The Gentleman Jewel Thief (18 page)

His scent was everywhere, the lovely smell of his skin rising from the silks and satins as she fingered them. A wave of longing washed over her. It had been all of three hours since they’d parted; it might as well have been an eternity. These clothes, lifeless and yet very much alive with the memory of Harclay’s flesh and shape, were a poignant reminder of his absence.

Violet shut the drawer, drew a long breath through her nose.

The diamond.
Remember the diamond
.

Squaring her shoulders, she resumed her assault on Harclay’s wardrobe. At last she found it: the sock drawer of which she’d been enamored since the night Hope’s diamond was stolen.

With renewed vigor, she tore through its contents: a seemingly endless array of silk stockings, each a fashionable shade of black or white. They felt as fine as water against her skin as she dug deeper into the drawer.

Violet couldn’t tell if it was disappointment or relief that caused her heart to flutter as she dug yet deeper and came up empty-handed.

But the diamond had to be here—she’d pinpointed this spot from the moment she’d called Harclay out as the gentleman jewel thief he was.

The middle two fingers of her right hand brushed up against something solid. Her heart suddenly, jarringly, stilled as she wrapped her palm around an object roughly the size and shape of a walnut. It was swathed in a heavy silk stocking, so she couldn’t be sure—and what was that beside it, another sock, perhaps, this one filled with something weighty, irregularly shaped—

She jumped at the loud
thwack
of the chamber door as it slammed shut. The object, whatever it was, fell from her hand as she wheeled about.

Her heart, still dumbfounded and motionless, rose to her throat as her eyes fell on the man before her.

“L
ord Harclay!” Violet exclaimed, her hand going to her throat. “You gave me quite a fright!”

One look at him and she knew something was afoot. He appeared distraught; the morning’s unease had grown, it seemed, to full-blown terror. His hair was askew and his face ashen. Mud caked his boots to the ankle, and there was a wild look in his eye that hadn’t been there before.

“Heavens, what happened—”

But before she could finish, Harclay crossed the room in three enormous strides and, taking her face in his hands, brought his mouth down to hers. The kiss was urgent, savage, unlike any other they had shared. She felt herself yielding to him, her arms circling his neck as she dug her hands into his hair.

At last he pulled away, tugging her bottom lip one last time between his teeth. They were breathless, their chests working against each other as they gasped for air. A stray beam of sunlight passed across the back of Harclay’s head, surrounding him in a halo of gold. She stood, transfixed, as illuminated dust motes floated lazily about him.

Harclay held her close against him. She laid her ear to his chest and heard the frantic beating of his heart. It was all so overwhelming; how unlike him to show such emotion, to handle her so roughly and then press her close against him as if he would suffocate without her.

“What’s wrong?” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “Tell me, Harclay, please.”

He looked down at her, and she could tell he was weighing his words, wondering how much he should share. He shook his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. “Tell me, Lady Violet, do you have plans for this evening?”

“Plans?” She blinked. Out of all the things he could’ve said, she wasn’t expecting that. “Almack’s, of course. By the grace of God we managed to secure a voucher for Cousin Sophia, dear girl, and now she is most eager to attend.”

Harclay groaned. “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten today is Wednesday. How I
loathe
Almack’s—ghastly company and no liquor. It’s paramount to torture. Alas, it seems I have no choice in the matter.”

“I don’t recall asking you to escort me.”

The humor left his eyes as he looked down at her. “From this moment forward, Lady Violet, I shan’t leave your side.”

She surveyed him, her pulse quickening. “You can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“You can’t come running into my arms, kissing me like—well, like
that
—and expect me to believe that nothing is wrong. What sort of trouble are you in, Lord Harclay?”

A beat passed between them before he spoke, his voice low and strained. “I do not wish to share this burden with you, Violet; you must trust that I am able to bear it alone. But know this: I shall keep you safe, no matter the cost. You’ve nothing to fear, I swear it.”

“I’ve plenty to fear, if that’s the only explanation you’ll give me.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and looked past her to his disheveled drawers. “Have any luck this afternoon? I see you’ve been at my dressing room.”

Violet hesitated, remembering the promising objects she’d discovered in his sock drawer. She couldn’t very well speak to him of it; by the time she was able to retrieve them, whatever they proved to be, he’d have moved it to a more secure location.

In all likelihood, the objects she’d discovered were not jewels anyway but snuffboxes, perhaps a misplaced pair of cuff links. Even the Earl of Harclay wasn’t bold enough to hide a priceless gem in his sock drawer.

Was he?

“No luck at all, I’m afraid,” she said at last, mustering the most charming smile she could manage. “Your wardrobe proved a formidable opponent. Just how many waistcoats do you own?”

“Far too many.” Harclay sighed. “My valet is a most enthusiastic shopper; I don’t have the heart to turn away any of his designs. Most of them end up in his wardrobe, anyway. The arrangement seems to suit us both.”

“Very generous of you,” Violet replied, narrowing her eyes as she surveyed the man before her. In bright flashes of memory, she recalled the way he’d defended her at Hope’s ball, his tenderness toward Auntie George, his rapport with her father. Was it possible that Harclay, beastly thief, gambler extraordinaire, libertine, was a man of decency, of goodness?

“Well!” he said, and to her chagrin, he loosened his grip on her face and stepped away. “Quite enough poking about for one day, don’t you think? Best we get you home in time to change. I’m afraid we’ll need a bit of time before Almack’s to get good and foxed.”

“Foxed at Almack’s?” Violet raised a brow. “How daring, even for you.”

 • • • 

T
ugging the bodice of her ball gown a smidge lower, and then lower again, Violet surveyed her appearance in the mirror and moaned in frustration.

“This one won’t do, either,” she said and turned her back to Fitzhugh so that she might undo the gown’s buttons.

“But you’ve tried on every dress you own!” Fitzhugh waved to the tangle of colored silks and satins that covered Violet’s bed. “There’s naught to be done; the one you’ve got on is most lovely. And the
earl
will like it just fine.”

“The earl?” Violet said, whirling to face Fitzhugh. “But how did you—”

She shrugged her shoulders, smiling. “He’s only been waiting in the drawing room downstairs for nigh on two hours. Are you certain he doesn’t mean to make an offer?”

Violet scoffed. “If he does, I shall take it as a sign of the apocalypse. Lord Harclay would rather suffer a fiery death than take a wife.”

“Ah,” Fitzhugh replied. “No wonder you like him. A rake, the kind of man one could never possess. Makes for a thrilling chase, does it not?”

Violet shook her head. “No. No,
like
is far too mild a word, Fitzhugh.”

The maid coaxed Violet into the cushioned seat before the mirror and went to work on her mistress’s hair.

“The earl’s had his men here all day, you know,” Fitzhugh said, words garbled by the pins she held in her teeth.

Violet’s heart skipped a beat. “His men? Whatever do you mean?”

“At least a dozen of them, standing guard at the doors. Your father was in a right tizzy ’bout it, he was. The earl sent a note apologizing, but there’s been talk of nothing else among the servants downstairs.”

Violet swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. Something was amiss—why else would Lord Harclay have her house under his watch? Did he fear for her life? Her father’s, her family’s? Or did he mean to do them harm himself?

She shook that last thought from her head. They were on opposing sides, she and the earl, but surely he would never so much as wish her harm, much less perpetrate it himself. She had become acquainted with him well enough—very well indeed—to know he enjoyed her company and her caresses besides.

“Tell me, Fitzhugh,” Violet said carefully, “have you noticed anything strange recently? Any visitors? Gossip among the staff?”

“Nothing I can think of, my lady. Nothing except the Earl of Harclay’s frequent calls, of course. Had one of the kitchen maids in a full swoon this morning, he did. I’m afraid the entire female staff is liable to fight you for him.”

Violet bit back a smile. “He’s not
that
handsome.”

Fitzhugh pushed one last pin into place. “Oh, yes, he is, mistress, no use playing that game. Now off with you,” she said with a wink. “If the apocalypse is nigh, you haven’t much time together, have you?”

 • • • 

T
he four fingers of brandy Harclay drank with Lady Violet’s father had done nothing to assuage his nerves. His every sense was alive as he disembarked from his coach, sweeping his gaze over the dreary facade of Almack’s. The sight of his men, scattered incognito about the street, only made his limbs hum with tension.

He knew—in the pit of his stomach he
knew
—the acrobats would make their attempt tonight. And the earl would do everything in his power to stop them. No one but Harclay would have the pleasure of handling Lady Violet’s person this evening.

She took his outstretched hand and descended from the carriage, followed by the Lady Sophia and Aunt Georgiana. Violet looked so lovely in her pale lavender gown it made his chest hurt.

Other members of the
ton
, swathed in pearlescent silks and sharply cut coats and peacock feathers as tall as a horse, lined up along King Street, filing slowly through Almack’s door.

Harclay ignored their stares, tucking Violet’s arm through his as they bypassed the line. He slid the doorkeeper, Mr. Willis, a guinea—discreetly, of course—and together with his small party made his way into the assembly rooms.

As they mounted the narrow, creaking stair—really, Harclay hadn’t a clue why his friends practically fell over themselves about this place—Violet turned to him. Her voice was low and urgent.

“Your men were guarding my house today,” she said. “I want to know why.”

“I’d say my men are the least of your problems,” he replied as they mounted the last step. He nodded in the direction of a gaggle of patronesses who were shamelessly ogling Harclay and Violet. “It appears we’ve made quite the scene, and it’s not yet nine o’clock.”

Violet tugged him to a halt and faced him. “Please,” she pleaded. “Let me help you. Tell me, Harclay, what’s wrong—”

“Oh, what luck, the dancing’s begun!” He pulled her closer. “Shall we?”

The ballroom was crowded with the cream of London society, and with narrowed eyes Harclay scanned the sea of faces before him. His gaze darted to each of the four corners, to the large, double-height windows on one wall, and to the orchestra balcony that lined the other. Nothing suspicious, as far as he could see.

But the noise—it was nothing short of deafening, what with the shouted conversations of nearly one thousand people—concerned him. It was the perfect cover; those diminutive beasts could slip in and out of the crowd, and commit a heinous crime, with no one the wiser. Even if Violet had time to scream, the sound would be lost in the tide of music and voices and the pounding feet of dancers.

The lighting, too, was dim at best. Even with the blazing light of three enormous chandeliers above, the ballroom was a maze of shadows.

Harclay tightened his grip on Lady Violet. In the middle of the room, dancers were arranging themselves into lines for a cotillion. He very nearly groaned; it was going to be difficult indeed to keep an eye on Violet in the midst of its intricate, spirited steps.

He turned to her and bowed over her hand, hoping she did not see the look of chagrin on his face. “May I have this dance, Lady Violet?”

She smiled. His heart skipped a beat.

“You may indeed, my lord,” she replied. “It is a long dance, this one, and I intend to badger you for answers throughout its entirety.”

“Splendid,” he said. “And it goes without saying, my dear, we shall be partners for the remainder of the evening.”

He was surprised when she threw her head back and laughed. “That is hardly wise, considering your rather epic aversion to marriage. You know what everyone will think if we spend all night dancing together.”

“I don’t care what they think.” He kept his voice even, measured, though his insides were anything but. “I won’t share you with anyone, least of all these fools. You’ll dance with me, or not at all.”

Joining the line of female dancers, Violet whirled to face him. “Very well,” she said, eyes flashing. “Just remember when we’re forced to marry, it’s all your fault.”

“Oh, come now,” he said. “You’d at the very least be pleased with yourself for shackling a shameless rake like me, a man no other woman could bring to account.”

She rolled her eyes. “A dubious honor, surely.”

The music began and so did the dance. Though he could hardly enjoy himself, knowing that a band of acrobats intended to kidnap the woman before him, he couldn’t help but notice Violet’s exquisite grace and poise as she moved through the steps. She danced as an angel, floating through the sequence as if on air.

Above the din, she met his eyes and grinned. All the breath left his body, as if he’d been socked square in the belly; her eyes appeared very blue and happy.

And if it weren’t for the worry he bore, he had no doubt he would feel very much the same.

He could see her color rising; from his ardent attention, or the exertion of the dance, he could not tell.

The music came to a rousing, spirited conclusion. Harclay returned Lady Violet’s grin and dipped his head to bow.

He heard the ballroom erupt into polite applause as he straightened, his gaze returning directly to Violet.

Only she wasn’t there before him, where she’d been standing just half a heartbeat before.

Pulse surging with terror, he frantically looked this way and that, pushing aside bodies as he searched for Violet’s dark curls, her blue-gray eyes.

Nothing.

She was gone.