Page 15 of How to Fall for a Scoundrel
“No more ridiculous than all the other superstitions people put their faith in on a daily basis. Admit it, I bet even you, a rational, educated woman, do some superstitious things. Do you walk under ladders?”
“No,” she said. “But that’s just common sense. I don’t believe I’ll be disturbing evil spirits or ending my days on the gallows if I do. I’d just rather not be hit on the head if the person up the ladder drops something.”
He sighed, as if disappointed by her pragmatism. “I bet there’s something. Do you toss salt over your shoulder if you spill it? Or think that breaking a mirror brings you seven years’ bad luck?”
“I do not.”
He sent her a skeptical look, eyebrows raised, and she gave a disgruntled sigh and gave in.
“Fine. I’m polite to single magpies. I always say, ‘Hello, Mr. Magpie, how’s your wife and children?’ if I see one.”
“Ha!”
“But that’s only because magpies are known to mate for life, so seeing a single one makes one hope that their partner is somewhere about, or that they’ll find a mate soon. Wishing them well is just good manners.”
“Of course,” he said soothingly. “And nothing to do with the belief that a single magpie brings bad luck: one for sorrow, two for joy, and all that?”
“Not at all.”
“Hmm. My point is,” he continued, “that the world is full of people believing in things, and not even the most intelligent people are immune. Almost every profession has its own superstitions. In the theater, for example, it’s traditional to say ‘break a leg’ on opening night, and bad luck to whistle backstage. It’s even worse luck to say the word ‘Macbeth’ unless one is actually working on the production and the script requires it. At all other times it’s referred to as ‘the Scottish play.’”
Ellie smiled ruefully. “To be fair, I do know one barrister who wears the same shirt for the whole length of a trial, and another who refuses to have his hair cut until the verdict is read out.”
“There you go. My point is, believing that something is lucky is a powerful motivating force. I think themonetary value of that book was of less importance than the fact that Napoleon himself believed it to be lucky.”
“You think the person who stole it wants some of that luck for themselves?”
“I do.” Harry tilted his head. “And believe me, as a former criminal, I have an excellent understanding of the power of making people believe in something—even if it isn’t true. In three-card monte, for example, the skill lies in making the mark believe they’re cleverer than all the other players, making them think they can win easy money because they can follow the money card better than anyone else.”
“Hmm,” Ellie said, still unconvinced.
“It’s the same with holy relics,” he continued. “I’ve lost count of the number of churches I’ve been to that house the finger bone of saint somebody-or-other. You could make at least twenty full skeletons of Saint Francis of Assisi with all the body parts strewn around the Continent. And I’m sure that in the back of their logical minds, people know this, but they don’t care, because they all thinktheirfinger bone is therealtrue finger bone, and that it will cure their goat of scrofula.”
Ellie chuckled.
“And because they believe,” he said, “they do everything they can to make it happen. They visit the veterinarian and make the goat take its medicine, and feed it better food, and lo and behold, the goat recovers. And they attribute it to the lucky finger bone, instead of their own good sense or actions.”
“Are you saying there’s no such thing as luck?”
“I’m saying it doesn’t matter whether there is or not. What matters is if someonebelievesin that luck, and it starts to affect their actions.”
“So things began to go wrong for Bonaparte when he lost the book because he didn’t believe he’d be lucky anymore?”
“Exactly. With it, he imagined himself invincible and destined for greatness. But without it, defeat became almost inevitable. As soon as a man starts questioning his own judgment, and feeling that nothing he does will succeed because good fortune’s deserted him, failure becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“That’s quite a theory,” Ellie said. “But I fail to see how it’s going to help us catch Mr. Bullock’s thief. Bonaparte is locked up on Saint Helena, so I don’t think we can addhimto our list of suspects.”
“True.” Harry turned back to her, and Ellie was surprised to discover how close they’d been standing. She still couldn’t determine the exact color of his eyes: depending on the light they appeared green, blue, or even hazel, and the inability to define them was becoming mildly annoying. Still, she couldn’t keep staring up at him like a simpleton.
His own gaze lingered for a moment on her lips, and she felt her blood heat. Why did such a scoundrel have to be so appealing?
Suddenly self-conscious, she slid her spectacles from her nose and folded them neatly into their velvet-lined filigree holder.
“Well, I suppose we’d better be getting back to the office.”
They walked side by side through the remaining rooms, and when they finally stood on the street outside, she peered left and right to see where his carriage was waiting.
Harry, however, paused on the steps, staring intently at something across the road.