Читать книгу The Debutante's Ruse - Linda Skye - Страница 7

Chapter One

Isabella Lei Hennessey was tensely coiled, keenly alert and very, very uncomfortable.

She waited with bated breath as she crouched beneath the sill of a large window. Though it was nearly sundown, sunlight still lingered on the walls and in the narrow streets, so she carefully hid herself in the shadows cast by tall ornamental shrubbery. She was clad in black—a skintight outfit made of elastic silk that hugged her every curve and allowed her a maximum range of motion without making the slightest sound. If she were seen, she would scandalize all of Victorian Hong Kong—although she suspected that if anyone knew her reason for donning the sensually cut garment, she’d have much more than a simple scandal to deal with.

But, as practical as her immodest clothing was, it did nothing to ease the cramp developing in her leg.

Of course they’re late, she griped inwardly, on today of all days!

And then, finally, she heard the telltale shuffle of feet that marked the arrival of hired porters carrying sedan chairs. She sank deeper into her hiding spot and watched as the Wilkinson family emerged from their expensive bungalow. Mrs. Wilkinson was a slight, bird-like woman, but Mr. Wilkinson was as round as a man could possibly get. Bemused, Isabella watched the sedan chair sag and creak as he clumsily clambered on, causing the Chinese porters to shift uncomfortably under the unexpected weight.

“Oh, but this simply will not do!”

Isabella slanted her eyes toward the young Miss Wilkinson, whose face was quickly puckering in sour anger. The unattractive twist to her pouting lips was a sharp contrast to the elegant finery of her beautiful evening gown. She’s probably aiming to snag a newly-arrived, rich young bachelor today, Isabella thought.

“What ever is the matter, dear?” Mrs. Wilkinson asked, already comfortably settled into the palanquin with her husband.

With gloved fists perched on her hips, Miss Wilkinson was all but throwing a childish tantrum. She pointed to the sedan chair.

“These stupid coolies have brought up a bamboo chair,” she declared, stamping a booted foot, “A bamboo chair. I can’t be seen arriving in this! Where is the black lacquer chair we normally use?” She paused to cover her breast with her hands. “What if he sees me in this?”

“He, dear?” Her mother looked heavenward. “Oh never mind,” she said sharply, “Just get in the chair, and let’s be off. We’re already late for the governor’s summer ball.”

With a huff and a sulk, Miss Wilkinson climbed into the chair and crossed her arms. And finally—oh, finally—the porters were carrying them up the narrow, winding paths to the Mountain Lodge at the summit of Victoria Peak. Isabella breathed a sigh of relief, and then pivoted to inspect the window above her. With a deft flick of her wrist, she produced a short, sharp knife. Carefully sliding the blade in between the wooden window frame and its stone casing, she began to whittle away at the rotting wood. It was a minor miracle in her favor that the Wilkinsons did not know to keep up with the effects of tropical humidity on Victorian houses. Within minutes, she had carved out just enough to begin levering it open. With the barest of creaks, the window turned on its hinges and swung open. Quick and silent as a shadow, Isabella slipped into the house.

With all the stealth and grace of a cat, she padded across the dimly lit room to the door, where she paused to listen. The house servants were chatting in the kitchens, obviously relaxed since their masters had left for the evening. Wary of creaky floorboards, Isabella eased into the hall, crept up the stairs and tiptoed into Miss Wilkinson’s rooms.

She saw what she was after immediately.

The rich, golden silk robe had been slung casually over the back of a chair, its hand-embroidered edges trailing on the tatty carpet. Isabella greeted it as an old friend, and gathered the silk into her arms. The luxurious cloth was heavy and thick with an unmistakable luster; it had obviously been the garment of an ancient emperor. As she let the silk slide over her skin, Isabella imagined that it was the caress of a lover—for surely a lover’s hands would feel as splendidly smooth.

And then, with the slightest whisper of silk, Isabella—the most notorious thief of Hong Kong—slipped away, vanishing into the shadows.