The Gentleman Jewel Thief (4 page)

“Would you like the punch?” he asked, nodding at the enormous cut-crystal bowl in the center of the table.

“I usually find punch rather weak for my taste,” she replied, pleasure coursing through her at his start of surprise, “but Hope’s concoction is as potent as brandy.”

Lord Harclay reached for a coupe of punch and handed it to Violet, his dark eyes flashing as they met hers. “I’ve never met a lady with a taste for brandy,” he said. “At least not one who admits to it.”

“I’ve quite a few vices that might surprise you,” she replied, leveling her gaze with his, “and I’m not afraid to admit to any of them.”

He tugged on her hand, pulling her even closer. So close that their noses nearly grazed each other. It took every ounce of her control not to wince, pull away . . or dive in and discover just what, exactly, his lips felt like against her own.

“I’d very much like to discover the nature of said vices,” he said, voice low, smooth, full of forbidden things.

“If only you were so lucky,” she murmured in reply, pulse thrumming.

He took another coupe of punch from the table and held it between them. “A toast, then,” he said, “to your vices, in the hope that I shall indeed be lucky enough to partake in them.”

Violet clinked her glass against his and brought it to her lips. “And what about you, Lord Harclay? Rumor has it you’ve no small number of vices of your own.”

His eyes flicked to the French Blue. “More than you could possibly imagine, Lady Violet,” he said and took a long pull of his punch.

She watched him drink, the sinewy muscles of his neck working in time to his lips. The effect was hypnotic; so hypnotic that she failed to notice the gentleman, a boy, really, behind her, elbowing his way to the tables, until it was too late.

His sharp elbow found purchase just between her shoulder blades, pushing her into Lord Harclay’s chest with a force that knocked her breathless. The coupe turned over in her hand, and punch spilled down the front of her gown.

“Make way, make way!” the man bellowed. “Can’t you see the crush? Move along!”

Violet felt Lord Harclay grow stiff against her. She looked up to see his eyes darken with wrath as he turned toward the offender.

Oh, no. No, no,
no
. Even through the haze of desire that hung between their bodies, she could tell this wasn’t going to end well.

She was right.

Harclay stuck out his foot just in time to trip the boy. He flew ass over heels to the floor in a whirl of blue coattails and fine French lace.

After a beat the boy scrambled to his feet, face wide with shock as a rather impolite shout of incensed disbelief escaped his lips. He tugged the lace at his sleeves into place and huffed, smoothing the scant hairs of his sideburns.

“Apologize to the lady,” Harclay said quietly. He cupped her shoulders and turned her to face the thin, pockmarked boy she now recognized as the Marquess of Tarrington’s son and heir. The rotten stench of liquor and sweat rose from the boy like smoke from a cigar.

The boy sniffed his nose even higher. “She was in my way.”

Behind her, Violet felt Lord Harclay suck in an impatient breath. “
Apologize
to the
lady
,” he repeated.

By now a small circle of spectators had formed about them, their faces open with glee at the unexpected treat of a public confrontation.

“Please,” Violet said, turning to Lord Harclay, “it’s nothing; let’s get on—”

“Apologize,” the earl said yet again, this time through gritted teeth, “
to the lady
. And if you don’t, I swear to make a bloody mess of that ghastly thing you call your face.”

The boy swallowed, face red with embarrassment, and lowered his nose. “I’m sorry,” he spat out and turned away.

But Harclay would have none of it. He reached forward and none too gently grasped the boy by the shoulder, turning him to face Violet.

“Try it again,” Harclay growled. “This time like you mean it.”

The boy appeared as if he were about to weep. He bowed and, speaking loudly, said, “I apologize sincerely, my lady, for whatever grief I have caused you. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Th-thank you,” Violet stammered. Her gown felt sticky against her skin and unpleasantly damp. She must appear a fright.

“That will be all, Lord Casterleigh,” Harclay said. “Now be off with you before I make good on my oath.”

Without hesitation the boy scurried into the crowd. Lord Harclay turned to Violet, monogrammed handkerchief in one hand and a fresh coupe of punch in the other.

She took the handkerchief and went to work on her gown. The glittery gauze hid most of the stain, and what with the diamond about her neck, no one would pay much mind to her costume anyway.

Still, her cheeks flamed with mortification. Damned punch; she’d been so suave, so savvy in her flirtation with the earl, and then
this
had to happen.

“You missed a spot,” Lord Harclay said, pointing to a stain just above her right breast.

Violet looked up from her ministrations to see him feasting on her person with his eyes. Incensed, she threw his handkerchief at his chest and took the coupe from his hand.

“I’m going to leave that spot, just to spite you”—she sipped at her punch—“so that your imagination might run riot with all the possibilities of removing it yourself. Perhaps with those lovely lips of yours; perhaps with some other, no less thrilling, methods.”

Lord Harclay pulled back in mock horror. “You mean to torture me, don’t you, Lady Violet?”

She finished the rest of her punch in a single gulp, licking her lips. “Indeed I do. And I shall relish every moment of it.”

“Excellent,” Harclay replied, taking the empty coupe from her and setting it on the table. He led her back into the crush. “A dance, then, to begin said torture?”

W
ithout waiting for Violet’s reply, Lord Harclay turned toward the musicians. In a commanding baritone that belied his most indecent condition, he called for a waltz.

“A waltz?” Violet drew back. “But Hope won’t have it! And neither will his guests. It’s far too provocative, even for the likes of you and me.”

But Harclay merely smiled. He dug a small satin pouch out of his waistcoat and tossed it across the ballroom. It landed with a satisfying
clank
in the outstretched palm of the gentleman playing first violin.

“A waltz, if you please!” Harclay called once more, and to Violet’s great surprise the members of the orchestra took their seats and made to play.

A wave of disbelieving murmurs rolled through the room, but guests began to take their places—Violet could hardly believe so many members of polite society knew the dance, despite its reputation—and Mr. Hope appeared out of the ether, wig leaning precipitously off his head.

“I believe I’ve the pleasure of the first dance, Lady Violet?” he said, holding out his hand.

But Harclay stepped between them, his eyes, burning, on her face. “You’ll have to forgive me, Hope, but I’ll take that pleasure for myself.”

It wasn’t a question, a polite “if you please”; no, Harclay’s words were a command, delivered with quiet, savage equanimity.
I’ll take that pleasure for myself
.

Mr. Hope stepped back, too startled to reply; and Violet—well, Violet fought to keep from smiling.

Harclay slid her arm into the crook of his own and led her to the middle of the floor. In the midst of a flurry of couples readying for the dance, he stopped and wound his way around Violet so he faced her. When he looked at her—damn him and those wicked, wicked eyes—she blushed and he smiled at her indiscretion. He stepped closer to her, eyes focused on her lips. His ardent attention made her feel suddenly, thrillingly alive.

Together they bowed. Harclay again stepped closer and put his hands on her: the right, firmly planted on the small of her back, and with the left he grasped her own, his fingers tangling with hers. Already currents of heat and blood coursed through her belly.

He breathed on her neck. She thought she might die.

The orchestra played the first notes of the waltz, and Harclay moved crisply, expertly, as if he’d been waltzing since he was in short pants. His eyes, dark, glittering in the light of the chandeliers above, never left hers. She felt the heat rise to her face and yet found it impossible to look away. Violet had never spent more than a fleeting moment this close to a man—a greeting, a polite kiss, a curtsy—but here was the Earl of Harclay, wealthy rake, ravager of virgins, with his arms wrapped around her, coaxing her breast closer and closer to his. So very,
very
close.

She followed his every step, every turn, and it wasn’t long before she was blissfully floating in the quick
one-two-three
of the music, breathless, spellbound. With each turn the diamond tapped lightly against her chest, its flashes of fire reflecting in Harclay’s eyes. And still his gaze never left hers; never once strayed to the mesmerizing jewel at her throat, a jewel worn by emperors and kings, a jewel for which most men would commit murder; never once strayed, even as she glanced at her feet to ensure they were still on the ground.

“Why a waltz?” she said, her words coming out in a breathy hush that made her want to cringe. “You’re sure to be shunned from every proper ball this season.”

Harclay scoffed. “If only I were so lucky. I daresay I could run down Bond Street naked, shouting filth at the top of my lungs, and still the good members of the
ton
would welcome me with open arms. Those with eligible daughters, anyhow.”

“But how many eligible daughters are left, really, that you haven’t already despoiled?”

“Despoiled?” he said, smiling. “Now there’s a word I haven’t come across, not in some time.”

“Indeed,” Violet replied. “I imagine you’ve grown quite tired of ‘pillage’ and ‘ravage,’ what with having used them so often as you go about your daily business.”

Harclay pulled her close to him, crushing her against his not inconsiderable flesh. He felt solid and warm against her, not at all like the steely, menacing predator she imagined him to be, and she let out a little sigh.

He pulled her closer, bending his neck so that his lips brushed against her ear. She arched against him, inadvertently deepening their embrace, and her blood screamed with—well, Violet didn’t quite know what, except that she’d never felt anything so poignant in all her livelong life.

“I prefer ‘pleasure,’ myself,” he murmured. “For as often as I pillage and ravage and take, pleasuring is what I most enjoy.”

The music reached its crescendo, and Harclay spun Violet faster and faster, the room a glowing blur about them. Violet couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak or hear or think; she could do nothing but return Harclay’s searing gaze, her pulse throbbing in time to the memory of his words.

Pleasuring is what I most enjoy
.

Heavens, what was one supposed to say to that?

“Yes, well,” Violet said. “I’m afraid I shall not be among those lucky few whom you
pleasure
this evening. I rather prize my sanity—”

Harclay smiled, a knowing, sinister thing that made his lips appear all the more appetizing. “Sanity is overrated, and not nearly so good a time as sin and seduction.”

Struggling to contain the impulse to wag her tongue at his most impertinent remark, she at last looked away in an attempt to gather her wits.

Thoughts tangled in an impossible knot, her gaze landed on the trio of tall windows that lined the wall above the refreshment table. Just who did this shameless Casanova think he was, saying such terrible—awful—wonderful things . . .

The crack and clatter of breaking glass shattered her reverie. She blinked and saw a handful of black-clad figures somersault gracefully through the windows and land soundlessly on the table. Somewhere in the back of Violet’s mind, she registered that the intruders were most scrupulous in avoiding the glittering decanters that held Mr. Hope’s priceless collection of brandy.

For a moment the ballroom went still, as if the guests were dumbstruck in disbelief; and then all hell broke loose. Screams, shouts, bodies tumbling over one another.

In the chaos, Violet nearly missed Mr. Hope’s gap-toothed, costumed guards palming their guns and pointing them not at the bandits but at Hope’s guests; one guard went so far as to press the barrel of his weapon against the Marquess of Kendal’s forehead and shout at the poor man to stay put and shut his mouth.

What the devil?
Hope’s guards—Violet remembered with a shudder just how many of them there were—had turned against him? But how? Why?

Faces concealed by black kerchiefs, the intruders pulled sleek-looking pistols from their belts. They aimed at the ceiling and—
one, two, three—
they fired, the sound deafening as it echoed off the walls. People screamed and held their ears as they crouched low to the ground. Violet watched in horror as, one after the other, the bandits tucked their guns back into their belts and leapt high from the table onto the chandeliers. With herculean strength they climbed the massive fixtures arm by brass arm; and then, with knives they slid from their boots, the intruders began sawing at the silk cords that held the chandeliers aloft.

“My God,” Violet whispered, pointing directly above their heads. “Look!”

Beside her, Harclay gesticulated wildly at the crowd with his arms. “Move! You’re in harm’s way! Get out, I say, get out from under the lights!”

Like a herd of stunned cattle, Hope’s guests pushed and shoved their way off the floor without a moment to spare.

The chandeliers fell through the air as if in slow motion. Lord Harclay tugged Violet none too gently to the side, just as the chandelier above them crashed to the floor, obliterating the very spot they’d been standing on just a breath before. The earth shook with the impact as the other enormous fixtures followed suit. Their candles sputtered and died and the ballroom was plunged into darkness.

The screams quickly became unbearable, and terribly frightening. Violet overheard guests praying—“Take me, sweet Jesus, I’m ready!”—and a few men were weeping noisily, begging their wives to forgive them this transgression and that.

Violet realized with yet another shudder that the bandits had fallen with the lights and were now roaming freely through the ballroom, looking for God knew what.

She hadn’t realized she was shaking until Harclay pulled her against him, cradling her neck in his palm.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “They shan’t harm you, Lady Violet. You have my word.” She felt the hardened pad of his thumb stroke the tender skin at the back of her neck; and though she knew it was a mistake the moment she did it, she leaned her head against his chest and allowed him to swallow her in his arms.

“But how do you know?” she replied. “How do you know they haven’t come to finish the lot of us off?”

Amid the din she caught the slow, sure rumble of his chuckle. “Lady Violet, I’m afraid you’ve read one too many of those hideous novels of knights and duels and villains. You must trust me, and keep close.”

“Trust
you
?” she scoffed. “I may be in my cups, my lord, but I—”

Harclay pressed his hand against her mouth. “Quiet,” he said and motioned toward the windows.

Pistols at the ready, the bandits silently surveyed the sea of cowering heads before them. It struck Violet that they were looking for someone, something. Were they here to kidnap Mr. Hope or steal away with some heir or another? Had they come to ransack Mr. Hope’s personal vault, make off with one of his many invaluable collections—Genghis Khan’s swords, ancient Roman coinage, medieval Italian paintings?

No, no, that didn’t make sense. Why rob Hope in the middle of a ball and risk being trampled and caught by the crowd?

Lost in her thoughts, Violet did not sense the pair of predators lurking at her elbow until it was too late.

They pounced on her with the violence of feral cats, clawing at her face, her throat, her gown. She cried out, a pitiful yell that was more a whimper of terror. Her heart went to her throat as she struggled uselessly against them, though she was no match for their strength. Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring the few shapes and movements she could discern in the darkness; her arms and legs burned with the effort of resisting her attackers. It wouldn’t be long, she knew, before her body gave out and the bandits, damn them, would have their way . . .

Her attackers grunted, and for a moment their assault ceased. She blinked the tears from her eyes and saw Harclay looming over her, his right hand fisted in one bandit’s hair while with his left he clasped the second bandit by the throat. He was breathing hard, a sheen of sweat glowing on his forehead in the blue-white light that streamed in from the windows.

With frightening force, Harclay threw one thief to the ground and with his free fist pummeled the other until he begged for mercy. The savory-sweet smell of blood filled the air.

After one last blow to the intruder’s belly, Harclay straightened.

“Are you,” he panted, “all right, Lady Violet?”

She took his proffered hand, and he pulled her upright so that she faced him. “Yes,” she replied, smoothing her gown with trembling fingers. “I—I believe I’m intact. Just a bit shaken . . .”

And then, with a creeping, sickening certainty, it dawned on her.

The diamond
.

Her hands shot to her throat. Where Mr. Hope’s priceless French Blue diamond, of Mughal and Sun King fame, should have been, she felt only the clammy warmth of her skin, the scattershot scream of her own pulse.

“Oh, dear, the diamond,” she managed, bile rising to her throat. “I’m afraid I’m going to be ill . . .”

Harclay lurched forward and held back loose strands of her hair as she retched into the dim shadows of the floor.

“The diamond,” she gasped, voice rising with panic. “Lord Harclay, the diamond—it’s gone!”