by Mia Marlowe
“There’s no reason for rude names.” She snatched her hand away. Perhaps if she kept him talking, she might sidle over to the door and escape. It would be his word against hers and no one who hadn’t seen her unlock a safe would believe her capable of it. “A liar has very few stones to throw. Didn’t you say you’d join Lord Montjoy at his club this night?”
“Yes, I did, but standing up a friend at his club and relieving a man of his jewels are not sins of the same magnitude, are they?”
“Relieving a man of his jewels.” She shot a wicked glare at him. “Now there’s a thought.”
Viola wished she could call the words back as soon as they left her lips. Her association with Willie had exposed her to so many overheard vulgarities while she waited for his shop to clear long enough for them to conduct their business. It was coarsening her sensibilities. No lady would ever think such a thing, much less say it.
Quinn snorted. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t quake in my boots”—his grin faded—“but I didn’t lie. I spread misinformation. A time-honored tactic used with good reason.”
“I suppose you think I couldn’t possibly have a good reason for my actions.” She took a nonchalant step or two toward the door.
Broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, Quinn matched her movement with the sinuous grace of a great cat. If she had to flirt her way out of this predicament, it wouldn’t be the most onerous task she’d ever undertaken. But she’d only go so far. If she’d been willing to sell herself in the first place, she wouldn’t have had to resort to theft. “I suppose you mean to denounce me and see me ruined.”
“I greatly fear I’m too late to be the instrument of your ruin, milady.”
Viola brought her hand up sharply to slap him, but he caught her arm in mid-swing and held it motionless. His intense gaze froze the rest of her. There was a thin scar running through one of his eyebrows toward the side part in his sable hair. Lieutenant Quinn might be rakishly handsome, but he was also a man of action. Dangerous. Among the men of the ton, he’d stand out as feral in the midst of domesticated stock.
“My servant has a loaded revolver pointed at your midsection and he’s overprotective to a fault.” His voice dropped to a low purr of silky menace. “Are you certain you wish to strike me?”
“A lady cannot defend her honor without threat of gunshot?”
“So there is honor among thieves. I’d wondered about that.” He motioned for the Hindu to lower his weapon with his other hand, while keeping hold of Viola’s wrist. “That’ll be all, Sanjay. The lady and I have things to discuss.”
“As you wish.” The Indian stowed the firearm in his wide sash belt and pressed both his palms together in a gesture of farewell. “Namaste. But guard yourself from demons, sahib”—he shot an evil glare at Viola—“however pleasingly they disguise themselves.” He slipped out the door as quietly as silk flowing over bare skin.
“I demand you release me.” Viola’s wrist throbbed in Quinn’s tight grip. She didn’t want him to become aware of how fast her heart was hammering.
“You’re in no position to make demands. Do you plan on taking another swipe at me?”
“Not unless you do something to deserve it.”
“Fair enough.” Quinn let her go and sat on the foot of his bed. “Now I’m fully prepared to hear why you’ve chosen to risk shame and prison for a few baubles.”
“You would sit while a lady stands?”
“Of course not.” He hooked an ankle over one knee. “Should a lady break into my bedchamber in the dead of night, be assured I will stand.”
Viola narrowed her eyes. If he was set on insulting her, he’d never be moved by her plight. She drew her lips tight together. He did not deserve a front row seat at a recitation of her private pain.
“You’re welcome to sit, too, if you like.” He patted the brocade counterpane beside him.
“I’ll stand.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Being a thief and being a lady are not mutually exclusive.”
“It’ll be hard to convince the magistrate of that.”
“If you planned to turn me over to the authorities, we wouldn’t still be here.” Viola hoped she was right. It would kill her mother if she were arrested.
“Clever girl. I don’t plan on hauling you before the magistrate. I shall have to add astute to your list of qualities,” he said with a grudging nod. “Did you know The Mayfair Jewel Thief is famous even in Bombay? Stealthy. Only takes from those who can well afford to lose. Never fooled by fake jewels. You see why we set out to catch you.”
She knew there was a sizable reward for her capture, but she didn’t know word of her exploits had traveled so far. “Then your story about a fistful of uncut jewels isn’t true.”
“It’s two fistfuls actually and they’re real enough. Mostly.” His gaze traveled down her body to her legs, which were encased in skin hugging buff trousers. “I have no need to turn you over for the reward, so you and I will have to come to another arrangement.”
“Another arrangement? If you expect me to share your bed in exchange for your silence, you’re destined for disappointment.”
He chuckled. “That wasn’t my plan, but it bears consideration. I’m gratified to hear you’re thinking about sharing my bed.”
She was quick enough to deliver a ringing slap to his smoothshaven cheek.
Quinn reacted just as quickly, pulling her onto the feather tick and pinning her beneath him. She sank into the mattress as his long hard body covered hers.
“Release me this instant!” Viola pounded against his chest with her free hand, but he caught it up and joined it with the other one he’d stretched out above her head. He wrapped his legs around hers and held her immobile.
“A woman who sneaks into a man’s bedchamber shouldn’t expect to emerge without paying a penalty.” His mouth descended to swallow her protest in a demanding kiss.
She struggled beneath him, but then his lips softened. He slanted his mouth over hers, as if he sensed exactly how she liked to be kissed. His kiss became a beguiling summons instead of a forced intimacy. Her body responded with a disconcerting flutter in her belly and the beginning of a deep ache.
This is insane. Viola knew better than to let a man use her passionate nature against her. She willed herself to go limp and unresponsive.
He pulled back and looked down at her, curiosity arching his brow.
“Is that your idea of a penalty?” she asked.
“No, kissing you just seemed a good idea at the time.”
“You don’t think so now?”
“It might be a distraction. You see, we are going to be partners, Lady Viola,” he said with certainty.
“Not very gentlemanly of you, Lieutenant, on both counts.” She fought to keep her voice even. “Have I no say in the matter?”
“About our partnership, no. Not if you wish to avoid the magistrate.” His rough baritone rumbled over her whole body, leaving a shiver in its wake. His eyes darkened as he looked down at her and she felt his hard maleness pressed against the juncture of her thighs. “About whether it’s more than business between us, yes, you have a say.”
His heart pounded against her breastbone. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Heaven help her, she hadn’t been this tempted by a man since—she snipped off the thought. Viola knew better than to let her body make the decision. She sucked in a quick breath. “Just business,” she whispered.
“I’ll accept that for now. But for the record, you’re the one who brought up sharing a bed. If I let you up, will you refrain from pummeling me?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Quinn rolled off her and pulled her into a sitting position beside him. He was perfectly still for a moment, bridling himself. Then he rose and walked briskly to the chest of drawers. He pulled out a stocking and a white handkerchief. After spreading the kerchief on the bed, he dumped the contents of the stocking onto it. A glowing rainbow of stones glittered up at Viola.
“You keep your jewels in an old stocking?”
He shrugged. “It seemed more secure than the wall safe with the likes of you prowling about London.”
She frowned at the gemstones. It was an impressive pile of riches, but the resonance was off. “Some of these aren’t genuine.”
He cocked a brow at her and nodded. “Show me.”
She drew a deep breath and stretched out her hand. She’d do the pearls first. Their sibilant, watery voices were always easiest to bear. She picked up a gray pearl, a smoky iridescent orb. The low hum began inside her head.
Like a waving bed of kelp, the pearl spoke to her in wobbling, gentle tones. The words were garbled, and in no language she knew, but a quick vision of a wizened old gent with a purple turban and scarlet-dyed beard flashed across her mind. She dropped the pearl before the precious thing could show her any more.
It was unusual for her to receive a vision from a pearl. Perhaps it was because they were never as old as other gems. Perhaps the fragile substance resisted picking up imprints from its owners. Or perhaps pearls realized they too were mortal and didn’t want to carry someone else’s burden for the course of their stay on earth.
Whatever secret the gray pearl bore, Viola didn’t want to know it.
“That pearl is real,” she said. “And very old. You’ll not find its mate. It will have to be used as a pendant.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know.” How could she explain something she didn’t understand herself? She only knew she was different.
And people mistrusted those who were different.
She turned back to the rest of the jewels. One by one, she sorted out sweet-voiced carnelians and sultry-toned lapis lazuli, shoving their silent imitations to one side. Then she moved on to the harder gems—the ones with more strident voices. The ones most likely to invade her mind with nightmarish images of their past.
She gleaned out the rasping emeralds, the muttering sapphires, and wailing rubies, sorting the paste gems off in a small pile by themselves. Some of the fakes were quite good and probably would have fooled most jewelers, but if a stone didn’t speak to her, she knew it wasn’t real.
Finally, she was left with five diamonds. She drew a deep breath to steel herself against them. Of all jewels, diamonds screamed out the atrocities in their pasts most painfully. Perhaps being uncut would help. They couldn’t have had contact with too many people.
“Why are you stopping?” Quinn asked. “Can’t you tell with diamonds?”
She picked up the largest and breathed a sigh of relief. “Fake.”
“You’re sure?”
She dropped it on the floor and ground it under her boot heel. The stone splintered into shards.
“Damn. Sanjay had me almost convinced that one was genuine.”
“Sanjay was pulling your leg.” She winced at the slang that rolled so easily off her tongue.
Viola reached for the next stone. The moment her fingertips brushed it, the diamond screeched at her, a high-pitched squeal on the edge of sound. She bit her lip and pulled back her hand before it could send her an image. “Real.”
Quinn moved the gem to the “keepers” pile and it whined softly when he touched it.
How does he not hear that? It was unusual for a stone to speak without her touch merely because she was near. The gem must have a particularly vicious story to tell. That one she would avoid at all costs.
The rest of the diamonds were genuine. Viola managed to handle them quickly enough that only one was able to send her a red-splashed image of the moment the dark-skinned man who first dug it out of the ground was hacked to death for it. She swallowed hard and tried to expunge the horrific scene from her mind.
“So the rumors are true. You cannot be fooled by a fake, no matter how cunningly realistic.” Quinn scooped up the genuine stones and replaced them in his stocking.
She stood. Barring that last diamond, she’d escaped rather easily. She doubted any of the visions had lasted long enough to leave her with the grinding headache that usually accompanied the use of her gift. “I’m glad to have been of service. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Not so fast. I haven’t explained the purpose of our partnership.”
“But I’ve already culled your stones.”
“That was only a test. I had to be sure you were the real Mayfair Jewel Thief. Sit,” he said curtly.
His tone was so commanding, she obeyed reflexively. Then she stood back up. She wasn’t one of his sepoys to be ordered about.
“Very well, I’ll sit.” He claimed the end of the bed again and grinned up at her.
Irritation fizzed up her spine, but she was the one who’d chosen to stand.
“Here are my terms and they are nonnegotiable,” Quinn said. “You will render me a burglary service, and at the end of our association, you will receive half the gems you just saw.”
“My choice from among them?” Something inside her quivered with hope. It would mean her family’s money troubles were over. She’d never have to steal again.
Quinn nodded.
“Very well. I accept your terms. What do you want from me?”
“What do you know about red diamonds?” he asked.
“Red diamonds? They’re extremely rare.” In all her thievery, she’d never run across one. “And because of that, they’re worth the earth. But they aren’t for everyone. It’s said they often carry curses.”
“Are you the superstitious sort?”
“No.” It wasn’t superstition to believe something true. She’d be able to hear the curse firsthand. “But as far as I know, there are no red diamonds in all of England. Even if there were, I wouldn’t steal one.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be impossible to fence. And an absolute sin to recut into smaller stones. Red diamonds are never overly large to begin with, no more than five or six carats. What would I do with one?”
“Let me worry about that part.” Quinn rose to his feet. “I need to see you home, Lady Viola. You have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.”
She was gratified to hear him use her title, but the rest of his words made her slant him a suspicious look. “What am I going to be doing?”
“You’ll be leaving for Paris with me. There is a diamond called Baaghh kaa kkhuun enroute to the Queen’s Royal Collection. And I mean to meet the courier in France.”
“Baaghh kaa kkhuun?”
“It means Blood of the Tiger,” Quinn said. “And you, my Lady Light-fingers, are going to help me steal it.”
CHAPTER 2
“We cannot trust a thief. Especially not a woman.” Sanjay folded a flowing tunic and stuffed it into a small carpetbag. “A woman muddies every stream she steps in. You know it to be true. When the memsahibs came, did not your countrymen change toward my people?”
Sanjay was right. Social barriers between the white and brown races were swiftly erected once Englishmen brought their wives and sweethearts to the subcontinent.
“I do not like this plan.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic. It’ll work. You’ll see.” Quinn eyed his friend’s luggage, wishing that his contained such comfortable garments. When Quinn had lived in India, he often donned indigenous garb. He was a natural mimic and his facility with the language was prodigious. He spoke Hindi well enough to pass as a native in any bazaar where he was not already known as a Pukka—devil of a sahib.
“We don’t have much choice. Worthington’s telegrams are becoming increasingly worrisome.” Lieutenant Freddie Worthington shared Quinn’s concerns over the growing native unrest. He’d stayed behind in Delhi, but sent Quinn a weekly update on conditions there. Quinn had let him know to send the next report to the Hotel de Crillon in Paris.
“The fact of the matter is we need the Mayfair Jewel Thief and she happens to be female.” Exceedingly female. Quinn grinned at the memory of her unbound breast in his hand and her soft lips beneath his. He raised a brow at Sanjay. �
�I’ve never known you to shun the company of a comely woman, Your Highness.”
“No indeed. A woman is useful for a great many things.” Sanjay’s teeth glinted in a wide smile. Then the smile faded. “But I have a bad feeling about this one. There is a darkness about her.” Sanjay’s black eyes snapped. “And do not use my title, not even when we are alone. I am no longer a prince of Hind.”
“Through no fault of yours.” Quinn’s lips tightened in a hard line. “It’s not just.”
“Bah! No one but a child or a fool—or an Englishman—expects the world to be just.”
“I don’t know why the Home Office wouldn’t listen.” Frustration made the muscles between Quinn’s shoulders bunch into a hard knot.
The Doctrine of Lapse had stripped Sanjay of his rightful place. When the Sultan of Amjerat died, the East India Company deemed that the line died with him because Sanjay was his adopted son. Fostering was common in England, but adoption? Never. Quinn had tried to explain the custom to his superiors till he was blue, but they wouldn’t listen.
“It does seem odd. Adopted heirs have been recognized in my country for centuries. What else is a man who begets only daughters to do?” Sanjay shrugged.
“Ah, but you see, for us English, succession is only about bloodlines.” Quinn ground the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. “As if people were damned racehorses.”
The lack of an heir with the previous sultan’s blood in his veins was all the excuse the grasping East India Company needed to step in and claim Sanjay’s kingdom for itself. Amjerat was a small principality, but strategically located at the apex of several trade routes. Lord Dalhousie possessed the will to back his actions with the full weight of the British military.
Fortunately, Quinn succeeded in convincing Sanjay that Amjerat’s half dozen battle-elephants and fighters armed with aging jezzails and limited ammunition would have no chance against crack English troops. Sanjay refused to endanger his people by pressing his claim with war.
