The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 5

  But, he thought with a sly smile, that would be hardly sporting of him; and not much fun besides. For he imagined Lady Violet to be that rarest of creatures: a female capable of very great fun indeed. Perhaps, beneath the stony layer of her impertinence, her reputed abhorrence for men of all sizes and stripes, there existed a creature of great wit, brilliant spirit, and startling confidence.

  Perhaps.

  Ah, the hours of entertainment she could provide. In his bed; on top of his desk, papers flying everywhere; in the grand fountain at his palace in the country (a particular fantasy of his); on the grass; on a settee in the smoking room; in his carriage, the sounds of their union shocking those on the street whom they passed . . .

  “Lord Harclay!”

  Her voice interrupted his thoughts, and he moved to cross his legs in an attempt to hide his painful condition.

  “Heavens, and here I was the one worried about holding my liquor. Are you quite all right?” she said.

  Again Harclay cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, of course. Just working out where in my house you might stay the night most comfortably.”

  “Spend the night!” she cried, the look of horror on her face so extreme it made Harclay laugh. “But you can’t be serious! I may dance the waltz, Lord Harclay, and have a taste for stiff punch, but I do have a care for my reputation. If it is discovered I stayed unchaperoned at your house, I’ll be ruined, and so will my family, my cousin Sophia—”

  “No one will know. You have my word. You were with me when the theft occurred; Hope instructed me to get you out. You are under my care and protection now; it is my responsibility to keep you safe. And you won’t be safe at your father’s house.”

  “But my family,” she repeated. “That’s why I must get back to my family. My aunt will be frantic with worry, and my father—they are in danger—”

  He held aloft the bottle in his hand. “I’ll send word to your family straightaway, and send one of my men to keep watch. An irregular circumstance indeed, but what could one expect after a most irregular evening? Besides, I thought you said you wanted another drink.”

  To his great delight, this gave Lady Violet pause. After a moment, she huffed and made a great show of crossing her arms across her chest.

  “If I can’t be with my family, then I should be with Mr. Hope,” she said, “trying to catch the thieves. I shan’t rest until I do.”

  “Of course you won’t,” Harclay said. “But the thieves—whoever they may be—had a rather brilliant scheme in place, I’m afraid. For the time being they have disappeared, and no effort of ours tonight would go very far in finding them. Mr. Hope’s house is likely to be a great mess, and us already in our cups.” He looked to the bottle in his hand.

  “No,” he continued, “it is best we get a good night’s rest and revisit the scene of the crime in the morning. I’ve found I can do most anything after a good breakfast and a strong cup of coffee.

  “Besides, everyone in that ballroom was far too busy trying not to have their legs shot off to notice us leaving together. Given the circumstances, I hardly think it matters where you sleep tonight, as long as you escaped intact and unharmed.”

  She swallowed and looked out the carriage window, her hand splayed across her chest. “The diamond isn’t the only jewelry the thieves stole,” she said at last.

  Harclay furrowed his brow. “Whatever are you talking about? I didn’t see you wearing any other baubles.”

  She met his eyes. “I always wear my mother’s wedding band on a chain about my neck. The chain must’ve tangled with the French Blue; it’s gone. The thieves must have ripped it from my neck when they took Hope’s diamond.”

  Harclay paused. “We’ll get it back,” he said slowly, not daring to meet her eyes. “We’ll get your mother’s ring back, Lady Violet, I swear it.”

  The carriage came to a slow but halting stop, nearly tossing Lady Violet into his lap (a near disaster, what with the jewel in his breeches). He pulled aside the curtain and looked out the window to see the towering facade of his house, the gas lamps on either side of the door flickering their welcome.

  He’d done it. The French Blue was his, nestled safely if inelegantly within his undergarments, and no one had so much as seen him steal it, much less suspected him of the theft.

  No one, that was, except Lady Violet Rutledge. She’d witnessed the crime, after all; and now that he’d been exposed to her considerable wit and cunning, he knew he would have to proceed carefully. For with the right clues—a careless word here, another there—she would doubtless unravel his scheme.

  A challenge, he thought with a smile, and a gloriously unexpected one at that.

  Six

  Brook Street, Hanover Square

  Violet struggled to contain her surprise as she crossed the threshold into the Earl of Harclay’s London house. A fashionable address, surely; the infamously opulent Harewood House occupied a prime location in the same square. And yet it was not at all what she expected. She’d envisioned a grotesquely large pile, draped in sensuous satin the color of rubies with a well-stocked liquor cabinet in every room: a bachelor’s house, tailored to a life of wickedness and dissipation.

  What greeted her, however, was not a nest of sin but a home of subdued, exquisite taste. It was obvious Harclay had taken pains to remain true to the house’s historic character: hand-carved moldings decorated the walls, while tastefully worn black and white marble tiles covered the floor. Paintings of ancestors, their costumes extravagant but faces grim, lined a wide and simple stair.

  There were no gaudy tapestries, no extra-wide beds or whores hiding in doorways (as far as she could tell, anyway). It was a gentleman’s house, lovely and inviting; a fire burned merrily in the hearth, while a half dozen household staff greeted them with smiles. They were prudent enough to ignore the egregious breach of etiquette and propriety that Violet’s presence presented, though she couldn’t help but squirm under their curious gazes.

  No one will know. You are under my care now; I will keep you safe.

  Violet prayed Harclay kept his word.

  “Lady Violet Rutledge is to be my guest this evening,” Harclay said, handing off his hat and gloves to a footman. “I took her under my protection following a series of rather unfortunate events at Mr. Hope’s ball. Please see to her every comfort. The back bedroom, I think, is where she’ll be safest.”

  The maids bobbed their heads, and before Violet could so much as say good evening, they whisked her up the stairs and down a tall, shadowy hallway. They paused before a wide door and, opening it, allowed Violet to pass through. The room was dark at first but smelled of fresh air and clean linen.

  She stood rather awkwardly to the side as one maid lit the candles while another worked to start a fire in the limestone fireplace. As the fire growled and crackled to life, a third maid let down Violet’s hair.

  “Shall I fetch more blankets, m’lady?” The maid frowned. “You’re shaking like a leaf!”

  Violet bit the inside of her cheek, willing her bones to be still. “No, thank you,” she replied. “The fire will help.”

  The maid patted her shoulder. “No need to be frightened, m’lady; you’re safe here. The earl looks after us all and sees that those under his roof are well cared for.”

  I’m sure the earl cares for the ladies writhing in his bed very well indeed, thought Violet wryly.

  After Violet assured the maids, and assured them again, that she was most comfortable, they took their leave. She stood by the fireplace, blanket wrapped about her shoulders, and let out a long, slow breath. Her heart was racing; and as the silence settled in around her a small black sensation crawled out of her belly and invaded her limbs, her every thought.

  Terror. Sheer, childish terror, like she hadn’t felt since she was a child, running from the governess’s swatting stick. She was positively immobilized by it and stood frozen by
the fire, her gaze darting from this shadow to that, convinced each belonged to a bandit. Good God, she thought in panic, they’d found her, had followed Harclay’s carriage, and now they would finish her off, carve her body into a hundred grotesque little pieces.

  Where was that damned drink he’d promised her?

  Violet nearly leapt into the fire at a brusque knock on the door. She swallowed hard and smoothed the long, loose waves of her hair from her forehead. Squaring her shoulders, she took the poker from the grate and made for the door. Surely the bandits, if they were to come at all, would come through the windows; it seemed to be their preferred method of entry.

  Still, one could never be too careful. And though Violet had never heard of such a thing as a polite bandit, one who knocked on doors rather than breaking them down, she was frightened enough to believe they existed.

  “Who is it?” she called softly.

  “’Tis the butler, Avery,” came a familiar voice. “Forgive the late hour, my lady, but I’ve a message for you.”

  Butler? But Avery had played the part of coachman not a half hour before, driving them from Hope’s to Hanover Square. How very strange. Surely the earl could afford to hire a man for each position?

  Violet cracked open the door and peered out into the hall. To her relief her eyes settled not on a bloodthirsty criminal but on the round, jolly face of Avery. He held aloft a silver tray, on which rested a neatly folded letter with her name scrawled in rather lovely script across the front.

  “Thank you, Avery,” she replied, opening the door wider.

  As Violet took the letter in her free hand, Avery cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels. “Might I, ah,” he began, “hold that for you, my lady?”

  With his hairy brow he motioned to the poker in her hand.

  “Oh, oh, dear me, it isn’t what you think,” she said and blushed so violently she feared, for a moment, an apoplectic attack.

  “Very well, then. May I?” He took the poker and motioned to the grate.

  While Avery returned the poker to its proper place, Violet opened the letter. Her hands trembled as she read it, though this wasn’t fear; this was altogether too pleasant, a thrill.

  I owe you a drink.

  And there’s that spot on your gown we must see to.

  Follow Avery—he will bring you to me.

  Violet’s heart very nearly leapt from her chest; did he really mean to see to the spot? She looked down at her gown. There it was, a small lick of pink on the seam just above her right breast.

  She took a deep breath, trying in vain to gather her wits.

  A late-night letter, delivered by a trusted coachman-cum-butler; a command to join him in an illicit rendezvous involving brandy and perhaps—well, she dared not imagine.

  Good God, it was the stuff of legend!

  But Violet was not the kind of woman to swoon; indeed, she loathed those who did and wished most ardently they be exposed first as terrible actresses, and second as shameless attention-seekers.

  No, Violet was better than that. And so she gathered the blanket and her wits about her, slid into her slippers, and without a word followed Avery into the dark unknown of Lord Harclay’s house.

  The rooms they passed were hidden by shadow and darkness, but Violet noticed a certain scent permeated the house—a scent she recognized from her waltz with Harclay earlier that evening. It had clung to his person as it now settled on every surface of his house. Lemon, and fresh laundry, and the slightest hints of leather and ancient musk.

  It was his scent, unlike any other she’d known. There was something deeply personal about it, imbued with Harclay’s history, his family, his past, and all he hoped for in the future. He carried the scent not as others carry cologne or perfume but as one would bear one’s heritage, the pride he took in the love he bore his family.

  Granted, Harclay didn’t always deserve to wear such a grand scent. If only his exalted ancestors knew he’d shared that scent with half the females in London, left it lingering on the beds of the most sordid of establishments, they’d come back from the dead and remove his manhood, make no mistake.

  At last Avery led her to a pair of slender doors. Soft light streamed from the crack between them, and Violet could make out the pound of footsteps, the tinkling of glassware, from within.

  Avery opened the door and turned to her. “Madam,” he said, and without another word he bowed and took his leave.

  Violet stared into the room, her every sense achingly alive. A tingle of anticipation shot through the length of her.

  This, she mused with a small smile, was dangerous.

  She stepped through the open door with her head held high and as much grace as she could muster, what with her loose hair and a blanket wrapped about her shoulders.

  “My lord,” she said quietly, dropping into a curtsy.

  “Lady Violet,” he replied with a short bow. “Thank you for meeting me. I recognize my summons was most—unorthodox.”

  Violet’s gaze rose along with her rise from the curtsy and fell on the shapely outline of Lord Harclay. She was forced to bite her lip against her surprise; he was in a shocking state of undress. He wore a white linen shirt undone at the throat, revealing a small swatch of taut, tanned chest. The shirt was tucked into a pair of tight buckskins that hugged his thighs so tightly she could see the shapely curve of his muscles beneath. He wore top boots—no wonder he’d made so much noise—and Violet felt the air leave her lungs as she drank him in, looking nothing like the gentleman she knew from the hours of her panic but rather like an unkempt, intrepid pirate, sun kissed and hardened, unafraid to pursue that which he desired.

  At once an image flashed through Violet’s mind: Harclay the pirate, pleasuring her on board his ship beneath the stars. He reared above her, kissing her neck savagely, a golden hoop dangling from one ear . . .

  Oh, God.

  “I say, are you unwell?” Harclay said. He stepped forward, head stooped as if in concern. “You look rather piqued.”

  Violet waved him off. “That drink you owe me, if you please, Lord Harclay.”

  Harclay grinned at her forwardness. “Very well. I’ve wine, brandy, even a bit of rag water—”

  “Whatever you’re having,” Violet blurted out. “If you please.”

  “Of course. Please, sit,” he replied, turning to the gleaming sideboard nestled into an alcove in the wall.

  With no small effort, Violet tore her gaze from Lord Harclay’s maddeningly perfect backside—really, it was egregiously lovely—and discovered Avery had led her to the drawing room. In the middle of the small space, a pair of sofas faced each other, and in the far corner, Violet made out gilt wingback chairs, flanked on either side by two small tables, each of which was topped by a silver candelabra. Two good-sized bookshelves, stuffed with dusty tomes, stood behind the tables.

  It was decorated with the same impeccable, restrained taste as the hall and bedroom; Harclay’s touch was everywhere, from the subdued mural of a country landscape on the walls to the faded but exquisite Axminster carpet beneath her feet.

  Violet sat on the edge of a couch, arraying the blanket about her person so that Harclay might not so much as glimpse a finger. Better to wrap oneself up like a mummy, she reasoned, than hazard catching the earl’s carnal attentions. From the sideboard came a muffled pop—what was he doing over there, anyway?—and Violet at last worked up the courage to break the silence.

  “Do you think,” she ventured, “that many people were hurt? I heard the gunshots, and the shouts, of course, but I couldn’t tell if anyone had been harmed.”

  “As far as I could tell, no one was seriously injured,” he said over his shoulder. “The thieves discharged their guns to scare us. If you recall, they aimed away from the crowd. Though I daresay Hope’s ceiling is worse for the wear.”

  Harclay strode across the roo
m to meet her, two fine crystal coupes—was that champagne?—in his hands. He passed one to Violet, and she stared at it as if he’d handed her a potato.

  “Forgive me, Lord Harclay.” Violet blinked. “Are we celebrating something?”

  Harclay held out his glass. “To a successful evening.”

  “A successful evening!” Violet drew back. “But I don’t understand—”

  “We made it out alive, didn’t we?” Harclay clinked his glass against her own. “Alive, unharmed, and with our thirst intact. A success indeed.”

  He threw back his champagne with all the vigor of a batsman at play. Violet brought hers to her lips with the intention of taking a ladylike sip. But as soon as the silky sweet liquid touched her tongue—it was good champagne, very, very good, and cold—she knew she was in trouble. She took one gulp, then another, the champagne smoothing her frayed nerves as it made its way through her limbs.

  “Better,” she said breathily when she’d drained the last drop from her coupe. “Much, much better.”

  Harclay raised his brow. “Another round, then.”

  Violet wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her limbs suddenly loose, light. “No, thank you.”

  But the earl filled her coupe anyway, which she in true form finished straightaway.

  He sat across from her, arm draped casually over the back of the sofa, and watched as she lapped at the last of the champagne. She felt her color rise under his scrutiny, and for a fleeting moment she met his gaze.

  His dark eyes danced in the warm, low light of the fire; danced with something Violet found wholly unsettling. He appeared a wolfish predator, savoring the taste of the kill to come. Though he did not smile, the lay of his lips suggested he was amused by something, intrigued perhaps.

  Violet looked away. He was terribly, awfully striking; and with the champagne taking captive her senses she found him unbearably so. Very carefully she placed her coupe on the table between them, a flag of surrender as if to say yes, Harclay, you won this round, but next time it won’t be so easy.