As for that damned letter coming today, the one that had thrown him clean into another universe—well, he could understand her getting uppity about it. He’d gotten uppity about it himself—furious rather, when he’d caught her in his things, because he’d written the original to Colonel “the coot” Caruthers so long ago he’d clean forgotten he’d done it. How was he meant to remember everything? These last few weeks he’d had to place himself at the opposite end of the compass from her.
The clock was ticking down to her coming to the end of that box of papers. He saw it every day, every evening, when she stepped into his room to remove that stupid poultice, he’d sat incapable beneath for two hours. It was what he expected to hear. That, or she’d found something. And he couldn’t, he hadn’t wanted to let her go. Ridiculous when he had always been able to let go of any woman that this one should be in his blood.
“A tinker man? Maybe you think so. Maybe he was. It’s no odds to me.” Her coolly enigmatic gaze swept nothing in particular. Not the crone, not Belle. It simply hung in the air, as it seemed she did. A glittering jewel’s worth of hardness, of luminosity, of beauty. Then she swung her gaze to him. “I won’t be owned, Lord Hawley.”
Jesus.
“This woman is me.”
It was, wasn’t it? With a churning in his gut, he thought, not just about her succulent lips and her ice cool touch, he thought about her. The fact she preferred those papers to him—yes. But preferring those papers had always been the deal. And the rationality of this suddenly didn’t matter. Because she was other things. Things that had made him step forward when Belle had accused her. Things that had always been there. He just hadn’t want to see they were.
How could she prefer a hangman’s noose to him? Christ. It was screamingly, blindingly obvious wasn’t it, when he’d treated her as he had? Did he want this moment he’d dreamed of, clung to, the one where everyone knew how innocent he truly was, so badly? He knew he was innocent and that was all that counted, especially now his deepest desire was to protect her from what the old woman said.
She’d had such dreams, hadn’t she? Despite everything and perhaps because of it, she’d had them. Ones he suddenly didn’t want anyone to tear from her. Ones he’d sit with a poultice on his leg till kingdom come if it meant her keeping them. He stepped forward.
“Actually this woman is with me. And I deeply regret how very delusional she is.”
“Delusional? Me? Oh, that’s a good 'un.”
“Very well. I know you don’t care for the word. I admit I don’t either. But you are. Which is possibly, in fact I’d say, probably, why you’re with me. So I can look after you.”
“You? Look after me? Was this in your dreams of a white Christma—"
“Don’t laugh.”
“Then don't soddin' make me."
Surely no matter how much she hated being owned and he—perhaps he had tied and tethered her as one might a fabulous bird of prey—she’d at the very least accept the hand he now placed on her arm?
She did, but he was left in no doubt that dog dirt, or a soothing balm, were one and the same to her. There was no trouble discerning which his touch was for all her gaze was the merest flicker across his wrist.
He canted his jaw. Christ, she was the most delicious he’d ever known her, her hands clutching her reticule, her exotic scent winding round his senses, her eyes staring straight ahead, that impeccable black dress outlining her breasts. It was no trouble to nudge closer, so her scent wound tighter and his body stood along the lines of hers.
“Delusional. All right? We talked about this before, these little stories you keep telling about the elves and the jewel thieves and that elephant you brought all the way from India and lived in Sherwood Forest with. That one’s her best.” He peered around the semicircle of devouring, disbelieving eyes. He had to. Were she really Lord Armstrong’s daughter, she’d be safe. Wasn’t he himself testament to the power of the aristocracy that he hadn’t swung for the Wentworth emeralds? But she wasn’t Lord Armstrong’s daughter, as that old crone had just proved, and there were those here who would crucify her for that fact. “It’s even got Robin Hood in it. Hannibal too, seeing as she crossed the Alps with him, on that same elephant. Hindi, you called him.”
She clutched the reticule tighter. “Did I fu--"
“You like to think so. Maybe it was Hinda, but His Grace, Lord Koorecroft there, will attest to that little lie you told him just the other month.” Remembering she had, he lowered his mouth to her ear. It was the way out now and he needed her to take it. Not stand glued to the catch of her reticule, even if the feel of her wrist, the brush of her body, her provocative essence sent tremors coursing through his, as it always did, through his pores, through his veins. “Now, you remember the one about your husband, dear Elgie, being a spy?”
“He was never a spy and he wasn’t my husband. I’ve never been married.”
“Finally, I’m glad you said so. Half the county thinks you were because that is what you claimed. As fine a piece of nonsense as you ever heard, ladies and gentlemen, spouted while she searched for her father. Lord Armstrong of Barwych, no less. Another fantastical fantasy. Like Robin Hood. Like Old Shuck of Essex. Like that elephant. But now this lady has said who her father really was, and it’s not—”
“I am Sapphire.”
His thought that when it came to birds, she might conceivably have been something as vexing as a talking parrot, was arrested by the clatter. Bracelets, brooches, pocket watches cascaded onto the floor. Everything in fact, except the mustard spoon, the lorgnette, and his cuff link. Having emptied the reticule, she held it upside down for an instant in the stunned silence. The air seemed to crackle as she shook it to make quite sure nothing remained. Then she righted it and snapped it shut.
“I told you she was the thief!” Belle shrieked.
She had, hadn’t she? And now in the jostling, yelling, cursing cacophony, Devorlane was pushed aside.
What he knew was he couldn’t let them touch her. As long as there was breath in his body, he couldn’t—damn her for putting him in this position, for twisting his heart with her dignity, her coolness about the old crone, for everything.
“Wait!” He struggled between her and the laborers clasping her arm. “She’s wrong. Belle has this wrong. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything—”
“Wrong?” Belle grabbed his wrist. “Devorlane, how on earth can you say so, when the truth is there, right there? These things were in her bag.”
He should be careful not to think so now. He just knew it was so long since he’d given a damn about anything, he hadn’t known this feeling for what it truly was. Couldn’t confess, even a second ago, not even to himself, that this woman who he’d tried to hate, to dismiss, to kid himself about, this woman had him. She always had.
This hunger for her, the one that had haunted him down the dark and lonely years, had nothing to do with revenge. He had looked for her in the faces of his whores, on the streets he never should have walked, the lips of every woman he’d kissed, the blast of battle, the dark of night. And what had he done since he’d found her? Things he didn’t like to think about.
If he did this now—hell, he was going to, when he thought of his worthless damned life and what she had brought back into it. It was that, or see her hang.
“Because I put them there.”
“No, Devorlane. Don’t lie … Don’t … Oh, for God’s sake. No.”
He knew he must have shouted because silence fell, as if a blanket had been dropped on the room, except for Belle of course.
“I put them there.”
And her.
But, with the exception of her, the collective gaze of those present rested on him, so he might as well continue. “Lord Koorecroft knows I’m the thief.”
“I’m the thief.”
“You all know I am—well, some of you do anyway. But for those who don’t I’ll tell you. No fantastical tale, unlike some of what you’ve been h
earing. Ten years ago I stole the Wentworth emeralds.”
“I—”
He knew what tiresome thing was about to escape her coral lips. Knew by the way her chin jerked and her brows puckered. By the vicious glare she shot him. He couldn’t let it. If he couldn’t save himself, he could save her. And what was he looking at here? Another term in the military? What was that really? Christ, better than seeing that beautiful body dangle. He’d thought that hadn’t he? The first night he’d seen her naked. She was made for better things.
Maybe she couldn’t see it right now. Maybe he ruined this moment for her where what she wanted above all else was to stand center stage. But he knew this woman in her most capricious moods. These silly things that had driven him to every kind of distraction. Tomorrow she’d regret it.
As for him? What had he been but in the wrong place at the wrong time that night? A life could only be ruined if you let it. In some ways she had saved his.
“It was on this very night. Christmas Eve,” he said. “And knowing this, knowing how I’ve always tried to blame the greatest jewel thief in London for my transgression, she, this lady that is—”
“Devorlane, don’t.”
What glinted in Belle’s eyes almost made him regret the time spent detesting her.
“How can you do this? Defend the creature who ruined your life that night? Who was to blame for you being sent away to the military against your wishes? Ten years, Devorlane. To start with as a common, ordinary recruit because nobody, nobody, believed you. Think of everything that was done to you there. Think of ten years wasted. Ask yourself how can you do this now?”
The answer to that was simple.
He didn’t want to cause more blood to drain from Cassidy Armstrong’s face by giving it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The ticking of the mantelshelf clock hammered in Cass’s brain. While she wanted to think calm--calm wasn’t how she felt right now. Not when it had taken Ruby less than a minute to demolish that in the carriage. Still she was here, wasn’t she?
“Yes.” She flexed her fingers.
Devorlane Hawley was right. Colonel Caruthers was neither goat, nor coot. He was perhaps in his early forties, which made him an unusual choice of comrade for Lord Koorecroft, and he wasn’t unhandsome, with his neatly waved hair and chestnut moustache. If you liked that sort. She didn’t. Especially when ‘I see,’ were not the preferred words she wanted to hear right now.
Just when she least needed it to, her mind drifted to that moment, the instant on the pavement outside Mistress Fan’s, as Devorlane Hawley made to step into the coach. How could she never have considered that she’d ruined his life? Yet when she’d run to him and grasped his arm, he’d still kissed her. The imprint lingered still, of his mouth, of his faintly curved lips, as he’d gazed down at her for that second. ‘I love you and I’m sorry,’ he’d said.
So was she that she’d opened her mouth let alone her bag, that she was plainly incapable of willingly giving any bit of herself to anyone. ‘I never betrayed you. I wouldn’t have. I wrote that letter before, before you ever came to Chessington to stay, when you ... well ... ' he’d added.
Then there were Belle’s words as the coach was driven away. ‘I hope you’re happy now, you damned bitch. I hope you rot in hell for what you’ve done to Devorlane.”
Christmas Eves, did they get better, or worse? The little pile of gifts she’d deposited from her reticule said not. Happy? How could she possibly be happy?
Colonel Caruthers tossed the letter on the desk. “You do realize that if this is true … ”
“True? I beg your pardon?”
Hadn’t she—and Ruby—convinced Lord Koorecroft of the truth with a demonstration of their skills, in order to make him write that letter? True? She wasn’t here to barter that. She was here because there was truly nowhere else for her to be. Although that … that was a very nice pocket watch hanging from his waistcoat. A nice inkwell too. Worth several guineas. She could have it out of here in five seconds. Sold in as many minutes too, if she was required to give another demonstration of her skills.
As if he knew what she was thinking, he raised his head. “Oh please, Miss Armstrong—Sapphire—whatever the blazes you call yourself, spare me whatever this is. Your looks at my inkstand as if you think you can take it off my head and then get out of here with it. Don’t think for a moment because you’ve come in here, with this tosh—”
“It’s not tosh. I don’t deal in tosh.”
“--you will be spared. Devorlane Hawley was one of my best officers. And you … ”
Her? She was the best jewel thief in London.
“Well, let’s look at you, shall we?” He reached into the desk drawer and drew out a vellum file. “The Pimlico theft.”
“Pimlico?” She was never at Pimlico. Ever.
“Vauxhall Gardens.”
“Vauxhall Ga—” That botched job? That was Ruby and Diamond as sure as her mother had left her at a church door.
“Blackheath Manor.”
“What?” She fought the urge to grab the file. If she wasn’t to be spared—and just because she wasn’t, didn’t mean she wouldn’t—she’d at least be grateful if it was for the right thefts.
His eyes slithered over her like a snake. “Oh, the sum told of one’s sins is always greater than the lesser past. But the fact is you’re not innocent. If you want Lord Hawley to be released from jail, if you don’t want to hang, as Lord Koorecroft begs that you don’t, which I’m sure you know perfectly well, having opened his letter—”
“I beg your—”
“There are conditions.”
“Conditions?”
She swallowed her burning ire. She did want and she did know. She wanted and she knew more than anything in her whole life right now. Conditions though? Her palms sweated.
“If I don’t want to hang? What are you saying? That you’ll only free Lord Hawley if I agree to certain things? When he’s innocent? When Lord Koorecroft sent you that—”
Actually where was the letter? She’d been so busy looking at the ink stand she hadn’t noticed the desk was empty of it. Who was this man? Better than her? Certainly he’d detected she’d resealed that envelope.
“There’s no need to get uppity with me. Lord Hawley will go free. I’m perfectly prepared to write to Lord Koorecroft this very day concerning that. But if you want that letter to go and you don’t wish to hang, you will present yourself here at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Me?”
“With no thief’s tricks in between.”
“I beg your –“
“Granted. You could be of use to me, Miss Armstrong. We are a nation at war and I believe you possibly possess some skills. Make sure you bring your belongings. You won’t be returning to your lodgings.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Then you’ll hang. And Devorlane Hawley will stay exactly where he is. The choice is yours.”
***
Choice? Cass closed the door of Colonel Caruthers’s office. The marbled staircase seemed to take forever to walk down, so it was an eternity before she reached the street, noisy with the clatter of carriage wheels as the cool corridors her heels had echoed through weren’t.
Hang? Present herself? Put pieces of herself back in ownership? When having pieces of herself in hock had led to this?
Crossing the road she acknowledged one thing. Ruby was right as ever. The man was a slippery, sodding coot. An ungrateful, whinging, demanding, rubbish-talking goat of a sodding coot at that. Of course she’d known she wouldn’t be let off scot-free. But this? This? She’d even dressed in her best, a dove gray dress and jacket and elegant bonnet. For what? Especially in this freezing weather. Ice still frosting the pavements. Chestnut braziers everywhere. The smell roasting the air. She sniffed and turned a corner.
Choice?
Whatever duty bound Colonel Caruthers, she was duty bound to bolt. Of course she hadn’t said so, but just because she hadn’t s
aid so, didn’t mean she wouldn’t do so. Hang her indeed. God Almighty.
“How did that go then? Did he take our letter?”
Of course Ruby would be about somewhere too, as opposed to taking the coach back to their lodgings as Cass had told her to.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Shiny bright then, is it?”
“Sparkling.”
Give her life? Her freedom for Devorlane Hawley? Not in a thieving month of Sundays, no matter the rubbish that sodding goat had spouted. At her. Sapphire if you pleased. A tinker’s daughter no less. The best jewel thief England had ever known. As for saddling her with all the wrong heists?
“Well then, whot more can yer want?” Ruby shrugged, tightening her shawl around her. “Saff, is there somefing wrong?”
“Apart from the fact we’re probably being watched? If not followed?”
“Whot?”
“Keep walking. Just please don’t tell me I was wrong to go in there. We were wrong to go to Lord Koorecroft—”
“Well, we was. Yer was—”
“That it all comes from mixing with these hoities.”
“It does.”
“So now, we might be wrong to go anywhere. You might as well say it. I’m certainly going to.”
“I ain’t sayin’ nuffin’.” Ruby caught at her arm.
“That’s a change.”
She dragged a cool breath, then another one. It ended here. Hawley had refused point blank to see her.
I love you and I’m sorry.
Choice.
Loving Lady Lazuli (London Jewel Thieves Book 1) Page 24
