“I’m listening.”
Klara felt heat rise to her cheeks. She had. It was a diary from 1943, written by a young woman in occupied Paris. A woman who had hidden Jewish children in her bookshop. A woman who signed her entries only as “G.G.”
Klara adjusted the earpiece hidden beneath her auburn waves. “Georgie, be reasonable,” she whispered to herself, rehearsing the plan. The plan was simple: charm, distract, lift. She was very good at simple. klara devine & georgina gee
The air in the attic was thick with the scent of lavender and old paper. Klara Devine ran a gloved finger along the spine of a leather-bound journal, her breath catching as a fine plume of dust motes swirled in the slanted afternoon light. She wasn't a thief, not in the crude sense of the word. She was a recovery specialist. And the item she needed to recover was currently tucked into the beaded handbag of Georgina Gee.
Georgina chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “Oh, I know. Horrible man. Chews with his mouth open and has the emotional intelligence of a potted fern. But he gave it to my goddaughter, and she gave it to me for safekeeping. She’s young. She made a foolish choice in lovers, not in loot. I won’t see her charged with theft.” “I’m listening
Georgina turned, and Klara was struck by the sharp intelligence in her eyes. These were not the rheumy eyes of a dotty old collector. They were the eyes of a chess grandmaster. “Late sixties, dear. And you’re too young to know Pucci from Prada unless you’ve done your homework.” Georgina took a slow sip of her drink. “Klara Devine. I was wondering when you’d slither out of the woodwork.”
Six months ago, the ruby had been stolen from the Devine Family Trust. The thief? A charmingly corrupt earl who had since fled to a non-extradition country. But before he fled, he’d given the ruby to his lover. And his lover was Georgina’s goddaughter. The trail had gone cold until last week, when a mutual acquaintance let slip that Georgina Gee never, ever sold a gift. She wore them all, layered like battle armor. A woman who had hidden Jewish children in her bookshop
For a long moment, Georgina studied her. The garden party hummed around them—the clink of glasses, the distant thwack of croquet mallets. Then Georgina leaned in. “I have a counter-offer, Miss Devine.”