The Gentleman Jewel Thief Read online

  STOLEN HEARTS

  Lady Violet suddenly grew very still; the color faded from her cheeks, and her smile drew itself into a frown. He watched her eyes go wide as the realization dawned on her, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place at last.

  Somewhere in the trees above, birds twittered and flitted about; the edge of the Serpentine lapped quietly at their feet. The springtime afternoon marched onward as if today were but one of a string of simple, idle days, each the same as the last.

  But for Harclay and Lady Violet, today was not quite so simple, nor so idle. It was suddenly complicated, mined with explosive truths and well-played deceptions and a most thrilling episode of a physical encounter. It was impossible; it was improbable.

  And great God above, it thrilled Harclay to no end. He hadn’t felt such excitement since he was a boy, allowed to accompany his father on the hunt for the first time. He would never forget the way the rifle had felt in his hands, the pounding of his heart as he took aim.

  Granted, he’d ended up shooting the poor loader in the arse, a crime for which dear Papa had whipped him senseless. But the thrill remained imprinted on Harclay’s imagination nonetheless, the same thrill he now experienced under the accusatory gaze of Lady Violet Rutledge.

  She took a deep breath, all the while her blue-gray eyes never leaving his.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” she said, swallowing. “You’re the thief who stole the French Blue!”

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  THE GENTLEMAN JEWEL THIEF

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Jessica Peterson.

  Excerpt from The Hope Diamond Affair by Jessica Peterson copyright © 2014 by Jessica Peterson.

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  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14159-9

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2014

  Cover art by Aleta Rafton.

  Cover design by George Long.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Stolen Hearts

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Historical Note

  Excerpt from The Millionaire Rogue

  To Ben, for making my every dream come true.

  You are one hunk of burnin’ love.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a lot of chocolate, and even more wine, to the following fabulous ladies and gentlemen who helped bring this work of fiction to life:

  My agent, Alexandra Machinist, from whose incredible imagination the gentleman jewel thief first sprung. You are an inspiration, a rare talent, and an absolute joy to be around. When I grow up I want to be just like you.

  Stefanie Lieberman, whose insight into the first drafts of this book saved it from being one hot mess. Your instincts are spot-on; gratitude for sharing your gifts with me.

  My editor, Leis Pederson, who not only has the sexiest last name on the planet (ha!), but also took a chance on me and my gentleman jewel thief. You’re the editor I’ve always dreamed of having. Your insight is immaculate, and you have a knack for picking the best lunch places in the city. Can’t wait to do it again.

  My copy editor, Sheila Moody, who should be canonized. Your attention to detail is nothing short of a marvel. Many, many thanks for your patience, your dedication, and your brilliant suggestions. I cannot express to you how much I appreciate the time you spent with Harclay and Violet.

  My high school English teacher, Mr. Dailey, for encouraging the writer in me.

  My family, especially my parents, who were endlessly patient with their awkward, weird, Mr. Darcy–obsessed teenage daughter. I’d like to think I turned out okay.

  My friends, for loving me for who I am, and teaching me to do the same.

  Steve McQueen and Pierce Brosnan, who provided badass inspiration for my (hopefully) badass hero. You are sexy; never change.

  One

  City of London, Fleet Street

  Spring 1812

  The evening’s winnings in his pocket and a small, if indiscreet, smile on his lips, Lord William Townshend, tenth Earl of Harclay, strode into the bank. At once a gaggle of bespectacled Hope & Co. employees gathered at his elbow. One peeled back his coat while complimenting Harclay’s cologne, even though he wasn’t wearing any (“a vigorous choice, my lord, most vigorous!”); another took his hat and gloves and bowed, not once but three times, and appeared about to burst into sobs of gratitude.

  Biting back a sigh, Harclay continued up the familiar wide staircase, polished with such enthusiasm as to make it impossible to climb without the aid of the sturdy balustrade. He admired the zeal of Mr. Hope’s bankers, he really did. But to be greeted as if Harclay were Julius Caesar, triumphantly marching on Rome—it was a bit much, considering he came not to conquer Pompey, but to deposit a thousand or two.
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  And Mr. Hope—ah, he was an altogether different breed. It was why Harclay had, upon his accession to the title some eight years before, chosen to transfer his not inconsiderable wealth to the then-unknown Hope & Co. For Mr. Hope possessed qualities Harclay was hard-pressed to find in his English set: Hope was foreign and exotic and infinitely odd, but more than that, he was possessed of a sort of magnetic brilliance that was at once off-putting and entirely hilarious. That Hope had, through wise investment, nearly doubled Harclay’s fortune—well, the earl considered that quite secondary.

  The doors to Hope’s office were flung open to welcome him, and he strode into the cavernous room—more a museum, really, with a Japanese samurai suit of armor squatting in one corner and a passel of Persian rugs rolled up in another. Above Mr. Hope’s enormous desk hung a monumental Botticelli, which, despite Harclay’s admiration, was a bit indecent for a place of business, considering it depicted a breast-bearing goddess.

  And then there was Mr. Hope: tall, broad, imposing in that strange way of his. He stood and, though Harclay waved him off, proffered a short but lyrical bow. Behind them the doors swung shut and Harclay let out a small sigh of relief.

  “My dear Lord Harclay,” Mr. Hope said. “To have braved such hellish weather to seek my company—why, after a brandy or two I’d blush! Speaking of . . . ?”

  Hope raised an eyebrow to a stout pine sideboard crowded with crystal decanters winking seductively in the dull morning light.

  “Good man, it’s not yet noon.”

  Mr. Hope blinked. “Nonsense. In the north it’s common knowledge a nip in the day keeps the doctor at bay. Please, do sit.”

  As Hope busied himself at the sideboard, Harclay folded his tall frame into a rather wide but rickety antique chair. It groaned ominously beneath his weight.

  “I say, is this chair sound? I would hate to damage the”—he cleared his throat—“lovely piece.”

  Hope waved away his words, setting a heavy blue crystal snifter before him.

  “Ah.” Hope smiled, landing in his own chair, snifter pressed to his nose. “I daresay it will withstand its current burden, all things considered. It once belonged to Henry VIII—did you know he weighed over twenty stone at his death?”

  “I did not,” Harclay said, shifting his weight so that it rested not on the chair but on his own legs. “However did you manage to discover such a treasure?”

  “That profligate prince regent of yours,” Hope said. “Idiot fellow’s so deep in debt he’d sell his own bollocks for a fair price. Whatever is left of them, anyway.”

  “Fair point,” Harclay replied.

  “No matter.” Mr. Hope took a long, satisfied pull of brandy. “Assuming you have not come to discuss the prince’s rather epic stupidity—in which case I am most happy to oblige you—how might I be of assistance this morning, Lord Harclay? A withdrawal, perhaps?”

  Harclay shook his head. “Not this time. A deposit, actually, and a rather large one.”

  He placed his snifter on the desk. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced a stack of banknotes, each signed by its respective debtor and stamped with the credentials of various banks and agents.

  Harclay watched in amusement as Hope struggled to smother his surprise. The banker coughed, pounding on his chest, and finally managed to wheeze a reply.

  “Good God, my lord, did you ransack the royal treasury? Bankrupt the local gentry?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Not a duel, surely? Winner takes all? I hear blood wages are quite the thing.”

  Harclay laughed. For a brief moment he thought of his Manton dueling pistols, gleaming, gorgeous things that were his constant companions during a rather raucous youth. Alas, they had remained in their velvet-lined box for some time now, but Mr. Hope’s toes would positively curl if he knew how often those guns had been Harclay’s saving grace.

  “No, no,” Harclay said. “I’m afraid it’s just a bit of luck I’ve come across at White’s, games of chance and all that.”

  Mr. Hope scooped up the stack of notes and rifled through them. Harclay could tell the banker was biting his tongue to keep from exclaiming at the number of zeros on each note.

  Hope clucked his tongue. “Tsk-tsk. Those gentlemen friends of yours should know better than to gamble with the Lord Harclay. Hell, even I’ve been warned about you. Something of a legend you’ve become; they say your luck never runs out. That your stakes are impossibly high.”

  Harclay, legs aching, leaned as far back as Henry Tudor’s priceless chair would allow without splintering into a dozen pieces. “My companions at last night’s table were”—here that secret smile returned to his lips—“in a rather generous mood.”

  “Well”—Mr. Hope held up the stack of notes with a smile—“all the better for you, my lord, though your accounts are already robust, yes, most robust. Many gentlemen of—ah, your particular age and station have quite the opposite problem, I’m afraid.”

  “Indeed,” Harclay replied. He was hardly surprised. For all their swagger and impeccable breeding, most of his friends were frightfully broke. Harclay pitied the poor fellows and helped when he could; nonetheless, there was no helping his set’s near-complete lack of intelligence and savvy, and the temptation to best them time and time again proved far too enticing.

  “Very well,” Mr. Hope said. He clapped the long edge of the notes against his desk to gather them into a neat pile. “I shall see to this at once.”

  “Excellent,” Harclay said and made to rise. “And it goes without saying—”

  Mr. Hope pressed his thumbnail to his lips. “To the grave, Harclay. Can’t have word of your companions’ most sizable losses getting to the papers or, worse, to their wives.”

  “Gratitude, good sir, I do appreciate your discretion,” Harclay replied. He was about to turn and exit the room when Mr. Hope held up his hand.

  “And one more thing,” the banker said. “I assume you have not received the invitation I sent, some days ago? Post is dreadful this time of year, what with all this rain washing out the roads, and I know a man of your stature would never be so rude as to send a tardy reply.”

  Harclay detected the slightest trace of irony in Mr. Hope’s words and replied with no small measure of his own. “I abhor rudeness, Mr. Hope, above all things.”

  For a moment Mr. Hope studied Harclay, his dark eyes twinkling, but the earl merely returned Hope’s gaze with a measured amount of disinterest.

  Of course Harclay had received the invitation, and, as he had done with all others from Mr. Hope, he had blatantly, rudely ignored it, as had many of his friends. The banker was rich beyond imagining, indeed, with the tastes and fine manners of a gentleman, but alas bore no title; the more rigid of Harclay’s set zealously scorned Hope while harboring a secret envy of his fortune and freedom.

  That Hope did not have the good luck to be born into a blue-blooded family mattered not a whit to Harclay. No, his reason for ignoring Hope’s invitation was rather more mundane. Every year, on the first Friday of May, Hope hosted the most extravagant and hotly anticipated ball of the season. Hope, in usual form, attached to each ball a sufficiently ridiculous theme. Last year, the more adventurous of the ton arrived dressed as popes, assassins, and breast-bearing courtesans for “The Murderous Medici”; the year before, it had been “One Thousand and One Nights in the Emperor’s Hareem,” whatever that meant.

  Harclay would rather forfeit his tongue, or even his manhood, than attend such a spectacle. The same tedious conversation with the same tedious debutantes; the crush of rooms and the smell of damp, drunken bodies; the spirited dances and inevitable swoons: all this glory, but raised to fever pitch by daringly cut costumes, cunningly crafted masks, and Hope’s rather impressive cellar of cognacs and brandies.

  No, Harclay mused, no, thank you indeed.

  “I know you haven’t attended many of my humble soirees in the past
,” Mr. Hope said, reading Harclay’s thoughts. “But this year, I’m doing something a bit different.”

  “Oh?” Harclay said, with a longing glance toward the exit.

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Hope replied, a sly grin on his lips. “Imagine it, if you will: the glory days of Versailles, when the Sun King, Louis XIV, ruled over the most splendid and sumptuous court the world has ever seen. The feasts, the silks, the pomp—the jewels.”

  A pulse of interest shot through Harclay so quickly he struggled to catch it before it showed up on his face. Jewels? Now, this was something interesting—something different, new, unexpected.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Mr. Hope said, lowering his voice. “After much searching, I do believe I’ve managed to locate one of the French crown jewels.”

  “The French crown jewels?” Harclay drawled in his best monotone. “Didn’t they disappear ages ago, at the start of the Revolution?”

  Mr. Hope smiled. “Don’t play dumb with me, my lord, for you are as familiar with the tale as anyone else. We know a band of thieves broke into the royal treasury shortly after poor King Louis XVI and Queen Marie-Antoinette were arrested. The thieves, and the jewels, seemed to have vanished overnight. And now, nearly twenty years later, one of said gems has resurfaced.”

  “But how—”

  Mr. Hope daringly waved his finger. “A gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

  Harclay furrowed his brow. “I believe that applies to something else entirely—”

  “As I was saying,” Hope said, nearly perspiring with excitement, “I’ve managed to purchase the very same jewel worn by the King of France!”

  Harclay paused, trying in vain to contain his curiosity. “Which jewel, exactly? Surely not—”

  “The French Blue? Yes, that’s the one. It is the crown jewel of my collection, so to speak.”

  Harclay made a show of an enormous yawn, though it did nothing to still the rapid beating of his heart. The French Blue!—a treasure indeed. It was rumored to be the size of an apricot, and the most brilliant diamond ever discovered. Harclay had, of course, heard whisperings of the curse attached to the stone; but these only increased his interest. An enormous diamond, worn by kings and cursed by their royal blood?