The Gentleman Jewel Thief (11 page)

Violet sidled up to Hope at the sideboard. “Harclay is rich, he is clever, and he is bored. A more potent combination for a crime such as this does not exist.”

Even as she said the words, Violet’s heart took off at a gallop. Tread carefully indeed. With Harclay now in play, each of them stood to lose just about everything: Hope, his bank; Violet, her family, her fortune, her pride.

Never mind the fact that Harclay was a very rich, very powerful enemy. There would be no second chances.

“I pray you’re wrong, Lady Violet,” Hope said, finishing off his whiskey. “But if Lord Harclay is indeed our man, we need to find out where he’s hiding the diamond. And we mustn’t forget the diamond collar; I borrowed it from a . . . friend, who misses it very much.”

Lake nodded. “There’s no negotiating with a man who wants for nothing. If what you’re saying is true, Lady Violet, the only way to get back the French Blue is to take it. I can canvass his house; and Hope, you might search his records for any mention of a recent acquisition . . .”

“No,” Violet said suddenly, impulsively. “I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Hope turned to her. “You just said you’ve got quite a bit at stake here.”

“I said I’ll do it. Lord Harclay and I—” Violet looked away, hoping to hide the heat that rose to her cheeks. “Trust me. I’ve a much better chance of finding the French Blue than either of you.”

Hope cleared his throat. “Are you and the earl . . . fond of each other?”

“No.”

“Very well.” Lake rose from his chair, shouldering off the blanket. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you, Lady Violet. The earl is a dangerous man, and you could very well be harmed, or worse, while on the hunt for the jewel.”

Violet met Hope’s eyes. “I’m the one who lost the French Blue. And I’m the one who’s going to get it back.”

T
he study was a muddle of loose paper, scrolls, and overturned pots of ink. Drawers gaped open, and a bookshelf on the far wall appeared to have been ransacked.

Avery poked his head into the room, too frightened, it seemed, to step foot into the fray.

“Yes?” Harclay said, voice edged with impatience. He was on hands and knees on the carpet beside his desk, peering beneath a behemoth of an armoire.

Avery cleared his throat. “Might I be of some assistance, my lord?”

“I’m looking for my stationery,” Harclay said, turning back to the armoire. “I’ve decided to host some guests for dinner, but I cannot find the proper paper on which to pen the invites.”

Without looking, Harclay could sense Avery gaping, his mouth opening and closing noiselessly. Poor man didn’t know where to begin: the guests for dinner—Harclay hadn’t hosted a soul in two seasons—or the stationery, which the earl hadn’t touched for a spell longer than that.

“A bold move,” Avery said, eyes gleaming with amusement, “drawing your enemies close, very close indeed. Are you sure it is wise, so soon after—well, after the event?”

Harclay sighed. His butler, who also happened to be his most trusted and wily associate, was right; but what choice did the earl have? He had to begin the chase anew.

Reading his master’s thoughts as readily as if they were scrawled across his forehead, Avery offered a curt nod and crossed the room to stand before the dreaded armoire. “I do believe the stationery is in here, my lord.”

Harclay rose to his feet, ducking just in time to avoid the armoire door as it swung open.

“Here you are, sir, fresh as the day they were engraved,” Avery said, placing a thick stack of heavy, clean-edged paper in his hands.

Harclay sighed. “Never thought it would come to this, me penning handwritten invitations to
dinner
,” he said.

“Marvelous, isn’t it? I will begin the preparations straightaway. Any requests for the menu?”

Harclay heaved the paper onto the last available corner of his desk. “Champagne, I suppose.”

Again Avery cleared his throat. “And the food?”

“Oh, the usual—a side of beef, turtle soup, that sort of thing. Perhaps an Italian ice cream from Gunter’s; I’m partial to the chocolate myself.”

The butler had to restrain himself from clapping with delight. “Excellent choices, my lord. I’ll see to it.”

Avery turned and practically skipped out of the study, leaving Harclay alone with his quill and a pile of dusty stationery.

It had been three days since the affair of Hope’s diamond; and for reasons Harclay did not entirely understand, he was disappointed Lady Violet had not yet called on him, or at the very least tried to arrest him.

Perhaps, clever girl, she was waiting for him to make the first move. She knew full well the chase thrilled him just as much as the crime itself. He would hardly allow himself to be ignored, especially by the woman intent on hunting him down.

With a swipe of his forearm, Harclay cleared the desk and settled down to pen his invitations. Being foremost in his mind, Lady Violet’s invitation was the first he decided to write.

Dearest Lady Violet—

Yes, yes, that would do. He smiled as he imagined her rolling her eyes at “dearest”—while she would claim to hate it (and him), some small part of her would wonder if his greeting was indeed sincere.

Dearest Lady Violet—

I find myself in an insufferable position: not only have I not quite finished seducing you, but I also owe you a great deal of money. Please join me for dinner tomorrow evening at half past eight. Bring your aunt Georgiana and Lady Sophia; others of our mutual acquaintance shall join us.

I shall be serving both the brandy and the champagne that you so liberally enjoyed. Perhaps after we again indulge, we may settle our accounts?

Yours, H

Oh, that is bold, very bold indeed, he thought with a smirk. It was the sort of invitation Lady Violet was powerless to refuse. Not only did he promise her money; he quite cleverly, if he said so himself, intimated that he would give her more than that. A kiss, a touch, another move or two in a game they both so clearly enjoyed—really, how could she resist?

 • • • 

T
hough Lord Harclay’s invitation had very nearly sent her into a fit of fury, it was, of course, far too tempting for Violet to resist. She spent the better part of the day selecting her outfit for the dinner, deciding at last on a cream ball gown of heavy silk that was overlaid with a gauzy three-quarter dress of pale pink.

Violet stood before the mirror in her dressing room, surveying her appearance as her lady’s maid helped her into elbow-length silk gloves. Fitzhugh, who’d been Violet’s lady’s maid for as long as she could remember, had wrapped her thick plait around her head, pinning it at the temples. She’d then artfully tucked a few large, pink rose blossoms into the plait, “to match your color.”

“Goodness, dear,” Fitzhugh tsked. “Are you warm? You look flushed.”

She hadn’t realized how nervous—excited?—she was to see Lord Harclay until it was time to leave. Violet stood at the threshold of her house, shaking with anticipation. Outside, a lovely spring evening beckoned; Auntie George’s shabby town coach waited on the lane.

Cousin Sophia stuck her head out the coach door. “Well, aren’t you coming, Violet? We’re going to be late!”

“Trust me, Mr. Hope always arrives at a fashionably tardy hour at these sorts of engagements,” Violet called from the house. “You won’t miss a minute of his company, I promise.”

Sophia made a great show of sticking out her tongue and fell back in her seat.

Violet turned to her father, who in a rare moment of clarity had come downstairs to bid her farewell.

“Oh, to be young again,” he said with a smile. “I remember the excitement of those wild nights. It is perhaps one’s finest hour; I do so hope you treasure it, and enjoy yourself as much as you are able.”

Violet squeezed his hands, not daring to ponder what, exactly, he spoke of when he mentioned “wild nights.”

“I shall certainly try, Papa,” she replied.

“You shouldn’t have to try very hard, my dear. Yours is a rare beauty. Surely this Harclay fellow intends to propose.”

Violet nearly choked. “Heavens, no, I’m afraid I shan’t be that lucky lady. Besides, I’ve got you to look after. You’re all the company I need.”

“Pish,” her father said. “I’m a loopy old mess. Don’t waste your time on ornery old men like me! Go after Harclay, make him yours.”

I’ll go after him, all right,
she thought. She pecked Papa on his cheek, the skin as tremulous and fine beneath her lips as tissue. “Good night, Papa. I shall see you at breakfast, and then perhaps a stroll in the afternoon?”

“Capital!” he replied, offering her a salute in parting.

With a sigh that did nothing to relieve her nerves, Violet stepped out into the night.

 • • • 

A
s soon as Avery cleared his throat at the door, Harclay was on his feet. He hardly heard the butler intoning introductions; his attention was focused solely on Lady Violet.

She looked ravishing; to his dismay—or perhaps his delight; he couldn’t tell—she appeared even more beautiful than he remembered. In true Violet fashion, she wore a daringly cut gown that displayed her curves to their fullest advantage. He swallowed audibly at the sight of plump half-moons of breast that appeared ready to bare themselves at any moment.

Her hair was dressed in a shiny braid circlet that sat on her head as a crown. Roses, fully bloomed, were tucked about her ears. Their fragrance was fresh and potent—just like Violet.

She smiled at him. Desire—sudden, wild—bloomed low in his belly. He sucked in a breath, hoping to calm his blood lest he frighten his guests with the wood of which Lady Violet was so fond.

Damn her, he thought, she has come to toy with me, tease me.

And damn her again, it’s
working
.

“Ladies,” he drawled with a bow, placing a kiss first on the hand of Aunt Georgiana before turning his attention to Lady Sophia’s.

He drew up at last before Lady Violet. Her eyes, glittering an alluring shade of indigo in the light of the candles, met his. Without willing it, a smile rose to his lips.

“And Lady Violet,” he said. “I thought you’d never come.”

Aunt Georgiana let out a panicked breath and dabbed at her forehead with a lace-edged kerchief. “Your invitation was
most
unexpected, Lord Harclay. But lovely! Certainly lovely, and your home is just—well, it’s rather exquisite, isn’t it?”

She turned to survey the drawing room, doubtless with no little suspicion. It was obvious that Lady Violet had shared her hunch with everyone gathered here tonight that Harclay had stolen the French Blue. He’d noticed it the moment Hope and Mr. Lake arrived. There was an edge to their greeting; their eyes took on a sort of calculating glimmer, as if sizing up Harclay and his home as potential evidence.

Though Hope wasn’t entirely convinced, at least in Harclay’s mind. Members of the
ton
simply did not behave in such a manner, stealing diamonds and whatnot from their esteemed neighbors. No doubt Hope was having difficulty believing Harclay was capable of such a crime. The earl had time yet before Hope tightened the noose and forced his hand.

It was, really, making for a most thrilling chase.

“Forgive me,” Aunt Georgiana was saying, her eyes on Sophia as she moved toward Mr. Hope. “I must see to my daughter before she and Mr. Hope run off to Siam. The way they look at each other . . . ”

Aunt Georgiana darted off, allowing Violet and Harclay a moment alone. Lady Violet leaned toward him, one of her roses brushing his nose as she whispered, “Missed me, have you? I knew you couldn’t stay away long, but three days! You must be desperate.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured in reply. “Though I venture it’s not the sort of
desperate
of which you speak.”

She drew back, and he noticed with delight that her cheeks burned pink.

“As I’ve said before,” he continued, “you are welcome to visit my home anytime, Lady Violet. Anytime at all, especially at night, and without chaperone.”

Daringly, she tilted her neck and bit her lip. “You forget you lost that bet, my lord.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, licking his lips, “perhaps I can convince you to oblige me, despite that fact.”

She scoffed, a warm, throaty sound. “You’re not used to being the loser, are you, Lord Harclay? The world doesn’t work that way. The piper must be paid; debts must be settled. Your exalted position does not excuse you from paying up.”

“Paying up?” He smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were an inveterate gambler. Tell me, what’s your secret?”

Lady Violet returned his smile. “Not before you tell me yours.”

“Why, dearest girl,” he replied, “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Might I get you something to drink? Perhaps that champagne of which you are so fond?”

“Yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” she said, daggers in her eyes.

Harclay turned to flag one of the footmen and was pleased to see from the corner of his eye Lady Violet snap open her fan and wave it before her flushed face.

He handed a coupe to her and took one for himself. “To what I hope will be yet another successful evening,” he said, holding up his glass for a toast.

“I’m afraid my success and your own are rather at odds,” she said and clinked her glass to his. “For me, a successful evening would entail proving you’re a rotten thief, and retrieving Hope’s diamond; and success for you would mean hopelessly despoiling me. And we both know
that’s
not going to happen.”

“Oh, Lady Violet, by now you should know better than to doubt my prowess. And besides, I never meant to despoil you; if you remember, I prefer—”

“Pleasuring,” she said in a clipped voice, not daring to meet his eyes. “Yes, I remember.”

By now her fan was working double time, the fine hairs at her temple dancing in the breeze.

Brilliant, he thought, absolutely
brilliant
. Not ten minutes into our conversation and already I’m making her sweat.

The dinner gong sounded a bellowing bass, and once again Avery appeared at the door.

“Ladies and gentlemen”—he clicked his heels together—“dinner is served.”

The ladies stood; the gentlemen finished the last of their champagne. Lady Violet turned to Harclay and dropped into what some would consider an insultingly low curtsy. “Make no mistake, my lord,” she purred, “I
will
catch you. On my honor, I will see that justice is done.”

Impulsively he reached out and thumbed her chin, tilting her face closer to his. “Well, then,” he replied, “let the chase begin.”