand of jewels through the back garden to a waiting brougham. It was an older model, but obviously serviceable. The door opened, and the carriage body sagged as if a passenger had boarded, but naught but the jewelry entered.

The driver clicked the horses forward. Without hesitation, James raced for the back of the brougham, even though his own hack waited around the corner. He caught a handhold on the edge of the moving conveyance and braced his feet on the fenders above the spinning wheel axles so that he was tenuously attached to the back end like some overgrown street urchin.

After several minutes and near fatal turns, the carriage slowed and Locke dropped off. He dashed across the street to a park to avoid detection and to allow the blood to flow back in his whitened fingers. Although he attempted to appear unobtrusive, his gaze clearly focused on the brougham. The driver hopped down and rushed to open the carriage door.

Although he half expected to see a necklace fly from the carriage and up the town house steps, a widow emerged from the depths of the brougham. A young widow at that, judging from her pleasing waist and saucy bustle. A jet black reticule with a bulging bottom swung from her wrist. James smiled in spite of himself, imaging a fat ruby necklace nestled inside. He strained to see beneath the black lace veil that contoured a narrow face with distinctive cheekbones, but she was either too distant or the lace too dense. How did she do it? He hadn’t seen a woman anywhere near Pembroke’s study. One had to admire such talent, even if it was used for common thievery.

She mounted the steps toward a town house door framed with blooming white flowers. Odd to see flowers blooming at this hour, he mused before dismissing the thought. The widow paused, then turned to look straight at him, as if she knew he’d be there. He should turn away. Play the role of a drunken sot stumbling down the pavement, but instead he remained rooted to the spot. He raised his arm as if to tip his hat, but then he remembered that he’d left it in his waiting carriage at Pembroke’s residence.