The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Turning, he eased Daphne in beside him.

In silent unison they removed their shoes, pausing to listen intently for any sound that would indicate their entry had been detected.

Nothing.

They lit a single taper and made their way to the pantry.

Gleaming silver beckoned them, and Pierce nodded with great satisfaction, pointing to those pieces small enough and valuable enough to pilfer.

Next they tiptoed to the library. Daphne slid open the desk drawer, removed the strongbox, and was about to slide it closed again when Pierce gripped her wrist to stop her. In rapt fascination, she watched as he reached behind to unlatch the desk’s hidden compartment, removing a thick stack of notes and a bejeweled snuffbox, all of which he shoved into his sack before abandoning the room.

The hallway was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the chimes of the grandfather clock tolling the hour.

Pierce positioned Daphne in the shadowed alcove at the foot of the stairs. Meaningfully, he gripped her shoulders, reminding her to stay put. Daphne gave a terse nod, reaching into her pocket to extract the emerald.

Clutching the gem, Pierce turned and prowled slowly up the staircase, close to its side to avoid making even the slightest creak. His lithe movements reminded Daphne yet again of a potent, stalking panther.

Five minutes later, he was back. Lightly, he tapped the jewel case in his sack, showing Daphne the job was done.

With a quizzical tilt of her head, Daphne gestured toward the guest wing. Pierce nodded.

Outside each bedchamber, Pierce cocked his head, concentrating on the sounds emanating from within. They invaded only those rooms whose occupants’ even breathing assured him that they were deeply asleep, and whose doors were either unlocked or could be made so with one quick flick of his knife.

By the time Daphne and Pierce left the guest quarters, their pouch was bulging with jewel cases, silver pieces, and pound notes.

They were just retracing their steps, when Daphne spied what appeared to be a small drawing room tucked away in a tiny nook alongside the conservatory. She grasped Pierce’s arm, indicating, not the room’s existence, but the ornate lock enhancing its wooded door.

Pierce drew near, frowning beneath his mask. He’d never seen anything quite like it: the lock was of a heavy plate, covering a wide portion of the doorway. Its entire surface was dominated by the figure of a man, fully clad from boots to hat, a weapon clasped in his hands. Nowhere, either near or on the figure, could Pierce detect

evidence of a keyhole.

Leaning up on tiptoes, Daphne spoke for the first time, whispering close to her husband’s ear. “Such a complex lock. What could it protect?”

Intrigued and frustrated, Pierce nodded, then leaned closer, peering at the man himself. Somewhere beneath the figure was the only logical place for a keyhole to be hidden. But where? Tentatively, he probed at the plating, searching for an answer.

Daphne watched eagerly, squinting as she contemplated the possibilities. Acting on impulse, she reached past Pierce, pressing first the man’s arm, then his weapon, and at last his foot.

She felt something give.

Firmly, she pressed the boot again.

A spring released, and the man’s foot thrust upward, revealing the dark recess of a keyhole.

Pierce’s head jerked about, and Daphne nearly laughed aloud at the surprise she saw reflected in his eyes.

Recovering himself, he whisked out his knife, inserted it in the keyhole, and clicked open the lock.

Daphne handed Pierce the taper, allowing him to precede her into the dark, musty room. The furnishings were unimpressive—two settees, an armed chair, a tea table, and a sideboard—an average drawing room.

Puzzled, Pierce approached the tea table, running his gloved hands over its surface, feeling about for a hidden catch. He straightened, shaking his head. Bypassing the other furnishings, he went to the sideboard, repeating the same process.

A concealed drawer swung open, and Daphne bit her lip to keep from exclaiming aloud.

Blinking up at them was a bejeweled chest the size of a small tome, set in a myriad of multicolored gemstones, each one larger than the last. Its value was incomprehensible.

Triumphantly, Pierce lifted the treasure from its home, carefully sliding the drawer closed before stashing the chest in his coat and urging Daphne toward the door.

The man’s boot eased back, but the lock refused to slip into place.