Touch of a Thief

by Mia Marlowe

  “No, you didn’t”—he pressed a kiss on her hand, no doubt for the benefit of the jeweler who was scurrying back toward them with a couple dozen cases of costly pieces in his arms—“which is why I’m all the more determined to give it to you.”

  “But no more jewelry, I beg you.” She laid a hand on his forearm, which he covered with his. “I prefer to wear a simple ribbon about my neck. Truly.”

  Quinn refused to be persuaded and she finally agreed to accept a cameo brooch and a pendant watch on a gold chain. The jeweler was quietly livid, but so long as no gemstone touched her skin, Viola was satisfied.

  As they left the shop and he handed her into the waiting hansom, Quinn shook his head. “You’ve confused me royally now. Why on earth do you steal jewelry when it’s obvious you’ve so little use for it?”

  “Since it’s no hardship to part with, I experience no pangs when I exchange it for funds. I steal because I enjoy seeing my family eat, remember, not because I lack a sufficient number of baubles.”

  “It appears I misjudged you,” he said softly. “I thought you the most acquisitive of women.”

  She laughed. “Don’t admit you’re wrong yet. You’ve only seen the smallest part of my collection of hats.”

  Quinn had sent Sanjay ahead to bespeak rooms for them at the Hotel de Crillon, Paris’s most elegant and oldest inn. It was said Marie Antoinette often reserved suites of rooms there and entertained her guests before the bloody revolution parted her lovely head from her body.

  Viola wished she could take Sanjay’s room and let him stay with Quinn, but at least the suite on the top floor was large enough to make her forget the tininess of the cabin they’d shared on the Minstrel’s Lady. If she’d managed to sleep in that little space with him without succumbing to his charm, she could retain possession of herself in the lovely suite of the hotel. The sitting room was furnished in the florid Rococo style. The private bath had running water in the copper tub and a newfangled flushing water closet. And, of course, a sumptuous bedroom.

  With only one bed.

  “We’ve been invited to the English Embassy for dinner,” Quinn said as he thumbed through the mail Sanjay had collected for them from the concierge. Quinn frowned as he read the telegram that was second in the stack after the invitation from the embassy. He shoved it into his pocket so quickly, Viola decided he didn’t want to share its contents.

  “How does the ambassador know we’re here?”

  “Even though we’re allies with France now, it’s a good idea to let one’s government know one is in country. While you and I were supplementing your wardrobe this afternoon, Sanjay was delivering our calling cards to all the appropriate places in town.”

  “You think the diamond will be at the Embassy?”

  “If it’s coming through Paris, I think someone there will know where it is.” Quinn crossed to the bellpull. “I believe a real bath is in order for both of us.”

  The hotel staff was marvelously efficient and Quinn arranged for a lady’s maid to assist Viola with her toilette. She’d almost forgotten what a luxury it was to have someone scrub her back or wash her hair or help her lace her corset.

  She dismissed the maid when it was time to apply her limited amount of cosmetics. The French were prone to excess in the use of paint. Viola didn’t want to look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back at her through her own eyes.

  When she finally emerged from the chamber, Quinn was on his feet in a heartbeat. The naked admiration on his face warmed her to her toes.

  “You’re a stunner, Lady Ashford. I’m almost of a mind to send our regrets and dine in,” he said with a wicked grin.

  “I do hope you don’t think I went to all this trouble for your benefit.”

  The full skirt of her gown rustled as she stepped lightly across the room. She passed by a long mirror and noticed the green, watered silk flattered her coloring and made auburn highlights sparkle in her hair. “But I don’t want you to think me unappreciative. Thank you for these lovely new things.”

  “I do hope you don’t think I went to all this expense for your benefit.” He flipped her words back at her. “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.”

  She felt her cheeks dimpling. “You don’t think the décolletage too daring?”

  She knew she was teasing him, but the gown made her feel too delicious not to. The neckline scooped off her shoulders, revealing more flesh than she’d expected. Another couple inches and her nipples would have been laid bare.

  “This is Paris,” Quinn said. “The French believe there’s no such thing as too daring when it comes to the display of a woman’s bosom. Damn me, if the Frogs aren’t right. Especially when the bosom is as exquisite as yours.”

  He made a proper obeisance over her hand. The entwined serpents glinted up at him when he pressed his lips in a soft kiss on the back of her hand. “I’m glad to see the ring fits over those gloves. I’d hate for anyone at the embassy to think you unclaimed.”

  Her smile faded. He was only practicing to pass as her besotted new husband, but he did it with such conviction, she was tempted to believe him. “Careful, Lieutenant or I shall think you missed your calling on the London stage.”

  The admiring light went out of his eyes.

  There was a rap at the door and Sanjay appeared with Quinn’s freshly pressed trousers and tailed jacket. He also bore a tray holding a signet ring, an impressive-looking medal on a blue silken stole, and several other pieces of masculine jewelry. Viola might insist on minimal adornment, but it seemed Quinn would sparkle with enough sartorial splendor for the two of them.

  The Hindu cast a disapproving glance in her direction and disappeared to oversee the borrowed valet, who’d arrived to draw Quinn’s bath.

  Quinn undid his tie and removed his garnet wrist studs, depositing them on the tray next to a pair of diamond studs.

  Viola didn’t mean to ogle. Most people preferred colored stones to white diamonds, but those had been cut in a brilliant style that seemed to release the fire embedded in the stone. Like a magpie, her eyes were naturally drawn to bright shiny things. “I thought your uncle gave you a set of pearls.”

  “He did. I never said I didn’t have any others. My family has many flaws, but fear of ostentation when it’s needed isn’t one of them.” Quinn disappeared into the bedroom and adjoining bath.

  Viola paced the room for a bit, not willing to sit lest she wrinkle her skirt. She positioned herself at the window and gazed out at the broad avenue. The streetlamp lighter was making his rounds, his flame on a long pole igniting one lamp after another. Elegant broughams and coaches passed each other, bearing the finer residents of Paris to finer entertainments.

  Every few minutes, Viola’s gaze flitted back to the tray of jewels.

  There were the secrets of Greydon Quinn, encased in crystal, winking at her. Would anyone really be harmed if she touched just one?

  Viola peeled off a glove and tiptoed over to the table where the tray rested. She reached out to touch one of the studs, but flicked her gaze toward the bedroom door, ears pricked for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  The door had been left ajar. Viola clapped her bare hand over her mouth to keep from betraying herself with the slightest noise. Through the crack in the door, she saw flashes of naked flesh.

  Quinn evidently wasn’t the sort to linger in cooling bathwater. She was treated to a peek at his chest, the knotty outlines of his muscles standing out around his brown nipples. There was a blur of dark hair at his groin before he turned his back to the door.

  He was speaking to Sanjay, giving soft instructions, judging from the tone of his voice. Viola wasn’t interested in whatever he might have to say. There was a flash of his muscular thighs, thick and sinewy. When her gaze traveled north, she saw his buttocks.

  She bit her lower lip. His butt cheeks were lightly dusted with fine dark hairs. His narrow hips and waist expanded into a broad, muscular back.

  Quinn turned and bent over to
pick up a dropped stocking. She caught a glimpse of his sex dangling in front of him from its nest of brown curls.

  Mercy! Viola sucked her breath in over her teeth.

  She’d seen enough. She backed away toward the window, her belly dancing as if a swarm of mayflies were caught there. She’d known Quinn was gifted from the size of the bulge in his trousers, but he exceeded her expectations by a good bit.

  Just imagine what he’s like when he’s roused! Her insides pulsed.

  Pleasure, he’d promised her. Bliss. Abundant, pressed down and overflowing. Ecstasy.

  The man was certainly equipped by nature to deliver on that promise.

  Her corset was suddenly far too tight. She collapsed onto the fainting couch, no longer worried about whether or not she wrinkled her skirt.

  Her reasons for turning Quinn down were still valid, but she knew it would be harder than ever to be firm about it now. Why hadn’t she just snatched up a jewel and let it send her a vision? Whatever it might have shown her would have been easier to dismiss from her mind than the stolen glimpses of Greydon Quinn in the glorious altogether.

  But then again, why should she try to erase that image? If, as Quinn said, no more damage could be done since she was no longer a maiden, why shouldn’t she take her pleasure where she willed?

  There was no denying her body’s need, but she’d been raised to believe she was more than her body. There was a hidden part of her. Unique. Precious. Unseen.

  But no less real than her body.

  If he was unwilling to acknowledge that part of her by letting her know the hidden part of him, her time with Quinn would end as disastrously as her liaison with Neville.

  She didn’t think she could bear anything that painful ever again.

  CHAPTER 9

  Every window of the classically inspired town house of the British Embassy blazed with light. Quinn alighted from their hired carriage to hand Viola down. The early April wind had turned cold once the sun disappeared. He was glad he’d insisted on the mink-trimmed cloak for her.

  “You’ve been exceptionally quiet.” For a woman, he added silently as they ascended the steps to the grand double doors. At least she’d stopped trying to pry into his past. “Are you troubled by something?”

  “Other than by you, you mean?” she said archly.

  Quinn made a tsking sound. She’d been different since he emerged from his bath. Pensive. Distracted. “Have a care, my love. People will think we’ve quarreled. Not at all the done thing for newlyweds.”

  “Heaven forefend. By all means, we must keep up appearances.” She swept through the open doors. “I shall hang upon your arm as if I were a clinging vine.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  A liveried footman took Viola’s cloak and Quinn’s greatcoat and hat, and spirited them out of sight.

  Quinn handed his invitation to the butler, who ushered them up to the first floor parlor where the assembled guests mingled in tight knots scattered about the room prior to dinner being served.

  “I expected opulence,” Viola murmured, “but this room is clearly designed to overawe.”

  Furnished in the French style, it was ornate without being fussy, the lines of the chairs and occasional tables cleaner than their English counterparts.

  “The gilt on the furniture alone might feed a small English town for a year,” she said.

  “And an Indian one for two,” Quinn returned, pleased that their thoughts traveled along the same paths.

  “Oh, I say, young Ashford! Is that you?” Lady Wimbly waddled across the room toward them, her long-suffering husband in tow. The couple lived near his father’s country estate and had known Quinn since he was in short pants.

  “Here we are on holiday in France and whom should we see but our neighbor.” Lady Wimbly fluttered her fan with such vigor, Quinn felt his forelock lift in the breeze. “Imagine that. They do say it’s a small world, don’t they? Of course, they do. So you’re back from India now, I collect.” She lifted her lorgnette and eyed Viola through the lenses. “And who might this be?”

  Quinn introduced her to them as his new bride.

  “Preston? Lady Viola Preston? Oh, I say, you knew her father, didn’t you, Wimbly?” She poked her husband with her round elbow. Apparently, or perhaps fortunately, Lord Wimbly was hard of hearing. Lady W raised her voice. “Eustace Preston, Earl of Meade, what? You knew him at Oxford, didn’t you, Wimbly.”

  “Why, yes, I remember when he and—”

  “So sorry for your loss, dear.” The lady patted Viola’s arm in sympathy while she trampled on her husband’s attempt to join the conversation and hurried on, blithely unaware she’d done it. “And may I say I deplore the straits in which your cousin left you and your mother. It was badly done. Badly done, indeed.”

  Apparently there was no aspect of life among the ton that went unexamined by Lady Wimbly.

  “But now that you’re Lady Ashford, no doubt your new husband will do for your family what your cousin wouldn’t, eh, what? More shame on him, too. They do say ‘All’s well that ends well,’ don’t they? Of course, they do.” She rapped Quinn’s forearm with her fan. “My dear boy, it was bad of you not to invite us to your wedding.”

  “Forgive me. It was something of a whirlwind courtship,” Quinn improvised, enjoying the excuse to slip a hand around Viola’s waist and draw her closer to him. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “Once I met this lovely lady, I couldn’t wait another moment. I confess I convinced her to elope. First, it was off to Gretna Green and now for our honeymoon, we’ve fled to France.”

  “Fled?” Lady Wimbly seized upon the word. “So I take it your father is unaware of this . . . ahem . . . happy turn of events.”

  That was a complication he hadn’t foreseen. He should have bitten his tongue before starting down that road.

  “Blissfully unaware.” Quinn winked at her. “And I rather hope he continues thusly for a good long while. If you’re planning to go Home soon, do let me be the one to tell him, won’t you?”

  Lord Wimbly promised to keep their secret. Lady Wimbly waved to someone across the room whom she’d not yet greeted and begged to be excused.

  As the worthy matron duck-footed her way toward her next conversational victims with Lord Wimbly in her wake, Quinn leaned down to whisper to Viola. “I fear Lady Wimbly has no intention of keeping our oh-so-delicious secret.”

  “It hardly matters since not a word about our matrimonial bliss is true.”

  Viola hadn’t counted on meeting anyone she knew in France. She certainly hadn’t expected Quinn to spin such a fanciful tale about their elopement. Word of her exploits would circulate throughout the ton, and once it became known she and Lieutenant Quinn weren’t actually married, she might as well become some well-heeled gentleman’s mistress and be done with feigning respectability entirely. No decent door would be open to her.

  Quinn didn’t seem to realize the gravity of her situation. “You look pale.” His dark brows beetled with concern. “Are you all right?”

  As all right as a ruined woman can possibly be.

  There was no point in making a scene, but she couldn’t resist whispering through clenched teeth, “You ought not to have used my real maiden name when you introduced me. For all the Wimblys knew, I might have been anyone. You could have told them we met on the boat home from India.”

  Why hadn’t she thought to construct a workable alias and school him on it ahead of time? Too distracted by her new wardrobe and glimpses of Greydon Quinn without one, she supposed.

  “How could I give you a false name?” He cast her a puzzled frown. “The ton is really a very small world, even abroad. There may be someone here who already knows you. We’d fool no one.”

  “We certainly won’t now.” Her strained smile hurt her face. “You’re right about Lady Wimbly. She’s not the sort to keep a secret. The whole ton will know we’re larking about the Continent together.”

  “And?”

  “What do
you think will happen to me when it’s noised about that we are not really married?”

  “Oh.”

  “A light dawns.” Men never had to worry about their reputations. In fact, his would probably be enhanced by the peccadillo. There was no justice in the world.

  “Let me get you a cup of tea,” Quinn said as he settled her on a chair near the window. “That’s the ticket.”

  As if tea would help.

  As soon as he was gone, she stood and looked out the window. Her mother would hear about it. People who’d avoided the dowager countess since she fell into poverty would make a beeline to their humble town house door to make sure she knew what her daughter was up to on the Continent.

  Things couldn’t be worse.

  “Viola Preston, is that you?”

  She was wrong. She recognized that voice. Things were definitely worse.

  She pasted a smile on her face and turned around, extending her hand to him. “Neville, how nice to see you. Or are you Lord Sudbury by now?”

  “No, and I may never be.” Neville kissed the back of her hand and smiled the devastating smile that had once overturned her world. “My uncle the marquis has married again. His nurse, no less, and gotten the woman with child to boot.” His smile turned wicked and Viola’s belly did a flip out of old habit. “Of course, the events may have occurred in a somewhat different order, but if the brat is a boy, I shall have to remain simple Neville Beauchamp.”

  He hadn’t changed a bit. And he was anything but simple. He’d certainly complicated her life to shreds. Tall, well-favored, his curly blond hair rampant over his golden head, Neville was as strikingly handsome as the day he’d seduced her out of her maidenhead.

  He leaned toward her and whispered, “Who’d have thought the randy old goat still had it in him?”

  Her lips twitched in spite of herself. Neville was always amusing, always dancing on the wrong side of respectable. It was part of his charm.

  “What are you doing in Paris?” she asked.

  “I’m the ambassador’s secretary. Lord Cowley’s right hand, as it were.” He leaned a hand on the wall behind her, trapping her with his body and lowered his voice. “You look marvelous, Viola. More lovely than I remembered. And I remember quite a lot.”