The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  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.

  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?

  Marvelous!

  “I plan to display the jewel at the ball, Friday next. I’ve hired half the British army to guard them,” Hope said with a smug scoff, “but it will make quite the splash, the jewel, don’t you think? Oh, do make plans to attend, Lord Harclay. ‘The Jewel of the Sun King: An Evening at Versailles’—really, how could you resist?”

  Harclay let out a well-practiced sigh of resignation. “Perhaps,” he replied. “I’ve a busy season ahead, you see; I make no promises. And my valet, he’s been unwell, and I can’t very well attend in the nude . . .”

  But Mr. Hope smiled beatifically at Harclay’s excuses, knowing he had won over the reluctant earl; as if he knew he had been the first to pique Lord Harclay’s interest in a very, very long time.

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