The Gentleman Jewel Thief (32 page)

Eliason was holding him under. Harclay’s lungs burned with the desire for air. He waited and prayed for a reprieve, but none came. Eliason’s grip on him was firm, and without air, he hadn’t the strength to fight back.

This is it,
he thought wildly.
So this is how it all shall end
.

His eyes flew open underwater, one last look at the world. The water burned his eyes, but he resisted the impulse to close them.

For, to Harclay’s great surprise, and even greater relief, his gaze met that of Avery.

Last the earl had seen him was sprawled on the ground, blood dripping down his face on account of the giants’ ministrations.

Avery winked at him, his hair fluttering wildly about his head in the water, and waved something white—paper, it was a piece of paper—before his face.

Harclay winked back, just before his vision dimmed. The burning in his lungs became unbearable; he felt as if his entire body might explode.

There was a great rush of pain from his toes to the very top of his head.

And then there was nothing.

London, Mayfair

Two weeks later

I
t was the Rutledge family’s last night in the London house they had called home for five generations. There were too many bills that had to be paid, too many debts to settle. And so Violet had been forced to sell the home in which she and her father, and his father before him, had been born.

There were trunks and crates everywhere. Standing at the back door, the family’s solicitor scribbled furiously in his ledger as each crate was carried out. Nearly everything, save their clothes and personal effects, was being sold. Even then, Violet knew they would be hard-pressed to settle all their debts.

“Well,” the solicitor said, slamming shut his ledger, “I believe my work is finished here. I shall be back in the morning to make the final arrangements.”

Violet stared blankly at the deepening darkness, arms crossed about her ever-increasing bosom. If only William could see her now; pleasurer that he was, he’d probably enjoy her changing body, the widening curves, the new, aching sensations. And in his hands—God have mercy—such spots would be plied and teased and pleasured to their full effect.

Swallowing the moon that rose in her throat, she pushed the thought aside. No more thinking of William. He was gone, to heaven or hell or India, she did not know. But he was gone nonetheless; it had been two weeks now since that hellish night on board the
Diamond in the Rough
, when she’d seen him last. No one had heard from the earl or seen him. His house was dark, and when Violet called, no one answered the door.

Harclay had disappeared.

It made Violet ache to no end.

She squared her shoulders. No matter her aching; she had other things to think about, matters to tend to. And such matters would not wait.

“Thank you, Mr. Riley,” she replied, still staring out the open door. “We shall be leaving for Essex in the morning. Please do be early.”

Mr. Riley bowed curtly. “If there is anything else—”

“No, thank you. You may go.”

He turned to leave, but at the last moment he hesitated.

Violet turned her gaze to him. “Yes?”

Clutching his ledger in his hands, he said, “I’m awfully sorry about all this, my lady. You understand I did everything in my power to keep you here.”

A beat passed between them. Violet managed a small smile. “Of course.”

Bowing a second time, Mr. Riley offered a sympathetic smile. He turned and left.

Violet uncrossed her arms and closed the door. Behind her, the kitchens were oddly quiet. Cook, and Cook alone, was preparing their last dinner, a simple meal of cold bacon, bread, and butter. The lonely sound of a single knife, slicing a single loaf of bread, was enough to break Violet’s heart.

Above stairs, everyone gathered at the table in silence. There were no footmen left to serve them, so Violet sat beside her father and helped him cut his bacon and butter his bread.

Halfway through the meal, Auntie George began to weep. Her weeping grew steadily noisier, so noisy that Sophia, too, started to cry.

Violet very nearly rolled her eyes. If the thought of brandy did not make her retch, she would’ve raided her father’s liquor cabinet on the spot. It was enough to keep her own emotions in check; but witnessing her family’s heartbreak made her feel exhausted and utterly defeated.

And still she could hardly think of anything but William. Yes, her world was crumbling all about her, but
within
her another battle raged. She tried to forget him, to accept that he was either dead or a cad who’d run away with the diamond, her fortune, her heart.

But day and night he stayed with her. He followed her through the motions of her day, from breakfast to tea and back into her bed at night. She hardly spoke or ate; his memory, it seemed, was enough to sustain her. But when across the pillow she reached for him, imagining the feel of his shirt in her fingers, the tears came heavy, hot.

He was gone, he was gone,
gone
, and there was nothing she could do to bring him back.

The regret she felt was suffocating. Only when he’d left, disappeared, died, did she allow herself to embrace her love for him. It swallowed her whole, eviscerated her.

But it was too late. The earl was not coming back. She would never have the chance to apologize, to beg him to take her back, to say
yes, yes, darling, I will be yours today and all the days after that
.

The shock of losing him kept the truth at bay—that she’d never again feel the thump of his heart as he pressed his chest to hers, that she’d never have the chance to curse at him one last time, the chance to witness the lust that sparked in his eyes.

She would have to face that truth someday.

Today, however, was most certainly
not
that day.

Later that evening, as Violet made her way up the wide stair for perhaps the last time, she paused, clenching the polished rail as if for life itself. Her side hurt, and her never-ending nausea was particularly virulent this evening. She stood very still, listening to the sounds of the house. The creak of the floorboards in Sophia’s chamber; the soft ticking of the clock in the hall downstairs; a clacking carriage passing outside the front door.

And then—a muffled
clap
.

An unfamiliar sound.

Heart pounding, Violet crept across the landing to her chamber door. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening.

Nothing.

Slowly she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The room was dark, save for a single candle on the table beside her bed. Its flame danced in a warm gust of air that blew in through the open windows.

The open windows.

Earlier that day, Violet had closed them against the evil smells rising from the lane below. Fitzhugh was ill, and she’d returned to her chamber after helping Violet dress that morning; the other servants had been dismissed a week since.

No one could have opened the windows.

Except an intruder.

Violet’s heart leapt in her chest. There was only one man she knew daring enough to climb three stories and through her window.

With, of course, the aid of a strong back.

She turned back to the room, breathless.

“William?” she whispered, choking on her tears. “Is that you?”

Silence.

Violet took another step into the chamber, closing the door behind her. She reached for the candle and held it aloft as she swept across the room. She looked under the bed, peeked inside her wardrobe. She ducked her head out the window and looked both ways down the street.

Nothing. No one.

William was not there.

She fell heavily onto the bed, wiping away her tears with the heel of her hand. Placing the candle back onto the table, she collapsed against her pillow in anticipation of a good, long cry.

A
crunch
sounded beneath the weight of her head. Bolting upright, Violet reached behind her and found a packet of thick paper placed carefully on the center of her pillow.

William.

His scent rose from the paper as surely as if he were in the room himself.

A familiar endearment, written in familiar script, was scrawled across its surface.

Darling.

For a moment Violet thought she might be sick all over the bedclothes.

She cracked the Earl of Harclay’s wax seal and tore open the envelope. A small card fell into her lap, followed by a folded sheet of wrinkled paper.

Violet opened the card and in a single breath read the note aloud.

This should cover the two thousand I owe you. Yours always, W.

She glanced at the folded sheet in her lap. The paper appeared worse for the wear, wrinkled with water stains and marred by muddy blotches.

Taking the sheet in her hands, she carefully unfolded it. Its edges were frayed; she winced as she accidentally tore off a corner with a fingernail.

She held her fingers to her mouth and cried. And cried. And cried. So many tears, she could hardly breathe in the tiny beats between them.

Violet held in her hands the thirty-thousand-pound note the Comte d’Artois had procured to buy back the French Blue. Like all flimsies, the note bore the name of the issuing bank—in this case, an Italian house based in Florence—but made no mention of to whom, exactly, the note belonged.

The note, and the accompanying fortune, belonged to whomever possessed it.

And now it belonged to Violet. For now, at least. How like William, the blackguard, to believe stealing thirty thousand pounds from French royalty fell under the same romantic notion as stealing a priceless diamond. She’d have to give it back; Violet was many things—drinker, cheater, adventurer (albeit one prone to injury)—but she was not a thief. As much as it pained her, she would return the money to that rascal Artois.

Eventually, that was.

Surely he wouldn’t miss a thousand or two, perhaps in exchange for her goodwill. Just enough to pay off her creditors, keep the house, repair the family vehicle . . .

It was, after all, only money.

 • • • 

T
he next morning Fitzhugh ran breathless into the breakfast room.

“What is it?” Violet asked with alarm, dropping her teacup with a clatter. “Is something amiss?”

Fitzhugh merely shook her head and handed Violet an enormous packet inscribed with the finest calligraphy. “Forgive me, my lady, but this just arrived. Thought you’d like to see it straightaway.”

For a moment Violet stared at it, pulse racing. “Did you see who delivered it?”

Fitzhugh again shook her head. “Some strange fellow, bruises all over his face and his arm in a sling. Stooped over, too, as if it pained him to stand straight. Very polite, though.”

Violet could not suppress the smile that rose to her lips. Poor Avery.

“Well?” Cousin Sophia said. “Open it!”

With trembling hands Violet opened the packet.

“It’s an invitation,” she said, furrowing her brow as she read it.

T
O
H
IS
G
RACE
THE
D
UKE
OF
S
OMMER
AND
ALL
THE
L
ADIES
OF
HIS
HOUSE
,

H
IS
L
ORDSHIP
THE
E
ARL
OF
H
ARCLAY
REQUESTS
YOUR
PRESENCE

A
T
A
M
ASQUERADE
B
ALL

T
HIS
EVENING
,
AT
HALF
PAST
EIGHT
O
’
CLOCK
.

A
PRI
ZE
SHALL
BE
AWARDED

T
O
THE
JEWEL
WHO
SHI
NES
BRIGHTEST
.

Violet met her cousin’s eyes across the table.

“Well?” Sophia said, voice high with anticipation.

“We’re going to need Mr. Hope’s help. Mr. Lake’s, too—come, Sophia, we haven’t much time!”

 • • • 

N
ight fell lightly upon the city, the slow dimming of a lovely summer day. The weather was fine and warm; stars blinked awake one by one across a bluebell sky.

Perhaps it was the prospect of seeing William, after presuming him dead, gone forever these past weeks; perhaps she was relieved to finally end this chase, in the hope of beginning another; or maybe it was a revived hope that William had recovered the French Blue, so they might return it to Hope and share in the success of his bank.

Whatever it was, Violet felt magic in the air around her. The breeze wove a spell; she could feel it coming to life just beneath her skin. She stood before the open window in her bedchamber, the summer air tickling stray wisps of hair about her temples as she waited for the night to begin and the magic to unravel.

At last it was time. Cousin Sophia came to her door, all smiles and glimmering gauze. Violet had convinced her that they should wear the same nymph costumes they’d donned for Hope’s ball.

“Otherwise, he might not recognize me,” Violet had said, pressing her domino mask to her face.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sophia replied with a roll of her eyes. “Lord Harclay would recognize you anywhere, dressed in anything. The man’s got eyes for only you.”

 • • • 

V
iolet climbed the familiar steps of Harclay’s town house arm in arm with her father. She leaned heavily against him, glad of the support he offered her; she trembled with anticipation as they crossed the threshold.

A thousand questions swirled in her head with every beat of her heart. Was William really alive? Where had he gone? Was he hurt, was he still reeling from the accidental poisoning, and, God
damn
him, why hadn’t he written sooner? The diamond—had he managed to rescue it from Eliason’s clutches? Or was it gone, lost forever to the River Thames?