8:57p.m.
The chandeliers were extinguished in the adjoining room. Darkness reigned. Twelve seconds.
The dome lifted. Fingers traced the velvet cushion, found the nearly invisible seam, and opened the hidden compartment in the diamond’s frame. Inside was the brittle, rolled document — meant to release with one precise press of the stone.
But it did not move.
Again.
Again.
Nothing.
Jammed.
Bollocks. Time was nearly gone. The chandeliers would blaze at any moment.
There was only one option.
Lift the diamond.
Slip it into the padded pouch.
Reset the dome.
Latch the hinge.
Leave.
Finished not a moment too soon. A cry of surprise, followed by applause, rose as the gallery doors opened and the chandeliers flared to life. Footsteps approached — guards returning. A dive into the shadows, breath frozen, heart hammering.
8:58p.m.
The door shut softly. A quick dart through the olive-green tapestry and back into the bustling ballroom. Noise, laughter, bodies. Blend in. Keep moving. No one had any reason to notice.
9:00p.m.
The grand unveiling. A shout tore through the night at the absent jewel.
Escape to the stables to hide it until return.
This wasn’t theft. Only borrowing.
9:05p.m.
Back into the ballroom to be accounted for.
“What’s wrong?” a friend asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Suspicious glances flickered, but the answer accepted — for now.
By morning, the theft was confirmed.
The Paragon Diamond was gone.
And the Marquess of Eastclere would go to any lengths to bring it back.
