The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  “Give my apologies to the Ladies Georgiana and Sophia. Tell them I shall return Violet, unharmed, by morning,” Harclay said, looking down at Avery. “Otherwise, tell no one what has occurred here. God forbid this gets to the papers and harms Hope any further.”

  “Very well, my lord,” the butler replied. “Godspeed, sir, and good luck.”

  Harclay took off, urging the horse faster and faster through the lamp-lit streets. At last his investment in horseflesh paid off: the Andalusian was indeed so swift and sure that Harclay was forced to hang on to the horse’s mane for dear life.

  When he reached his town house, he swung off the horse and shouted for a stable hand to saddle him. As fast as Harclay’s legs would take him, he bounded into the house and up the stairs, giving quite a fright to a young handmaid on the way.

  He tore into his bedchamber, pristine from his staff’s ministrations, and flung open the door to the dressing room. In the darkness he reached for the sock drawer—by now he’d memorized its location by heart—and pulled it open.

  He dug about a bit before he fingered the French Blue’s distinctive shape. Pulling it from its nest of silk stockings, he held it up to the light of the fire in his bedchamber.

  It was lovely, casting a rainbow of glittering confetti about the room. In this light it appeared a shade past blue, with hints of gray. The color, exactly, of Lady Violet’s eyes.

  Pain pulsed black and heavy in his chest. How close she’d come earlier that day to finding the diamond; really, how did she know to look in his sock drawer?

  He shook his head, a smile rising unbidden to his lips. She was brash and bold, wily and clever. Though he’d assured Lady Violet he would never marry—and he never would, he assured himself, not ever—he wouldn’t mind spending the remainder of his days in the company of a woman like her.

  But tonight the earl didn’t have time for such thoughts. He had nothing short of a herculean task before him. Without sufficient cash, Harclay was going to have to bargain for Lady Violet’s life with Hope’s diamond.

  It was magnificent enough to catch the acrobats’ attention, more magnificent than a horse or some silver flatware from the Harclay family vault. He didn’t have time for any of that besides; already, too many minutes had passed since Violet had disappeared down King Street. Rage flooded his veins at the thought of her bound and gagged, being taunted and tortured in some filthy, dismal corner of the city.

  He tucked the diamond into his jacket pocket and ran.

  • • •

  Though she’d been unceremoniously abducted and dragged to this filthy, dismal corner of the city, Violet had to admit she thoroughly enjoyed taunting and torturing her captors by besting them in round after round of cards.

  For nigh on two hours now they’d been at it: games of casino, vingt-et-un, and faro, among others the acrobats called by less savory names. And time and time again, Violet managed to win, amassing a small pile of coppers from which the acrobats would steal when their luck ran out.

  With each round of cards came also a fresh round of cider. Violet quietly ignored hers while her captors drank more greedily the longer their losing streak continued. They were sloppy players to begin with; when drunk, they were dismal.

  It was, really, far too great a temptation for Violet to resist. Cheating had never been so easy, and besides, her winning seemed to distract the acrobats from the fact that they had kidnapped her and she was theirs to do with as they pleased.

  Around them, the sounds of the tavern intensified as the night grew darker; Violet supposed it was well past midnight by now. For a fleeting moment she thought of Harclay, and inside her chest her heart skipped a beat. She wondered if he would come for her—how could he negotiate with her kidnappers without access to any of his funds? Surely these men had no interest in anything other than cash.

  One of the acrobats made a strange, slurring sound, and suddenly his head hit the table with a low, dull thwack. Violet jumped back in surprise.

  “Get up, ye fool,” said another and soundly slapped the man’s forehead. But it appeared the man was out cold. The acrobats exchanged glances across the table, but after a beat returned to their cards. One of them cursed; another emptied his mug and shouted a jumble of gibberish that Violet assumed was a call for another round.

  Now was Violet’s chance. If she could just get past their table and into the press of bodies that now crowded the tavern, she would be free. The acrobats could never catch her, not in this crush.

  Slowly she began edging her chair away from the table, careful that it did not so much as squeak as she moved. She turned ever so slightly, her legs together on one side of the chair, and faced the tavern. Placing her feet on the floor, she gritted her teeth and willed her limbs to move.

  Pulse pounding—what would they do to her, if she were caught?—she rose to her feet and leapt into the crowd.

  That single moment felt like an eternity; the anticipation was nothing short of awful. Violet landed not on her feet but on a bear of a man about to take his first sip from a full mug of cider. The cider went flying through the air, spattering everyone, while the man cursed and took a blind swing with an ax-sized fist.

  Violet watched in horror as his fist hurtled toward her face. She couldn’t move, nary an inch with so many bodies surrounding her; and so she scrunched tight her eyes and waited for the inevitable explosion of pain.

  But that explosion never came. She felt herself suddenly jerked backward, rough hands on her shoulders and arms and waist. Her eyes flew open to land on the three remaining acrobats, faces swollen with drink and ire.

  “Tie the bitch back up!” one of them shouted.

  Violet’s belly turned over at the violent edge in the acrobat’s voice, the malice in his eyes. Oh God, she’d misjudged them: fools they were, certainly, but dangerous fools, drunk fools, and now they were angry. It was akin to swatting a bees’ nest, and she had a feeling she would come to regret cheating these men.

  They pushed her back into her chair and she let out a cry of pain as they pulled her arms roughly behind her. One of the men bound her hands so tightly she could feel the linen rubbing a burn into her skin. Another leered into her face, his foul breath roiling her insides. She recognized the gleam in his eye: desire, the drunk, violent kind.

  “I like ye better tied up, now, lass,” he murmured and moved closer, as if to kiss her.

  Violet swallowed the panic that rose in her throat. She gathered every ounce of courage she could muster and, drawing back, she spit right into the man’s eye.

  “Bloody hell!” he cried and fell backward.

  The other two acrobats turned to her, disbelief mingling with rage on their faces. Violet’s triumphant grin was short-lived, for one of them lifted his hand and unceremoniously brought it down, hard, on her cheek.

  She felt the blow with her entire being. For a moment the world around her went black, and she tasted blood—her lip, likely; her ears were ringing, an ominous, high-pitched sound.

  Don’t swoon, she warned, gritting her teeth. You never swoon, remember?

  Though if there ever was a time to do such a thing, now would be it.

  The world slowly came back to her, hazy and smelly and terrible. The pain was rivaled only by her fear. Whatever was going to happen next, she wasn’t going to like it.

  The acrobat—the same one in whose eye she’d spat—was still looking at her, his face close; and in the dimness, she could tell he was unbuttoning his breeches, while a second man was getting to work at her skirts.

  She closed her eyes against the prick of tears swallowing the terror that tightened her throat.

  There was a tremendous noise, a clap of thunder that Violet felt in her bones. Something sticky and hot splattered across her exposed skin; she heard the acrobat cry out, a gurgling, sinking sound.

  Her eyes flew open.

  For
there in the middle of the tavern stood the Earl of Harclay, a smoking pistol in his outstretched hand. Even in the shadowy dimness, Violet could make out his face, handsome and dark with rage.

  At her feet lay the slain acrobat, the hole in his chest pulsing plum-colored blood all over her slippers.

  Harclay met her eyes across the room. His flashed with focus, with fury. For a moment they slipped to her bleeding lip, and she could see them flare dangerously. She sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of his pistol.

  Violet hadn’t realized the tavern had grown as silent as a tomb until Lord Harclay spoke.

  “Untie her,” he growled at the two conscious acrobats beside her. “Do as I say and perhaps I won’t put a bullet between your eyes.”

  But the men would not be cowed. They drew weapons from their jackets and pointed them steadily at the earl.

  “We want what ye owe us,” one acrobat replied, and he moved his arm so that his gun pointed not at Harclay but at Violet. “And perhaps I won’t put a bullet between her eyes.”

  Harclay did not hesitate. He dropped the gun and held his hands up in surrender. As he lifted his arms, Violet saw the gleam of a second pistol tucked into his breeches. She widened her eyes at him in warning, and at once he lowered his arms. The pistol remained hidden beneath his waistcoat.

  “I don’t have the money,” Harclay said, “but if you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you something even better.”

  The acrobat wrinkled his nose. “What’s better than money?”

  Slowly, his gaze never leaving the armed men, Harclay dug two fingers into the pocket of his jacket and produced a small, shining object that appeared inky dark in the light of the tavern.

  Violet’s breath left her body. The French Blue.

  The French Blue!

  And Harclay was about to trade it for her life.

  “Diamonds,” Harclay replied. “This is the largest diamond yet discovered on earth, gentlemen. It belonged to the kings of France.”

  The acrobat held out his hand. “How can I be sure it’s real?”

  Harclay handed over the diamond. “Touch it and you’ll see.”

  Violet watched as the acrobat held Hope’s diamond up to the light. Lust, pure and potent, slowly widened in his eyes, as if the jewel were casting a spell upon him.

  She felt it, too: the diamond’s strange pull, her desire for it pounding against her rib cage. If the diamond ended up with these drunken acrobats, it would be lost forever; pawned, sold overseas, buried. Hope would be ruined; her own inheritance, gone.

  No. Violet could not—would not—allow these bastards the pleasure.

  She met eyes with Harclay. He nodded imperceptibly, reading her thoughts.

  “I assure you, the diamond is genuine. All fifty carats,” Violet said and struggled against the chair. “Now untie me!”

  The acrobats exchanged grunts; while the one continued to survey the diamond, the other lowered his gun and loosened Violet’s hands.

  Taking advantage of the diamond’s spell, Violet quick as lightning jerked her knee against the acrobat’s nose. He fell to the floor and she made a grab for his gun, but his partner was too quick. He took her by the hair and wheeled her to face Harclay, holding his pistol to her head.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he warned, “or I’m liable to shoot that bullet we been talkin’ of.”

  Still holding one hand up in surrender, Harclay slowly extended his right arm, as if to reach for Violet.

  The acrobat tugged her closer against him, giving her hair a good, hard tug. Violet gritted her teeth at the sudden sharp pain. Bastard would pay for that, she swore silently, and pay dearly.

  “Easy, there,” Harclay said, reaching farther. “You’ve got the diamond—should fetch you much more than seventy-five pounds, surely. Now give me the girl. That was our deal, remember?”

  Violet sensed the acrobat hesitate. With the gallons of cider he’d consumed, he was a bit slow on his feet. She could feel him thinking through the proposition, the wheels of his mind turning with no little resistance.

  And so she took her chance. Meeting Harclay’s eyes one last time, she suddenly ducked, ramming her elbow into the acrobat’s belly. He shouted, an animal sound, and Violet heard his gun clatter to the floor.

  In the space of a single heartbeat, Violet reached out and tore the pistol from Harclay’s waistband. She whirled around to point the gun at the acrobat, who was still crouched over from her blow.

  Clicking back the safety, she thrust the pistol against his skull.

  “Hand over the diamond,” she said, surprised by the deadly calm of her voice. “Hand it over or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  The man looked up at her, eyes narrowed with hate; and when he did not respond, she shoved the barrel of the gun even harder against his head.

  She sensed Harclay hovering behind her. It felt so good to feel him again, the familiar heat of his body pressed against hers, that her eyes almost fluttered shut with the pleasure.

  But then the acrobat was spitting blood, coughing, and he held out his hand and opened his fingers. There in his filthy palm glittered the French Blue, glinting gray and silver in the low light.

  Violet stood, transfixed. After everything—the ball, the theft, her search, and Hope’s futile efforts to find the blasted jewel—there it was. It seemed surreal, as if she were in a dream.

  An arm—Harclay’s arm—shot out from behind her and was about to reach for the diamond when out of the shadows came the sound of a pistol being cocked. Harclay grasped Violet by the waist and pulled her to the floor just in time to duck out of the line of fire. The bullet whizzed above their heads, and Violet’s pistol hit the ground with a heartrending crack.

  Violet righted herself, only to see the fourth acrobat—the one who’d passed out face-first on the table some time ago—emerge from the darkness, gun held in his hand.

  The man holding the diamond disappeared behind his partner. Violet was about to make a dash for him when Harclay pulled at her from behind. She dug her heels into the floor, refusing to be dragged away.

  “The diamond!” she cried. “We can’t just leave it!”

  His hands on her were strong and firm, and despite her best efforts, she found herself being taken farther from the acrobats.

  She was shouting now, pummeling him with her fists. “Harclay! Let me down!”

  “If we stay we’ll be killed,” he replied steadily. “Come now, Violet, don’t make me throw you over my shoulder again.”

  “But the French Blue—my shares! And Hope—”

  He whirled her around to face him, crushing her against him. “Leave it. I won’t lose you. Can’t lose you. I could stand to lose the diamond; but you—to me your life is without price. None of this matters, has any meaning whatsoever to me, if you are gone.”

  The earl was very close to her now, lips hovering over hers. With her heart in her throat, the gun at her back, she had no choice; she nodded her assent, her chest filling not with the shame of her loss but something else—something lovely, and light, something that felt out of place here in the midst of all this danger.

  Harclay swept her out of the tavern and into the night. He lifted her onto his horse and circled her with his arms as he swung up behind her.

  Twenty-three

  Only when Harclay had Violet wrapped safely in his arms, the two of them ensconced in darkness as they rode back toward Mayfair—only then did the floodgates of his relief open.

  He relaxed against her, reveling in the weight of her body against his. And though she tried to resist, she slowly, very slowly, melted against him; and from his chest his heart took flight, soaring toward the sky with a lightness he’d never known before.

  Forget that damned diamond. This—whatever this was—it was so very much better.

  Above their heads
, a thousand stars burned white and blue. The air was warm and soft, a summer night after a seemingly eternal spring chill. Harclay breathed deeply, content, and smiled when Violet did the same.

  He wanted to take her back to his house, and make love to her thoroughly in the warmth of his bed. He wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything. But her family would be worried; he could only imagine Auntie George’s reaction when she was told Violet had been kidnapped by a band of scalawag acrobats.

  And so he took her back to her father’s house, where even at this hour the lights were blazing. Harclay felt Violet stiffen as they pulled to a stop before the front steps.

  She turned her head to face him. For a moment they said nothing, eyes trained on each other’s lips, breasts heaving with the effort to catch suddenly lost breath.

  Violet ran her tongue along her swollen bottom lip—damn those blackguards, he would go back and finish what he’d started—and he felt a now-familiar tightening in his groin as he watched, transfixed.

  “If it weren’t for you, Lord Harclay—”

  “William,” he replied. “I am William to you. I think we know each other well enough by now, don’t you?”

  She tried to suppress her grin and failed. “If it weren’t for you, William, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  When he opened his mouth to protest, she placed a hand on his chest to silence him. Her voice was low, barely above a whisper, when she said, “And if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be on this thrilling little adventure of ours.”

  He thumbed her chin and lightly ran a knuckle over her bruised lip. “Kidnappings and pistols and bloody lips are hardly thrilling.”

  “When compared to my usual turn at Almack’s on Wednesday evenings, I daresay such things are a thrill. At least to me.”

  She looked down at her fingers, tangled in his lapel, and then she looked up at him, her eyes shining in the light of the streetlamps.

  It felt as though his heart had swollen to ten times its size in his chest. She was so damn lovely.