Sweet Revenge

have enjoyed it—the music, the gossip. But this trip to London was business. It would be necessary to put in a few appearances before she left the city. Such things were expected of Princess Adrianne. Just as it was expected that she cause enough of a stir to be talked about. But tonight she had a job to case.
    She drove by first, noting the traffic, both pedestrian andautomobile, the proximity of the house to its neighbors, and to the street, which lights were on. Since only the foyer was lit, she imagined they were out—at the theater probably. It took her only one trip around to decide her best approach would be across the lawn. After parking her car on Bond Street, she began to walk.
    The warm snap London had been enjoying was at an end. It was chill and damp, as Adrianne liked it best. Most Londoners were settled in their homes or crowded in clubs so that the walk was lonely, with the sound of leaves skimming across the ground and the evening wind moving through the rapidly molting trees.
    There were fingers of fog at her feet, thin and gray. If she was lucky, it would be thicker and more concealing when she took this trip again. Now it was clear enough to show her the gates and gardens of the houses, and the pretty paned windows she might climb through. The leisurely walk had taken her three and a half minutes. In a dash she could make it in less than two. Moving closer, she checked for annoyances such as dogs or nosy neighbors. It was then she noticed the man loitering on the street watching her.
    It had been impulse as much as instinct that had brought Philip out. There was no guarantee that the Fume house would be a target. But if it were, and if he were targeting it himself, he would certainly have wanted to stroll around the neighborhood, familiarize himself with its habits before the hit.
    In any case, he’d been restless, unwilling to go out in company, and dissatisfied with his own. There were times like these when he missed the excitement, the anticipation of planning a job. The work itself was tense and concentrated and left no room for nervy pleasure. But before, and after, brought the thrill. He envied the man he was seeking to catch those thrills.
    And yet, he’d made the decision to retire from second-story work coolheadedly, practically. He couldn’t regret it. Except on a damp, cool night when he could almost feel the heat from jewels nestled in velvet boxes in airless vaults.
    Then he saw the woman. She was small, and draped in black so that he couldn’t see her face or figure. Still, he sensed youth in the easy swing of her gait, confidence in thecasual way her hands disappeared into the folds of the cape. She made an intriguing picture with the fog winding around her feet and leaves racing toward the gutters at her back. But his senses sharpened because he saw that her head was turned toward the house in Grosvenor Square. The same house he’d been watching.
    When she saw him, her hesitation was brief, so brief that he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been waiting for it. He stood where he was, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket, curious to see what she would do. She continued toward him, no faster, no slower. As she drew nearer, her face turned up to his.
    Her features were exotic, and faintly familiar. Not British, Philip thought.
    “Good evening,” he said, wanting to hear her voice return his greeting.
    Her eyes, as dark as her cape, met his levelly. Stunning eyes, he thought, almond-shaped, thickly lashed and shadowed by the night. She only nodded and continued on.
    Adrianne didn’t glance back, though it worried her that she wanted to. He could have been standing there for a dozen plausible reasons, but she didn’t discount the tension at the back of her neck. His eyes had been like the fog, gray and secretive. His stance, though casual, had seemed too alert to her, too ready.
    Silly, Adrianne told herself as she drew the cloak closer at her throat. He was just a man taking in the night or waiting for a woman. British from the accent, extremely attractive with gray eyes and fair hair. There was no reason that the encounter should unnerve her. Except … except that it had.
    Blaming it on jet lag, she decided to make it an early evening.
    Perhaps it had been a mistake to go to bed with only a glass of wine on her stomach. It might have been better if she’d gone to Annabel’s and socialized, eaten, worn herself out before she tried to sleep.