She followed his every step, every turn, and it wasn’t long before she was blissfully floating in the quick one-two-three of the music, breathless, spellbound. With each turn the diamond tapped lightly against her chest, its flashes of fire reflecting in Harclay’s eyes. And still his gaze never left hers; never once strayed to the mesmerizing jewel at her throat, a jewel worn by emperors and kings, a jewel for which most men would commit murder; never once strayed, even as she glanced at her feet to ensure they were still on the ground.
“Why a waltz?” she said, her words coming out in a breathy hush that made her want to cringe. “You’re sure to be shunned from every proper ball this season.”
Harclay scoffed. “If only I were so lucky. I daresay I could run down Bond Street naked, shouting filth at the top of my lungs, and still the good members of the ton would welcome me with open arms. Those with eligible daughters, anyhow.”
“But how many eligible daughters are left, really, that you haven’t already despoiled?”
“Despoiled?” he said, smiling. “Now there’s a word I haven’t come across, not in some time.”
“Indeed,” Violet replied. “I imagine you’ve grown quite tired of ‘pillage’ and ‘ravage,’ what with having used them so often as you go about your daily business.”
Harclay pulled her close to him, crushing her against his not inconsiderable flesh. He felt solid and warm against her, not at all like the steely, menacing predator she imagined him to be, and she let out a little sigh.
He pulled her closer, bending his neck so that his lips brushed against her ear. She arched against him, inadvertently deepening their embrace, and her blood screamed with—well, Violet didn’t quite know what, except that she’d never felt anything so poignant in all her livelong life.
“I prefer ‘pleasure,’ myself,” he murmured. “For as often as I pillage and ravage and take, pleasuring is what I most enjoy.”
The music reached its crescendo, and Harclay spun Violet faster and faster, the room a glowing blur about them. Violet couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak or hear or think; she could do nothing but return Harclay’s searing gaze, her pulse throbbing in time to the memory of his words.
Pleasuring is what I most enjoy.
Heavens, what was one supposed to say to that?
“Yes, well,” Violet said. “I’m afraid I shall not be among those lucky few whom you pleasure this evening. I rather prize my sanity—”
Harclay smiled, a knowing, sinister thing that made his lips appear all the more appetizing. “Sanity is overrated, and not nearly so good a time as sin and seduction.”
Struggling to contain the impulse to wag her tongue at his most impertinent remark, she at last looked away in an attempt to gather her wits.
Thoughts tangled in an impossible knot, her gaze landed on the trio of tall windows that lined the wall above the refreshment table. Just who did this shameless Casanova think he was, saying such terrible—awful—wonderful things . . .
The crack and clatter of breaking glass shattered her reverie. She blinked and saw a handful of black-clad figures somersault gracefully through the windows and land soundlessly on the table. Somewhere in the back of Violet’s mind, she registered that the intruders were most scrupulous in avoiding the glittering decanters that held Mr. Hope’s priceless collection of brandy.
For a moment the ballroom went still, as if the guests were dumbstruck in disbelief; and then all hell broke loose. Screams, shouts, bodies tumbling over one another.
In the chaos, Violet nearly missed Mr. Hope’s gap-toothed, costumed guards palming their guns and pointing them not at the bandits but at Hope’s guests; one guard went so far as to press the barrel of his weapon against the Marquess of Kendal’s forehead and shout at the poor man to stay put and shut his mouth.
What the devil? Hope’s guards—Violet remembered with a shudder just how many of them there were—had turned against him? But how? Why?
Faces concealed by black kerchiefs, the intruders pulled sleek-looking pistols from their belts. They aimed at the ceiling and—one, two, three—they fired, the sound deafening as it echoed off the walls. People screamed and held their ears as they crouched low to the ground. Violet watched in horror as, one after the other, the bandits tucked their guns back into their belts and leapt high from the table onto the chandeliers. With herculean strength they climbed the massive fixtures arm by brass arm; and then, with knives they slid from their boots, the intruders began sawing at the silk cords that held the chandeliers aloft.
“My God,” Violet whispered, pointing directly above their heads. “Look!”
Beside her, Harclay gesticulated wildly at the crowd with his arms. “Move! You’re in harm’s way! Get out, I say, get out from under the lights!”
Like a herd of stunned cattle, Hope’s guests pushed and shoved their way off the floor without a moment to spare.
The chandeliers fell through the air as if in slow motion. Lord Harclay tugged Violet none too gently to the side, just as the chandelier above them crashed to the floor, obliterating the very spot they’d been standing on just a breath before. The earth shook with the impact as the other enormous fixtures followed suit. Their candles sputtered and died and the ballroom was plunged into darkness.
The screams quickly became unbearable, and terribly frightening. Violet overheard guests praying—“Take me, sweet Jesus, I’m ready!”—and a few men were weeping noisily, begging their wives to forgive them this transgression and that.
Violet realized with yet another shudder that the bandits had fallen with the lights and were now roaming freely through the ballroom, looking for God knew what.
She hadn’t realized she was shaking until Harclay pulled her against him, cradling her neck in his palm.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “They shan’t harm you, Lady Violet. You have my word.” She felt the hardened pad of his thumb stroke the tender skin at the back of her neck; and though she knew it was a mistake the moment she did it, she leaned her head against his chest and allowed him to swallow her in his arms.
“But how do you know?” she replied. “How do you know they haven’t come to finish the lot of us off?”
Amid the din she caught the slow, sure rumble of his chuckle. “Lady Violet, I’m afraid you’ve read one too many of those hideous novels of knights and duels and villains. You must trust me, and keep close.”
“Trust you?” she scoffed. “I may be in my cups, my lord, but I—”
Harclay pressed his hand against her mouth. “Quiet,” he said and motioned toward the windows.
Pistols at the ready, the bandits silently surveyed the sea of cowering heads before them. It struck Violet that they were looking for someone, something. Were they here to kidnap Mr. Hope or steal away with some heir or another? Had they come to ransack Mr. Hope’s personal vault, make off with one of his many invaluable collections—Genghis Khan’s swords, ancient Roman coinage, medieval Italian paintings?
No, no, that didn’t make sense. Why rob Hope in the middle of a ball and risk being trampled and caught by the crowd?
Lost in her thoughts, Violet did not sense the pair of predators lurking at her elbow until it was too late.
They pounced on her with the violence of feral cats, clawing at her face, her throat, her gown. She cried out, a pitiful yell that was more a whimper of terror. Her heart went to her throat as she struggled uselessly against them, though she was no match for their strength. Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring the few shapes and movements she could discern in the darkness; her arms and legs burned with the effort of resisting her attackers. It wouldn’t be long, she knew, before her body gave out and the bandits, damn them, would have their way . . .
Her attackers grunted, and for a moment their assault ceased. She blinked the tears from her eyes and saw Harclay looming over her, his right hand fisted in one bandit’s ha
ir while with his left he clasped the second bandit by the throat. He was breathing hard, a sheen of sweat glowing on his forehead in the blue-white light that streamed in from the windows.
With frightening force, Harclay threw one thief to the ground and with his free fist pummeled the other until he begged for mercy. The savory-sweet smell of blood filled the air.
After one last blow to the intruder’s belly, Harclay straightened.
“Are you,” he panted, “all right, Lady Violet?”
She took his proffered hand, and he pulled her upright so that she faced him. “Yes,” she replied, smoothing her gown with trembling fingers. “I—I believe I’m intact. Just a bit shaken . . .”
And then, with a creeping, sickening certainty, it dawned on her.
The diamond.
Her hands shot to her throat. Where Mr. Hope’s priceless French Blue diamond, of Mughal and Sun King fame, should have been, she felt only the clammy warmth of her skin, the scattershot scream of her own pulse.
“Oh, dear, the diamond,” she managed, bile rising to her throat. “I’m afraid I’m going to be ill . . .”
Harclay lurched forward and held back loose strands of her hair as she retched into the dim shadows of the floor.
“The diamond,” she gasped, voice rising with panic. “Lord Harclay, the diamond—it’s gone!”
Five
Harclay pulled the monogrammed handkerchief from his sleeve, stained pink with punch, and for the second time that evening offered it to Lady Violet. He found her intriguing, even as she vomited on his shoes; the combination of tousled hair and disheveled dress drove him mad, quite mad, and if he wasn’t careful his infamous wood would frighten the other guests, even in the dark.
“The thieves,” he said, and, as if on cue, the masked bandits at his feet suddenly leapt to their own feet and made for the exit.
Violet took the handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “They’ve got it, the jewel!” She nearly cried.
“Stop them!” Harclay shouted, turning to face the crowd. “They are making off with the French Blue!”
The ballroom broke out in murmurs, but to Harclay’s pleasure he noticed no one, save Mr. Hope, stood to stop them.
“Wait!” Hope cried, wig slipping from his head as he hurried after them. “You bastards, I’ll have you hanged!”
At that moment a volley of pistol shots rang out—Harclay grinned at the recollection of just how simple it’d been to make Mr. Hope’s guards his own—and panic surged anew from among the cowering crowd.
Guests pushed and shoved one another in a mad dash for the front door. Violet was violently thrust against Lord Harclay, shoe to shoulder, and he drew back ever so slightly so that she might not feel his—ah, his own jewel—hard against her skirts.
Harclay arched his neck and peered above the chaos, his gaze landing on a wildly gesticulating Hope.
“Hope!” he called. “Hope, what is it?”
“Get her out of here!” Hope shouted. “See that she’s safe! The thieves could still be lurking about!”
Harclay very nearly smiled. All was going exactly, perfectly, to plan.
And then he looked down at Violet, who was, naturally, looking back up at him with those damnably alluring blue eyes, and he amended his statement.
All was going to plan, except for his rather inconvenient attraction to the woman from whom he’d just snatched an invaluable gem.
Details, he mused. Mere details.
Harclay roped his arm about her shoulders and began to push his way through the throng, but Lady Violet stood her ground.
“But my aunt,” she panted, turning back to the crush. “And my cousin! Sophia, Sophia, where are you? Christ, Lord Harclay, I can’t very well leave without them!”
He turned to her. “Such language!” he said with mock surprise. “You scandalize me, Lady Violet.”
“Yes, well, I venture the occasion calls for it. I’m not leaving without my family!”
“Yes, yes, you are,” Harclay replied. “I gave Hope my word. And God knows I could never forgive myself if I abandoned you and the thieves returned and stole that sanity you’re so proud of. No, you are coming with me.”
Before Violet could give voice to the inevitable protest, Harclay ducked and, wrapping his arms about her legs, threw her over his shoulder.
“I’ll bite your—your behind I will!” she squeaked as he strode across the ballroom and into the hall.
“Help yourself,” he replied as he made a brisk but elegant escape through the front door.
“Let’s be off, then,” Harclay said to Avery, ignoring the man’s slack-jawed stare as the earl deposited Lady Violet neatly in his velvet-lined carriage.
Avery swallowed. “Very well. We heard the gunshots, and the crashes, but we didn’t move, not one bit,” he said, eyeing his master. “Everything in order?”
“Very much so, thank you,” Harclay replied.
“Help me!” Lady Violet whined from inside the carriage. “He’s trying to kidnap me, and the diamond, I’ve got to help them recover it . . .”
“Indeed, very much so. Home, please, and quickly,” Harclay said, and he climbed into the carriage before Avery could ask any more questions.
“You cad!” Violet spat out as the carriage jolted into motion. “You can’t just sling me over your shoulder like some barroom ladybird and take me from my family. They could be hurt, scared; I can’t just leave them at the mercy of those thieves!”
Harclay smiled at the vehemence of her tone. Feisty, she was, and he liked it, though he could tell her nerves were in precarious condition. He turned to the seat beside him and with a small grunt removed the bottom cushion. There in the padded recess rested a few bottles of his favorite brandy.
“And the diamond!” she continued, smacking her palm against her forehead. “My God, I lost it! Poor Mr. Hope, I daresay he’s out ten, twenty thousand pounds at least!”
“More than that,” Harclay murmured and unstoppered the bottle with his teeth. The heady, rich scent of brandy swirled inside the carriage.
“I should’ve been more careful,” Violet was saying. “I should have paid attention—no, I should’ve known wearing the diamond was a stupid idea and warned Mr. Hope against it. Oh, poor, poor Mr. Hope! What if this gets to the papers?”
“Oh, it’ll get to the papers, all right,” Harclay replied. He held out the bottle to Violet, who twisted her lips into a most delightful grimace.
She snatched the bottle from his outstretched hand. Bringing the bottle to her lips, she took one, two long gulps and with a little sigh sank deeper into her seat. Silence settled between them, the clap of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the carriage wheels against the cobblestones soothing, somehow, in that they were ordinary sounds, signs of life circling back to normal.
Even Harclay, hardened rake that he was, was having difficulty recovering from the evening’s thrill. Despite his best efforts, his pulse refused to slow; indeed, it raced faster and faster the longer his eyes lingered on Lady Violet. Minx, that one, though he thought she looked quite lovely with punch-stained lips and wisps of hair forming a halo about her face.
He dug the nails of his right hand into his palm, and dug yet deeper.
You have just committed no small crime, he reminded himself. You gambled all you are, and all that you own, on this theft. Now is not the time to wax poetic on the charms of a woman, no matter how lovely that particular woman may be.
And still his thoughts spun in that general direction. Though he’d planned quite the spectacle for Mr. Hope and his guests, he hadn’t intended the theft to be quite so operatic; and as he watched Violet tremble before him, he felt something strong and urgent slice through his chest.
Certainly not remorse, he reasoned. No, he did not regret stealing the diamond; the near ecstasy he felt at having ex
ecuted, and escaped from, a rather brilliant crime made it well worth committing the theft. The Earl of Harclay had very few regrets, a fact upon which he prided himself; so why this sudden tenderness, this strange, unfamiliar ache at the sight of a woman in the throes of a veritable apoplectic attack?
After some moments spent silently swaying in time to the carriage, Harclay cleared his throat. “Better?” he asked.
Violet narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose so, yes. Though of course Mr. Hope’s diamond is still missing, and it’s all my fault.”
“Oh, heavens, girl, don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. He pried the bottle from her fingers, took a pull, swallowed with a satisfied sigh, and corked the bottle.
“But I’m not done—”
“Later, when we’re back at the house. How could it possibly be your fault that a gang of strange men assaulted you at a ball and stole your necklace? Mr. Hope was foolish, yes, quite foolish to let you wear it—I’ll give you that. But you, dear Lady Violet—the thieves wasted not a single thought on you, until they saw the diamond around your neck.”
Violet arched her brow. “You speak as if you were among the thieves yourself, Lord Harclay.”
Inside his chest his heart jumped, a rousing leap that had him biting back a smile. She was more savvy than she let on, this Lady Violet; and as he found himself leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees so that he might be closer to her, he realized for the first time just how precarious was his position. His admiration for this woman seemed to increase with every moment he spent in her presence.
Perhaps it was best if he did take her home, drop her at her father’s front door, and be done with it.
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 4
