But then White’s had extended membership to the French king and the profligate Artois, and Harclay’s opinion of them took a sharp turn for the worse. For one thing, the brothers drained all the best liquors from the cellar; for another, they never paid their debts and owed Harclay a rather mountainous sum. Never mind the fact that the Bourbon brothers were rude, overly perfumed, and utter, complete imbeciles.
And now they were seated behind Harclay, crying out at each other in very loud whispers. Harclay slithered back into his seat and snapped open a paper, holding it to his nose while he eavesdropped.
“Let’s get on with it,” Artois said, snapping at a waiter—probably for more food. “You are wasting my night, and I’ve somewhere to be. What are you doing in London, anyway? You never leave that little farm of yours up in Buckinghamshire. Has someone died?”
Harclay sensed the king eyeing the room before he burrowed closer to his brother.
“No, you idiot, no one has died,” the king replied. “I’ve come to solicit your aid.”
Artois scoffed, taking a long, noisy swig from his snifter. “My aid? Last time we spoke, you told me I wasn’t worthy to clean your chamber pot. And now you ask for my aid?”
“Trust me,” the king growled, “I wouldn’t involve you if I didn’t have to.”
“Well?”
The king’s voice dropped lower. “It’s a miracle, surely, but I believe I’ve managed to locate le bleu de France. Just as we suspected, it’s been in London all along.”
Harclay’s heart erupted to a stop. The French Blue. The king was speaking of Hope’s diamond!
The earl wasn’t the only one excited by the news. Artois choked on his brandy, and Harclay heard the waiter pounding his back until the coughing fit passed.
“A miracle indeed, that Napoléon hasn’t gotten to it first,” Artois replied. “But how are you going to pay for it? Despite your proclamations—the missing jewels do belong to the family, yes—these English, they have no decorum. Whoever has the diamond is ransoming it for a hefty sum, surely.”
“That’s where you come in,” the king said. “Your agent. Have him secure a loan. Thirty thousand, no less.”
“Thirty thousand! But I don’t have access to so large a sum!”
“Listen,” the king hissed. “I would do it myself, but no one will lend me any more money. Besides, the war is going against Napoléon. It will only be a year, maybe two, before the English defeat him. And then we shall be restored. What sort of king shall I be without jewels? If you ever inherit the throne you will be glad to have them, too. What is thirty thousand when our royal dignity is at stake?”
Smacking his lips, Artois was silent some moments.
Harclay thought he might jump out of his skin. What luck to have stumbled upon these two miscreants! It made perfect sense the self-proclaimed King of France would be searching for the stolen crown jewels. Napoléon would be furious if he discovered Louis XVIII had gotten to the French Blue before he did. Not only was it a point of pride; it was yet another blow to the diminutive emperor’s floundering campaign to claim the world as his own.
“All right,” Artois said at last. “I will try to secure the loan. But I want to be with you when you claim the diamond. Who has it? And how did you find it?”
“That crook of a jeweler, Monsieur Eliason. He knows I’ve been searching for the lost jewels. When he was approached by a ‘friend’”—here the king held up a hand—“and no, he would not tell me who that friend was—when he was approached by this man with the diamond, Eliason came to me straightaway.”
“A crook indeed. Sold me an emerald a few years ago that turned out to be naught but paste! How do we know he isn’t tricking us? I do not trust that man.”
The king sighed, annoyed by his brother’s surprisingly intelligent line of questioning. “It is le bleu, brother; I can feel it in my bones. The diamond was, and always has been, ours by right. And now it shall be ours once again.”
“Yes, yes,” Artois said and took another pull of his brandy. “Enough with the speeches. You are not on the throne yet. To secure the loan I shall require at least a week. Such a sum is not easy to come by. We may have to ask the Italians.”
“Heavens, let us hope not,” the king replied, patting his forehead with a lace-edged kerchief. “We have a few days, no more. Eliason is threatening to sell the jewel from under us. Says he has other interested parties.”
Harclay very nearly scoffed. Several other interested parties, in fact: Mr. Hope, himself, Lady Violet, Mr. Lake, and doubtless the prince regent. That profligate buffoon wouldn’t allow such a treasure to slip through his fat fingers.
Artois finished his brandy and belched so loudly half the club looked up from their games and papers and drinks in dismay.
“Very well,” he said. “Give me a few days, then. When shall we meet?”
“No later than five days hence. I shall come to you, and together we will meet Eliason.”
Artois nodded his agreement. He stood and Harclay felt the heat of his gaze on the back of his head. After a moment the sensation passed, and Artois was gone.
The king called for his wheelchair—gout had felled him yet again this year—and snapped at the waiter for a roast goose to be brought up to his private room.
Harclay had no doubt King Louis would eat the entire goose in a single sitting. And would probably order another.
Feeling suddenly alive with energy and purpose, Harclay set down the paper and slipped out of the club, mind racing.
• • •
The earl burst through his front door and began speaking before Avery so much as reached for his coat.
“Avery, what do you know about the exiled French king? Surely you’ve an acquaintance, or perhaps an acquaintance of an acquaintance, who has served in his house or knows someone who has.”
“Perhaps,” Avery replied steadily, taking his master’s hat and gloves. “What would you like to know?”
Harclay scratched his chin. It was late, and very dark—well past three o’clock—and yet Avery appeared as pressed and perfectly turned out as he had been that morning.
“Anything,” Harclay replied, practically panting with excitement. “Everything. I’m going to need your help on this one, Avery, and I don’t know anyone with connections like yours.”
Avery bowed, failing to suppress the grin of satisfaction that tightened on his lips. “Very well. I shall see what I can dig up. Discreetly, of course.”
Harclay pounded him on the back in gratitude. “Thank you, Avery; your efforts shall not go unrewarded.”
“They shall if you die from lack of rest,” the butler replied. “Best to sleep while you are able, my lord.”
“No sleep for me, Avery. Not with the chase begun anew!”
Thirty
The next day
The warm evening sun that slanted into the library did nothing to alleviate Violet’s overwhelming anxiety. Despite her body’s plea for sleep, she had spent the previous night awake. Her mind racing, she’d stared at the ceiling until she’d practically gone cross-eyed.
This was bad. Though she’d always considered herself something of a rebel, without a care for society or what it thought of her, even this was outside her expertise. A missing diamond, a lovesick rake, and now—
She couldn’t bring herself to even think the words.
Never mind the fact that whenever she closed her eyes she saw William, his dark, flashing eyes and handsome face and enormous, hardened hands. Her entire being ached with the desire to feel those hands on her again.
How she missed him every moment of every interminable day. She missed him.
Missed him so terribly she could not sleep. Each night her loneliness grew and grew until it suffocated her.
The earl kept his promise; he did not come for her after she refused him.
This is the last time I’ll stand before you and ask you to be my wife, he’d said. I shan’t ask again.
And so, after a night spent in the prison of her bedchamber, then another, and another, Violet had bribed the surgeon’s men to assist her down to the first-floor library. She lay stiffly on an overstuffed chaise, a stack of correspondence spread out on her lap in the hopes it would distract her from William’s glaring absence.
There were the usual letters, notes from friends, and invitations to balls, breakfasts, garden parties. Mr. Hope’s card appeared again and again; apparently he had been over several times in the past few weeks to call on Cousin Sophia. As had that other beau of hers, the one with the castle; the Marquess of Worth of Wormswood or whatever his name was.
And then there were bills—so many bills it made Violet’s stomach hurt just to think of them. One by one, the family’s creditors were cutting them off. With the income from Violet’s shares of Hope & Co. dwindling on account of the missing diamond, she could no longer pay off their debts. The milliner, the grocer, and now the fishmonger were refusing to extend Lord Rutledge further credit until his bills were paid. By now, Violet owed the grocer hundreds of pounds alone.
It was enough to drive a lady to drink.
There was a letter from Violet’s solicitor, full of warnings and high-handed advice. He cautioned that, if Violet did not come up with the money in the next week, she would likely have to sell the family’s London townhome to pay its debts. She’d already mortgaged the family seat in Essex and quietly sold off their carriages and horseflesh. There was little left to sell, the silver and the jewelry having been pawned long since.
If this house were to be sold, Violet and her family would have nowhere to go.
With a sigh of defeat, Violet gathered the letters in a neat pile and tossed them onto a nearby table. Carefully she creaked to her feet, wincing as pain sliced through her side.
It felt surprisingly good to take her first few steps in as many weeks. Her legs felt wobbly and unsure, but as she made her way toward the windows her steps grew steady. She stopped before an open window, the warm summer breeze tickling the loose hair at her temples.
Behind her, she heard the door creak open. Violet breathed a sigh of relief; she was due for another dose of laudanum, thank heaven, for the pain in her ribs had grown steadily through the morning hours.
“Fitzhugh, is that you? Praise God, it feels as if I’m being stabbed in the side—”
The words died on her tongue as she turned her head.
For standing in the threshold, his dark hair burnished bronze by the light of the sun, was William, Earl of Harclay.
At first she thought he was a ghost, conjured by her delirium; but then he took a step toward her, and another step, his skin glimmering in the light.
He did not disappear.
He was real.
Her heart turned over in her chest.
Yes, he’d shot her; yes, he’d stolen the French Blue and in so doing jeopardized her fortune.
But that did nothing to dull her visceral reaction to the mere sight of him. His scent, that heady, delicious scent, filled the room as he stalked toward her.
Violet froze, steeling herself against the onslaught. Her mouth felt suddenly dry and her thoughts—well, they scattered to unknown corners of her mind, leaving her mute and defenseless.
Isn’t it just like him, she thought ruefully, to take captive my entire being just by walking into the room.
“Good morning, Lord Harclay,” she said, turning to the window. She could not bear to meet his gaze.
Violet sensed the earl drawing up behind her, his chest nearly touching her back. She felt his breath on the nape of her neck; he was very close.
“Hello, Violet,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”
She swallowed. “Much better, thank you. The pain is still beastly, especially at night. But it is getting better.”
Suddenly she felt his lips brush her ear. “You shouldn’t be on your feet yet. Come, let me help you to the sofa.”
Violet shook her head. “I’m tired. Tired of sitting.”
“Very well,” he replied.
Silence settled between them. Violet’s throat swelled with tears. She had so much to say; so much, and nothing at all. For she had already refused him—twice—and she knew he was no fool. William would not ask a third time. Her chance to be with him, to become a family with him, had come and gone.
“I’ve missed you,” he said at last. “But you made it very clear that you did not wish to see me again. I can’t say that I blame you.”
“William, I—” she began but stopped when her eyes flooded with tears.
He took a step closer. His body brushed against hers and for a moment she allowed herself to relax against him, her eyes fluttering shut with pleasure, with relief, at the feel of his solid flesh against her own.
Behind her, Harclay sighed. He wrapped his arms around her, carefully, as if she were made of porcelain. His elbows rested against her hips; his hands on her low belly, as if he knew. Knew that beneath the layers of her gown and chemise and skin, a small piece of him grew.
Longing washed over her. She placed her palms over the backs of his hands. For a moment she allowed herself to pretend that they were a family, a happy family. How wonderful it felt to be wrapped in his arms. She felt safe, loved, protected.
This is what every woman should feel, she thought. This kind of love, unconditional and overwhelming. This is how everyone imagines it should be. How everyone hopes it will be.
And then William was kissing her lightly on the back of her neck, and she knew she should push him away, tell him that he wasn’t making it any easier for her to forget him. But she couldn’t find the words, the strength, and so she melted against him, pressing into his lips as they trailed across her shoulder to her collarbone and jaw.
“God, Violet, I’ve missed you,” he murmured.
“I know,” Violet whispered. “I know.”
One of her hands snaked up to circle the side of his neck, pulling their faces closer. At last their lips met and Violet moaned into his mouth. His kiss became messy and urgent and deep, and together they gasped for air, and for each other.
Slowly his hands wound from her hips to her belly, his fingers carefully trailing ribbons of fire across her flesh. When he came to her ribs his touch became featherlight, lingering a moment over the outline of the bandages that pressed through her morning gown.
Violet kissed him harder, her body pounding with desire, with pain. She clawed at him, pulling him closer, and his hands wandered up, up, until they covered her breasts.
Before she could protest, he gathered her bosom in his fingers and prodded the soft flesh there with his fingers, running his thumbs over the hardened points of her nipples.
A stream of fiery pain sliced through her at his touch, and she cried out, shocked by this new and unwelcome sensation.
William immediately held up his hands and pulled away, his eyes clouded with concern. “My God, Violet, have I hurt you? Is it your side?”
“No,” she panted, blinking back tears. “No, it’s not my side.”
He ran both hands through his hair. “I am very sorry, Violet; you know I never meant—I would never intentionally hurt you. Dear God, I’m an idiot. I beg your forgiveness—”
“Please, William, that’s enough. It’s not your fault.”
“I just—I just can’t seem to control myself around you.”
“It’s not your fault,” Violet repeated and turned back to the window so that he might not see her biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.
“Violet.” He stepped closer, placing his hands on either side of her neck. With his thumb he traced small, patient circles on her skin. “If it wasn’t your side, what was it? Your—er, bosom, I do so hope it wasn’t bruised in t
he accident.”
“No,” she replied. “It was not bruised in the accident.”
“Then what is it?”
When she did not reply, he asked again. “Violet, what is it? You’re not telling me something. I can feel it.”
She turned to face him, her eyes latching on to his. For a moment she wished to tell him everything, the secret she’d been hiding, the regret that plagued her.
But then she remembered herself, the pain in her side bringing her back to the present. She still suffered from a serious wound; the diamond was still missing; Harclay was still out of reach.
Violet squared her shoulders. “I assume you did not call merely to kiss me.”
William surveyed her through narrowed eyes. “No,” he said, his voice edged with something akin to anger. “I did not. Don’t worry, darling, I haven’t come to propose again, if that’s what you’re thinking. I gave you my word. No more talk of marriage.”
“Good,” she said, a familiar heavy blackness snaking its way around her heart, making it difficult to breathe. “What did you come to discuss, then?”
He turned toward the room and motioned to a pair of settees. “Let us sit first, shall we? Your legs are shaking. I can see them through your gown.”
Horrified, Violet looked down. Surely enough, her skirts were trembling; she hadn’t felt her knees knocking together until this very moment. How easily she forgot herself while in this man’s arms. Her knees, the pain, their past, her condition—in their moment of shared passion she’d forgotten them all.
“All right,” she replied. She took a step—or tried to, anyway—sucked in a breath.
William caught her by the arms, holding her steady in his warm grasp.
“The surgeon said you’d be well enough in a few days,” William said. “You should heed his words. What if I hadn’t been there to catch you? You’d have broken your other ribs, that’s what.”
He led Violet to the settee, and propped several pillows beneath her shoulders so that she might be comfortable.
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 25
