The Gentleman Jewel Thief (16 page)

 • • • 

T
he note arrived one week to the day after Harclay stared down the acrobats at Vauxhall Gardens.

He was walking home after a particularly frustrating—titillating—midnight visit with Lady Violet, his thoughts lost in a haze of desire. Though his mind was plenty occupied with memories of her body, the delicious scents of clean water and perfume that rose from her skin, again and again his thoughts returned to her words on that first night he’d climbed through her window.

Violet had warned him to silence and said something about being found out and forced to marry. She’d caught him entirely off guard with that hateful word, a word he’d banished from his vocabulary altogether the moment he came of age.

Harclay had stared into the darkness without replying to Lady Violet. He knew she had little, if any, desire to marry at all; doubtless she’d wanted to bite her tongue after speaking of such an odious subject. Hence, he reasoned, her silence.

But
his
silence—well, the comment had struck him as violently as a blow to the belly. For to his great shock, he hadn’t been mortified, scared stiff, by her mention of
marriage
. Rather, it lay lightly on the current of his thoughts, as it still did now, days after the fact.

For years he hadn’t thought of marrying anyone, much less a woman intent on branding him a thief. Not until that moment, when the words fell hushed and expectant from Violet’s lips, languorous and swollen from his attentions.

And yet the very idea that her words
didn’t
irk him was terrifying indeed. What did it mean? Why did he not recoil in horror, as any man in his right mind should? Marriage was where good men went to die; marriage meant responsibility and fidelity and the screaming hysterics of babies . . .

So why did the idea of marrying Lady Violet, quick-witted beauty though she was, not frighten him to his very toes?

Virtually paralyzed by this strange machination of his mind, Harclay had lain very still, his tongue like stone in his mouth. Good thing her body was there to distract him—her breasts were far too perfect to ignore—and the evening proceeded as if nothing were amiss.

In his usual manner, Harclay walked the four blocks from Violet’s town house to his own, the gas lamps casting his shadow in sinister shapes about the cobblestone streets. Last he’d checked it was quarter to two in the morning; beyond the lamps the darkness was complete, oppressive.

The earl headed toward the back of his house, silent and dark save for a few windows high up; his rooms, kept warm and lit by the indomitable Avery.

As Harclay approached the door—the very same one through which he’d ushered Lady Violet, sopping wet and chilled to the bone, just days before—a flutter of white caught his eye, there on the stoop. At first it appeared to be a wounded bird, perhaps, or a feather missed by the cook, but on closer inspection Harclay discovered it was a page of newspaper, folded clumsily so that it was no bigger than his pocket watch.

He bent down to pick it up. As his fingers smoothed the surface of the paper, he felt a pulse of fear, cold and hard, race up his spine.

Harclay raised his hand to knock on the door, but Avery opened it before he had the chance.

“My lord,” he said and then, his eyes alighting on his master’s pale features, exclaimed, “is everything all right?”

Stepping inside, Harclay turned to Avery and nodded at the candle he held in his hand. “The light, if you please.”

Harclay began unfolding the small package, taking care not to tear the delicate paper. From the look of it, the newspaper was from that morning: a few headlines detailing the latest Spanish cities captured by Wellington, another article about Mr. Hope’s missing diamond.

His hands shaking with impatience, Harclay at last opened the page. Inside, scrawled in enormous, barely legible script, was a note. The ink was bold and black and splattered across the headlines.

Wee require unother 75 poownds

Tomoroww Noon at the Cat and mowse

cheepsyde

We no were She lives

Rage pounded hard, loud, through Harclay’s veins. Those greedy, conniving bastards; he should’ve known they’d come for more money, should’ve guessed they’d come for Violet.

He crumpled the note in his hand. How foolish he had been to visit Lady Violet these past nights; likely those damned acrobats followed him right to her window. The thought of those black-toothed bastards kidnapping her, putting their filthy hands all over her lovely skin . . .

He cursed so loudly, so fluidly, that poor Avery jumped back, the candle trembling in his hand.

“Did you see anyone?” Harclay growled between clenched teeth. “You must’ve been waiting for me, down here in the kitchens. Did you see anyone deliver this note?”

Avery shook his head. “I poked about outside, my lord, perhaps an hour ago. I didn’t see a soul. Nor did I see the note—it must have arrived just before you.”

Harclay let out a long, hot breath. At least he knew Lady Violet was safe—for now.

Running a hand through his hair, Harclay turned to Avery. “Speak of this to no one. Hire extra men to keep watch at Lady Violet’s—discreetly, of course, as I do not wish to alarm her or her family.”

“Of course.” Avery nodded.

“And tell our footmen to carry guns and keep an eye on my sister,” Harclay said. “No one comes in or out of this house without my permission. Is that understood?”

“Very well, my lord, I shall see to it,” Avery said.

“And have the house turned out tomorrow. Every room, every cranny and fireplace and corner, cleaned and put back together again. You are to report anything out of the ordinary to me.”

“Yes, my lord,” the butler replied. After a beat, he cleared his throat, and Harclay noticed him shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Well?” Harclay said, raising a brow. “Come, now, Avery, out with it.”

“Begging your pardon, Lord Harclay, but you shan’t protect anyone if you don’t get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you these next few days. Your strength, too.”

“Very well,” Harclay replied, though he knew there would be no rest for him tonight, not until he untangled Violet from his plot. “To bed, to bed. But I shall break my fast at the usual hour, Avery. Have my sister up as well. We have an important call to make, first thing.”

T
he morning sun, pale and warm, flooded Violet’s chamber as Fitzhugh pulled back the drapes. Violet opened one eye and discerned at once that the hour was early, too early for one such as she who’d been up half the night kissing a rain-soaked rake in her bed.

“I am sorry to disturb you, my lady,” Fitzhugh said, as if reading Violet’s thoughts, “but you have callers.”

Violet turned away from the light, digging her naked arms beneath the pillow. “Tell them I am not feeling well. Wretchedly early for a call, isn’t it?”

Violet heard the quiet splash of fresh water as Fitzhugh filled the washbasin. “Pardon my boldness, milady, but I don’t think there’s anything wretched about these callers. One in particular.”

“Who is it?” Violet moaned.

But Fitzhugh was intent on playing coy. “They are waiting downstairs in the drawing room. With his grace the duke. Your
father
.”

Violet leapt from her bed as if it were aflame. “But you know very well Papa can’t accept callers! He isn’t even allowed downstairs—last time, he managed to set half my books on fire—”

“I’m afraid your callers insisted,” Fitzhugh replied, decorously ignoring Violet’s complete and utter nudity.

Strains of laughter wafted up the stairwell into Violet’s chamber. Her belly turned over at the sound; she recognized that laugh, that deep, rumbling voice.

“What should you like to wear? Perhaps the persimmon?” Fitzhugh asked. She opened the door to Violet’s dressing room and began fussing with her mistress’s meager collection of gowns.

“The one brought over by the milliner last week,” Violet replied. “The French silk promenade gown, with the tassels.”

Fitzhugh paused. “A bit fancy for the morning, milady. Shows quite a lot of skin.”

Oh, the earl’s seen much more skin than that,
Violet thought. She shivered with anticipation as she sat at her vanity and began tugging a brush through her curls, mangled from sleep.

After what seemed an eternity, Violet swept into the drawing room with all the elegance she could muster at so early an hour. Her eyes alighted on the merry scene before her and it was all she could do not to gape in wonder.

For there, seated before a pleasant fire with delicate cups of tea in their hands, sat the Earl of Harclay, his sister, Lady Caroline, and Violet’s father, the Duke of Sommer. All of them wore great smiles and high color, as if they’d just shared a particularly humorous jest. Violet’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t seen her father laugh, or appear so happy, since he’d fallen ill some years ago.

“Violet! At last!” the duke said, rising to peck her on the cheek. And then, lowering his voice just enough so that everyone in the room could still hear, “Capital chap, the earl, with bollocks and brains both. I knew he’d taken a liking to you. I approve, I say, and most heartily!”

Across the room, Violet met eyes with Harclay. He was looking at her intently, his dark gaze smoldering with laughter and just a hint of heat. Her plan to chastise him, to bring him to account for calling at such an ungodly hour, faded as she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. It seemed the earl’s good humor was contagious.

“William,” Lady Caroline was saying, cuffing his shoulder, “you should take your own advice and stop ogling Violet as if you’d like to eat her. And in her father’s own drawing room! The shame of it.”

But in true fashion, the earl would not be thwarted. He leapt to his feet and crossed the room in two enormous, impatient strides. The breath left her body as he bowed and drew up before her; desire crackled palpably in the tiny space between their bodies.

“Lady Violet,” he murmured, a wicked grin on his lips, “it has been far too long.”

“Yes,” she replied, swallowing. “An eternity.”

An eternity indeed—all of six hours.

Her father clapped the earl on the back. “Lord Harclay has requested the honor of your presence this morning, my dear Violet. Was it a drive you mentioned, my lord, or a dance? Though I’m afraid we haven’t any musicians.”

“Let us save the dance for later. This evening, perhaps, if the lady will have me,” Harclay replied smoothly and turned to Violet. “I was hoping you’d accompany me on a drive this morning. My sister shall join us as chaperone, of course, seeing as your aunt Georgiana is, by all reports, still suffering the aftereffects of that unfortunate billiards incident.”

“Poor woman.” Violet’s father shook his head. “Looks like a gargoyle, she does, ready to sprout horns from that bump on her head.”

Violet cleared her throat and looped her arm through the earl’s. “A drive would be lovely, thank you,” she said and tugged him none too gently toward the door.

“Godspeed!” Lord Rutledge called after them. “And don’t hurry back. ’Tis far too lovely a day, and Violet too lovely a girl, to be stuck inside with an old man like me!”

 • • • 

V
iolet did not notice Lord Harclay’s unease until they were settled beside each other in his gleaming phaeton. It was an enormously elegant and dangerous-looking affair, the vehicle lacquered black and trimmed in Harclay’s signature shade of blue. It was drawn by a matching pair of Andalusians, hides polished to such a sheen they rivaled the earl’s Hoby top boots. She checked her bonnet, discreetly, digging the pins closer against her scalp; an infamous whip, Harclay had a reputation to protect. Doubtless he would drive like the devil, even with a lady beside him.

As the earl took the reins in his hands, he looked over one shoulder, then the other, scanning the street. His foot tapped impatiently against the floorboard; against the smooth skin of his jaw his muscles twitched.

His display of anxiety was unnerving; Violet had grown accustomed to his smooth-talking ease. He was a man who seldom, if ever, allowed his feathers to be ruffled, who was unceasingly calm and collected and wicked.

“You might as well tell me what it is that’s bothering you,” she said. “I’ll find out one way or another.”

The earl’s smile was tight and brief. “Let us hope you do not, Lady Violet.”

Beyond that, he offered no explanation. Urging the horses into motion with a low, expert whistle, Harclay led the phaeton into the lane, Lady Caroline following closely behind in the Townshend family coach.

Violet squared her shoulders and looked out over the side of the phaeton, resolved to remain undistracted by the brooding, magnetic presence beside her. She would have an answer to her question, whether he liked it or not. But every now and again her gaze would find its way to him, her pulse quickening at the very sight of his hands, his fingers, those
eyes
.

The muscles in his shoulders and arms strained against his coat as he directed the horses this way and that; the smooth skin along his cheekbones and brow gleamed in the strengthening sun. Gritting her teeth, she sat on her hands, lest they of their own volition reach out and grope the man in ways they shouldn’t.

“I’m taking you to my house,” he said. “I’m having it turned out today, and I thought it a perfect opportunity for you to continue your snooping.”

“You mock me,” she sniffed. “What did you do with it? Ship it off to Russia or some such nonsense? Bury it at your country house? Sink it into a Scottish loch? Hope’s diamond can’t possibly be in your bedchamber if you’re allowing me to search it.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not. But I am enjoying our little game far too much to let the trail go cold, as they say. I hardly think I could bear it if you abandoned me for another suspect.”

“If we weren’t in public, I’d throttle you. And besides, I shall never consider another suspect; I know you are my man,” Violet replied, turning away in a huff. “I say, is that Mr. Lake in the carriage with your sister?”

Harclay’s head swiveled in that direction. Sure enough, they could see the outline of Mr. Lake’s enormous, hulking figure through the coach windows. It appeared he was leaning toward Lady Caroline, doing something with his hands.

Violet bit back a smile as Harclay cursed.

“Christ have mercy, my sister shall be the end of me. And that devil—how I despise him! If she ends up with child, I’ll have his head.”

“Pish! And what of your sister’s happiness? Even a fool can see the affection that grows between them.”

“Caroline’s contentment means the world to me,” he growled, “but there’s something about Lake I don’t like. He isn’t who he says he is; he keeps secrets. I can see it in his eyes. I fear he shall do no more than steal her heart and break it.”

Violet sighed. She did not dare give voice to her own fear that Harclay was doing the very same to
her
heart.

As soon as Harclay reined in the horses before his house, he leapt from the phaeton and wordlessly reached for Violet. Clutching her waist in his hands, he lifted her from the vehicle as if she weighed no more than a feather and set her on her feet.

It was obvious he was in a rage, for without thinking he clasped her hand within his and stalked toward the coach. Even through the fine kidskin of her glove, she could feel the warmth of his callused flesh sinking into her own. A wave of energy coursed through her, goose pimples pricking to life on her arms and legs.

Waving off the groomsmen, Lord Harclay yanked open the coach door. Violet gasped in surprise as her eyes fell on the empty seat beside Lady Caroline.

“Where is he?” Harclay hissed. “I know he was in the carriage with you, Caroline, so where did he go?”

Caroline tucked an errant curl behind one ear and, as if she hadn’t heard her brother speak at all, made her way out of the coach. Instinctively, Harclay reached out with his free hand and caught her just in time before she tripped on her dress and fell face-first into the drive.

“Well?” he insisted warningly.

Lady Caroline sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, William, but I do wish you’d stop harassing me so. How Lady Violet can tolerate your moods, I have nary a clue.”

She turned to Violet and tugged her from the earl’s grasp. “Come, my dear, I understand my dear brother would like you to have a tour of the house. It would be my pleasure.”

Her arm looped through Lady Caroline’s, Violet found herself climbing the great steps of Harclay’s London house, Avery beaming from the front door. She felt a pang of regret—would the earl not accompany them?—and looked over her shoulder, her gaze finding his. His jaw was set; his eyes blazed. He appeared a wolf, tense with vigor just before setting out for the hunt.

“I shall return shortly,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ve an errand to see to in the city. Promise me you’ll stay.”

Violet furrowed her brow. This didn’t make much sense; why did he bring her to his house, only to leave to run a mysterious errand?

But the way he looked at her, that strange, hard gleam in his eyes, made her swallow her reservations. “Of course,” she said. And then, impulsively: “Take care, my lord.”

Harclay bowed and disappeared around the house.