The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  When she came to, Harclay was cradling her in his arms. He held her against him, one hand on the nape of her neck, the other on the small of her back. He was shouting something she couldn’t quite make out; but when he turned his attention back to her, she saw tears spilling from his eyes. And suddenly she was afraid.

  She opened her mouth, willing her tongue to move, but no words came out. Instead she tasted blood and felt it spilling out onto her lips. Her body began to shake uncontrollably; the world went dim at the edges of her vision.

  The surgeon and his men were upon her then, tearing at her gown.

  “Is she going to be all right?” Harclay asked. He took his hands off her body only when Mr. Lake appeared and pulled him away from her.

  Violet watched as William rose and dug a trembling hand through his hair. “Is she going to live?” he cried, making no effort to wipe away the tears that fell freely down his face. He dug his fists into his hips and began to pace before her.

  It was becoming difficult to breathe. Again she tried to speak, and this time only a single word came out.

  “William,” she said. Her voice sounded strange and far away.

  He fell on his knees beside her, cradling her face in his enormous hands. The surgeon was calling for laudanum, for wine, and for something else that sounded suspiciously like saw.

  “Violet,” William said. “Violet, I am sorry. I am sorry.”

  He felt her trembling and leaned closer. “It’s going to be all right,” he murmured, kissing her lips. “I promise, Violet, I will make everything all right.”

  The pain throbbed to enormous proportions; at her back the grass felt unbearably prickly and wet. The surgeon was swirling something dark in a small vial; he passed it to William, and he held it to Violet’s mouth.

  “This will help you feel better,” he said.

  It was all she could do to open her lips and with a grimace swallow the foul-tasting potion. The liquid was like sweet fire in her veins; at once the pain eased, and her heart slowed its frantic pace.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Again the world began to dim. The surgeon was digging into her; she could vaguely feel the sensation of his cold metal instrument scraping against her bones. The sound was nauseating, and for a moment she wished for death, for a release from this visceral, bloody struggle.

  William’s face hovered above her. Stray beams of the rising sun gleamed through the leaves on either side of his head. They felt lovely and warm on her clammy skin. She was cold, very cold, and terrified.

  Terrified that this would be her last morning. Her last breath. The last time she would ever see William. Ever feel his hands on her.

  She turned to him. “Hold my hand, please,” she said.

  He clasped both her hands in his and held on, tightly. Though tears still fell down his cheeks, his eyes had taken on a familiar, determined gleam. Just looking at them made her feel better, made her feel safe.

  Violet wanted to keep that feeling in her heart forever.

  Her thoughts were fading, as was her pulse. She was freezing.

  She was filled with regret, with loathing and grief and tenderness, devotion and affection. Looking into William’s eyes, she felt all these things. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, across her temples, and into her hair.

  “I hate you,” she whispered. “William, I love you.”

  The dimness closed in, her eyes fluttering shut. There was one last searing, torturous spasm of pain, and then, nothing.

  • • •

  “Might I have a tray brought up, Harclay?” Violet’s father asked. “It’s been two days and you’ve had nary a single bite to eat. Though you’ve very nearly drunk dry my entire cellar.”

  He bent over the earl, brow furrowed anxiously. Harclay couldn’t help but smile at the man; though he was still in nightcap and slippers, his concern was touching.

  “No, thank you, your grace,” Harclay murmured, waving his empty snifter. “Though if you’ve another drop to spare, I’d be much obliged. I can always send for my own, if you’d like.”

  The Duke of Sommer, and the chair onto which he collapsed, groaned in unison. “Nonsense. I’m sure we can dig up something. Though your household is most concerned, Harclay, most concerned. Your man Avery refuses to leave my kitchen, and he’s been sleeping on a cot in the downstairs hall. Why don’t you go home, get some rest?”

  Harclay motioned to the unimposing door across from them. “Because Lady Violet needs me. I’m not moving from this spot until she is on her feet and feeling better.”

  Sommer patted Harclay’s knee with a knobby, veined hand. “When she is well, you’ll be lucky if she doesn’t return the favor and shoot you in the ribs.”

  The earl scoffed. “I wouldn’t blame her if she did.” He paused. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but I’ll say it a hundred more—”

  “Yes, yes, you’re very sorry and feel terribly about the accident,” Sommer said, waving away his words. “You can say all you want to me. It only matters what my daughter thinks, whether or not she’ll accept your apology. I’ll pray for you, poor man.”

  “Thank you, your grace. I believe I’ll need all the help I can get,” Harclay replied.

  Again Rutledge patted his knee. “I know it’s difficult to fathom, what with all the bloody commotion of the past few days, but before Violet was—harmed, I’d never seen her so happy. So full of life, of purpose. I believe she’d been lost for quite some time, convinced she had to care for me, for the family.” He motioned to the house around them. “She is frightened for me, what would happen if no one were left to see to me, to see to all this. But my dear sister Georgie and I, we are stronger than we appear, and more clever. Though none are so clever as Violet.”

  “She is indeed clever, your daughter. Most intelligent woman I’ve ever met,” Harclay said, swallowing the moon of sadness that rose in his throat. “Far too intelligent for a man like me.”

  “Pish!” Rutledge said. “It’s a well-known fact that all men are idiots. Women—ah, women have always been the wiser sex, though it pains us to admit it. We aren’t worthy of the ground upon which they walk. But we try our damnedest, don’t we?” He winked.

  Violet’s father made to rise, and with Harclay’s help he lurched to his feet. “Violet will come around,” he continued with a knowing smile. “You are a good man, if a bit impulsive. I know that you will love my family as you love my daughter. As you will love the family the two of you shall make together.”

  Again Harclay swallowed, hard. “Thank you,” he said, voice husky with the threat of tears. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right!” Rutledge replied. “Now, let me go find some of that brandy you’re after. Perhaps I’ll join you in a finger or four.”

  “Capital,” Harclay said, guiding the elder man toward the stair. Auntie George appeared, ringlets trembling at the sight of the earl—she wasn’t about to forgive him as readily as Lord Rutledge—and helped her brother down the steps.

  Harclay fell heavily back into his chair, wiping away a tear before it could fall from the corner of his eye. He didn’t blame Auntie George; he felt unworthy of life, of each breath he took. He should be the one suffering behind that closed door; he should have been shot. Not Violet. She deserved none of this.

  The earl had hardly moved from this spot since the surgeon and his men had brought her here to recover—or to die—following the accident at Farrow Field. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Even the herculean amount of alcohol he consumed did nothing to dull the crushing guilt that plagued him day and night.

  Caroline refused to speak to him, though Mr. Lake visited Harclay and Violet often, bearing bottles of brandy. He appeared just as disheveled and distraught as the earl, and after apologizing a thousand times, he cursed himself a fool and vowed to do everything he could to ensu
re Violet’s recovery.

  Though, by the surgeon’s last report some hours before, Harclay knew she was not doing as well as he’d hoped. She’d had a fever for three days now, and during that time she hadn’t opened her eyes once, nor so much as muttered a single word.

  It was enough to break Harclay’s heart. He thought he might die from regret, from the remorse he felt on account of his arrogance. He should’ve listened to Violet and his sister when they’d warned him not to duel Mr. Lake. It was a stupid, selfish thing to have done. And now he faced the prospect of living the rest of his life bearing the weight of that regret and remorse, of living without Violet at his side.

  To make matters worse, Violet had fallen unconscious before he could tell her what he’d been carrying in his heart for weeks now, though only recently had he had the courage to admit it.

  I love you, he’d said, just as her hand went limp in his own. Violet, I love you. I’ve loved you since, from the crush, you turned to face me at Hope’s ball. You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I love you, I love you, I love you.

  The door opened in front of him. Harclay leapt to his feet as Lady Sophia emerged, carrying in her arms a basin filled with bloody water. He met her eyes. She shook her head and looked away.

  “May I see her?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Sophia replied. “But you musn’t stay long. Surgeon’s orders, she is to rest.”

  Harclay nodded his gratitude. “Of course. And if you should require anything, anything at all—”

  “Just your prayers, Lord Harclay.”

  Again he sensed the prick of tears behind his eyes. Hell, his whole face hurt from all the crying he’d done these past few weeks.

  Lady Sophia placed a hand on his arm. “It’s all right. She will be happy to know you were with her. Go in.”

  Taking the doorknob in his hand, Harclay took a deep, shaking breath. He opened the door and stepped into Violet’s bedchamber.

  He tried to focus on the happy, sensually charged hours they’d shared in this room, the look on her face when he’d clumsily climbed through the window that first time, her smile and the light in her eyes.

  But it was impossible to think of such joyful things when faced with the scene before him.

  Violet was laid out upon her bed, the sheets drawn up to her waist. Her entire torso was wrapped in snowy white linen bandages—freshly changed, it appeared, by Cousin Sophia. A splotch of blood in the center of Violet’s right rib cage seeped through the bandages, slowly spreading into a bruiselike pool of red, rust, and purple.

  She was very pale. Paler than the previous day. Her dark hair, slick with sweat, was held tight against her head in a long braid that snaked over her shoulder. She breathed in short, shallow breaths, her chest hardly rising with the motion.

  It hurt his heart just to look at her. A fresh wave of sorrow inundated him as he kneeled beside the bed. He took her hand in his own and brought his lips to her fingers, closing his eyes. Her skin felt hot and sticky.

  “I’m so very sorry,” he whispered for the thousandth time that week. “Violet, I am sorry.”

  His eyes snapped open at the small sound of rustling bedclothes.

  Heart in his throat, he watched as Violet’s eyes fluttered open. She turned her head on the pillow to face him.

  For a long moment he was unable to speak. He looked into her eyes, bloodshot and bright with fever, and his pulse leapt in relief.

  “Violet?” He swallowed. “Violet, can you hear me?”

  In his ears the silence of the room grew deafening as he waited for her reply.

  She did not speak; rather, she tilted her chin and raised her lips in the barest shadow of a smile.

  But it was a smile. And suddenly she looked once again like the Violet he knew and loved, full of fire and mirth and wit.

  That one smile very nearly bowled him over.

  He ran his thumb over the top of her hand and made to talk to her for as long as she was able to listen.

  Harclay spoke of their courtship, the moment they met, and the first waltz they danced together. He remembered with a laugh her cutting remark about his wood, and Caroline cartwheeling into the Serpentine with Mr. Lake. He told her how annoyed he’d been when she won those games of casino, annoyed and fascinated by her skill.

  But most of all, he assured her he never meant their game to play out like this. He assured her over and over that he would take it all back, the thrill and the chase and the sneaking around, if it meant sparing her this fate.

  “I am a fool, a selfish fool,” he said. “But I suppose if I weren’t, I wouldn’t be a fool for you, Violet.”

  By then her eyes had been closed for some time, though Harclay would’ve liked to believe the faint smile still graced her lips.

  Twenty-eight

  Two weeks later

  Violet woke up slowly, her eyes fluttering, and fluttering again, before she was finally able to open them.

  With her first waking breath a great wave of pain washed over her. She gritted her teeth against it, eyes burning with tears.

  Looking down at her body, she saw her chest and ribs were bound with fresh bandages. There didn’t ever seem to be any gore, thank God, or Violet knew she would’ve finally swooned for the first time in her twenty-two years.

  In a rush of violent memory, Violet recalled that her first swoon had already occurred—after she’d been shot in the belly by William Townshend, Earl of Harclay, during a duel on Farrow Field.

  She blinked back the tears. It had been like this for days now; she’d wake up, happily ignorant of everything but the warm summer air and the scent of rosewater that rose from the bedclothes, and then—

  Then she’d remember. She’d remember leaping from a downstairs window into Fitzhugh’s waiting arms—neither of them had made it through that exercise unscathed—and collecting Lady Caroline from Harclay’s house.

  Violet would remember the sudden, searing pain in her side, and Harclay’s tears falling hot and fast on her face as he hovered above her.

  I hate you, she’d told him. I love you.

  Violet swallowed. She hadn’t even known she felt such a thing for him until that moment when, delirious with pain, she realized she was frightened to face whatever came next without him.

  Try as she might, she could not remember William’s response, or if he said anything at all. After that moment, the world was black, her memory filled with feverish imaginings, one long, haunting nightmare.

  Across her bedchamber, the curtains danced and billowed in the breeze. From the slanting amber light, Violet could tell it was evening, and a lovely one at that.

  She sighed—hell, that hurt!—and tried to shift upright in bed. Her every limb ached; even her breasts felt sore. She looked down. Had they always been so big, so full? Perhaps they were merely swollen from the fever.

  “Hello?” she tried calling. Her voice cracked and felt strange in her throat, as if she hadn’t used it in ages.

  Swallowing, she tried again. “Hello!”

  This time it worked, for, half a heartbeat later, William stumbled through the door, followed closely by her father, Auntie George, and a passel of men she took to be surgeons.

  Her heart leapt painfully at the sight of Harclay. He appeared nothing short of tragic, face bruised and gaunt, eyes bloodshot. Sporting a full, dark beard and greasy hair, he was wearing only a loose linen shirt and buckskins.

  Though he was thinner than she remembered, he nonetheless appeared the pirate she had come to know and love. She sucked in her breath at the quickening of her pulse, pounding against her injured ribs. It was excruciating, but she could not tear her gaze from him. She’d told Cousin Sophia to keep him out of her room; at last he’d slipped past her guard.

  She would be lying if she said she wasn’t glad to see him.

  “Violet!
” he exclaimed breathily, falling to his knees at her bedside. “I’m very happy to see you.”

  She arched a brow in reply. “I don’t know who looks worse for the wear, William, you or me.”

  Laughing, that deep, rumbling sound in his chest, he took her hand and trailed kisses along each of her fingers. She gasped—in pain, in pleasure, a bit of both—and Auntie George peeked over his shoulder, clucking her tongue.

  “Gently, now, go gently, if you please, Lord Harclay,” she said, though her tear-filled smile belied the command.

  Violet nodded and smiled and assured everyone that yes, she was in pain, and yes, she could breathe. Her father kissed both her cheeks and smiled; Auntie George blew none too quietly into her handkerchief. The surgeon sidled up to the opposite end of the bed and took her pulse, felt her forehead. He nodded.

  “The fever has broken,” he said. “No small miracle, considering I dug a bullet out from between your shattered ribs. I’m afraid the pain may continue for week or two yet; but you should be on your feet in a few days, maybe less.”

  “Thank you,” Violet said, her eyes never leaving Harclay’s. “Would you allow us a moment?”

  The surgeon cleared his throat. “Actually, I was hoping to have a moment with you myself. There’s something I would like to discuss with you—privately, if I might—”

  Violet waved him off. “Later, thank you,” she said.

  He looked from Violet to William and back again; with a sigh, he turned and, following Lord Rutledge and Auntie George, left the room.

  The door closed behind them with an authoritative clap. And then Violet was alone with William, her heart swollen near to bursting in her chest.

  He moved to speak, but she placed her fingers against his lips, preferring instead to savor him with her eyes. For several long minutes she gazed at him, and he gazed back, his black eyes ringed with gray-blue circles.

  Circles the same shade as Hope’s diamond.

  The realization was like a blow to the belly. Violet had completely forgotten about that blasted jewel and all the pain that came with it. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Her exquisite joy at seeing William mingled with a livid sadness: sadness on account of her position, her duty to secure the French Blue and ensure her family’s security.