PROLOGUE
LONDON, EASTCLERE ESTATE
JUNE, 1814 - THE SPRING SOIRÉE
It should have been simple.
Steal the Paragon Diamond.
Remove its contents.
Return it to its place.
No one would ever know, and all would be set to right.
But even the best plans could go wrong.
8:52p.m.
The party should have started twenty minutes ago. Would that alter the timeline? Hopefully not. Timing was everything. All had to be pushed back accordingly.
There — finally. The musicians struck up a loud reel, the notes carrying down the corridor from the massive ballroom. Good. The noise would cover any stray footsteps.
No one was about — wait. A shadow. Time to slip behind a tapestry until the person passed.
A breath. Another. The corridor cleared again, leaving an unobstructed path to the narrow servants’ passage.
The shaking hands were not ideal, but for a first criminal undertaking, not unexpected.
8:54p.m.
A quick glance through the hidden viewing slit into the jewel gallery revealed one guard slumped against the wall, bored beyond measure, his eyes fixed on the Paragon Diamond glittering in its case directly before him.
A second guard leaned out, flirting with a lady’s maid, while the steward lingered in the ballroom, fussing with lighting cues instead of the diamond. Perfect. One less set of eyes.
Timing held.
8:55p.m.
The guards stepped away for their brief walkabout, taking their places for the chandelier lighting, locking the gallery door behind them. The duplicate key was already in hand. No one was to view the diamond yet — its grand unveiling was scheduled for later, when the crowd was thick and the Marquess of Eastclere could revel in the drama.
The key slid into the lock. A turn — a horrible jam — then, finally, a soft click.
The gallery door opened.
8:56p.m.
Cold air within. Only a single lantern burned, casting a dim, steady glow. The remaining lanterns waited along the wall, destined to blaze when the moment was right. At the center of the room, the Paragon Diamond shimmered like frost where it rested beneath its glass dome. A quick sweep left and right.
A whispered, “Forgive me.”
Tools in hand, the hinge yielded just enough to lift the dome.
No sound.
No crack.
No trace of interference. Everything could be restored once the task was done.
