A Wayward Woman. Helen Dickson

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      ‘Really?’ he said frostily. ‘In what way?’

      ‘For one thing, they were younger than you,’ she replied, trying to seem cool and unemotional. She longed to slap this insufferable, arrogant lord down to size. ‘I have decided that you are much too old for me.’

      Lance’s eyes darkened very nearly to black. ‘What the hell are you saying?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t play games with me, Belle, because you’ll find you are well out of your league.’

      She looked at him in all innocence and said breezily, ‘Games, my lord? I don’t play games. If I said anything to mislead you, then I apologise most sincerely.’

      Lance’s eyes hardened and his jaw tightened ominously. When he spoke it was with a cold savage contempt, his voice dangerously low. ‘You’re nothing but a common little flirt. Take care how you try to bait me,’ he murmured softly. ‘I’m not one of the besotted fools who dance attendance on you night after night. I might want more from you than you are ready to grant—and when I want something, I do not give up until I have it.’

      Drawing her horse away from him slightly, reminding herself not to let him annoy her and that she must carry out the charade to the end, Belle feigned innocence. ‘But—surely you have what you wanted?’

      She saw something move behind his eyes and for a split second his gaze went to her unadorned neck before rising to her face. She waited, her eyes holding his, challenging him, aware of the sudden tension inside him, the stirring of suspicion behind his gaze.

      ‘I have?’ he answered, not without caution. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘Why, you asked me to ride with you—and here I am.’ She tilted her head to one side and smiled, her eyes questioning. ‘Why, were you referring to something else?’

      He studied her carefully before saying coldly, ‘I think this unpleasant encounter has gone on long enough. I bid you good day.’ With that he rode away.

      Without a backward glance, Belle headed for home, a sense of triumphant jubilation in her heart, for Lord Bingham’s invitation to his supper party had given her an excellent idea as to how she might recover the diamonds.

      At nine o’clock Belle, dressed in breeches and a jacket and a low-brimmed hat, with no time to lose and with much chiding from Daisy, who knew all about the missing necklace and what her mistress had in mind, left the house and climbed into the waiting coach.

      The driver knew it was not his place to ask questions—although he did look startled at Miss Isabelle’s male form of attire. She gave him the address of Lord Bingham’s London residence, which had not been too difficult to procure, since he was so well known that the servants had been able to provide her with the address. Settling into the upholstery, in an attempt to still her wildly beating heart she took a deep breath. There was so much depending on this night. She could not expect everything to go well and doubt thwarted her attempt at calm.

      By the time she reached her destination—a fine Palladian mansion located close to Hyde Park on Park Lane—she had worked herself up into such a knot of anticipation and foreboding that she was tempted to tell the driver to return to Hampstead. Quickly she recollected herself and, sternly determined, fought to bring her rioting panic under control, thinking of the immense satisfaction and triumph she would feel if her plan succeeded, which would have very little to do with retrieving the necklace, and everything to do with outwitting Lord Bingham.

      Belle left the coach some distance from the house, telling the driver to wait, that she hoped not to be long. She avoided the front of the house, where several smart equipages were lined up. Quickly becoming lost in the dark, she found her way to the back of the house and into a yard with buildings that housed Lord Bingham’s carriages and horses. Standing in the shadows she carefully surveyed his town residence.

      Lights shone from the windows and people could be seen strolling about the rooms and sitting about. Thankfully several of the upstairs rooms were in darkness and it seemed quiet enough. Suddenly she was overcome with a sense of urgency, for there was a need for haste if she was to find what she was looking for without being seen. Letting herself in by a door that led into a passageway, she paused and listened. Sounds of domesticity and cook issuing orders to the kitchenmaids could be heard from a room on her right—the kitchen, she thought. Fortunately the door was only slightly ajar and she managed to creep by. A narrow staircase rose from the passageway and gingerly she made her way upwards. With a stroke of luck she found herself on a landing, on the top floor of the house, off which were several rooms.

      With her ears attuned to every sound—conversation and laughter from Lord Bingham’s guests and the clink of glasses—she went from door to door, pressing her ear to it before opening it a crack and peering inside. They were bedrooms mostly—though not one of them gave the impression of belonging to the master of the house. Undeterred, she crept along another landing, peering into each room until eventually she found it. Looking through the slightly open door she waited, afraid Lord Bingham’s valet might be in an adjacent room. After a few moments when nothing happened she stepped inside and closed the door.

      Only one lamp was lit, giving off a dim light. She could have done with more, but decided she would have to manage. She set to work, starting on a tall bureau beside the door. Thankfully the drawers slid open soundlessly. After rummaging inside and being careful to leave things as she found them, she went on to the next piece of furniture, working quietly, admiring the expensive quality of everything her fingers touched.

      She glanced at a rather ornate clock on the mantelpiece as it delicately chimed ten o’clock. Wondering where the time had flown and disappointed that her search had produced nothing as yet, she knew she would have to hurry. Looking about her, she saw a door that she assumed must lead into a dressing room. Slipping inside, she searched the chests of drawers and among racks of clothing, but all to no avail.

      Feeling crushed and extremely disappointed, she emerged into the bedroom once more. She was about to admit defeat when her eyes lighted on the bedside tables. She paused to listen. Had she heard a noise on the landing, or was it the noise of the wind that had risen? Whatever it might have been, she decided to get on with it. She had no wish to be caught red-handed.

      With one last desperate attempt to locate the jewels, she looked inside the first bedside table, almost shouting out in triumph when, on opening a small velvet pouch and seeing its sparkling contents, she realised she had found what she was looking for.

      ‘Got you, you thieving rogue,’ she whispered, pocketing the pouch. Quickly she closed the drawer and then halted abruptly. This time she could not mistake the footfall on the landing as someone came towards the bedroom. Her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Belle flew to the lamp and blew out the flame, placing it on the floor so it could not be lit in a hurry—although there were others in the room to light, so she needn’t have bothered. The room was now in almost total darkness. Belle stood in the middle, turning about indecisively. She had to find a place to hide. Her eyes lit on the dressing screen and she flew behind it just as the door handle turned.

      Lance came in, uttering an oath under his breath when he found his room in darkness, and an even louder oath when his foot made contact with the lamp and it toppled over.

      ‘What the devil has happened to the light?’ His voice bore an edge of sharpness that bespoke of vexation. Without more ado he picked up the lamp and, striking a sulphur match, soon had it lit. He stood for a moment in puzzlement. His eyes did a quick sweep of the room. Seeing that everything appeared to be in place, he removed his jacket and threw it on to the bed.

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