The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  Harclay sighed. His butler, who also happened to be his most trusted and wily associate, was right; but what choice did the earl have? He had to begin the chase anew.

  Reading his master’s thoughts as readily as if they were scrawled across his forehead, Avery offered a curt nod and crossed the room to stand before the dreaded armoire. “I do believe the stationery is in here, my lord.”

  Harclay rose to his feet, ducking just in time to avoid the armoire door as it swung open.

  “Here you are, sir, fresh as the day they were engraved,” Avery said, placing a thick stack of heavy, clean-edged paper in his hands.

  Harclay sighed. “Never thought it would come to this, me penning handwritten invitations to dinner,” he said.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it? I will begin the preparations straightaway. Any requests for the menu?”

  Harclay heaved the paper onto the last available corner of his desk. “Champagne, I suppose.”

  Again Avery cleared his throat. “And the food?”

  “Oh, the usual—a side of beef, turtle soup, that sort of thing. Perhaps an Italian ice cream from Gunter’s; I’m partial to the chocolate myself.”

  The butler had to restrain himself from clapping with delight. “Excellent choices, my lord. I’ll see to it.”

  Avery turned and practically skipped out of the study, leaving Harclay alone with his quill and a pile of dusty stationery.

  It had been three days since the affair of Hope’s diamond; and for reasons Harclay did not entirely understand, he was disappointed Lady Violet had not yet called on him, or at the very least tried to arrest him.

  Perhaps, clever girl, she was waiting for him to make the first move. She knew full well the chase thrilled him just as much as the crime itself. He would hardly allow himself to be ignored, especially by the woman intent on hunting him down.

  With a swipe of his forearm, Harclay cleared the desk and settled down to pen his invitations. Being foremost in his mind, Lady Violet’s invitation was the first he decided to write.

  Dearest Lady Violet—

  Yes, yes, that would do. He smiled as he imagined her rolling her eyes at “dearest”—while she would claim to hate it (and him), some small part of her would wonder if his greeting was indeed sincere.

  Dearest Lady Violet—

  I find myself in an insufferable position: not only have I not quite finished seducing you, but I also owe you a great deal of money. Please join me for dinner tomorrow evening at half past eight. Bring your aunt Georgiana and Lady Sophia; others of our mutual acquaintance shall join us.

  I shall be serving both the brandy and the champagne that you so liberally enjoyed. Perhaps after we again indulge, we may settle our accounts?

  Yours, H

  Oh, that is bold, very bold indeed, he thought with a smirk. It was the sort of invitation Lady Violet was powerless to refuse. Not only did he promise her money; he quite cleverly, if he said so himself, intimated that he would give her more than that. A kiss, a touch, another move or two in a game they both so clearly enjoyed—really, how could she resist?

  • • •

  Though Lord Harclay’s invitation had very nearly sent her into a fit of fury, it was, of course, far too tempting for Violet to resist. She spent the better part of the day selecting her outfit for the dinner, deciding at last on a cream ball gown of heavy silk that was overlaid with a gauzy three-quarter dress of pale pink.

  Violet stood before the mirror in her dressing room, surveying her appearance as her lady’s maid helped her into elbow-length silk gloves. Fitzhugh, who’d been Violet’s lady’s maid for as long as she could remember, had wrapped her thick plait around her head, pinning it at the temples. She’d then artfully tucked a few large, pink rose blossoms into the plait, “to match your color.”

  “Goodness, dear,” Fitzhugh tsked. “Are you warm? You look flushed.”

  She hadn’t realized how nervous—excited?—she was to see Lord Harclay until it was time to leave. Violet stood at the threshold of her house, shaking with anticipation. Outside, a lovely spring evening beckoned; Auntie George’s shabby town coach waited on the lane.

  Cousin Sophia stuck her head out the coach door. “Well, aren’t you coming, Violet? We’re going to be late!”

  “Trust me, Mr. Hope always arrives at a fashionably tardy hour at these sorts of engagements,” Violet called from the house. “You won’t miss a minute of his company, I promise.”

  Sophia made a great show of sticking out her tongue and fell back in her seat.

  Violet turned to her father, who in a rare moment of clarity had come downstairs to bid her farewell.

  “Oh, to be young again,” he said with a smile. “I remember the excitement of those wild nights. It is perhaps one’s finest hour; I do so hope you treasure it, and enjoy yourself as much as you are able.”

  Violet squeezed his hands, not daring to ponder what, exactly, he spoke of when he mentioned “wild nights.”

  “I shall certainly try, Papa,” she replied.

  “You shouldn’t have to try very hard, my dear. Yours is a rare beauty. Surely this Harclay fellow intends to propose.”

  Violet nearly choked. “Heavens, no, I’m afraid I shan’t be that lucky lady. Besides, I’ve got you to look after. You’re all the company I need.”

  “Pish,” her father said. “I’m a loopy old mess. Don’t waste your time on ornery old men like me! Go after Harclay, make him yours.”

  I’ll go after him, all right, she thought. She pecked Papa on his cheek, the skin as tremulous and fine beneath her lips as tissue. “Good night, Papa. I shall see you at breakfast, and then perhaps a stroll in the afternoon?”

  “Capital!” he replied, offering her a salute in parting.

  With a sigh that did nothing to relieve her nerves, Violet stepped out into the night.

  • • •

  As soon as Avery cleared his throat at the door, Harclay was on his feet. He hardly heard the butler intoning introductions; his attention was focused solely on Lady Violet.

  She looked ravishing; to his dismay—or perhaps his delight; he couldn’t tell—she appeared even more beautiful than he remembered. In true Violet fashion, she wore a daringly cut gown that displayed her curves to their fullest advantage. He swallowed audibly at the sight of plump half-moons of breast that appeared ready to bare themselves at any moment.

  Her hair was dressed in a shiny braid circlet that sat on her head as a crown. Roses, fully bloomed, were tucked about her ears. Their fragrance was fresh and potent—just like Violet.

  She smiled at him. Desire—sudden, wild—bloomed low in his belly. He sucked in a breath, hoping to calm his blood lest he frighten his guests with the wood of which Lady Violet was so fond.

  Damn her, he thought, she has come to toy with me, tease me.

  And damn her again, it’s working.

  “Ladies,” he drawled with a bow, placing a kiss first on the hand of Aunt Georgiana before turning his attention to Lady Sophia’s.

  He drew up at last before Lady Violet. Her eyes, glittering an alluring shade of indigo in the light of the candles, met his. Without willing it, a smile rose to his lips.

  “And Lady Violet,” he said. “I thought you’d never come.”

  Aunt Georgiana let out a panicked breath and dabbed at her forehead with a lace-edged kerchief. “Your invitation was most unexpected, Lord Harclay. But lovely! Certainly lovely, and your home is just—well, it’s rather exquisite, isn’t it?”

  She turned to survey the drawing room, doubtless with no little suspicion. It was obvious that Lady Violet had shared her hunch with everyone gathered here tonight that Harclay had stolen the French Blue. He’d noticed it the moment Hope and Mr. Lake arrived. There was an edge to their greeting; their eyes took on a sort of calculating glimmer, as if sizing up Harclay and his home as potential eviden
ce.

  Though Hope wasn’t entirely convinced, at least in Harclay’s mind. Members of the ton simply did not behave in such a manner, stealing diamonds and whatnot from their esteemed neighbors. No doubt Hope was having difficulty believing Harclay was capable of such a crime. The earl had time yet before Hope tightened the noose and forced his hand.

  It was, really, making for a most thrilling chase.

  “Forgive me,” Aunt Georgiana was saying, her eyes on Sophia as she moved toward Mr. Hope. “I must see to my daughter before she and Mr. Hope run off to Siam. The way they look at each other . . . ”

  Aunt Georgiana darted off, allowing Violet and Harclay a moment alone. Lady Violet leaned toward him, one of her roses brushing his nose as she whispered, “Missed me, have you? I knew you couldn’t stay away long, but three days! You must be desperate.”

  “Perhaps,” he murmured in reply. “Though I venture it’s not the sort of desperate of which you speak.”

  She drew back, and he noticed with delight that her cheeks burned pink.

  “As I’ve said before,” he continued, “you are welcome to visit my home anytime, Lady Violet. Anytime at all, especially at night, and without chaperone.”

  Daringly, she tilted her neck and bit her lip. “You forget you lost that bet, my lord.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied, licking his lips, “perhaps I can convince you to oblige me, despite that fact.”

  She scoffed, a warm, throaty sound. “You’re not used to being the loser, are you, Lord Harclay? The world doesn’t work that way. The piper must be paid; debts must be settled. Your exalted position does not excuse you from paying up.”

  “Paying up?” He smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were an inveterate gambler. Tell me, what’s your secret?”

  Lady Violet returned his smile. “Not before you tell me yours.”

  “Why, dearest girl,” he replied, “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Might I get you something to drink? Perhaps that champagne of which you are so fond?”

  “Yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” she said, daggers in her eyes.

  Harclay turned to flag one of the footmen and was pleased to see from the corner of his eye Lady Violet snap open her fan and wave it before her flushed face.

  He handed a coupe to her and took one for himself. “To what I hope will be yet another successful evening,” he said, holding up his glass for a toast.

  “I’m afraid my success and your own are rather at odds,” she said and clinked her glass to his. “For me, a successful evening would entail proving you’re a rotten thief, and retrieving Hope’s diamond; and success for you would mean hopelessly despoiling me. And we both know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Oh, Lady Violet, by now you should know better than to doubt my prowess. And besides, I never meant to despoil you; if you remember, I prefer—”

  “Pleasuring,” she said in a clipped voice, not daring to meet his eyes. “Yes, I remember.”

  By now her fan was working double time, the fine hairs at her temple dancing in the breeze.

  Brilliant, he thought, absolutely brilliant. Not ten minutes into our conversation and already I’m making her sweat.

  The dinner gong sounded a bellowing bass, and once again Avery appeared at the door.

  “Ladies and gentlemen”—he clicked his heels together—“dinner is served.”

  The ladies stood; the gentlemen finished the last of their champagne. Lady Violet turned to Harclay and dropped into what some would consider an insultingly low curtsy. “Make no mistake, my lord,” she purred, “I will catch you. On my honor, I will see that justice is done.”

  Impulsively he reached out and thumbed her chin, tilting her face closer to his. “Well, then,” he replied, “let the chase begin.”

  Fourteen

  On the well-muscled arm of Mr. Lake, Violet made her way into Lord Harclay’s dining room. Though she was hardly surprised by the room’s style and elegance, it left her breathless nonetheless. The high ceiling was covered in antique mirrors, reflecting paneled walls lacquered a mellow shade of black. The doors and windows were trimmed with gold-leaf molding; two enormous gilt chandeliers hung from golden chains, crystals sending darts of glitter and flash about the room. A fire crackled merrily from a raspberry-hued marble hearth, fending off what little was left of the spring chill.

  Two towering candelabras, silver engraved with the Harclay family crest, were set on the long table. Dozens of tiny wineglasses, each destined, no doubt, for a sampling of the earl’s impressive cellar, winked beside gilt-edged china.

  A half dozen bewigged footmen waited behind the upholstered dining chairs. From the side gallery came a familiar pop, and Avery appeared bearing a bottle of champagne on a silver tray.

  Harclay took his place at the head of the table, his sister, as the highest-ranking lady, to his right. Across the table his eyes met Violet’s, and it dawned on her quite suddenly that she was to be seated to his left. At once her heart, so recently recovered from the episode in the earl’s drawing room, began to pound and heat rose to her face.

  She took her place at Harclay’s side with all the steely reserve she could muster and waited until the other guests were situated before taking her seat. Cousin Sophia sat beside Mr. Hope, their heads together in suspiciously quiet conversation; Lady Caroline sat at Mr. Lake’s side, his one eye gleaming with mischief.

  Really, thought Violet, it was akin to a circus. She wouldn’t be surprised if, God forbid, Harclay’s hired acrobats-cum-assassins suddenly appeared and began swinging from the chandeliers.

  Violet was vaguely aware of the polite murmur of conversation that filled the room; the scent of roast meat and rising bread wafting in from the kitchens; Auntie George discreetly kicking Cousin Sophia under the table. But the presence of Lord Harclay, mere inches from her elbow, was wholly distracting. Her every sense was alive with the mere thought of him. It was impossible to breathe, much less use her powers of deduction. How was she ever going to seek out the French Blue in such a state?

  The first course was served, delectable turtle soup paired with the crisp champagne. Violet gulped the golden-hued liquid as if this were her last evening on earth.

  “More wine, Lady Violet?” Avery asked, proffering the decanter. “Or would you prefer something else?”

  From the other side of the table, Auntie George was clearing her throat in a rather obvious warning; but Violet, nerves singing, paid her no heed.

  “More wine, yes, thank you,” she said, and as soon as her glass was again full she brought it to her lips.

  But before she tasted so much as a drop, fingers warm and hard wrapped around her own and brought the glass back to the table.

  “Pace yourself, Lady Violet,” Harclay said, “for I do believe this evening shall prove a late one.”

  Violet’s blood jumped at the growl in his voice. She didn’t dare meet his eyes; rather, she glanced about the table and was pleased to note her fellow diners were far too involved in their own games of seduction to pay much heed to her own. Except Auntie George, of course, whose high, feathered headdress trembled with rage.

  His fingers lingered a beat more than was necessary, scorching her skin with their touch. When he moved to withdraw, he traced small rivers of fire from her knuckles to the very tips of her fingers, the move slow, enticing, arousing.

  Violet swallowed. “Not if I have my way. Your house may be overlarge, Lord Harclay, but surely a clever fellow such as yourself would hide a diamond in only a small number of secure locations. Sock drawer, safe, lily pond. I daresay I’ll sniff it out and have you in chains well before midnight.”

  Lord Harclay chuckled. “But might we enjoy dinner first? I saw to the menu myself. ’Twould be a shame to be dragged away from the beef, and in irons.”

  Despite herself, Violet felt a grin tugging the e
nds of her mouth upward. “Very well. I suppose it’s within your rights to enjoy meat one last time. I wonder what sort of porridge they serve at Newgate.”

  “I daresay some of the best in the city,” Harclay replied cheerfully and stuffed his mouth with a well-sauced chunk of fish.

  The wine was good; no, it was better than that, the best Violet had ever tasted. And heavens, there was a lot of it. More champagne for the fish course, and a smoky bordeaux so dark it appeared as ink in the glass for the meat; a burgundy, this one sweet and tasting of cherries; and finally, as Avery brought out the cigars, a fruity white from the Loire Valley.

  Though Mr. Hope and his allies dined with the man they suspected of stealing their livelihoods, they laughed and carried on as if they had not a care in the world. As the meal progressed, and the wine was poured, and poured again, the mood was no longer somber but, to Violet’s chagrin, quite celebratory.

  It was obvious her fellow guests were far too enamored of Lord Harclay, or at least his cellar, to take her accusation seriously. That they did not trust her judgment irked Violet. She was no novice in the world of cheats, thieves, and degenerate gamblers; but it appeared she would have to prove herself nonetheless.

  At last Lady Caroline stood and announced the ladies’ retirement to the drawing room. Across the table Violet caught Mr. Hope’s gaze.

  This much wine will excuse any behavior, she urged him through her eyes. Prod Harclay, see what information you can gather.

  Mr. Hope seemed to understand, for he nodded and placed a cigar gamely between his teeth.

  Violet was not the only guest a shade past tipsy; as she followed the ladies out of the dining room, Lady Caroline walked as if she had adopted Mr. Lake’s limp, while Cousin Sophia fell into the table. The pitcher of lemonade they should have drunk crashed to the floor, sending the footmen into a tizzy. Poor Avery appeared ready to burst into tears.

  “Oh, dear, how terribly embarrassing,” Sophia whispered, smoothing back her hair.