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London, 1909
It was a perfect night for a prowl. Dark, moonless, chilly enough to keep people off the street, but not so cold to numb her fingers. Kitty effortlessly scaled the outside wall of Timsley House using the cracks between the bricks as foot and fingerholds. Dressed in form-fitting black, with a dusky kerchief covering her hair, a mask concealing the upper portion of her face, she blended into her surroundings like a phantom. Far below, sentries walked their beat, blissfully unaware.
This job had required more careful planning than the others. Lord Timsley was a vigilant man. His house was guarded at all hours of the day and night.
When asked, he explained that--as His Majesty's deputy foreign minister--he had to take special precautions in case of an intrusion by some foreign enemy of the Crown. But Kitty suspected there was more to it. She hoped that behind his closely guarded walls, he had hidden the Blood of India--the prize she'd come to collect.
Reaching the top floor, she swung her leg over the balcony rail then silently dropped into the enclosure. There she made her way to the French doors that she'd examined weeks earlier, while a guest at Lord Timsley's ball. A few quick maneuvers with a pick and she heard the lock click free. With a swift glance about to make certain she was still undetected, she entered the mansion.
Once again she experienced the same peculiar thrill that always seized her at such moments. The excitement of being alone in a place where she didn't belong. She could feel the tingle of the hairs at the nape of her neck, feel the odd awareness of her own body, of each lithemovement.
It was the same sensation she felt when flying her aeroplane. "Kitty Fontaine, Queen of the Skies," the newspapers called her. She almost laughed. What would the adoring crowds think if they could see her now? Kitty Fontaine, cat burglar.
She crossed the room. The master bedroom was just on the other side of the door. One small sound, one careless move, and Lord Timsley would surely awaken.
She'd already determined where he kept the safe. Easing aside the portrait of Timsley's dour, bearded father, she put her ear to the combination lock and turned it with nimble fingers, feeling more than listening for the tumblers to fall into place. In seconds, the small metal door swung open.
She lit the candle that she'd carried in her pocket and placed it inside the safe where its telltale glow would be contained. Then she began to rifle through the contents. Stacks of papers. Stocks and bonds. Cash laid out in neat piles. These she shifted aside, reaching for the velvet boxes that lay beyond. With swift expertise, she opened and discarded one after the other. A diamond necklace. An emerald bracelet. A complete set of Kashmir sapphires. Flawless all, but not what she sought. Rings, baubles, pearls. But no ruby. No Blood of India.
"Working at night, you meet the most interesting people."
The voice, deep, masculine, mysterious, startled her. She wheeled around, her heart lurching. But the man who stood before her wasn't Lord Timsley. The man was, in fact, an eerie mirror image of herself.
Like her, he was dressed in black, the soft material, chosen for ease of movement, emphasizing every line and contour of a hard-as-granite frame. A kerchief was tied about his head, covering his hair, his nose, the whole top half of his face, while providing slits for eyes that seemed to burn through the mask with an intensity that sent her erratic heart rushing to her throat. All she could see of his face was a strong, clean-shaven jaw and a bold, sensual mouth.
"You!" she gasped.
Light flickered in those dark eyes before he stepped back and gave her a mocking bow.
She knew who he was, of course. For months, this audacious cat burglar had defied gravity to enter the sacred inner domains of London's wealthy, foiled all alarm systems, and confounded and humiliated Scotland Yard by his seemingly miraculous feats of robbery and his ghostlike ability to disappear into thin air. While the gentlemen of Mayfair wanted the scoundrel brought to heel, the women had turned him into a romantic idol and figure of fantasy. Several times during his midnight forays into ladies' bedrooms, he'd been rumored to awaken them with a kiss and a few seductively whispered words before vanishing, leaving them strangely thrilled to have their jewels lifted and their fancies titillated by such a dashing rascal. Confoundingly, these purloined valuables were returned, miraculously showing up in the pocket or handbag of the victim in the midst of a crowded party. This phenomenon had led to many a fluttered fainting spell as the women realized that this rogue had been close enough to them to so intimately replace the items without detection. Lady Humphrey, the grande dame of Mayfair society, upon hearing a comment about this "blasted cat," sniffed with her most imperious air and proclaimed, "Darling, that man is no cat. He's a tiger!" Hence the nickname, which Fleet Street quickly took up. Lloyd's Weekly News, a Sunday paper dedicated to violence and crime, had devoted countless columns to his daring hijinks. Knowing her own burglaries, if discovered, would be blamed on this notorious Tiger, Kitty had used him as a cover for her own private quest.
Oh, yes. She knew who he was.
