Page 8 of Stolen By the Rogue
I hope it’s warm inside the embassy. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long, cold night.
The striking, three-storied Adelphi buildings complex in which the Ottoman embassy was housed towered over them. The block of eleven unified houses fronted a vaulted terrace along the riverbank, under which a series of wharves had been built. Situated between the Strand and the River Thames, the Adelphi could be seen from miles downriver. It was an imposing sight.
“Do you have the tickets?” asked Harry.
Alice nodded and, after reaching into her reticule, handed one to both her husband and George.
The exhibition had only been going for four days, but it had quickly become one of the hottest attractions in town. Having been unsuccessful in managing to secure a ticket for himself, George had been most relieved when Alice’s sister Patience had cried off this evening and the spare ticket had been offered to him.
He followed Alice and Harry up the front steps of the Ottoman embassy and through the front door. They stood patiently at the end of a short line, waiting to be admitted to the exhibition space.
It was just after seven o’clock, and George was pleased that the gathering inside the embassy wasn’t too large. He caught Harry’s eye.
“We must be getting old. When did we start attending any social event this side of ten o’clock in the evening?” he said.
Harry raised an eyebrow, then glanced at his wife and the swell of her belly. Alice was heavily pregnant with their first child, and the couple rarely stayed out late these days. Lord Harry Steele now arrived early each morning at the offices of the RR Coaching Company and was usually the first one to leave midafternoon.
His fellow rogue of the road had all but given up on any of the company’s illicit work the moment he’d married Alice. Harry’s new role consisted of managing the growing coaching side of the business and seeking honest investments to add to their cash reserves. Things had certainly changed for the former scandal-maker.
Alice yawned. “I am terrible. The number of times I have fallen asleep just after supper is ridiculous. And to think I used to be able to stay out all night and welcome the dawn.”
Harry bent and placed a tender kiss on his wife’s cheek, causing George to avert his gaze.
“You are glowing with the promise of life. That takes a lot of energy, my love,” Harry said.
A tinge of unexpected jealousy pricked at George. He couldn’t begrudge his friend’s happiness, but it brought his own empty existence into sharp relief. He was thankful when they were called to the front of the line and asked for their tickets.
The Ottoman Royal Exhibition, as had been printed on the tickets, was on display in three separate rooms. Inside the first of these was a selection of carefully curated pieces of pottery, stone tablets, and a handful of paintings.
While Harry and Alice walked arm in arm around the room, George took the opportunity to spend some time on his own. From his jacket pocket, he produced a pencil and a notebook. If anyone chanced a look in his direction, they might think him perhaps an amateur scholar bent over the display case while busily taking notes.
What he was actually doing was making rough sketches of the room and noting where things were placed. His scribblings included the number of guards, of which there were only two, as well as the location of doors and windows.
After his close run with the art gallery guard, George had decided that he needed to have several escape routes mapped out when he attempted to rob the embassy.
“I see you find the spice bowls of interest,” said a female voice.
He hastily tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket before righting himself and turning.
A vision of stunning beauty swept his breath away. For a moment he just stood staring, speechless. Talk about being struck by lightning.
“Are you alright, sir?” she asked.
How am I to reply when my mind and mouth have stopped working together?
George blinked out of his stupor. “Yes, I am fine. I just . . .” His brain was too busy processing the sheer loveliness of the woman who stood in front of him. A thousand words to describe her long brown tresses whirled about in his mind.
And when it came to the sprinkle of delightful freckles that kissed either side of her nose, the right word eluded him.
Caramel. Chocolate. Coffee.
“Did you want to know more about the spice bowls?” she asked.
“Cinnamon?” he ventured.
Her brows furrowed, then she softly chortled. “Sometimes, though cinnamon did actually originate in the Far East. It is native to Ceylon and some parts of India. These bowls would have been used to hold spices such as cumin, cardamon, and, of course, black pepper. Many of these spices still form the basis of Ottoman dishes today.”
George could cheerfully stand here all night and listen to this woman babble on about herbs and spices. She was utterly captivating.
