The Gentleman Jewel Thief (8 page)

V
iolet was surprised to see Cousin Sophia and Auntie George seated in Mr. Hope’s exquisitely curated drawing room. She was, however, positively
shocked
to see Sophia still sporting her gauzy costume from the previous night. The dark smudges beneath Auntie’s eyes told Violet that Sophia had indeed spent the night doing something wholly, unforgivably scandalous.

The moment they turned their gazes to meet her own, Sophia and Auntie dove forward and crushed her in their arms.

“You naughty girl, we were so worried!”

“The shots! I thought you’d been killed!”

“I say, whose dress are you wearing?”

“Oh,” Auntie said, eyes fluttering as she placed a hand on her chest. “Oh, how relieved I am you are unscathed and in good spirits. We received Lord Harclay’s note. Handsome fellow, isn’t he?” Her eyes peeked over Violet’s shoulder.

“But don’t you think,” she continued, lowering her voice, “don’t you
dare
think it excuses your behavior! Running off into the night
with a known rakeshame
! Why, even just saying the words makes my chest palpitate, yes,
palpitate
! As God is my witness, the two of you will be the end of me!”

“You must not blame Lady Violet,” came a voice from behind. “I take full responsibility for the unfortunate events of last night.”

Violet turned—what an odd thing for him to say, as if he’d been responsible for the theft of the jewel and all the trouble that ensued—and nearly bumped noses with Lord Harclay. His knee brushed against the middle of her thigh, and for a moment she was transported back to his drawing room. Her blood leapt at the memory of his hands on her skin, the taste of his kiss as he opened her with his lips . . .

“Dear Lady Wallace,” Harclay drawled as he bent to press those same lips to Auntie’s gloved fingers. “On my honor, I shall take great pains to ensure your niece’s reputation does not suffer on account of my actions. I may have become . . . overly excited in the heat of the moment.”

Indeed, Violet recalled him pressing that excitement against her skirts as he kissed her senseless in his drawing room.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Auntie stuttered as she looked Harclay up and down and back again.

Violet bit back a smile. Even Auntie George, in all her matronly exasperation, was not immune to Harclay’s wickedly effortless charm, his indecent good looks.

“So you understand, Aunt Georgiana, that Lord Harclay’s intentions were most honorable,” Violet added. “Besides, the Dowager Countess of Berry, his sister, is currently residing at his house and was a most rigorous chaperone.”

Auntie George opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment Mr. Hope strode purposefully into the room. At his heels limped an enormously muscled man with a wide, square face, marred only by a black eye patch that covered his left eye.

“Harclay! Lady Violet! Thank God you’ve come. Please, sit, sit, we haven’t the time for niceties.”

Violet did not miss Mr. Hope exchanging a glance, and a small, secret sort of smile, with Cousin Sophia as they took their places.

Violet arranged herself on a sofa between Sophia and Lady Caroline, who perched awkwardly on the edge of the cushion like an oversized parrot.

“First things first,” Hope said, drawing up before the small crowd. “We have managed to apprehend a band of men whom we suspect were involved in last night’s theft. We’re keeping them down in the scullery for the time being; my men brought them in at dawn and have been questioning them since.”

“Who are they?” Violet asked, wondering if by “we,” Hope was referring to himself and Sophia. “How do you know they’re connected to the crime?”

To Violet’s surprise, Mr. Hope’s color rose, and he cleared his throat not once but twice.

An unfamiliar voice, low, rumbling like thunder, broke the silence. “We found them at a whorehouse in Cheapside,” the one-eyed man said. “Fistfuls of guineas, black clothes strewn about the place. One of them wagged his tongue to a lady friend and told her all about the crime. She went to the madam, and the madam, naturally, went to Mr. Hope.”

“Naturally,” Violet quipped. Really, the longer she knew Hope, the more interesting he became. She didn’t take him for the type to visit houses of ill repute; but then again, he was acquainted with virtually every figure of import in London. Madams of such houses, she supposed, were very important figures indeed when one considered the appetites of that lesser sex,
man.

After a good pat on Auntie’s shoulder—she was on the verge of a swoon—Lady Violet turned back to the gruff stranger.

“And who, good sir, might you be?”

“Ah, yes, forgive me!” Mr. Hope rocked back on his heels. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Henry Beaton Lake, a . . . Well, I don’t quite know what you are these days. An old friend? Anyway. He’s generously offered his services in solving this little puzzle of ours.”

Violet detected a trace of irony in Hope’s words. “Services?” she replied, narrowing her eyes at Mr. Lake. “What sort of services, exactly?”

Mr. Lake returned her gaze levelly, his one green eye blazing. “The sort that is not to be discussed among polite company, my lady.”

Mr. Hope groaned.

“How marvelously mysterious!” Lady Caroline exclaimed. In her excitement she very nearly pitched off the sofa. Mr. Lake lurched forward—my, thought Violet, he moves rather quickly for one with a limp—and snatched Caroline by the elbows.

The room exclaimed all at once; Auntie George blanched and began flapping both hands at her face in an attempt to fan herself.

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” Caroline continued as she righted herself on the cushion. “Marvelous, no, that’s not at all what I meant. About your limp, or your eye, of course, nothing marvelous about that, but I imagine you’re quite the adventurer—”

Lord Harclay cleared his throat. “Thank you, Caroline, I’m sure Mr. Lake knows what you meant.”

He turned to Mr. Lake. “I’m afraid your eye patch is giving the ladies all sorts of delicious ideas. Best to let them rest their eager imaginations. In the meantime we shall interview these scoundrels and, with any luck, be done with this sordid business.”

The gentlemen, knowing their window of opportunity was short indeed, scurried from the room as if it contained not four ladies of breeding but a pride of pacing lionesses.

But Violet would not be excluded from the hunt for the thieves. Not only did she have her inheritance, her family’s livelihood, to consider; she felt responsible for the diamond’s disappearance. She had been wearing it, after all, when it was stolen. Snatched from her neck, as easily as if she were naught but a helpless child. She should’ve paid better attention, should’ve tucked it into her stays the moment the brigands crashed through the ballroom windows.

No, she would not allow others to fix her mistakes for her. She was possessed of enough faith in her own cunning to believe she was capable of tracking down the French Blue. She had managed to keep the family intact and well cared for these past three years—no small feat, considering the enormous sums it took to keep Auntie fed and Sophia dressed. Surely, if she could manage that, she could find the diamond and secure their future.

Besides, Violet had to admit Lord Harclay’s involvement in the hunt played no small part in her enthusiasm for it. It would certainly lift her spirits to lay eyes on his glorious person in the trying days ahead.

And so, before the other ladies even opened their mouths in protest, Violet was on her feet and bounding for the door. She slid through the narrow gap just in time, the door swinging shut at her back and catapulting her into the gallery.

She hurried after the men, catching up at last with Lord Harclay. His long legs afforded him a laughably enormous stride. Violet had to trot to keep pace.

“Are you sure you want to see this?” Harclay said without looking at her. “I did not refer to this business as sordid in jest.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Violet panted. “I’ve known sordid business plenty enough, having lived with Auntie George and Cousin Sophia my whole life.”

She thought she saw the flash of his teeth, a smile perhaps; but as quickly as it appeared it was gone.

They made their way to the basement of the house. Mr. Hope’s kitchen, a cavernous space covered in gleaming white tile, was already bustling with the day’s business. As she passed by, Violet breathed in the familiar scents of rosemary and butter, mingled with savory, spicy odors she did not recognize.

Mr. Hope led them to a small room at the back of the house. As they approached, Sophia could hear men’s voices, several of them all talking at once.

Pausing before the door, Mr. Hope turned to them. “No use employing the authorities, seeing as how the Bow Street Runners have been hideously underfunded these past few years. I’ve brought in my own security force, the same I use at the bank to guard our assets. They’re good, the best money can buy.”

As if on cue, the door opened and a crisply dressed man, clutching a clay pipe between his teeth, emerged. He met eyes with Mr. Hope and shook his head.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “But we could use more coffee, if you please, Mr. Hope.”

Over the man’s shoulder, Violet peeked into the room. The supposed thieves sat about an oblong table, their hands cuffed to the chair spindles. Mr. Hope’s men were seated on the opposite side of the table. Smoke rose from their pipes—apparently Mr. Hope hired only men with chimneys for lungs—while empty cups crowded before them on the table around a porcelain pot.

The bandits appeared wretched. Their faces, a ruddy, purple-red like moldy radishes, were swollen with drink and exhaustion. Whatever they felt—remorse, anger—it weighed upon them heavily,

Their rumpled sleeves were pushed up to their elbows. She noted with a spark of interest that their forearms were heavily muscled, extraordinarily so. Thick, corded veins ran the length of their arms and webbed about the backs of their hands.

Whatever their profession—Violet deduced it wasn’t thievery, for who built muscles like that picking pockets?—they were obviously fellows who enjoyed sport.

“Let me talk to them,” Violet said, reaching for the door. “I’ve got an idea.”

She was about to cross the threshold when Lord Harclay grasped her none too gently about the arm. “You can’t possibly be serious, going in there unescorted to face those men. It isn’t safe.”

Violet looked down at his hand, the fingers wrapped tightly about her flesh. She tried her best to ignore the heat that pulsed through her body at his touch.

“I’m quite serious,” she replied. “If you’d just allow me a few minutes with them—”

“Absolutely not,” Harclay said. “If any of those men so much as lays a finger on you, I shall have to avenge your honor, and God knows this house has witnessed enough gunplay to last a lifetime. No, if you go in there, I am going with you.”

Violet opened her mouth to protest—she could avenge her own damn honor—but one glance at the stone-set gleam in his eye, and she thought better of it.

“Very well,” she replied, straightening her skirts. “But don’t think for a moment I’ll allow you to take charge, Lord Harclay.”

With a roll of his eyes he reached for the door and held it ajar as she whisked past. “Oh, believe me, Lady Violet, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 • • • 

T
he late-afternoon sun streamed through the shutters of Harclay’s study, glinting off the brandy that lay untouched in its heavy crystal glass on his desk. He’d been sitting here for hours now, the day quickly descending into dusk, in an attempt to discern without much luck how in
hell
that bloody woman had done it.

The pounding in his skull, still thick from the previous night’s champagne and almost complete lack of sleep, did nothing to help him parse the details of Lady Violet’s interview.

With a scoff he recalled how she had sidled up to the bandits, how she’d paced most provocatively about the room, the only sound the soft
whoosh
of her skirts as she bandied them about her hips. Clever girl, she did not forget, not for a moment, that the thieves had been found bare-assed in a whorehouse and very likely had not had the chance to finish their business. The sight of a woman, she knew, was sure to capture their imagination.

Violet had used this knowledge to brilliant effect. Not only had she coaxed the thieves to talk; she’d coaxed them into talking about the details she was after. To Harclay’s great pleasure, the bandits had revealed exactly what he’d wanted them to: everything . . . and nothing.

The way the bandits—and Mr. Hope’s security force—had looked at Lady Violet drove Harclay mad, even now. It was all he could do not to wrap her in his arms and remove her from their openly ravenous gazes. The thought of sharing any part of her with any of these men made his blood run hot; he’d stood protectively at her side throughout the entire interview, brooding in what he hoped appeared to be threatening silence.

Pointing to the bandits’ hands and arms, Violet had correctly deduced that the thieves were part of a traveling circus, acrobats in town for nightly exhibitions in Vauxhall Gardens. In barely decipherable cockney they’d told their story: how they’d been approached one evening a week before by a strange-looking fellow with bad teeth and a fake beard (how, Harclay wondered, did they know the beard was false but miss the awful wooden dentures?). How the man had offered each of them fifty pounds—twenty-five right then, the other half after the crime had been committed—to make a mess of Mr. Hope’s ball.