The Gentleman Jewel Thief (13 page)

“Ladies first,” he said and nodded across the table. Both Lady Caroline and Sophia were practicing awkwardly with their cues.

Violet looked upon the cue with no little distaste. “How do I even hold it?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Harclay replied with a grin. He stepped toward her, his peculiar, heady scent enveloping her in a cloud of heat, and held up his hands.

“Now, Lady Violet, I’m going to have to touch you—”

An enormous clatter, followed by several cries of terror, interrupted Violet’s reverie. Just as she was imagining the delicious feel of his hands all over her body—surely billiards was a pastime of great physical contact?—Lady Caroline managed to launch a cue ball off the table. With sickening accuracy it flew across the room and slammed—
thwack!—
into Auntie George’s forehead.

It was like something out of a comedy: Auntie George flew heels over head backward, revealing a mountain of lace petticoats as her chair catapulted over. She was left sprawled on her back with legs in the air, the ball rolling harmlessly off to the side.

“Oh, dear,” Violet breathed. Before she could so much as blink, Lord Harclay was on his knees at Auntie George’s side. He held up her head and was calling for water, smelling salts, anything that might revive her.

“And brandy!” he said to the footmen. “Make haste, make haste! We haven’t a moment to spare.”

Violet blinked, just to be sure she wasn’t imagining the scene before her. Was Auntie George really sprawled out on Harclay’s priceless Axminster carpet? And was Harclay actually performing a selfless act and
helping
her?

It was hardly to be believed.

Violet fell to her knees beside Harclay, and together they cooed and prodded and patted until Auntie George came back to life. Dazed—the wound was sure to bruise—she was otherwise unharmed.

“I do
so
apologize, Lord Harclay,” Auntie George said, tears streaming down her face, “I’m terribly embarrassed, I swear to you I don’t usually put on such a frightful display.”

Harclay smiled down at her, and with his giant callused thumb gently pushed the tears from Auntie’s cheeks. His tenderness, his patience was at odds with everything Violet knew about the earl. But he
had
come to her rescue at Hope’s ball, defending her against that rude, pimply boy who’d doused her with punch. A waste of good brandy, that; it would’ve been a disaster besides, if Harclay hadn’t made it right.

Violet watched as the earl brushed an errant curl from Auntie George’s brow. Who was this man? Was he a rascal, a gentleman jewel thief out to ruin the livelihoods of hundreds, of thousands of people? Or was he a kindhearted fellow who flattered old widows and loved nothing so much as his family, his friends, a decent turtle soup?

“No need to apologize, Lady Georgiana,” Harclay practically purred. “Might we make up a room for you here? I hardly think it wise to subject you to the rigors of travel.”

Auntie George managed to sit upright; her eyes rolled a bit in their sockets, but she appeared otherwise recovered. At once her gaze fell on Sophia, arm in arm with a certain Mr. Hope; and Auntie shook her head. “Lord Harclay, that is most kind of you, most kind indeed, but I would hate to put you out. No, I believe I’ll be quite all right, if you’ll just help me to my carriage. Come, Sophia, it’s time to leave.”

Brushing off the other gentlemen, Lord Harclay lifted Auntie George in his arms and made for the front door. As Violet followed them through the hall, she heard Auntie’s tinkling laughter and caught Harclay smiling down at her as if she were not a plump, dazed dowager but a debutante in the flower of her youth.

Avery, who by now was as white as a sheet and making profuse apologies, opened the front door. The nighttime air, heavy and a bit chilly, sauntered into the house. Violet stood at the threshold and shivered. A sudden, puzzling desire to stay overwhelmed her. Outside, the night smelled of rain and a sleepless evening ahead. Harclay’s house was so warm and bright, and she hadn’t made any progress at all in seeking out Hope’s diamond.

The other guests were being helped into their coats and hats and gloves; it seemed Auntie George’s accident signaled the end of the evening.

Violet’s heart sank. But it was too soon! Too early! There was work to be done . . .

Of course, Harclay’s presence, and his promise to
touch
her, had nothing to do with her desire to stay. Absolutely, positively
nothing
at all.

At least that was what she told herself.

Violet climbed into the carriage and waved good-bye to Harclay as he strode up the steps and into the house. In the seat across from her, Auntie George was already laid out and snoring.

Her gaze shifting from Auntie George to Harclay’s house and back again, Violet made up her mind. With her chaperone knocked out cold, she had the rare opportunity to search the earl’s house without Auntie’s well-intentioned, but extremely irritating, interference.

Holding a hand to her lips, Violet caught Sophia’s gaze.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Sophia hissed, reading the intention so clearly written in Violet’s eyes. “And if you go, I want to come with you.”

Violet shook her head. “Next time, Sophia, I promise! I’ll be home before dawn.”

Before Sophia could protest any further, Violet slipped from the carriage. It groaned ominously beneath her weight; she cringed—surely Harclay couldn’t hear that from the house, could he?—but continued forward. The coachman looked down and was about to speak, but Violet again shook her head and motioned for him to carry on.

She turned to face the house. Behind her the carriage wheels creaked as they made their way down the lane; and then—

Silence. Lovely, portentous silence.

Heart drumming in her chest, she wrapped her coat more snugly about her breast and slipped to the back of the house. Gravel crunched beneath her feet; fearful of making noise, she attempted to move off the drive but ended up tangled in a rather tremendous hedge of ivy.

It grew dark the farther she moved from the street. Using solely her sense of smell—for horses, as much as she admired them, were malodorous creatures—Violet managed to locate the stables.

A good place to start, she reasoned, though the diamond wasn’t very likely to be hidden there. No matter; she was happy to turn over every pillow, turn out every room and closet and alcove, if it meant finding the French Blue.

Closing the door quietly behind her, Violet stepped into the stables and cast off her hood. A single lantern illuminated the space; from the looks of it, the stable hands had just finished their nightly cleanup and were off to bed.

The stables were, as she expected, immaculately clean. The familiar smells of hay and horseflesh filled her nostrils; somewhere a horse snuffed, while another moved lazily about in its stall.

She took the lantern and held it high as she made her way through the space. The very idea of her trespassing thrilled her; her heart was beating with such solid intent, she could hardly breathe.

And to think—she could be getting that much closer to the diamond! Violet’s footsteps quickened. She glanced this way and that, crouching to examine a feed basket, a barrel of apples, and a particularly lovely saddle fashioned of Spanish leather. She turned up nothing, but the excitement of the chase was intoxicating. The more she looked, the more determined she became.

Violet stood and was about to search an alcove when a voice—
that
voice, his voice—sounded over her shoulder.

“Aren’t you glad I told you to refrain from imbibing too much wine, Lady Violet?” Lord Harclay said. “Otherwise you’d be far too drunk to search my property for the French Blue.”

Violet spun around, lantern swinging in her outstretched hand. The earl leaned against the wall, one leg draped casually over the other, his arms crossed about his chest. He was grinning—a saucy, knowing grin—and his dark eyes danced in the low light.

Her blood jumped. She wasn’t in her cups, not nearly, but Violet had enjoyed just enough wine to make her head feel pleasantly fuzzy. She hadn’t considered what she would do were she to be caught.

She ignored the thought that she’d
hoped
to be caught by Harclay; that she
wanted
to be caught, and taught a lesson or two by this shameless rakehell.

Violet opened her mouth, then closed it when she could think of nothing to say. Harclay stood quietly before her, waiting for her reply.

Rain, soft at first, tapped on the roof above. All at once the tapping became thunderous and heavy, signaling a downpour.

Still Violet’s tongue was as stone in her mouth.

Her pulse was loud in her ears, and it suddenly grew very hot in the room; so hot she could not bear it.

Violet dropped the lantern with a solid
thwunk.
She turned and ran.

H
arclay dashed through the door after her. Rain pummeled his face and shoulders; a few steps and he was soaked through to his undergarments. The water, enormous, chill drops, practically sizzled when it met his skin; he was burning, had been alive with desire since the moment Violet swept into his drawing room.

And what luck, to find her snooping about his property alone. Dear girl couldn’t resist—but resist him, or the pull of the diamond, he couldn’t tell.

No matter her reasons, she was here, trailing the scent of roses in her wake. And he wasn’t about to let her escape.

Lady Violet, however, was quick on her feet. She tore across the drive, her slippers finding purchase in the gravel. He cursed as he skidded after her in his ridiculous beribboned dress shoes. Damnable pumps, he swore never to wear them again; they pinched his toes besides.

“Violet!” he called after her, the rain nearly drowning out the sound of his voice. “Lady Violet, wait!”

He at last was able to snag the sleeve of her dress. Wrapping his fingers around her arm, he tugged her none too gently to a stop and whirled her around to face him.

“Heavens, girl, I’m not going to hurt you!” he panted.

Violet’s eyes flashed with something he didn’t recognize—not anger, no, but something akin to it. Lust, perhaps, mixed with no small measure of hate.

Whatever it was, it thrilled him to no end.

“Despite what the others may think,” she spat out, shaking off his touch, “I know you are guilty, Harclay, and I intend to prove it with hard evidence. How else am I to find the diamond if I don’t actually
look
for it?”

Rivulets of rain coursed down her hair, already plastered to her head, and soaked her thin pelisse. The silk gown she wore underneath was beyond ruin. He felt a pang of guilt for driving her out into the rain; he’d already been witness to the ruin of her nymph costume. The dear would have no clothes left after he was through with her.

“Here,” he said, and he tugged his arms free of his jacket. He wrapped it around her shoulders—little good it would do now, but still—and nodded to the house. “Let’s go inside and talk about this. I’ll have Avery bring up some tea.”

But she stood her ground. “It’s not in the stables, is it? The diamond. Damn you, Harclay, you interrupted my search! It wasn’t as thorough as I would’ve liked.”

“No, it’s not in the stables,” he said teasingly and took a step closer. He could see she was shivering. “Come, Violet, let’s get you inside before you take a chill. Though your aunt may throttle
you
, I’ll not have her displeased with me.”

With a little huff she followed him toward the house. Harclay wondered how he was going to control himself with Violet’s clothes painted against her body like a second skin. It was going to be a terrible, delicious, enthralling struggle.

“You and Auntie George seem to have made fast friends,” she said. “How brazen you are with your charms, flirting with defenseless women young and old. You’re shameless.”

“For God’s sake, she’d just been hit in the head with a billiards cue.”

“That sound was awful, wasn’t it?” Violet replied. “Made my stomach turn. I do hope she’ll recover.”

Harclay lifted the latch on the kitchen door and held it open for Violet. “I’m afraid she’ll have a rather frightful headache in the morning, but from the look of it she’ll be on her feet in a day or two. Cold compresses will help, as will strong coffee. You must send me word of her recovery.”

Lady Violet stepped inside the dim hallway, shaking off her sleeves. Harclay took the collar of his jacket in his hands, and as he removed it from Violet’s shoulders she turned to face him.

He drew a breath of surprise; she was practically in his arms.

And practically naked. Her face was turned upward toward his own; she surveyed him with those damnably beautiful eyes, the lashes casting long shadows on the pale slope of her cheeks.

“Why do you care so much about Auntie George?” she asked.

He felt himself go red about the ears. “I know you think I’m a scalawag, Violet, but I do have feelings. Especially for those who happen to be my guests—and are related to a rather clever lady with whom I am newly acquainted.”

Violet’s eyes softened about the corners. He thought he could detect a smile trying to break free at the ends of her mouth; but before he could be sure, she was overtaken by a rather violent shudder.

“It-t-t’s quite c-c-cold in here, Lord Harc-clay,” she said.

Without thinking—for it was quite the natural thing to do, what with her enticing proximity—he took her in his arms and pressed her against his chest. At once her shivering came to a halt; he could feel the warmth of his skin seeping into her own. Slowly, very slowly, she melted against him, pressing her ear to the flat of his breastbone.

“Do I make you nervous?” she murmured, the smile finally reaching her lips. “Your heart is r-r-racing.”

“
Nervous
isn’t quite the word, Lady Violet,” he replied.

She laughed. “Ah, yes, I can tell that w-w-wood of yours is alive and well.”

“Can’t be helped,” Harclay said with a shrug. “If you would only indulge me—”

“I t-t-told you before, my lord, you lost that b-bet. And I’m still waiting on my p-prize, besides.”

“Ah, yes, that,” he said. Again Violet shivered against him; he ran his hands up and down the length of her arms, gently, patiently. Beneath the wet layers of her clothes he felt the goose pimples rise on her skin; but she did not protest against his touch. She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him expectantly.

Good God, she was lovely, her blue-gray eyes enormous, lips stained an indecent shade of red from the wine. He swallowed, willing himself to remain still, not to thrust her up against the wall and take her right here in the kitchen galley.

“How did you f-find me, out in the stables?” she breathed.

Harclay scoffed, lowering his head so that his lips hovered just above her mouth. “For all your cunning, you made a rather epic racket. And don’t think I would let you out of my sight, not even for a moment; I saw you slip from your aunt’s carriage, and heard it, too! Must be ancient, that coach, for it creaked most fiercely when you jumped.”

“Ancient indeed,” she was saying, but her eyes were trained on his lips, “like riding on a haywagon . . .”

He couldn’t bear it. Something about the warmth of her body against his, those striking, intelligent eyes, and—Christ!—those just-bitten lips. He felt as if he were under a spell, his movements governed by the heady pounding of his heart.

Bending his neck, he pressed his lips gently against Violet’s mouth. At once the memory of their first kiss took captive his thoughts. It had been thrilling, that kiss, but this one was better, their lips already acquainted and far more eager. Hers were possessed of the same brilliant cleverness as her mind; they moved slowly, thoughtfully, over his own, innocent but sure.

He cupped her face in his hands, grazing the curve of her chin with his thumb. She let out a small moan, opening her mouth to him, and the slick warmth of her nearly drove him wild. It was all he could do not to devour her, not to ravage her lips with his own.

Harclay felt her begin to shiver, and he pulled her closer, closer, and yet she still trembled. His self-control virtually in shreds, he commandeered what little was left and pulled away.

They were both breathing hard, the force of the kiss leaving them silent for several beats.

“A bath,” he panted. “You need a hot bath before you take ill.”

She shook her head, a dazed look in her eyes. “I’ll be a-a-all right—”

He wrapped her in his arm and led her to the kitchen, an enormous space that glittered with copper pots and smelled pleasantly of cinnamon and baking bread. A few kitchen maids were still washing the china from dinner in the troughlike sink across the room.

“Stoke the fire,” Harclay called to them, “and have hot water brought up to my chambers for a bath. Quickly, if you please!”

Before Lady Violet could protest, Harclay swung her up the narrow stairs and into the candlelit haven of his bedroom.

 • • • 

V
iolet was never one for theatrics—it was shameful, really, the displays put on by debutantes these days—but by the time they reached Lord Harclay’s chambers she was shaking so hard her teeth chattered like a pair of foxed matrons at the season’s first ball.

She’d been soaked through by the rain, yes, but truth be told it was the earl’s kiss that had set off the fireworks in her heart, her belly. The way his lips moved over her own, pulling, feeling, had sent tingles of desire pulsing through her limbs—tingles that, to her great embarrassment, now turned into tremendous, uncontrollable shudders.

From the corner of her eye, Violet caught Avery and a footman setting a gleaming copper tub before the fireplace, where a freshly tended fire crackled pleasantly and warmed the room.

“Avery, bring up the water when it’s ready,” Harclay murmured, his eyes never leaving Violet’s face.

The butler bowed. “I took the liberty of warming a few blankets by the fire, my lord. They’re on the bed, should you require them.”

With a short, polite bow that belied the complete and utter impropriety of the situation, Avery left the room.

At once Harclay’s hands were on her body, tearing at her pelisse and gown and stays with a quiet savageness that brought heat back into her body.

“E-eager, are you, m-m-my lord?” Violet managed a tremulous smile. “How sh-sh-shameless of you to take ad-advantage of my c-c-condition.”

“Don’t be silly,” he replied, helping her to shrug off half her clothes in one swift movement. “The faster we get these wet clothes off you, the faster I can get you warm.”

She wondered how, exactly, he was planning to do that. Was the bath a mere decoy for more sinister methods? She glanced at the bed—a massive but elegant affair of lacquered mahogany and white linen—and wondered if he meant to warm her
there
.

“D-d-do you bring all your wom-wom-women up here?” she asked.

Now he was tugging at her stays, ravaging the sturdy lacing with his enormous callused hands. His fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back; they felt deliciously hot and sure.

“Never,” he replied steadily. “I’m rather territorial about my bedchamber. And my bed, I’m afraid. I consider it a bit of a sanctuary, a place of rest and reflection. Women, though I admire them, are not conducive to such things.”

He turned her away from him as he continued working on her laces.

“So y-y-you prefer the f-f-floor?”

Though she couldn’t see his face, she could sense his smile. “Among other places, yes,” he said.

Her gown fell with an unceremonious
squish
at her feet. For the second time in a single week—really, this man was an expert at cornering her half-naked—she stood before him in naught but a chemise and stockings.

Violet turned away from the flames, away from Harclay. The heat of the fire raised careless curls of steam from the fine muslin at her shoulders. And still she shook, the chill—or was it the anticipation?—causing her skin to break out in waves of goose bumps.

“This has to come off, too,” he said quietly, running a finger along the edge of her chemise at her neck.

She swallowed. His touch felt lovely; the loveliest sensation she’d yet to experience in her twenty-two years.

“All r-right.”

Harclay gathered the chemise at her hips and lifted it gently over her head. She stepped out of her stockings, tossing them into the darkness.

And then she was as naked as the day she was born. Instinctively, Violet wrapped her arms about her breasts; she grew very still, the chill all but gone from her body.

Behind her, she heard Lord Harclay suck in his breath and sensed him draw close.

“You”—he murmured—“are very beautiful, Violet.”

She felt him place a single finger on the last knob of her back, just where her buttocks met her tailbone; with that same finger he traced a line of fire up the length of her spine. The tide of sensation, every part of her alive, was overwhelming.

Her eyes fluttered shut as he wrapped his fingers around her neck and pulled her mouth to his. She felt powerless against the onslaught, boneless and full of longing. The chill of the room was agony; the heat of the earl’s touch, paradise.

Harclay was right. While Violet loved to gamble, to drink brandy and curse like a sailor, she did not dare indulge in carnal sins. She’d read of the act in novels, of course, in French pamphlets, and in the faces of married friends; and yet none of it had prepared her for
this
—this kind of heaven and hell, the inescapable desire to do things she’d never done with a man who robbed her of her fortune, and her fortitude.

She shivered; with one last tug at her bottom lip, Harclay pulled away. Violet blinked and he was back, wrapping her tightly in a cashmere blanket. He turned her to face him and tugged the blanket even tighter about her shoulders. At once the warmth of the cashmere seeped into her skin, and she shuddered one last time before relaxing into the cocoon of Harclay’s arms.