Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

As a dappling of daylight from the narrow window illuminated the alcove, she froze in place, staring in mute shock at the sight before her eyes.

A small worktable had been set up in the center of the space. An unlit argent lamp sat on a pedestal next to it, the oil-fueled glass globe angled to cast its intense light over the square of white felted wool that covered nearly the entire surface.

Swallowing her surprise, Anna ventured a step closer and leaned in for a closer look at what lay upon the fabric.

The pocket pistol from Manton’s shop had been disassembled, and all the parts laid out in an orderly grouping on one side of the table. But it was the weapon on the other side that wrenched a tiny gasp from her throat.

It was a copy of Mr. Manton’s design—and yet, it wasn’t. Some of the small metal workings had been made out of steel. But the majority were crafted out of beautiful burnished gold.

Hardly daring to breath, she carefully picked up a magnifying glass from among the set of precision tools wrapped in chamois and peered through the lens at the exquisite detailing of the half-finished model. Along with the intricate decorative patterns etched on the surfaces, some of the pieces were also covered by delicate indigo blue enamelwork highlighted by seed pearls. Looking up, Anna saw a number of glass vials containing powdered pigments grouped together with an assortment of small tweezers and paintbrushes.

“Good Lord,” she whispered.

Even more astounding than the partly finished golden pistol was the sight of a colorful miniature bird lying half assembled in the middle of the felt. Its eyes were two emeralds, and the tiny wings had been fashioned with a deft artistry that created the illusion of myriad feathers. Next to the golden claws was a bewildering array of impossibly small gears and levers.

The marquess wasn’t a thief, he was…

An artist? An alchemist with otherworldly powers to transmute ordinary elements into magic?

Feeling a little dizzy, Anna put the magnifying glass back in its place and slowly circled the table, checking to see if there was anything else that could shed light on what Devlin was doing.

It was then that she spotted several books stacked by the lamp. She opened the top one and saw that it bore Lord Dunbar’s bookplate, indicating that it had come from the library downstairs. Thumbing to the next page, she read its title—

A History of Automata

Being a Detailed Account of Ingenious Mechanical Devices

Throughout the Ages

The term “automata” was vaguely familiar. Her father had several books in his library on the subject. It referred to complex mechanical devices that performed some sort of movement, mostly for sheer entertainment—a majestic eagle that flapped its wings, a lute player who could strum his instrument, a ferocious tiger that could paw its prey. Popular since ancient times, there were, she knew, some very clever and complex constructions.

Intrigued, Anna paged through the chapters of the book in her hand, stopping occasionally to study the detailed engravings of various examples, including an elaborate thirteenth-century Arabic model of a jewel-encrusted peacock fountain and an eighteenth-century French flute player. But much as she wished to read the text, she needed time to think over what she had discovered before confronting the marquess.

As she closed the book a folded piece of paper fell out of it. Smoothing it open, she read over the list of names carefully before putting it back between the pages.

Ye gods—what is the marquess up to?

Reluctantly placing the book back atop the others, she quitted the dressing room and relocked the door. After checking that the corridor was clear, she reset the main lock and hurried back to her own chamber.

Shrugging out of his hunting coat, Devlin draped it over one of the armchairs of his sitting room and went to pour himself a drink. The first swallow of whisky burned a trail of welcome fire down his throat, but as he turned away from the sideboard, a tiny chill teased against the nape of his neck.

Something wasn’t quite right.

>

The desk blotter was slightly askew, and a pillow on the settee had been shifted several inches.

Setting down his glass, Devlin moved into his bedchamber, and the sensation grew even more pronounced.

His eyes were attuned to notice minute details, but even an unschooled gaze could see that someone had been in here going through his belongings. And whoever it was hadn’t been particularly skilled at it. The clothing in the armoire hung at odd angles and several lids of the bandboxes were not quite closed.

Ignoring the chest of drawers, he quickly crossed the rug to check the dressing room door. That the bolt was in place brought some measure of assurance that his secret was still safe.

Until he fitted his key into the lock and clicked it open.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

The intruder had been more careful in here, but not quite careful enough. His work-in-progress was undisturbed, but the tools and books showed small signs of tampering.