The Gentleman Jewel Thief (24 page)

It hurt his heart just to look at her. A fresh wave of sorrow inundated him as he kneeled beside the bed. He took her hand in his own and brought his lips to her fingers, closing his eyes. Her skin felt hot and sticky.

“I’m so very sorry,” he whispered for the thousandth time that week. “Violet, I am sorry.”

His eyes snapped open at the small sound of rustling bedclothes.

Heart in his throat, he watched as Violet’s eyes fluttered open. She turned her head on the pillow to face him.

For a long moment he was unable to speak. He looked into her eyes, bloodshot and bright with fever, and his pulse leapt in relief.

“Violet?” He swallowed. “Violet, can you hear me?”

In his ears the silence of the room grew deafening as he waited for her reply.

She did not speak; rather, she tilted her chin and raised her lips in the barest shadow of a smile.

But it was a
smile
. And suddenly she looked once again like the Violet he knew and loved, full of fire and mirth and wit.

That one smile very nearly bowled him over.

He ran his thumb over the top of her hand and made to talk to her for as long as she was able to listen.

Harclay spoke of their courtship, the moment they met, and the first waltz they danced together. He remembered with a laugh her cutting remark about his wood, and Caroline cartwheeling into the Serpentine with Mr. Lake. He told her how annoyed he’d been when she won those games of casino, annoyed and fascinated by her skill.

But most of all, he assured her he never meant their game to play out like
this
. He assured her over and over that he would take it all back, the thrill and the chase and the sneaking around, if it meant sparing her this fate.

“I am a fool, a selfish fool,” he said. “But I suppose if I weren’t, I wouldn’t be a fool for you, Violet.”

By then her eyes had been closed for some time, though Harclay would’ve liked to believe the faint smile still graced her lips.

Two weeks later

V
iolet woke up slowly, her eyes fluttering, and fluttering again, before she was finally able to open them.

With her first waking breath a great wave of pain washed over her. She gritted her teeth against it, eyes burning with tears.

Looking down at her body, she saw her chest and ribs were bound with fresh bandages. There didn’t ever seem to be any gore, thank God, or Violet knew she would’ve finally swooned for the first time in her twenty-two years.

In a rush of violent memory, Violet recalled that her first swoon had already occurred—after she’d been shot in the belly by William Townshend, Earl of Harclay, during a duel on Farrow Field.

She blinked back the tears. It had been like this for days now; she’d wake up, happily ignorant of everything but the warm summer air and the scent of rosewater that rose from the bedclothes, and then—

Then she’d remember. She’d remember leaping from a downstairs window into Fitzhugh’s waiting arms—neither of them had made it through that exercise unscathed—and collecting Lady Caroline from Harclay’s house.

Violet would remember the sudden, searing pain in her side, and Harclay’s tears falling hot and fast on her face as he hovered above her.

I hate you,
she’d told him.
I love you
.

Violet swallowed. She hadn’t even known she felt such a thing for him until that moment when, delirious with pain, she realized she was frightened to face whatever came next
without him.

Try as she might, she could not remember William’s response, or if he said anything at all. After that moment, the world was black, her memory filled with feverish imaginings, one long, haunting nightmare.

Across her bedchamber, the curtains danced and billowed in the breeze. From the slanting amber light, Violet could tell it was evening, and a lovely one at that.

She sighed—
hell
, that hurt!—and tried to shift upright in bed. Her every limb ached; even her breasts felt sore. She looked down. Had they
always
been so big, so full? Perhaps they were merely swollen from the fever.

“Hello?” she tried calling. Her voice cracked and felt strange in her throat, as if she hadn’t used it in ages.

Swallowing, she tried again. “Hello!”

This time it worked, for, half a heartbeat later, William stumbled through the door, followed closely by her father, Auntie George, and a passel of men she took to be surgeons.

Her heart leapt painfully at the sight of Harclay. He appeared nothing short of tragic, face bruised and gaunt, eyes bloodshot. Sporting a full, dark beard and greasy hair, he was wearing only a loose linen shirt and buckskins.

Though he was thinner than she remembered, he nonetheless appeared the pirate she had come to know and love. She sucked in her breath at the quickening of her pulse, pounding against her injured ribs. It was excruciating, but she could not tear her gaze from him. She’d told Cousin Sophia to keep him out of her room; at last he’d slipped past her guard.

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t glad to see him.

“Violet!” he exclaimed breathily, falling to his knees at her bedside. “I’m very happy to see you.”

She arched a brow in reply. “I don’t know who looks worse for the wear, William, you or me.”

Laughing, that deep, rumbling sound in his chest, he took her hand and trailed kisses along each of her fingers. She gasped—in pain, in pleasure, a bit of both—and Auntie George peeked over his shoulder, clucking her tongue.

“Gently, now, go gently, if you please, Lord Harclay,” she said, though her tear-filled smile belied the command.

Violet nodded and smiled and assured everyone that yes, she was in pain, and yes, she could breathe. Her father kissed both her cheeks and smiled; Auntie George blew none too quietly into her handkerchief. The surgeon sidled up to the opposite end of the bed and took her pulse, felt her forehead. He nodded.

“The fever has broken,” he said. “No small miracle, considering I dug a bullet out from between your shattered ribs. I’m afraid the pain may continue for week or two yet; but you should be on your feet in a few days, maybe less.”

“Thank you,” Violet said, her eyes never leaving Harclay’s. “Would you allow us a moment?”

The surgeon cleared his throat. “Actually, I was hoping to have a moment with you myself. There’s something I would like to discuss with you—privately, if I might—”

Violet waved him off. “Later, thank you,” she said.

He looked from Violet to William and back again; with a sigh, he turned and, following Lord Rutledge and Auntie George, left the room.

The door closed behind them with an authoritative
clap
. And then Violet was alone with William, her heart swollen near to bursting in her chest.

He moved to speak, but she placed her fingers against his lips, preferring instead to savor him with her eyes. For several long minutes she gazed at him, and he gazed back, his black eyes ringed with gray-blue circles.

Circles the same shade as Hope’s diamond.

The realization was like a blow to the belly. Violet had completely forgotten about that blasted jewel and all the pain that came with it. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Her exquisite joy at seeing William mingled with a livid sadness: sadness on account of her position, her duty to secure the French Blue and ensure her family’s security.

God
damn
Harclay. Why’d he have to be such a fool and steal the diamond in the first place? This was all
his
fault,
his
doing.

From the look of him, he hadn’t left her side since he’d shot her. And though her heart swelled with gratitude and something else—something deeper—that also meant he hadn’t gone out in search of the missing diamond.

Which meant, of course, that it was still within her grasp if Mr. Lake had not found it first.

William must have sensed the sudden shift in her mood, for he squeezed her hand. She looked away, gritting her teeth in an effort to control the panic and pain that coursed through her entire being.

“Violet,” he said quietly. “Darling, look at me.”

“Please don’t call me that,” she whispered, choking on the words as she said them.

Cupping her chin in his hand, he pulled her to face him. “I do not know where to begin—I might apologize forever, if I could.”

She looked down for a moment, willing her tears to remain in her eyes. They did not. She sniffed and again met his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was gruff. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“I’m sorry about shooting you, for fighting that duel. I’m sorry for even challenging Lake in the first place. I am sorry for putting you in the middle of my—my foolish escapades. I am sorry you were kidnapped—even now, Violet, it kills me to think of you bound and taunted by those beastly creatures. I am sorry about jeopardizing your family’s future, and your happiness. I am sorry about hurting you. You must know I never meant any of it.

“But—” He finally took a breath. “But I will never—
never
—be sorry that I met you. I am not sorry that we met and fell in love. And I hope you aren’t, either.”

Violet sucked in her breath. She could hardly bear it. How she longed to give in, to admit her love for him and her desire to be with him, always.

But she couldn’t.
Wouldn’t
. She still had to prove herself; she still had too much to lose.

“William, you’ve hurt me so badly—I told you not to fight—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he said, tugging a hand through his dark hair. “Violet, I
shot
you, for God’s sake! I deserve to be shot myself. The guilt, it’s been so terrible I can’t tell you how many times—how often I’ve thought about selling my soul to the devil, so that you might be spared. I’d give anything”—he stopped, voice cracking—“anything to take back what happened to you.”

Violet steeled herself against his words, stoking her anger so that it might overcome the pity she felt for him, the love.

“Would you give back the diamond?” she asked.

He blinked, the expression on his face as shocked and saddened as if she’d just shot
him
in the ribs.

“Yes,” he said. “From the beginning I planned to give it back. To you, to Hope. I didn’t come here to discuss the French Blue, but if you desire it—”

“What else is there to discuss?” she replied. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” William ground out. “You know that’s not what we’re about at all. I love you—”

“What good is love if I lose this house, my inheritance, my family?” she snapped. A hardness, black and raw, spread over her chest into her throat. It felt awful to say these things to him, but she’d already come this far; she couldn’t turn back now.

“Don’t do this, Violet, I’m begging you,” he said. “I’ll get the diamond back, make sure the world knows it is once again safely in Mr. Hope’s possession. His business will recover, and your family’s fortune will be secured. And then we’ll be married, perhaps in the parish on my estate—”

“William,” Violet cut in, shaking her head. “This game we play. It can’t go on forever—not when it’s become so dangerous. Once I find the diamond—and I
will
find it—you and I, we won’t fit together the way we do now. You live for the chase. I live for the thrill. You think we’ll feel the same about each other once it’s done?”

She watched the indignation shade his eyes a darker shade of black.

“Once upon a time I was that man,” he said steadily, “but don’t you dare accuse me of thinking you nothing more than a
chase
. It’s an insult to your intelligence, for one thing, and a blatant falsehood besides.”

Violet swallowed for what felt like the hundredth time and looked away. He was right, of course. She didn’t know why she was saying the things she did; but the poisoned words kept falling from her lips, the blackness spreading through her limbs, surrounding her heart.

Again Harclay cupped her chin in his hand and turned her head to face him. “I know you are a woman with little patience for fools. And so I am asking you one last time,” he said. “Violet, please marry me. For heaven’s sake, make an honorable man of me.”

“I already told—”

“I love you,” he continued. “I stayed by your side for weeks now. I hope to stay forever. This is the last time, Violet. The last time I’ll stand before you and ask you to be my wife. I shan’t ask again.”

The smooth violence of his words assured her that no, he
wouldn’t
ask again. This was her chance. Her only chance.

And before she could think,
Wait, what is it I
really
feel?
she blurted out, “No. No, William, I thank you for your concern, but it’s—us, we—it’s just not possible.”

The earl pushed away from the bed, rising to his feet, and ran a hand through his hair. Breathing a deep, frustrated breath, he turned back to her.

“Fine. But you can’t say I didn’t try, Violet. You can’t say I didn’t attempt to make this right.”

Violet struggled to hide her rising panic. “My side hurts,” she said. “I need to rest.”

Biting the inside of his lip, William surveyed her for several beats. A fresh pulse of pain sliced through her at the sight of his watery eyes.

“Good-bye, Violet,” he said at last, his voice tight.

She cleared her throat. “Good-bye, William.”

He turned and without a backward glance stalked from the room.

The tears came hot and fast now, blotting out the world around her. For all her bravado, her anger toward William, she’d never felt such a sense of terrible remorse in all her life. She wept; and no matter what her father said, no matter the wine Cousin Sophia brought up, nothing could console her.

 • • • 

W
hen she’d cried herself into a virtual stupor, Violet was at last faced with the surgeon. He slipped quietly into her room after Sophia had left and for several minutes busied himself at Violet’s escritoire.

He turned and handed her a small vial of dark liquid. When she raised her brows, he said, “Laudanum, mixed with a bit of wine. It will help with the pain.”

“Nerves, too, I hope,” she replied and managed a small smile.

The liquid tasted foul but she drank it anyway.

“There is something you wanted to discuss?”

“Oh, yes,” the surgeon said. He grasped his hands behind him and rocked back on his heels, as if gathering strength for the coming revelation.

“Well?” Violet said. “Please, sir, you’ve nothing to fear. After having been
shot in the ribs
, I hardly think whatever news you have shall upset me.”

“Perhaps,” the man said, clearing his throat. “Perhaps not.”

Violet’s eyes went wide. Her pulse quickened. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”