The Gentleman Jewel Thief (12 page)

O
n the well-muscled arm of Mr. Lake, Violet made her way into Lord Harclay’s dining room. Though she was hardly surprised by the room’s style and elegance, it left her breathless nonetheless. The high ceiling was covered in antique mirrors, reflecting paneled walls lacquered a mellow shade of black. The doors and windows were trimmed with gold-leaf molding; two enormous gilt chandeliers hung from golden chains, crystals sending darts of glitter and flash about the room. A fire crackled merrily from a raspberry-hued marble hearth, fending off what little was left of the spring chill.

Two towering candelabras, silver engraved with the Harclay family crest, were set on the long table. Dozens of tiny wineglasses, each destined, no doubt, for a sampling of the earl’s impressive cellar, winked beside gilt-edged china.

A half dozen bewigged footmen waited behind the upholstered dining chairs. From the side gallery came a familiar
pop
, and Avery appeared bearing a bottle of champagne on a silver tray.

Harclay took his place at the head of the table, his sister, as the highest-ranking lady, to his right. Across the table his eyes met Violet’s, and it dawned on her quite suddenly that she was to be seated to his left. At once her heart, so recently recovered from the episode in the earl’s drawing room, began to pound and heat rose to her face.

She took her place at Harclay’s side with all the steely reserve she could muster and waited until the other guests were situated before taking her seat. Cousin Sophia sat beside Mr. Hope, their heads together in suspiciously quiet conversation; Lady Caroline sat at Mr. Lake’s side, his one eye gleaming with mischief.

Really, thought Violet, it was akin to a circus. She wouldn’t be surprised if, God
forbid
, Harclay’s hired acrobats-cum-assassins suddenly appeared and began swinging from the chandeliers.

Violet was vaguely aware of the polite murmur of conversation that filled the room; the scent of roast meat and rising bread wafting in from the kitchens; Auntie George discreetly kicking Cousin Sophia under the table. But the presence of Lord Harclay, mere inches from her elbow, was wholly distracting. Her every sense was alive with the mere thought of him. It was impossible to breathe, much less use her powers of deduction. How was she ever going to seek out the French Blue in such a state?

The first course was served, delectable turtle soup paired with the crisp champagne. Violet gulped the golden-hued liquid as if this were her last evening on earth.

“More wine, Lady Violet?” Avery asked, proffering the decanter. “Or would you prefer something else?”

From the other side of the table, Auntie George was clearing her throat in a rather obvious warning; but Violet, nerves singing, paid her no heed.

“More wine, yes, thank you,” she said, and as soon as her glass was again full she brought it to her lips.

But before she tasted so much as a drop, fingers warm and hard wrapped around her own and brought the glass back to the table.

“Pace yourself, Lady Violet,” Harclay said, “for I do believe this evening shall prove a late one.”

Violet’s blood jumped at the growl in his voice. She didn’t dare meet his eyes; rather, she glanced about the table and was pleased to note her fellow diners were far too involved in their own games of seduction to pay much heed to her own. Except Auntie George, of course, whose high, feathered headdress trembled with rage.

His fingers lingered a beat more than was necessary, scorching her skin with their touch. When he moved to withdraw, he traced small rivers of fire from her knuckles to the very tips of her fingers, the move slow, enticing, arousing.

Violet swallowed. “Not if I have my way. Your house may be overlarge, Lord Harclay, but surely a clever fellow such as yourself would hide a diamond in only a small number of secure locations. Sock drawer, safe, lily pond. I daresay I’ll sniff it out and have you in chains well before midnight.”

Lord Harclay chuckled. “But might we enjoy dinner first? I saw to the menu myself. ’Twould be a shame to be dragged away from the beef, and in irons.”

Despite herself, Violet felt a grin tugging the ends of her mouth upward. “Very well. I suppose it’s within your rights to enjoy meat one last time. I wonder what sort of porridge they serve at Newgate.”

“I daresay some of the best in the city,” Harclay replied cheerfully and stuffed his mouth with a well-sauced chunk of fish.

The wine was good; no, it was better than that, the best Violet had ever tasted. And heavens, there was a lot of it. More champagne for the fish course, and a smoky bordeaux so dark it appeared as ink in the glass for the meat; a burgundy, this one sweet and tasting of cherries; and finally, as Avery brought out the cigars, a fruity white from the Loire Valley.

Though Mr. Hope and his allies dined with the man they suspected of stealing their livelihoods, they laughed and carried on as if they had not a care in the world. As the meal progressed, and the wine was poured, and poured again, the mood was no longer somber but, to Violet’s chagrin, quite celebratory.

It was obvious her fellow guests were far too enamored of Lord Harclay, or at least his cellar, to take her accusation seriously. That they did not trust her judgment irked Violet. She was no novice in the world of cheats, thieves, and degenerate gamblers; but it appeared she would have to prove herself nonetheless.

At last Lady Caroline stood and announced the ladies’ retirement to the drawing room. Across the table Violet caught Mr. Hope’s gaze.

This much wine will excuse any behavior,
she urged him through her eyes.
Prod Harclay, see what information you can gather.

Mr. Hope seemed to understand, for he nodded and placed a cigar gamely between his teeth.

Violet was not the only guest a shade past tipsy; as she followed the ladies out of the dining room, Lady Caroline walked as if she had adopted Mr. Lake’s limp, while Cousin Sophia fell into the table. The pitcher of lemonade they
should
have drunk crashed to the floor, sending the footmen into a tizzy. Poor Avery appeared ready to burst into tears.

“Oh, dear, how terribly embarrassing,” Sophia whispered, smoothing back her hair.

Violet looped her arm through her cousin’s and led her into the hall. “Don’t worry,” she replied, patting her hand. “We’re all foxed, no shame in admitting it.”

They followed Lady Caroline through the house, the halls blazing with the light of dozens of chandeliers, sconces, and candelabras. Violet’s heart sank at the scope and scale of the place; while it wasn’t palatial, it was whatever came just before that. How foolish of her to think Harclay would hide the diamond in his sock drawer; there were literally thousands of nooks and crannies and hidden moldings in which he could keep the French Blue.

Even with the help of a hundred of Hope’s men, it would be akin to finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Still, she couldn’t give up, not this early in the chase. There had to be a way of forcing Harclay’s hand, of discovering the diamond’s location. And she was going to be the one to do it, come hell or high water.

Lady Caroline led them to a different drawing room, this one with walls upholstered in emerald green velvet. A new-fashioned billiards table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by clusters of leather chairs and twill sofas. A well-stocked sideboard beckoned from one wall, and it was all Violet could do not to sidle up and ransack its contents.

Cousin Sophia and Auntie George were sequestered on a sofa, Auntie George waving a finger before Sophia’s face in apparent consternation. Lady Caroline took advantage of the rare moment of privacy and turned to Violet.

“Come, Violet, let us take a turn about the room,” she said and held out her hand.

“Dinner was lovely,” Violet said. She tried not to wince when Caroline trampled her foot.

“Lovely indeed. William hasn’t hosted company at this house for years. No one could convince him to dust off the old family china—no one, that is, until you came along. He dances a waltz with you at Hope’s ball and suddenly all is aflutter! My brother, bless his black soul, doesn’t hand out compliments often; but oh, Lady Violet, you must realize dinner was his way of complimenting your charms, and your beauty.”

Inside her chest Violet’s heart skipped a beat. Trying her damnedest to ignore the strange sensation, she scoffed a reply. “I hardly think Lord Harclay invited me to dinner so that he might compliment me. It’s—well, it’s a bit of a strange situation, really, between the two of us.”

“Strange, yes!” Caroline smiled. “I haven’t seen my brother look at anyone the way he looks at you. I saw the way you two gaped at one another at the table. You were blushing so violently I was worried you might swoon.”

Violet straightened. “I do not swoon, Lady Caroline, and I am quite proud of that fact. And besides, I am hardly the only woman he has
looked
at. I daresay he’s
looked
at half the women in London.”

“Oh, he’s looked, all right,” Lady Caroline said. “But not the way he looks at you.”

“He’s not looking at me for the reason you think,” Violet replied.

Caroline waved away her words. “Oh, that little thing, about you accusing him of stealing Hope’s diamond? It will pass, as those sorts of things usually do.”

Violet halted, nearly sending Lady Caroline headfirst into a polished credenza.

“You know about that?” Violet gaped. By now her blood was thrumming; she felt the familiar trickle of perspiration along the boning of her stays.

“I do. You forget, Lady Violet, how quickly word travels in London this time of year. Of course, I hope to convince you that the only thing William ever stole is perhaps a biscuit from Cook’s tin.”

“I regret that I disagree,” Violet said slowly, and they resumed their stroll. “I do so hate to trouble you, Lady Caroline—”

“It’s no trouble as long as at the end of it you make an honorable man of him. Honestly, this libertine business has gone on long enough.”

“But the diamond,” Violet choked out. “It is imperative we recover the diamond—”

“The diamond, yes, no doubt in my mind you’ll recover it. You’re a clever girl, Lady Violet; clever and confident. A combination, it seems, my brother is unable to resist.

“And though I trust you know how to handle such a delicate matter,” Caroline continued with a confidential pat on Violet’s hand, “you must proceed with caution. William can be quite the cad, but he does care for his family and friends—cares for them quite deeply. As deeply, I believe, as you care for your own family.”

But before Lady Caroline could finish that tantalizing tidbit, the man himself strode into the room. It could’ve been the wine taking captive Violet’s senses or it could’ve been Caroline’s confession or the memory of his hand grazing hers at the table, but God above Harclay cut a dashing figure. He was laughing at something Mr. Hope had just murmured in his ear; Harclay’s teeth flashed, revealing lips stained purple from wine.

And oh, the very thought of how delicious he would taste after that excellent bordeaux—Violet forced the thought from her head.
Remember,
she chided herself,
your family, and your fortune, rest on proving this man a thief and a criminal.

The men trailed masculine scents of cigar smoke and brandy into the room behind them. Eyeing the billiards table, Mr. Lake challenged the ladies to a game. Caroline disappeared from Violet’s side in a tumble of ungainly movement, while Cousin Sophia all too eagerly accepted a billiards cue from Mr. Hope.

Violet sighed. So much for Hope’s probing; the only information he seemed to have culled from his audience with Harclay was the difference in taste between a Canadian whiskey and an American one.

“And you, Lady Violet?” came a familiar voice. “Are you as skilled at billiards as you are at cards?”

Violet turned to face Lord Harclay. His dark eyes were trained on her person in an illicit fashion, as if he knew what she looked like under all the layers of her clothes.

Which, of course, he didn’t; though he certainly knew what she
felt
like.

“Billiards is hardly an appropriate pastime for proper English ladies like myself,” she replied smoothly. “Though from the well-worn appearance of your table and cues, I venture you are quite the master.”

“Master, no,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “But I am good enough to teach you how it’s done. Come, I’ll let you play with my stick.”

Violet sighed, rolling her eyes. “Even I know it’s called a cue. You’re just trying to make me blush.”

Harclay drew to her side, his enormous hand splayed lightly on the small of her back. His wine-stained lips at her ear, he whispered, “I hate to inform you, Lady Violet, but it seems to be working.”

“You flatter yourself. It’s the wine, my lord, and not your ill-mannered remarks that have made me flush,” she said. Gently pressing her fingertips to her cheek, she could feel the scalding heat of her skin. Goodness, she was probably the color of a tomato.

Harclay tucked her arm into his side and led her toward the billiards table. From a waiting footman—really, did the earl employ the whole of Christendom?—Harclay took a sleek cue inlaid with black and white ivory checkers and handed it to Violet.