Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
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“That is—there are some blondes in our circle of acquaintances. But not a burglar among them.”
“It could be anyone. Anyone at all. It’s not the first break-in we’ve had in this neighborhood. Three just this year. And the culprit might even be someone you know. You’d be surprised, Mr. Tavistock, what sort of misbehavior occurs, even in your social circle.”
Jordan cleared his throat. “I can’t imagine.”
“This woman, whoever she is, is quite bold. She entered through a downstairs locked door. Got upstairs without alarming the butler. Only then did she get careless—caused a bit of a racket. That’s when she was chased out.”
“Was anything taken?” asked Beryl.
“Not so far as Mr. Delancey knows.”
So Guy Delancey didn’t report the stolen letters, thought Jordan. Or perhaps he never even noticed they were missing.
“This time she slipped up,” said Constable Glenn. “But there’s always the chance she’ll strike again. That’s what I came to warn you about. These things come in waves, you see. A certain neighborhood will be chosen. Delancey’s house isn’t that far from here, so Chetwynd could be in her target zone.” He said it with the authority of one who had expert knowledge of the criminal mind. “A residence as grand as yours would be quite a temptation.” Again he looked directly at Jordan.
Again Jordan had that sinking feeling that the good Constable Glenn knew more than he was letting on. Or is it just my guilty conscience?
Constable Glenn rose and addressed Beryl. “You’ll let Lord Lovat know of my concerns?”
“Of course,” said Beryl. “I’m sure we’ll be perfectly all right. After all, we do have a security expert on the premises.” She beamed at Richard. “And he’s quite trustworthy.”
“I’ll look over the household arrangements,” said Richard. “We’ll beef up security as necessary.”
Constable Glenn nodded in satisfaction. “Good day, then. I’ll let you know how things develop.”
They watched the constable march smartly back to his car. As it drove away, up the tree-lined road, Richard said, “I wonder why he felt the need to warn us personally.”
“As a special favor to Uncle Hugh, I’m sure,” said Beryl. “Constable Glenn was employed by MI6 years ago as a ‘watcher’—domestic surveillance. I think he still feels like part of the team.”
“Still, I get the feeling there’s something else going on.”
“A woman burglar,” said Beryl thoughtfully. “My, we have come a long way.” Suddenly she burst out laughing. “Lord, what a relief to hear it’s a she!”
“Why?” asked Richard.
“Oh, it’s just too ridiculous to mention.”
“Tell me, anyway.”
“You see, after last night, I thought—I mean, it occurred to me that—” She laughed harder. She sat back, flush with merriment, and pressed her hand to her mouth. Between giggles she managed to choke out the words. “I thought Jordie might be the cat burglar!”
Richard burst out laughing, as well. Like two giddy school kids, he and Beryl collapsed against each other in a fit of the sillies.
Jordan’s response was to calmly bite off a corner of his toast. Though his throat had gone dry as chalk, he managed to swallow down a mouthful of crumbs. “I fail to see the humor in all this,” he said.
They only laughed harder as he bore the abuse with a look of injured dignity.
CLEA SPOTTED GUY DELANCEY walking toward the refreshment tent. It was the three-minute time-out between the third and fourth chukkers, and a general exodus was under way from the polo viewing stands. Briefly she lost sight of him in the press of people, and she felt a momentary panic that all her detective work would be for nothing. She’d made a few discreet inquiries in the village that morning, had learned that most of the local gentry would almost certainly be headed for the polo field that afternoon. Armed with that tip, she’d called Delancey’s house, introduced herself as Lady So-and-So, and asked the butler if Mr. Delancey was still meeting her at the polo game as he’d promised.
The butler assured her that Mr. Delancey would be at the field.
It had taken her the past hour to track him down in the crowd. She wasn’t about to lose him now.
She pressed ahead, plunging determinedly into the Savile-Row-and-silk-scarf set. The smell of the polo field, of wet grass and horseflesh, was quickly overpowered by the scent of expensive perfumes. With an air of regal assuredness—pure acting on her part—Clea swept into the green-and-white-striped tent and glanced around at the well-heeled crowd. There were dozens of tables draped in linen, silver buckets overflowing with ice and champagne, fresh-faced girls in starched aprons whisking about with trays and glasses. And the ladies—what hats they wore! What elegant vowels tripped from their tongues! Clea paused, her confidence suddenly wavering. Lord, she’d never pull this off…
She glimpsed Delancey by the bar. He was standing alone, nursing a drink. Now or never, she thought.
She swayed over to the counter and edged in close to Delancey. She didn’t look at him, but kept her attention strictly focused on the young fellow manning the bar.
“A glass of champagne,” she said.
“Champagne, coming up,” said the bartender.
As she waited for the drink, she sensed Delancey’s gaze. Casually she shifted around so that she was almost, but not quite, looking at him. He was indeed facing her.
The bartender slid across her drink. She took a sip and gave a weary sigh. Then she drew her fingers slowly, sensuously, through her mane of red hair.
“Been a long day, has it?”
Clea glanced sideways at Delancey. He was fashionably tanned and impeccably dressed in autumn-weight cashmere. Though tall and broad shouldered, his once striking good looks had gone soft and a bit jowly, and the hand clutching the whiskey glass had a faint tremor. What a waste, she thought, and smiled at him prettily.
“It has been rather a long day.” She sighed, and took another sip. “Afraid I’m not very good in airplanes. And now my friends haven’t shown up as promised.”
“You’ve just flown in? From where?”
“Paris. Went on holiday for a few weeks, but decided to cut it short. Dreadfully unfriendly there.”
“I was there just last month. Didn’t feel welcome at all. I recommend you try Provence. Much friendlier.”
“Provence? I’ll keep that in mind.”
He sidled closer. “You’re not English, are you?”
She smiled at him coyly. “You can tell?”
“The accent—what, American?”
“My, you’re quick,” she said, and noted how he puffed up with the compliment. “You’re right, I’m American. But I’ve been living in London for some time. Ever since my husband died.”
“Oh.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was eighty-two.” She sipped again, gazing at him over the rim of her glass. “It was his time.”
She could read the thoughts going through his transparent little head. Filthy rich old man, no doubt. Why else would a lovely young thing marry him? Which makes her a rich widow…
He moved closer. “Did you say your friends were supposed to meet you here?”
“They never showed.” Sighing, she gave him a helpless