Loving Lady Lazuli (London Jewel Thieves Book 1)

by Shehanne Moore

  “I must confess I did not expect to see you quite so soon, Lord Hawley.” She smiled. “You neither, Belle.”

  That much was true. After yesterday she hadn’t expected to see Belle at all. She could only assume Belle had heard the story about Gil, so now Cass was no threat to her, here she was. Now Gil was here and Devorlane Hawley was home, she’d get shot of Belle.

  “Oh, yes, the intruder. Well, Devorlane wished to see you suffered no ill effects.” Belle gave a small shrug of her velvet-clad shoulders.

  “Really? Excuse me, Lord Hawley, while that is very kind ...my cloak. Thank you.”

  “After the misunderstanding,” Belle added. “The fact there’s some hellion on the loose. So worrying for all of us that anyone would dare look in your window like that.”

  A hellion? Really?

  If that was how he’d chosen to explain things it was vital she didn’t meet his burning stare. Not when she now might not have to explain anything at all. Ask them in either. Even if her energies would be better spent trying to find out why he’d lied and it would give her something on him, why waste good tea? Tea, Ruby had probably spat in. Spiced buns either? Spat in, or not, Gil would be sure to smell the tea and buns at a thousand paces, the lie she was telling about him too. It was one thing to be in his debt another for it to cost her a fortune.

  “Yes, well. The less said about that the better, since he got such a terrible fright seeing me half naked, he must be miles away by now with what tiny tail he’s got tucked between his legs. And it’s especially noble of you, sir, to come here this—well, it’s almost lunchtime now, I suppose you’ll want to be getting along--”

  He eyed her deliberately. “How is Mr. Armstrong this morning?”

  “Mr.?”

  “Your husband.”

  Who he plainly thought she didn’t know the whereabouts, or general health of, this morning.

  “Oh him?”

  “Cassidy, I must admit you are such a dark horse. I had no idea.”

  She shrugged. “Well, Belle, neither did I. That it was frankly going to cause such a stir, I mean. Or I should never have opened my mouth and screamed. I should have let things be.”

  He stared harder and she adjusted her gaze to take in his waistcoat. Why the hell had she said what she had about the tiny tail? The oh him, either? Because she didn’t want anyone thinking she was so tasteless as to be married to Gil? Wanted to have a little fun? Or because he put her off her mark? Didn’t she know what she was going to say here? Taste didn’t come into it. Having fun either. She swallowed.

  “But, if I seemed a little vague there just now and it’s causing you to stare, it is because … because …”

  “What?”

  “Elgered is not Mr. Armstrong.”

  “Not?” Devorlane Hawley gave a start. No wonder. She gave one herself. Never mind what now? What was now. She cleared her throat.

  “What I said, wasn’t it?”

  “But, Cassidy, he is your husband? I mean you are quite”—Belle’s voice dropped to a piercing whisper, as if even the tangled shrubbery would blush to hear—“proper.”

  On the surface, what she’d said? Sodding stupid. Underneath the surface too. No worries, remember? So why throw away the chance? Let him get one up on her? Like it or not, Gil was her husband, despite how she held him responsible for Matthew. Why should a simple thing be so difficult?

  She nodded her head. “Of course I am, Belle. How can you think I’m not? Married. That is.”

  His smoky brows drew together. “But, Lady Armstrong, you just said--”

  “Well, yes. There are reasons I use my own name. Yes. Ones I can’t possibly explain.”

  Devorlane Hawley tilted his jaw. “How about you try?”

  Did the swine think she couldn’t? That she was digging a hole for herself without a clue about how to fill it in. Obviously, or he wouldn’t loom so close his shadow fell across her. Challenge radiated, not just from his narrowed eyes and tilted jaw with its slight dusting of stubble, but the folds of his coat, the gleam of his boots, the wind ruffling his soft sable hair.

  She cleared her throat. “Well … The first bit of it—” She swallowed, deliberately. The first bit was sufficiently mysterious, so now she would cut to the second bit. “Having returned from active service, Elgie is—he is … ” She raised her chin so she could fix her gaze on some finite point in the sky. “Very well, Elgie is not long for this world. No. Let me finish.” Sensing Belle’s tiny start she hurried on. Besides, if Gil was creeping about, it was nothing less than he’d said. “So, desiring only to live out his days in the peace and tranquility of this place, I would be grateful, indeed it would oblige me, if you could, all of you, just let him.”

  There. She’d said it. Talking tea and buns, a piece of cake.

  “My stars. Not long for this world?”

  Belle clasped her hand, her fingers clammy through the kidskin gloves. But Cass wasn’t about to show how she abhorred being touched when it was vital she keep Belle as an ally. A useful ally whose eyes even watered—a quite disgusting sight. Still, so long as it silenced Devorlane Hawley and made him go away again, Belle’s eyes could flow like the Thames.

  “Please know that I am so sorry, so sorry for you, darling. That we are with you. Aren’t we, Devorlane?”

  “So why do you pretend to be a widow?”

  Maybe Belle was sorry and she was with Cass, but he wasn’t.

  “Wishful thinking?”

  “Devorlane!” Belle dropped her jaw open. “Stop this at once. For goodness sake what is wrong with you?”

  Cass swallowed. One would be forgiven for thinking such behavior was a blip on his horizon of politeness. Fortunately she was the princess of ice and cool. The one whose complete disinterest in men gave her invincibility, plus the ability to reduce them, when need be, to rubble. In that regard he’d soon be dust.

  “No. It’s fine, Belle.” She met his penetrating gaze coolly. Squared her own jaw. “Lord Koorecroft is aware you are asking all these questions, sir?”

  “Lord Koorecroft? What the hell’s Lord Koorecroft got to do with the price of meat in Reading market?”

  “Oh, you would be astonished.”

  “Not half as much as I was when your husband turned up last night.”

  “Devorlane!”

  As he was? Really? At last, something in common but not.

  “But.” He curled his sensuous lip faintly. “If you want to go to Lord Koorecroft, then do please allow me to escort you. He is in court on Thursday mornings.”

  Court? Maybe he was but that didn’t mean Cass had any desire to go there and see him. Not when what was implicit in the threat was that she’d be seeing a lot more. Prison bars, a hangman’s noose. Ridiculous when she was dead and buried, although how she was meant to say she was dead and buried when it hadn’t been reported in the newspapers wasn’t clear.

  Well, after this, not only could she not ask him in. What? And suffer him sneering over the sugar bowl that she was an imposter? A liar and a thief? Or worse. She’d rather keep her sugar bowl, and its contents, to herself just now.

  “Who says I’m going to visit Lord Koorecroft, Lord Hawley? No. Belle knows who I’m going to visit, don’t you, Belle, because you arranged it? And she is welcome to walk that far with me, if she so desires. So? If you don’t mind, I’ll be getting on my way.”

  Yes. And if she got the information she sought she’d be keeping a damned sight more than the sugar bowl.

  ***

  Devorlane stood in the quiet coolness of the winter-lit room. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d observed from his vantage point above the property, the flame-haired virago head along the road towards the village about half an hour ago. He’d knocked at the door. Plain faced Pearl and the husband were obviously at the hall itself, or they’d have answered. And Devorlane had been very careful slipping the latch, more careful than about anything in his whole life, to make sure he wasn’t observed.

  Last
night he’d thought the emeralds, but it was ridiculous, after ten years, to assume she’d come back here to find them. There must be some other reason. A nest of thieves would hardly be in the area with the explicit intent of admiring the cherry orchards. Or tidying that rat’s nest of a herb garden. Now would they?

  Ruby. Pearl. Sapphire. These were all the names of jewels. Pearl was pale as milk. While Ruby? Flame haired. Sapphire? There were those damned eyes. Of course she wouldn’t be called anything else. No other jewel compared.

  He let his gaze roam. It was strange how the damned piece preferred the simplicity of this building to any of the more formal rooms at the hall, although he could see the attraction of a place so compact. A place free of constraint. Under less furtive, less rushed circumstances, it would have been pleasant. The faded hangings—Mughal—the potpourri of furnishings, a mixed bag, all with a faintly exotic air. Dresser, vases, rag rugs.

  The cursory glance showed no sign of any miniature. It showed no trace of any anything that might be deemed personal. His fingers trembling, he edged open a carved box. One of many that might have come from Mysore, but equally might have come off a market stall in Spitalfields. Empty, except for a solitary hairpin.

  He dragged open a walnut bureau drawer. Empty. A pretty sewing basket. Empty. Even the damned ornate bird-cage was empty. And the volumes that spoke were deafening.

  Where was the miniature? She’d hardly keep it in the kitchen would she? Miniatures were things you displayed. Was he meant to believe she’d really been on her way out earlier? Or was that the real reason she hadn’t asked him in? Because she didn’t want him seeing it in pride of place? Had forgotten till that moment it was there? Funny that. Because she hadn’t gone back in. No. On the contrary she’d donned the cloak and headed off briskly, first making sure the door was locked behind her. With Ruby where? In this very room? Odd that.

  His eyes shifted to the staircase, his boot heels ringing on the mosaic floor as his feet followed his gaze. He hesitated. Her bedroom. Her bedroom wasn’t a place he should go.

  This room was as far as he should go. If she came in and caught him now, he could still explain. ‘The door was open, I thought perhaps someone had broken in.’ But her bedroom?

  His palms sweated. Was this how it felt to be a thief? Sort of exciting and furtive. The thought was fleeting because he swallowed it. He wasn’t a thief. He was a man who had been wronged. Horribly, bloodily wronged. Wronged by this damned woman who wouldn’t be here if she was up to any good. Would she? And that was why the wooden stairs now creaked beneath his boots.

  In the silent house the noise ricocheted like rifle fire. It wouldn’t be heard at the hall, but his heartbeat still quickened. Beneath a growing sense of unreality at what he was doing, he knew one thing. It wasn’t just the knowledge that this was wrong that dried his throat and made his blood thrum. No.

  As he rounded the bend in the stair, taking care not to knock his head off the unlit candle sconces fitted to the wall, the thought pounded, that he was about to enter her bedroom. Him. The fifth Duke of Chessington. Not something Ardent would ever have dreamed of doing. Letting a bold baggage kiss him at a cottage door, in a fluttering black robe and not a lot else either.

  He reached the top step, completely unprepared for what he saw. He must have come into the cell as a boy. He’d a vague memory of a horde of children playing in the downstairs rooms. But he couldn’t ever have come up here or he’d have known the whole level was open space.

  Christ. All there was, was a bed. If he ignored the candelabras, the bedside table, and the simple wooden chest in the furthest corner that was. A bed that stood in the center of the floor, curtained with billowing white muslin. So plain, so simple, and yet?

  He closed his eyes. When he stood here as he shouldn’t, the last thing in the world he should think was of that bold piece in that bed. The silky raven hair spilling on the soft white pillows. Candlelight kissing her pearly skin. Those damned eyes of hers, bold, questing as the rest of her--for all she kept attempting that ridiculous I am the essence of serenity expression-- meeting his with the passion that was in her.

  The last thing in the world he should do was let his feet move across the darkened floorboards toward the cushions strewn there, the sheets, pillows.

  He’d almost reached them too when a voice said, “What exactly do you think you’re doing here, Lord Hawley?”

  Good question. Breaking into someone’s house was quite a bit different from peering in their window, wasn’t it? Why, it made him … almost as bad as herself.

  She would like to think panic dragged her heart. Who was to say he wasn’t about to do something terrible now? To her? People did when they were cornered. Look at herself that night. She’d just been lucky enough not to be cornered again.

  Who was to say, that thinking she was Sapphire, he wasn’t going to pounce? Drag her somewhere? Anywhere to cover his tracks? Force that confession? The others were at the hall, she was here alone, and he’d everything to lose.

  On the square she’d spent her life inhabiting, the one so small there was no room for mundane things like panic, shrink an inch though and she was finished.

  Earlier? Earlier was a mistake. It wasn’t a lie that she’d arranged to visit Mrs. Pennycooke but a certain cake would have been completely iced had Mrs. Pennycooke been able to tell her something, or been able to suggest someone who did. Twenty-two years was too long ago, though.

  Now Cass’s hunger pangs were alleviated by the sight of Devorlane Hawley. Especially given what Mrs. Pennycooke did remember—if only Cass had covered her ears before hearing that dreadful fact, the one that had haunted her all along the perishing highway, so her boots rang on the icy ground and her heart hammered fit to burst her ribcage. Lord Armstrong had never married.

  Now she was the first to admit, Devorlane Hawley had froze just like this last night and then very nearly succeeded in killing Barron with the broom handle.

  Now she was also the first to admit it wasn’t going to happen again. Not when she patently needed to stay longer. Find proof.

  “All right.” He raised his head heavenwards as if she’d a pistol leveled on his back. “So you’ve caught me red-handed.” His head was followed by his hands. He sighed deeply. Sheepish? In fact, enough wool to cover a flock. When it would be a great mistake not to shepherd this particular flock to where it belonged, too.

  “Well, Lady Armstrong?”

  She didn’t need to see the irritated weariness that went all the way to his dissolute bones, as he lowered his head either. Gil was at the hall. Even if it meant placing herself further in his debt, why not fetch her dear, darling husband? What he was here for, wasn’t it? She turned.

  As she did, a thought occurred. Of course, there was a second option that didn’t involve hotfooting to Gil. Her having to kiss this individual either. After all, how very shocking was this? She turned back.

  “Put … put your hands down. I’m hardly armed.”

  “Debatable.”

  “But just because I’m not armed, doesn’t mean I can’t be.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  She was glad he didn’t. The board creaked beneath her foot as she took a step towards him.

  “I’m glad you don’t, because debatable or not, Lord Hawley, housebreaking is thieving.”

  He shifted slightly, his shoulders tensing. “If I actually stole something. Maybe.”

  She forbore to say it was going to be arranged if he wasn’t careful. He was here wasn’t he? Not only that, but if she didn’t know any better, the irritated way he tut-tutted and sighed, even the cut of his shoulders, suggested he didn’t want her going to Lord Koorecroft, any more than she wanted him going. Now, why was that? Some dirty little secret in his murky, dissolute past?

  It must be bad. Men like him never troubled themselves with secrets, because there were so many, what would be the point?

  Belle would surely know. Now they were—friends wasn’t quite the wor
d to use exactly in connection with Belle, but whatever they were, Cass would make it her mission to find out. Then she would use it to ensure her position here was safe. After all, it wasn’t just the business of proving Barwych was hers that counted. It was the keeping it, the staying here. Especially when it was clear as the glass candlestick on the bedside table—commonly ordinary as mutton—he didn’t believe for two seconds she was who she claimed.

  “You are assuming nothing is missing at this precise moment in time,” she said. ”That my jewels are present. But it might be, if I was to check, I could discover some are missing.”

  “I never house broke. All right? The damned door was open. We all know there’s an intruder in the district. At least, according to you.”

  “You know perfectly well, but in case you don’t, Belle will also swear to it. The door was closed. I shut it. I locked it too.”

  Another sigh. “Maybe you did. Or you thought you did. But when I passed, it was open.”

  “One thing at a time. We’ll get to you snooping in a minute. If it was, it was because you forced it open.”

  “I did not force. As for Belle, let me tell you now, do you think Belle will swear to something—”

  Automatically she tilted her chin. “Belle will do what it takes, I am sure, to see law and order maintained. Yes.”

  That she uttered these words boldly, without blushing was down to one thing—two actually. She wasn’t a lady, and she was staying here.

  “If you think that, you plainly know nothing about Bel—”

  “Whether you forced the door or not, is hardly the issue, since this is my bedroom you’re standing in. That is, as opposed to my window, which last night you were standing at. Looking in—”

  “Congratulating you.”

  “Looking in—”

  “Tell me something I don’t actually know.”

  “Then if you know that, would you like to explain why my”—maybe she hadn’t blushed before, but she did now. She fingered the back of her neck too—“bedroom has such fascination for you?”

  “And that’s why you think I’m here, do you? Because I find your bedroom fascinating?”