Touch of a Thief

by Mia Marlowe

  “Neville, please.” Her cheeks were so hot, she knew her face must be scarlet.

  “Where are you staying? We must meet. I can get away tomorrow afternoon if—”

  “Here you are, love.” Quinn appeared behind Neville and stepped around him smoothly, shouldering him out of the way. He handed a cup of tea to Viola.

  “Pardon me, old boy.” He turned back to Neville who stutterstepped back a pace. “Didn’t see you there.”

  Quinn put a possessive arm around Viola’s waist and bared his teeth at Neville. No one would mistake the expression for a smile. “Who’s this, darling?”

  Viola swallowed hard and hoped her voice wouldn’t quaver. “You were right. I did meet someone I know here. Neville Beauchamp. Neville, may I present—”

  “Lord Ashford.” He extended his hand to Neville, who cringed at Quinn’s grip. “The lady’s husband. And how is it you know my wife?”

  “As her friend. Her very old friend,” Neville said, trying to wring his hand free with limited success.

  “And what’s an old friend doing in Paris?”

  “He’s the ambassador’s secretary,” Viola put in.

  “Ah! Well, no doubt Lord Cowley needs someone to open his mail and run errands. You appear marginally qualified for that post.” Quinn offered his arm to Viola. “Come, dear. They’re opening the door to the dining room.”

  Neville started to follow them.

  “You’re coming too?” Quinn turned back to him. “Does Cowley allow the help to dine with guests?”

  Neville blinked in surprise. “I’m not the help.”

  “No doubt that’s true. You’re probably very little help. Still, very enlightened of the ambassador. I’ll tell him so when I see him.” Quinn pulled Viola close and escorted her toward the dining room. “I thought you didn’t expect to see anyone you knew here.”

  “I didn’t. Least of all, Neville.”

  “Neville, is it? Not Mr. Beauchamp? Must be a rather close old friend.”

  “I suppose you could say that. We were once engaged.”

  Quinn stopped mid-stride. “So that’s the cad.”

  “Yes, but he’s down on his luck now. I know what that’s like. I don’t have it in me to hate him.” At least when Neville broke it off with her, he’d tried to be honorable. He let her put about the story that she’d changed her mind and rejected him, so her reputation would remain untainted by their broken engagement. Neville wasn’t a bad sort. He was just a greedy sort and Viola no longer represented gain. She leaned toward Quinn. “Why were you so unpleasant to him before you even knew who he was?”

  Quinn started walking toward the long dining table again. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

  “Oh? What way was that?”

  “Like you were the last strawberry tart on the plate and he hadn’t eaten in weeks.”

  Formal dinner parties were a ridiculous bore. Especially if one was stuck with Lady Wimbly at one’s side. The only bright spot for Quinn was that, like the unfortunate Lord Wimbly, he wasn’t required to contribute much to the conversation.

  Viola on the other hand was seated between the ambassador and his secretary, Neville Beauchamp. Every time Quinn looked in their direction, the man was leaning toward her, trying to engage her in conversation.

  The thought of Viola and him . . . Quinn suspected his blood had turned to molten lava.

  “Neville Beauchamp, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Lady Wimbly was saying. “If memory serves, he was heir apparent to Lord Sudbury with bright prospects until his uncle married again quite unexpectedly. Ah, well . . . they do say one mustn’t count one’s chickens before they’re hatched, don’t they? Of course, they do.”

  Quinn grunted noncommittally and sawed at his beef. It was a tad stringy and overdone for his taste.

  “I believe he and your new wife were quite attached at one ti—”

  “Lady Wimbly, perhaps you can tell me if there are any here who have recently returned from India,” Quinn interrupted, taking a page from her book. If he couldn’t quiet her gossiping tongue, he could at least steer her prattle into something useful. “Since I spent more than a dozen years there, I’m always interested in comparing experiences with others who’ve lived in the East.”

  “Why, yes, now that you mention it, I believe a gentleman recently turned up.” Lady W scooted her chair closer to Quinn and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “A Mr. Penobscot, Henry Penobscot. He’s seated next to Wimbly on the left. But I greatly fear you won’t get much out of him. Silent as the grave, that one.”

  “Oh?”

  “He arrived in Paris the same day Wimbly and I did and he wouldn’t speak so much as a word to us while we all waited in the anteroom to see the ambassador.” She chewed a sauce-laden green bean, her eyes suddenly thoughtful. “He had a diplomatic pouch attached to his wrist. Attached, I mean, with a metal cuff. I’ve never seen the like, have you? Must have been most important correspondence.”

  Or a most important diamond. “You didn’t hear what might be in it?”

  “Not a breath of a word,” she confided. “But not to worry. It’s safe as houses now.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He didn’t have it with him when he came out of the ambassador’s office. So whatever it is must be in Lord Cowley’s safe. One of those newfangled tumbler locks everyone talks about. He brought it over with him when he took the post. Why, they do say it would take the Mayfair Jewel Thief to crack one like that, don’t they? Of—”

  “Course they do,” Quinn finished for her. He looked down the long table at the thief who could open it with a few deft spins. “Of course, they do.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The ambassador, Lord Cowley, might have had the finest chef in France in his kitchen, but he insisted on “plain, hearty English cooking.”

  Viola thought the meal would never end. Still, she’d met several useful people, most notably Mr. Penobscot, who was seated directly opposite her. He was freshly arrived from India and staying at the embassy, in Lord Cowley’s private suite of rooms as his guest.

  That meant he was important enough to merit the ambassador’s protection. If she could learn which room in the embassy was Penobscot’s, she’d know where to begin looking for the diamond. Surely such an important stone would call to her even before she touched it.

  Neville continued to flirt with her. Once, she felt his hand on her knee and had to kick him beneath the table to get him to remove it. He merely smiled at her, as if they were playing a game.

  And he knew exactly how it would end.

  She was relieved when the men disappeared to the smoking room for their cigars and port. The women sipped sherry and made small talk while waiting for the men to finish discussing whatever it was men talked about—politics or philosophy or whoring—and decided to come collect them. The ladies seemed content to talk only of the weather or pick over the latest gossip from home.

  Viola tried to introduce a different topic, since she’d probably figure prominently in the group’s next hen fest when the conversation turned to scandal. When she asked what they thought of Dickens’s latest installment of Little Dorrit, she was met with blank stares.

  “I find his satire too tiresome,” Lady Wimbly finally said. “Why ever would we want to read something which denigrates the government and those institutions we hold dear?”

  Viola bit her tongue to keep from saying, Because it makes us think. And because we’re able to think such things without restriction.

  She wished for the thousandth time she’d been born a man. Not just because she’d have been able to succeed her father in the earldom, but because she longed for the freedom men enjoyed. No one told a man what to think or how to behave, though her vicar sometimes tried.

  If she was a man, no one would think it their business who she was traveling about France with. If she was a man, she could take a lover to her bed and none would think the worse of her for it. I
f she was a man, she might pursue whatever course of study struck her fancy and not be told she was fit only to knit doilies or produce an heir.

  One by one, the gentlemen came to collect their ladies. She was still stewing over the general inequity of the world when Quinn finally appeared. He led her to the main vestibule, then went to retrieve their coats since the footman seemed to have disappeared.

  Viola paced the hall, pausing to admire a large landscape in an ornate gilt frame. A towering oak overshadowed a narrow country lane that wound along a hedgerow before disappearing around a bend. The painting invited her to step right into the scene, to wonder what was tucked away behind the limits of the canvas.

  “I favor that one myself. It’s a John Constable.” Neville’s voice made her turn around. “Whenever I long for Home, this takes me there.”

  “It’s quite lovely,” she agreed.

  “As are you.” He came and stood beside her while they studied the landscape. “This painting reminds me of that time we picnicked by the brook. Do you remember?”

  How could she forget? Amid the scent of freshly cut hay, the whisper of water over rocks, and the mating calls of larks she’d given herself to him. Irrevocably.

  He must have let that heady time rush back into him as well for he put his arms around her and pinned her to the wall. “Oh, Viola, I made a terrible mistake letting you go.”

  “Neville, stop it.” There was a time when she’d have given anything to hear him say that. She shoved against his chest, but he didn’t release her. “It’s too late for us.”

  “Because of Ashford? Don’t tell me you have feelings for that pompous ass.”

  “As a matter of fact, I—”

  Quinn appeared suddenly behind Neville’s shoulder. He pulled Beauchamp away from Viola and decked him with a solid blow to the jaw. Neville went flying and slid across the marble floor on his belly.

  “If you were a gentleman, Beauchamp, I’d demand satisfaction.” Quinn’s eyes glittered with menace.

  “Give me a few months.” Neville sat up and rubbed his jaw. “I still have half a chance at being a marquis.”

  “In that case, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Name your choice of weapons.”

  “Quinn, no!” The bottom dropped out of Viola’s stomach. The thought of him dueling Neville for her made her want to retch.

  “Don’t worry, Viola,” Neville said, obviously assuming her concern was for him. He rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “He can’t touch me. Dueling is illegal in France.”

  Relief flooded Viola’s being. Neville was a crack shot and a fiend with a blade. With Quinn’s military background, she had no doubt he, too, was the dangerous sort. They might well kill each other if they met on a field of honor.

  Now that she knew a duel was unlikely since it was forbidden, irritation reared its head. Quinn was overreacting to Neville’s attentions to her. As if they didn’t have enough gossip circulating about them already.

  “Then you’re fortunate we’re in France, Beauchamp, for whether you chose pistols or blades, I’d have killed you. Instead, I’ll give you a promise.” Quinn snatched Neville up by his collar. “If you so much as look cross-eyed at my wife again, I’ll beat you senseless. Surely the Frogs haven’t declared that illegal.”

  Neville shook his head.

  “Am I understood?”

  Neville’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He’d never been one for bare-fisted brawls. It might result in an injury that would damage his handsome face. “Understood.”

  Quinn tossed him aside and draped Viola’s cloak around her shoulders, not taking his evil glare from Neville for an instant. He offered her his arm and when she didn’t take it immediately, he snapped, “Come, Viola. We’re leaving.”

  “Indeed, we are.” She ignored his arm and stalked toward the door, not caring whether he followed or not.

  The driver held the coach door open for her and she mounted the steps without waiting for Quinn to hand her into the hired carriage. He climbed in behind her, pushing her broad skirt aside so he wouldn’t sit on it. He rapped on the coach ceiling to signal the driver and they lurched forward.

  “There is another seat,” she said testily, indicating the empty squab facing her.

  “I don’t care to ride backward.”

  “Strange, since you obviously prefer to act in a backward manner.”

  He drew a deep breath, willing the unaccountable rage inside him to subside. “As far as the world knows, I’m your husband. Did you expect me to simply stand by and ignore the insult while Beauchamp pawed you?”

  “He didn’t paw me.” She scooted toward the other door, trying to distance herself from him in the small space. “I had the matter well in hand.”

  “No, in another moment he’d have had your arse in hand. Trust me, I know the type.”

  “That’s because you are the type,” she said with a withering glance. “Have you forgotten how you tried to seduce me the first night we met?”

  “When a woman sneaks into a man’s bedchamber, she can’t rightly blame him for seeing the possibilities in the situation.” He pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his pockets. Then he shrugged out of his coat. His confrontation with Beauchamp had heated his blood. He still itched to flatten the man’s perfectly formed nose. “If I’d truly tried to seduce you that night, you wouldn’t have left my house without spending time in my bed.”

  She gave a snort. “You’ve a high opinion of yourself.”

  “I believe that’s a given for us pompous asses.” It did no harm to let her know he’d overheard some of her conversation with Beauchamp.

  “You were spying on me!”

  “I was fetching your cloak and came back in time to keep you from folly.”

  Her eyes flashed in the dark at him, angry and feral as a hissing barn cat. “I am perfectly capable of keeping myself from folly. I’ve kept you at bay, haven’t I?”

  She had him there. She’d been remarkably unmovable. With him, at least.

  “You still love him,” Quinn said after they’d ridden in silence for several minutes.

  She sighed deeply and he could almost see the irritation draining out of her. After a quick glance in his direction, she studied her folded hands. “I wonder if I ever did. I loved the idea of Neville. I loved the thought of being his wife, of having someone to go through life with me, sharing joys and sorrows. But when the first sorrow washed over us, he was gone.” She worried her bottom lip. “I didn’t know Neville. Not really. How could I love him?”

  That explained a good deal. Now he understood why Viola insisted on knowing him. But he couldn’t tell her about his father. That was a hurt best left alone. If he disturbed the carefully placed plaster on his soul, the wound might never stop bleeding.

  But perhaps it would be safe to explain his reasons for wanting to steal the Blood of the Tiger. Since she was helping him with it, he owed her that much. He decided it was worth the risk.

  “You asked me once if I wanted the red diamond to impress a woman. I don’t.”

  He told her of the initial theft of the diamond from the temple of Shiva, then the theft of Sanjay’s kingdom by the East India Company, and of how it offended his sense of justice and fed the flames of rebellion in Amjerat. He spilled out his hope that returning the diamond would heal a small part of the wrongs done.

  “The Sanjay who lays out your clothes and shines your shoes is really a prince?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, that makes me feel small.”

  “How so?”

  “I felt myself ill-used when my father’s death lost my family a comfortable living. The world at least still acknowledges me as an earl’s daughter. Sanjay lost who he was.”

  Quinn’s chest constricted. She understood. He’d never expected another westerner to grasp his reasons for wanting to help Sanjay and his people. Certainly not a Western woman.

  She completely surprised him by leaning over and kissing his
cheek.

  “Please don’t take this as a complaint, but what was that for?”

  “You may not have wanted to steal the red diamond to impress a woman, Quinn,” she said as the carriage came to a stop at the curb before the Hotel de Crillon, “but you did, all the same.”

  He hopped out of the carriage and handed her down. She took his arm without prompting and they strolled up the granite steps to the front door of the massive hotel.

  It was comfortable, walking like that, footsteps in time with each other, headed toward the same goal. For a moment, he wondered if that’s how it would feel all the time if he and Viola were truly husband and wife.

  The thought punched his gut like an unexpected blow.

  He shook it off as the fanciful product of a fanciful evening. Pretending to be the lady’s husband, defending her honor, even quarreling, then reaching a sort of peace with her, was making him feel far too natural in this matrimonial farce.

  “Will you ring for the lady’s maid, please?” Viola said once they were back in their suite. “I could have managed with the wardrobe I brought from home, but these new things . . . Don’t mistake me. They’re lovely, but it’s a sad state of affairs when a grown woman can’t dress and undress herself.”

  “It’s awfully late.” He draped his coat and her cloak over one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace in the sitting room. “Those girls work such long hours. Let them sleep. You only need a lace or two undone. I’m perfectly capable of helping with that.”

  “Quinn, I—”

  He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “I defended your honor this night. Don’t you think that proves you can trust me?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and he sensed she struggled with herself. When she opened her eyes, he read turmoil in their hazel depths.

  “What if I can’t trust myself?”