The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  Stepping inside, Harclay turned to Avery and nodded at the candle he held in his hand. “The light, if you please.”

  Harclay began unfolding the small package, taking care not to tear the delicate paper. From the look of it, the newspaper was from that morning: a few headlines detailing the latest Spanish cities captured by Wellington, another article about Mr. Hope’s missing diamond.

  His hands shaking with impatience, Harclay at last opened the page. Inside, scrawled in enormous, barely legible script, was a note. The ink was bold and black and splattered across the headlines.

  Wee require unother 75 poownds

  Tomoroww Noon at the Cat and mowse

  cheepsyde

  We no were She lives

  Rage pounded hard, loud, through Harclay’s veins. Those greedy, conniving bastards; he should’ve known they’d come for more money, should’ve guessed they’d come for Violet.

  He crumpled the note in his hand. How foolish he had been to visit Lady Violet these past nights; likely those damned acrobats followed him right to her window. The thought of those black-toothed bastards kidnapping her, putting their filthy hands all over her lovely skin . . .

  He cursed so loudly, so fluidly, that poor Avery jumped back, the candle trembling in his hand.

  “Did you see anyone?” Harclay growled between clenched teeth. “You must’ve been waiting for me, down here in the kitchens. Did you see anyone deliver this note?”

  Avery shook his head. “I poked about outside, my lord, perhaps an hour ago. I didn’t see a soul. Nor did I see the note—it must have arrived just before you.”

  Harclay let out a long, hot breath. At least he knew Lady Violet was safe—for now.

  Running a hand through his hair, Harclay turned to Avery. “Speak of this to no one. Hire extra men to keep watch at Lady Violet’s—discreetly, of course, as I do not wish to alarm her or her family.”

  “Of course.” Avery nodded.

  “And tell our footmen to carry guns and keep an eye on my sister,” Harclay said. “No one comes in or out of this house without my permission. Is that understood?”

  “Very well, my lord, I shall see to it,” Avery said.

  “And have the house turned out tomorrow. Every room, every cranny and fireplace and corner, cleaned and put back together again. You are to report anything out of the ordinary to me.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the butler replied. After a beat, he cleared his throat, and Harclay noticed him shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Well?” Harclay said, raising a brow. “Come, now, Avery, out with it.”

  “Begging your pardon, Lord Harclay, but you shan’t protect anyone if you don’t get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you these next few days. Your strength, too.”

  “Very well,” Harclay replied, though he knew there would be no rest for him tonight, not until he untangled Violet from his plot. “To bed, to bed. But I shall break my fast at the usual hour, Avery. Have my sister up as well. We have an important call to make, first thing.”

  Eighteen

  The morning sun, pale and warm, flooded Violet’s chamber as Fitzhugh pulled back the drapes. Violet opened one eye and discerned at once that the hour was early, too early for one such as she who’d been up half the night kissing a rain-soaked rake in her bed.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, my lady,” Fitzhugh said, as if reading Violet’s thoughts, “but you have callers.”

  Violet turned away from the light, digging her naked arms beneath the pillow. “Tell them I am not feeling well. Wretchedly early for a call, isn’t it?”

  Violet heard the quiet splash of fresh water as Fitzhugh filled the washbasin. “Pardon my boldness, milady, but I don’t think there’s anything wretched about these callers. One in particular.”

  “Who is it?” Violet moaned.

  But Fitzhugh was intent on playing coy. “They are waiting downstairs in the drawing room. With his grace the duke. Your father.”

  Violet leapt from her bed as if it were aflame. “But you know very well Papa can’t accept callers! He isn’t even allowed downstairs—last time, he managed to set half my books on fire—”

  “I’m afraid your callers insisted,” Fitzhugh replied, decorously ignoring Violet’s complete and utter nudity.

  Strains of laughter wafted up the stairwell into Violet’s chamber. Her belly turned over at the sound; she recognized that laugh, that deep, rumbling voice.

  “What should you like to wear? Perhaps the persimmon?” Fitzhugh asked. She opened the door to Violet’s dressing room and began fussing with her mistress’s meager collection of gowns.

  “The one brought over by the milliner last week,” Violet replied. “The French silk promenade gown, with the tassels.”

  Fitzhugh paused. “A bit fancy for the morning, milady. Shows quite a lot of skin.”

  Oh, the earl’s seen much more skin than that, Violet thought. She shivered with anticipation as she sat at her vanity and began tugging a brush through her curls, mangled from sleep.

  After what seemed an eternity, Violet swept into the drawing room with all the elegance she could muster at so early an hour. Her eyes alighted on the merry scene before her and it was all she could do not to gape in wonder.

  For there, seated before a pleasant fire with delicate cups of tea in their hands, sat the Earl of Harclay, his sister, Lady Caroline, and Violet’s father, the Duke of Sommer. All of them wore great smiles and high color, as if they’d just shared a particularly humorous jest. Violet’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t seen her father laugh, or appear so happy, since he’d fallen ill some years ago.

  “Violet! At last!” the duke said, rising to peck her on the cheek. And then, lowering his voice just enough so that everyone in the room could still hear, “Capital chap, the earl, with bollocks and brains both. I knew he’d taken a liking to you. I approve, I say, and most heartily!”

  Across the room, Violet met eyes with Harclay. He was looking at her intently, his dark gaze smoldering with laughter and just a hint of heat. Her plan to chastise him, to bring him to account for calling at such an ungodly hour, faded as she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. It seemed the earl’s good humor was contagious.

  “William,” Lady Caroline was saying, cuffing his shoulder, “you should take your own advice and stop ogling Violet as if you’d like to eat her. And in her father’s own drawing room! The shame of it.”

  But in true fashion, the earl would not be thwarted. He leapt to his feet and crossed the room in two enormous, impatient strides. The breath left her body as he bowed and drew up before her; desire crackled palpably in the tiny space between their bodies.

  “Lady Violet,” he murmured, a wicked grin on his lips, “it has been far too long.”

  “Yes,” she replied, swallowing. “An eternity.”

  An eternity indeed—all of six hours.

  Her father clapped the earl on the back. “Lord Harclay has requested the honor of your presence this morning, my dear Violet. Was it a drive you mentioned, my lord, or a dance? Though I’m afraid we haven’t any musicians.”

  “Let us save the dance for later. This evening, perhaps, if the lady will have me,” Harclay replied smoothly and turned to Violet. “I was hoping you’d accompany me on a drive this morning. My sister shall join us as chaperone, of course, seeing as your aunt Georgiana is, by all reports, still suffering the aftereffects of that unfortunate billiards incident.”

  “Poor woman.” Violet’s father shook his head. “Looks like a gargoyle, she does, ready to sprout horns from that bump on her head.”

  Violet cleared her throat and looped her arm through the earl’s. “A drive would be lovely, thank you,” she said and tugged him none too gently toward the door.

  “Godspeed!” Lord Rutledge called after them. “And don’t hurry back. ’Tis
far too lovely a day, and Violet too lovely a girl, to be stuck inside with an old man like me!”

  • • •

  Violet did not notice Lord Harclay’s unease until they were settled beside each other in his gleaming phaeton. It was an enormously elegant and dangerous-looking affair, the vehicle lacquered black and trimmed in Harclay’s signature shade of blue. It was drawn by a matching pair of Andalusians, hides polished to such a sheen they rivaled the earl’s Hoby top boots. She checked her bonnet, discreetly, digging the pins closer against her scalp; an infamous whip, Harclay had a reputation to protect. Doubtless he would drive like the devil, even with a lady beside him.

  As the earl took the reins in his hands, he looked over one shoulder, then the other, scanning the street. His foot tapped impatiently against the floorboard; against the smooth skin of his jaw his muscles twitched.

  His display of anxiety was unnerving; Violet had grown accustomed to his smooth-talking ease. He was a man who seldom, if ever, allowed his feathers to be ruffled, who was unceasingly calm and collected and wicked.

  “You might as well tell me what it is that’s bothering you,” she said. “I’ll find out one way or another.”

  The earl’s smile was tight and brief. “Let us hope you do not, Lady Violet.”

  Beyond that, he offered no explanation. Urging the horses into motion with a low, expert whistle, Harclay led the phaeton into the lane, Lady Caroline following closely behind in the Townshend family coach.

  Violet squared her shoulders and looked out over the side of the phaeton, resolved to remain undistracted by the brooding, magnetic presence beside her. She would have an answer to her question, whether he liked it or not. But every now and again her gaze would find its way to him, her pulse quickening at the very sight of his hands, his fingers, those eyes.

  The muscles in his shoulders and arms strained against his coat as he directed the horses this way and that; the smooth skin along his cheekbones and brow gleamed in the strengthening sun. Gritting her teeth, she sat on her hands, lest they of their own volition reach out and grope the man in ways they shouldn’t.

  “I’m taking you to my house,” he said. “I’m having it turned out today, and I thought it a perfect opportunity for you to continue your snooping.”

  “You mock me,” she sniffed. “What did you do with it? Ship it off to Russia or some such nonsense? Bury it at your country house? Sink it into a Scottish loch? Hope’s diamond can’t possibly be in your bedchamber if you’re allowing me to search it.”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not. But I am enjoying our little game far too much to let the trail go cold, as they say. I hardly think I could bear it if you abandoned me for another suspect.”

  “If we weren’t in public, I’d throttle you. And besides, I shall never consider another suspect; I know you are my man,” Violet replied, turning away in a huff. “I say, is that Mr. Lake in the carriage with your sister?”

  Harclay’s head swiveled in that direction. Sure enough, they could see the outline of Mr. Lake’s enormous, hulking figure through the coach windows. It appeared he was leaning toward Lady Caroline, doing something with his hands.

  Violet bit back a smile as Harclay cursed.

  “Christ have mercy, my sister shall be the end of me. And that devil—how I despise him! If she ends up with child, I’ll have his head.”

  “Pish! And what of your sister’s happiness? Even a fool can see the affection that grows between them.”

  “Caroline’s contentment means the world to me,” he growled, “but there’s something about Lake I don’t like. He isn’t who he says he is; he keeps secrets. I can see it in his eyes. I fear he shall do no more than steal her heart and break it.”

  Violet sighed. She did not dare give voice to her own fear that Harclay was doing the very same to her heart.

  As soon as Harclay reined in the horses before his house, he leapt from the phaeton and wordlessly reached for Violet. Clutching her waist in his hands, he lifted her from the vehicle as if she weighed no more than a feather and set her on her feet.

  It was obvious he was in a rage, for without thinking he clasped her hand within his and stalked toward the coach. Even through the fine kidskin of her glove, she could feel the warmth of his callused flesh sinking into her own. A wave of energy coursed through her, goose pimples pricking to life on her arms and legs.

  Waving off the groomsmen, Lord Harclay yanked open the coach door. Violet gasped in surprise as her eyes fell on the empty seat beside Lady Caroline.

  “Where is he?” Harclay hissed. “I know he was in the carriage with you, Caroline, so where did he go?”

  Caroline tucked an errant curl behind one ear and, as if she hadn’t heard her brother speak at all, made her way out of the coach. Instinctively, Harclay reached out with his free hand and caught her just in time before she tripped on her dress and fell face-first into the drive.

  “Well?” he insisted warningly.

  Lady Caroline sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, William, but I do wish you’d stop harassing me so. How Lady Violet can tolerate your moods, I have nary a clue.”

  She turned to Violet and tugged her from the earl’s grasp. “Come, my dear, I understand my dear brother would like you to have a tour of the house. It would be my pleasure.”

  Her arm looped through Lady Caroline’s, Violet found herself climbing the great steps of Harclay’s London house, Avery beaming from the front door. She felt a pang of regret—would the earl not accompany them?—and looked over her shoulder, her gaze finding his. His jaw was set; his eyes blazed. He appeared a wolf, tense with vigor just before setting out for the hunt.

  “I shall return shortly,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ve an errand to see to in the city. Promise me you’ll stay.”

  Violet furrowed her brow. This didn’t make much sense; why did he bring her to his house, only to leave to run a mysterious errand?

  But the way he looked at her, that strange, hard gleam in his eyes, made her swallow her reservations. “Of course,” she said. And then, impulsively: “Take care, my lord.”

  Harclay bowed and disappeared around the house.

  Nineteen

  The welcome Harclay received at Hope & Co. was markedly cooler than that which he’d enjoyed just a few weeks before. Bank employees turned from him, not as if he were a triumphant Caesar but rather a Medusa come to turn them all to stone, snakes roiling from his head.

  Harclay brushed past them, his mood grim. He didn’t have time for the usual Hope & Co. theatrics; he needed seventy-five pounds, and quick, lest those conniving acrobats get their hands on Violet.

  His pace quickened at the thought. The rage he felt toward those cads, toward himself, was nothing short of murderous. He could not bear the fact that it was his own carelessness, his lust-fueled stupidity, that put Violet directly in harm’s way.

  He would not see her hurt. No matter the consequences, the blood that would be spilt; the earl would see her safe and happy, her life, her family, her fortune secure.

  Harclay prayed Hope would allow him this one last withdrawal; he prayed his accounts were not yet frozen. The earl had contemplated returning Hope’s diamond—for that would solve everything, wouldn’t it?—but the banker was a wily fellow, and a consummate businessman besides. Even if Harclay did return the jewel to him, Hope was just as liable to have him arrested as he was to shower him with thanks. After all, returning the diamond was tantamount to an admission of guilt.

  No, it was too much of a risk; if he was arrested, thrown in jail, who would protect Violet from the acrobats? They would come after her, whether or not the earl returned the French Blue to its rightful owner. Besides, he had bigger plans for Hope’s gem, plans that involved Violet, his favorite carriage, and a very good bottle of Scotch.

  He was about to mount the stairs, railing clasped
firmly in his hand, when a hugely tall man stepped in his path.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” the man said. “Mr. Hope is not accepting calls this afternoon. If you would but leave your card, I shall—”

  Harclay shoved the man unceremoniously to the side, and continued up the stairs. “Hope will see me,” he growled.

  “My lord!” the man called out, racing up the steps after him. “My lord, you musn’t!”

  But he was no match for Harclay, who barged through the closed doors of Mr. Hope’s office just as his man, breathless with exertion, reached the top step.

  Mr. Hope stood behind his desk in naught but his waistcoat, leaning on his hands above an enormous stack of newspapers. He raised his head, surprise flashing in his dark eyes as they fell upon the earl.

  “I need to make a withdrawal,” Harclay said without ceremony. “And quickly.”

  Mr. Hope rose to his full height, surveying Harclay from across the room. The earl could tell he hadn’t slept in days; heavy, dark circles ringed his eyes, and though his face was carefully composed into a mask of indifference, Harclay saw strain in the furrow of his brow.

  “I assume you’ve seen the papers?” Hope asked.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Harclay replied. “I don’t mean to be rude, Hope, but time is of the essence—”

  “Eight days,” Hope interrupted. “I’ve been in the headlines for eight days straight. Each headline worse than the last; by now all of London must think me a brainless buffoon. Never mind the success of my business before the French Blue incident. Now I am being judged on one bloody night of theatrics; a drop in the proverbial bucket, as they say. And my business—it has suffered greatly, Harclay. Greatly indeed.”

  Harclay bit back his impatience. “I understand your frustration, Hope.”

  Hope shook his head, his voice even, deadly calm. “I don’t think you do. You see, when Lady Violet came to me with her little theory about you being the thief, I very nearly dismissed her out of hand. Why would Lord Harclay do such a thing, I thought, and to me of all people? I’ve guarded his investment, shown him generous returns.