The Millionaire Rogue (14 page)

Hope bit back his panic. At least one hundred thousand pounds were in those accounts.

This did not bode well for the hours and days ahead. At this rate, Hope & Co. would shutter its doors in a week or two, maybe less.

“I'm sorry,” Withington repeated. He looked up to the ceiling, as if trying to recall a memorized bit of Chaucer. “Everyone knows that Hope and Company is only as great—no, that's not it. Only as
good
as its reputation. And I'm afraid your reputation will suffer on account of this. Um. Unfortunate incident. I cannot risk it, Mr. Hope. I've three sisters, you see . . . and my mother, of course, the old bat just refuses to die . . .”

Hope could hardly breathe for the sudden swelling of his throat. Those were his mother's words, probably hurled at the poor marquess over breakfast this morning. Hope would've felt sorry for the fellow if Withington wasn't pushing him to the brink of ruin.

If Withington wasn't after the woman Hope held in his arms mere hours ago. The woman who set his mind, his body, alight with desire.

“I told you,” Hope said, trying not to grit his teeth. This jealousy, it made him feel wild, and he did not like it. “I will sort out this diamond business. Your funds shall not suffer, my lord. Do not forget how well I have safeguarded your family's fortune for years now. I've made you thousands, tens of thousands—”

“I know. And I appreciate your efforts; they have not gone unnoticed. It pains me to say this.” Withington looked away; the fingers that held his hat were white. “But I must sell my Hope and Company shares and withdraw my deposits. I've already visited Fleet Street, and the transfer is under way as we speak.”

Hope's breath shook as he tried to calm the panic, the rage, too, that rose in his belly. It took considerable effort not to leap across the desk and take his lordship's close-shaven neck in his hands.

The marquess was not being rude, nor unkind; this was a matter of business, and Hope never lost his head over business. So why this sudden urge to do violence to a kind, if odd, fellow whose only crime was harboring a
tendre
for Miss Sophia Blaise?

Hope swallowed the answer to his question and straightened. He had to get the marquess out of here before bad things—things Hope would forever regret—happened.

“Very well. I will see to the transfer straightaway, my lord.”

Withington's shoulders fell back from his ears, and a breath of relief escaped from his open mouth. Thanking Hope, he jammed his hat on his head and hesitated, as if he would bow; remembering himself, he thumbed his hat in that abrupt way of his and exited the room.

Standing behind his desk, Hope fingered a heavy crystal paperweight as his fury burned to new heights. The Marquess of Withington was a client, an investor, no more than that; he couldn't possibly know of Hope's acquaintance with Sophia.

His desire for the woman Withington courted in earnest. The woman his lordship would in all likelihood take for his wife.

Even so. His presence this morning was like salt in a wound; nothing like adding insult to injury, and at so early an hour.

He took the paperweight in his hand just as Mr. Daltrey poked his head into the room, bearing coffee and biscuits.

Hope dropped the crystal with a dull thud onto the desk. He sighed. “Your timing, Mr. Daltrey, is, as always, impeccable. Come in.”

He sat at his desk, staring out the window at a brightening day, and drained cup after cup of coffee. It was bitter and hot but slowly burned away the knot in his throat. As he drank he found himself thinking about his father, a man who'd always occupied the shadows of his thoughts but rarely appeared center stage.

The elder Hope was brilliant beyond imagination: philosopher, inventor, theologian, and collector. How he'd managed to find the time to grow the family's smallish business into a world-renowned banking house, and be a husband and father besides, Thomas hadn't a clue.

He remembered when he was five, his brother Henry had been born sometime in the night, and the house was in a tizzy over a beautiful new baby. Forgotten by his governess (and everyone else), Thomas had hidden behind the drapes in his nursery and cried himself into a stupor, whimpering for his mummy.

It had been his father who discovered him. With a smile the elder Hope had taken his son in his arms and kissed his cheeks.

He'd clucked his tongue and said, “But my dear Thomas, surely you know by now it's best to leave the crying to babies! Besides, they cannot eat chocolate.”

Thomas's sobs halted at the mention of
chocolate
. “They can't?”

“Absolutely not! If they do, their lips turn green and fall off. Ghastly, I know. But you and me, we can visit the chocolatier as often as we like.”

“And still keep our lips?”

His father had laughed. “Yes. And still keep our lips.”

Later that night, with a bellyache from eating far too many of Monsieur Cormier's truffles, Thomas held his father's hand as he met Henry for the first time. Though he wished he'd wake so that they might properly be introduced, Thomas kissed him anyway, and hugged his mummy with a smile.

“You naughty boy.” His mother grinned and wiped a smear of chocolate from his face with her thumb. She met her husband's gaze. “Someone's been to visit the monsieur.”

His father shrugged, then turned to wink at Thomas. “I don't know what you're talking about, darling.”

Hope closed his eyes against the hot press of tears, dropping his cup onto its saucer with a clatter. God, how he missed them; how he wished his father were with him now. What would John Hope do? How would he seek out the diamond while assuring investors and keeping the bank afloat?

And what would he say to his son, still half-drunk on Miss Sophia Blaise's touch, about the choice between duty and following one's own desire?

Part of Hope believed his father would call him a fool. He'd remind him of all he'd sacrificed, and everything he'd been through, to make his dream come true of seeing Hope & Co. flourish once more.

But another part of Thomas, the part that recalled with startling clarity the sound of his father's laugh, believed his answer might be more complicated than that.

Hope rose abruptly, pushing the thought from his mind. The day was in full force now; there was much work to be done.

He dressed and made for Fleet Street.

H
eart pounding, Sophia set down the paper. She reached for her cup and saucer, which—
drat!
—made a terrible clatter in the grip of her shaking fingers.

“Dearest,” her mother said, looking up from her needlepoint. “Are you unwell?”

Sophia set the tea back on its tray and arranged her features into what she hoped was a smile. “I am quite well, Mama, thank you. Just a bit—”

“Tired? Regretful? Plagued by guilt? Yes, well, that
does
tend to happen when one leaves one's unconscious mother in a carriage to run about
unchaperoned
in the dead of night.”

“Mama,” Sophia sighed, too exhausted to resist the impulse to roll her eyes, “I already told you, Mr. Hope needed my help—”

“Regardless,” Lady Blaise sniffed, returning to her embroidery hoop, “that does not excuse what you have done. We had better pray the marquess makes an offer before word gets out of your
nocturnal activities
.”

With her bottom lip Lady Blaise blew a lock of hair from her forehead. “If I survive your first season, I daresay I shall fill the bathtub with champagne and drink it. Every”—a furious tug on the thread—“last”—another tug—“
drop
. No one appreciates how difficult it all is for the poor mamas. Debutantes these days! If I behaved as you did last night, my father would've locked me in the cellar and thrown away the key. Mark my words, it is the end—the
end
I say!—of my sanity and my soul. And your cousin—I cannot even
begin
to speak on
that
subject . . .”

Lost as Lady Blaise was in the heat of her diatribe, Sophia hoped she would not notice her daughter slipping the gossip sheets into the folds of her skirt. God forbid Mama discover the news. Sophia would be spending the rest of her life in that cellar of Grandfather's.

The lines of text glared in her memory. She'd run her thumb over the words, smearing the ink as if she might erase them.

Like any debutante worth her salt, Sophia devoured the gossip pages first thing every morning, always before she tucked into breakfast but never after her first cup of tea. And like any debutante, she shamelessly enjoyed the faux pas and
affaires de coeur
of London's most fashionable, if indiscreet, aristocrats.

That is, until the indiscretion was her own.

It has been revealed by Mr. C. that a certain debutante S. has been ghostwriting the memoirs of a royal more accustomed to the company of men.

Fear bolted through her, clouding her belly with dread. Sophia understood the entry for what it was: a threat. While readers would glance over the lines, thinking them nothing short of a riddle, Sophia knew that the advertisement was the first of many. Doubtless more would be revealed with each new entry—
S
. would become Miss Sophia Blaise of No. 8 Grosvenor Square;
royal
La Reinette, notorious madam of The Glossy in Mayfair.

The clock was ticking. Sophia did not know how much time she had, or who this Mr. C. was, but she would try her damnedest to stop him.

Besides. The devil hadn't a clue whom he'd crossed. The indiscretions that made Sophia the target of his wrath also worked to her advantage. She hadn't outrun caped assassins and outwitted a Princess of Wales on accident. If anything, her adventures at Mr. Hope's side had taught her she had more to offer than her pretty manners and mediocre dancing.

Courage. Cunning. A way with strategically timed sobs.

Oh yes. Mr. C. would be sorry he ever threatened Miss Sophia Blaise.

Still, that did not mean the burden of discovery weighed upon her any less. The threat of losing everything that mattered was greater than ever. Her reputation, the glamorous match, the brilliant life she'd wanted for as long as she could remember—if she didn't move quickly, it would all be lost.

“The marquess.” Sophia looked to her mother. “I believe we should accept the invitation to his box at Drury Lane. This evening, perhaps?”

*   *   *

L
ater that evening, Mr. Hope was at his desk at Hope & Co., when a breathless groom delivered the note.

Found thief. At Duchess Street, come as soon as you get this.

It was unsigned, but Hope recognized the wild scrawl of Violet's hand. He leapt to his feet, nearly toppling the chair as he grabbed his coat and raced down the stairs.

“To my house,” he called to the coachman, “and quickly!”

Hope stared unseeing out the carriage window, his only awareness of the Friday evening traffic outside an occasional jerk this way and that as the driver careened onto backstreets.

His mind raced. Violet had found the thief. How? Who was he? What evidence did she have? A confession, perhaps. Or, even better, the diamond itself.

But Hope knew better. Violet would have mentioned such a thing in her note. And besides, it was too easy; he had the distinct feeling this chase would be long and messy. A fitting end, as it were, to his
History of the French Blue
.

The carriage had hardly come to a stop before Hope leapt onto the drive and up the wide stone steps of his house.

Mr. Daltrey, his butler, greeted him at the door. “In the library, sir.”

Hope darted down the hall. “We shall require shackles, Daltrey, and a bottle of champagne!” he called over his shoulder.

Charging through the library's mahogany doors, Hope stared in dismay. Lady Violet was pacing before the fire, hands clasped at the small of her back. Mr. Lake, wet hair plastered to his skull, sat nearby, his bare shoulders wrapped in the thick folds of a blanket.

There was no one else in the room.

Violet raised her head at the sound of his entry. “You may cut the acrobats free. For I've reason to believe I've found our thief.”

Hope removed his hat and watched Lake and Violet exchange glances.

“Pour us a drink, Hope,” Lake said, nodding at the sideboard.

“I don't want a drink.”

“Yes”—Lake looked him in the eye—“you do.”

Hope sighed in exasperation. Truth be told, he was still recovering from last night's port, and needed a nip like he needed a hole in his head.

Nevertheless. Something was afoot, and the dull gleam in Lake's eye told Hope he wasn't going to like it. Not one bit.

“What the devil happened to you, Lake?” he asked over his shoulder as he poured three glasses of American whiskey. “You look like you fell—well, like you fell into a lake.”

“Very funny.” Lake took his glass. “As a matter of fact, it was the Serpentine.”

Violet laughed. “And at the fashionable hour, too. Poor Lady Caroline, I don't know if she'll ever recover!”

“Lady Caroline.” Hope thought for a moment. “Lord Harclay's sister?”

Violet ignored Lake's glower. “She was chaperoning Lord Harclay and me as we took our turn about Hyde Park this afternoon. Halfway through our stroll, Mr. Lake mysteriously appeared from behind a tree, and next thing I knew Lady Caroline was careening into the Serpentine. The two of them get on splendidly. If I didn't know any better, I would think they were very old friends indeed.”

Hope glanced at Lake. Good God, was the man actually
blushing
? “You forget, Lady Violet, that Mr. Lake doesn't
have
any friends. Especially friends of the female variety.”

“My friends are none of your business,” Lake suddenly snarled. “Lady Caroline had the misfortune to fall into the river; I jumped in after her. No one was harmed. End of story.”

Hope bit back his laughter; he'd never seen Lake so uncomfortable. Clearly that was not the end of the story.

“I am sorry to have missed this stroll of yours,” Hope said with a grin. “Apparently it was quite eventful. You didn't find our thief, too, in the midst of all your adventures?”

Lady Violet took a deep breath. She met Lake's eyes one last time before settling her gaze on Hope. “Actually—”

“You did?” He wrinkled his brow. “You
did
.”

“I did indeed. You see, Mr. Hope, I've good reason to believe that William Townshend, the Earl of Harclay, stole your diamond.”

Mr. Hope choked on his brandy. “Really, Lady Violet, now is not the time to jest. Why, Harclay is not only an
earl
, and one of the most powerful peers at that; he is also one of my largest and most faithful clients. Tread carefully.”

Violet resumed her pacing. “I would not dare make such an accusation if I wasn't convinced it were true. Just as you would not dare forget my entire inheritance is invested in Hope and Company stock. I understand, Mr. Hope, how much you have at stake; I, too, risk everything in this.”

“But how?” Hope gulped at his whiskey. “And, more importantly,
why
? I know for a fact the man's got more money than all the pharaohs of Egypt. Combined.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Violet replied. “Only a man of Lord Harclay's hubris is bold and brash enough to thieve a diamond in the midst of a ball. Don't you see? The man is desperate for a thrill. Look at how he gambles, wagering small fortunes on this trifle and that. It's only money to him; he's got plenty of it, and is willing to spend thousands in the pursuit of excitement. Harclay is rich, he is clever, and he is bored. A more potent combination for a crime such as this does not exist.”

Hope stared down into his empty glass. Bloody hell, she was right; it
did
make perfect sense.

A gentleman jewel thief, moving in plain sight for all the world to see, risking the gallows in his search for a thrill.

Hope remembered the earl ogling Lady Violet at the ball, the French Blue glittering invitingly from her breast. Arm in arm, the two of them had waded through the crush, bodies pressed close as Harclay called for that fateful waltz.

And then all hell had broken loose, the ballroom plunged into darkness as the acrobats and Hope's traitorous guards harassed the perfumed masses.

It was genius, really. In the midst of the chaos, the earl could've easily swiped the diamond from Lady Violet's neck, and her none the wiser.

That
bastard
.

Hope resisted the urge to hurl his glass across the room. He would have to take his own advice and tread carefully. As yet there was no proof; and besides, Hope couldn't risk running off yet another client, never mind the infamously rakish Earl of Harclay.

“I pray you're wrong, Lady Violet.” Hope leaned against the mantel and looked into the fire, draining the last drop of his whiskey. “But if Lord Harclay is indeed our man, we need to find out where he's hiding the diamond. And we mustn't forget the diamond collar; I borrowed it from a . . . friend who misses it very much.”

Indeed, a cousin of the Tsar's had loaned Hope the collar; and the last thing he needed was batty old Alexander coming after him with all the might of the Russian army.

Lake nodded his agreement. “There's no negotiating with a man who wants for nothing. If what you're saying is true, Lady Violet, the only way to get back the French Blue is to take it. I can canvass his house; and Hope, you might search his records for any mention of a recent acquisition . . .”

Violet swallowed her whiskey in two long gulps and winced. “No. I'll do it.”

“Are you sure that's wise?” Hope turned to face her. “You just said you've got quite a bit at stake here.”

“I said I'll do it. Lord Harclay and I—” She stopped and looked away. “Trust me. I've a much better chance of finding the French Blue than the two of you.”

“Are you and—” Hope cleared his throat. “The earl—er—fond of each other, or courting, perh—”

“No.”

The vehemence of her reply startled Hope. He met Lake's gaze. This was a bad idea and they both knew it, but what else could they do?

“Very well,” Lake said, rising. “Don't say we didn't warn you. The earl is a dangerous man, my lady, and you could very well be harmed—or worse—on the hunt for the jewel.”

Violet looked at Hope levelly. “I'm the one who lost the French Blue. And I'm the one who's going to get it back.”