Sherlock Holmes

The crowd swirls around you like a whirlwind of silk, velvet, and jewels. An invitation to the Duchess of Broadford's social event is a rarity even for the capital's elite, but you have your own way of getting what you want. You adjust your satin gloves and take a deep breath. "The Midnight Cat"—as The Times and The Daily Telegraph have poetically dubbed you. These morning newspapers are full of headlines about an elusive thief who has already cleaned out a dozen aristocratic residences and the personal safes of members of Parliament. How could the newspaper writers have failed to come up with something more elegant? However, there is some truth to this nickname—you do prefer to operate under cover of darkness, silently and unnoticed. And tonight will be no exception. "Miss Eleanor FitzRoy, Lord Westmoreland's niece"—that's your role for today. A light gait, an elegant ivory gown with pearl embroidery, perfect curls—a wig, of course—and a false nose that completely transforms your face. Lockey barely glanced at you at the entrance as you handed over the flawlessly forged invitation. Your heart beats faster, but not from fear—from anticipation. How many sleepless nights have you spent studying the layout of this mansion, the Duchess's habits, the security system for her jewels. You know more about the Bedford treasury than the lady of the house herself. The "Tear of India" is not just a stone, but a true legend. A sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg, once adorned the crown of an Indian maharajah... Now it belongs to the Duchess, and today you intend to restore historical justice by returning it to freedom. You barely suppress a grin, realizing your only motive for stealing is the chance to strike it rich. After all, the sapphire is worth a fortune. The client will pay you well for it. Your gaze glides over the guests, noticing details most would consider insignificant. The old baron dozes in his chair, his purse peeking out of his pocket so casually that it almost insults you with its availability. In high society, there's never enough money to maintain the illusion of prosperity. Two ladies are discussing the baroness's scandalous game with their butler. You suppress a smile. If only they knew the real scandal was passing them by at this very second. You notice Lady Pemberton casting an interested glance at you. You respond with a slight nod and a smile, precisely calculated to be both welcoming and slightly distant. The perfect demeanor for a person you barely know but an equal in rank. Years of practice have not been in vain. You can be anyone: a modest companion, a glittering socialite, a quiet widow, or a vibrant young lady. An orchestra in the corner of the room begins to play a waltz. Taking advantage of the guests' attention being drawn to the dancing couples, you slowly make your way to the east side of the room, where an inconspicuous servants' door is located. From there, it's just a few turns to the lower floor, where the Duchess keeps her treasures. Almost there, you suddenly encounter a young man. Tall, with dark hair and piercing gray eyes. Your gazes meet for only a moment, but it's enough to send a chill down your spine. His eyes—cold, piercing—seem to see right through you.
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Miss... Fitz-Roy, is it?"
He answers quietly, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. How does he know the name on your fake invitation? You haven't introduced yourself to him, have you? Trying not to show your unease, you smile and slip past, feeling his gaze on your back like cold steel. Once out of his sight, you involuntarily touch the tip of your nose. Yes, the disguise is holding. But that gaze... You shake off the unpleasant sensation and continue on your way. You pretend to be interested in the pattern on the wallpaper, casting a quick glance over your shoulder. No one pays you any attention. Perfect timing. You take a step back and find yourself in the shadow of a column. Another moment - and your fingers are already on the doorknob. Carefully, almost imperceptibly, you open the door a crack and slip inside. Your steps are soundless, thanks to the fabric pads on your shoes - a little trick that has saved you more than once. For a moment, you think you hear footsteps behind you. You freeze, listening to the silence. Nothing, just the distant music from the ballroom and the pounding of your heart. You take a deep breath and continue on your way. From a hidden pocket in your dress, you take out a small oil lantern with a shutter, which cost you a fortune, but pays for itself in moments like these. A dim beam of light snatches a bookcase from the darkness. There you are. You push it with all your might. At first, nothing happens. It’s heavy. But on the third try, the structure moves. You peer behind the bookcase and see a massive door with iron plates. The lock is a true work of art, made probably by one of the best craftsmen in London. You smile. You open the door with the master keys. What you see makes you momentarily forget the purpose of your visit. The room is not particularly large, but every inch of space is used wisely. But you only need one thing. You move slowly along the display cases, looking for the sapphire. And here he is... His defenses are very good, but not enough to stop you. A minute later, the defenses are disarmed, and you gain access to the sapphire. You take the stone, replacing the defenses. You leave the treasury as quietly as you entered, locking the door. You decide to return to the ballroom to spend time with the guests before leaving. You take a step forward and crash hard into something solid. Or rather, someone... You let out a muffled cry in surprise, jump back, and before you know it, you see the corridor flooded with the light of a suddenly lit lamp.
"What an unexpected meeting, Miss Fitz-Roy..."
A mocking male voice says this, emphasizing your fake name. You blink, adjusting to the light, and with horror, you recognize the man standing before you. The same gentleman from the ballroom with the gray eyes. Now he's here, and there's something in his eyes that resembles... triumph?
"You're faster than I expected. Impressive."
He raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting this turn of events.
"Let's skip these games, sir. We both know why we're here. The only question is which one of us will walk away with the loot."
"An interesting move, miss. Accusing your interlocutor of something you yourself are guilty of."

In the labyrinth of shadows, where secrets live.
Two souls, like constellations, met suddenly.
Who's the hunter, who's the hunted? The game is on.
Night-time London holds their dangerous connection.