The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  Sophia smiled. “I promise.”

  William held out his hands. “Lake, Avery, help me to my feet. We’ve still got work to do.”

  “Work?” Avery nearly yelped. “My lord, you very nearly died!”

  William rose, wobbling a bit as he took his first steps. “Nonsense. We are too close to the diamond to give up now. Avery, bring round the hack—the king here is going to lead us to the French Blue.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Violet asked.

  He looked at her and smiled. “Of course I’m not all right. But you know me well enough by now to understand that I can’t resist the chase, even when I’m half-dead.”

  He continued to wobble, and halfway across the room he lost his footing. Mr. Lake caught him before he fell.

  “Someone tell Auntie George,” Violet said, dashing to his side, “we’re going to need that wheelchair now.”

  • • •

  It took all six of them—Lake, Avery, Hope, Caroline, Sophia, and Violet—to force King Louis out of the Palace of Pleasure. At last Mr. Lake drew his pistol and threatened to shoot the fat royal if he didn’t move.

  Even then, the king kicked and screamed his way to the carriage. Harclay was waiting inside the unmarked hack, having been helped up the ladder by Lord Rutledge and Auntie George. Though he felt better with each passing moment, the laudanum’s lethal effects still lingered in his body. Avery had brewed him a pot of strong coffee, which helped somewhat; but the fact that Harclay could hardly walk concerned him. What use would he be in capturing the diamond?

  Leave it to me, he thought glumly, to be poisoned in the midst of my own plot.

  The hack groaned in protest as King Louis clambered into the seat across from Harclay’s. Good thing the earl had thought to request an extra team of horses; otherwise it would take them ages to get to Artois, and then to the French Blue.

  Harclay’s heart leapt when Violet climbed into the seat beside him, dressed in a fresh gown and pelisse. Wordlessly he took her hand and squeezed it. She did not meet his eyes, but he saw her cheeks flush a happy shade of pink.

  Mr. Lake stood at the open door, his enormous frame blocking out the night. “D’you need my help?” he asked, nodding to indicate Louis.

  The king’s eyes were wide with fear, his ridiculous wig stuck to the rivers of sweat that coursed down his face.

  “I think we can manage, thank you,” Harclay replied. “Keep an eye out, Lake, and follow our lead.”

  Mr. Lake bowed and closed the door. Together with the other players in Harclay’s plot, he would follow in a second hack behind Harclay’s.

  Not letting go of Violet’s hand—the earl would hold it as long as she would allow him the pleasure—he reached across with his free arm and pulled the gag from the king’s mouth.

  At once a string of sordid French curses left Louis’ lips. Harclay waited patiently for the swearing to end and, when it did some minutes later, drew a pistol from his waistcoat and pointed it at the king.

  “Take us to Artois,” he said.

  “Go to hell, you bastard. You tried to poison me!”

  It could’ve been the laudanum dulling Harclay’s reflexes, but in the blink of an eye Violet managed to snatch the gun from his hand. She held it against the king’s forehead and pulled back the safety.

  “You may think the earl sympathetic to your cause,” she said, “but I can tell from the look in your eyes you know I am not. Where is Artois? Where were you supposed to meet him tonight? When?”

  Together Harclay and the king swallowed. Violet was downright terrifying with a pistol in her hand.

  It thrilled the earl to no end.

  “Midnight,” the king mumbled. “Near the bridge—Swan Lane. We are to meet there and ride together to meet Eliason.”

  “And where are you meeting Eliason?”

  For a moment the king did not reply, surveying Violet through narrowed eyes.

  She shoved the pistol against his head. “Where,” she repeated through gritted teeth, “are you meeting Eliason?”

  “London Docks,” he said at last. “Eliason keeps a ship there.”

  Violet turned to meet Harclay’s eyes. The London Docks, east of the City, in Wapping, were an enormous area and a dangerous place besides, especially at night. King Louis could easily be setting a trap; he could be leading them astray in the hopes that he would lose them in the maze of warehouses and wharves.

  It was entirely possible. But what choice did they have? They would have to trust the king, whether or not they believed him. They’d come too far, and had too much to lose, to turn back now.

  Harclay pounded the roof with his cane. “Corner of Church and King,” he called to the driver. “And make haste!”

  Thirty-five

  The hack creaked to a stop. Around them the darkness was almost complete; the ancient bulk of London Bridge hovered in the distance.

  Harclay’s every sense was alive, straining in the dark for a clue, a sign, anything that would lead them to Artois.

  He reached across the hack and drew the musty curtains closed.

  “When your brother arrives,” he said to the king, “you will open the curtain—slowly—and motion him inside.”

  “He won’t step foot inside this heap,” the king sniffed.

  Violet waved the pistol. “Yes. Yes, he will.”

  Harclay was glad for the darkness, for he could not suppress the smile of pride that rose to his lips, the longing and love in his eyes as he looked upon Violet’s dim outline. There was no hiding from his feelings for her, not anymore.

  He wanted to reach out and touch her, let the warmth of her skin lend life to his own.

  But she was not his to touch. She sat by his side not as a lover, his betrothed, but as a partner in crime. She sat beside him so that they might reclaim the diamond and restore to her the fortune she had worked so hard to protect.

  They waited, and waited, and waited longer still. Harclay dug his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and checked the time.

  Ten past twelve.

  “As you well know, my brother is something of a—how do you English say it?” the king said, searching for the word. “Ah, yes, a loose fish. He is always late, running from the club, or his mistresses.”

  And so they waited some more.

  At last, when Harclay had begun to pinch his legs to keep himself awake, the sound of an approaching carriage broke the silence.

  It grew louder until it suddenly stopped. Harclay peeked through the curtain and smiled when he saw an enormous carriage—Artois’ carriage, it had to be—making its way back down the street, away from them. A lone figure waited in the shadows of the lane.

  Harclay nodded at the king. “Open the curtain,” he said. “Motion for him to come in.”

  With a sigh of annoyance, the king did as he was bidden. Harclay heard the sound of a carriage door opening and closing and then a small tapping on their own door.

  Violet pressed the gun to Louis’ head. “No false moves,” she whispered.

  The king swung the door open. Artois stood on the street, the smells of liquor and cigar smoke wafting off him like a poisonous fog.

  “Louis, is that you?” Artois said, hiccuping. “Louis, dear God, what sort of coach is this? Reeks of common folk.”

  “Have you got the money?” Louis replied.

  Artois patted his breast, weaving a bit on his feet. “Indeed I do. But how I do know you won’t take it for yourself?” He ducked his head into the hack. “Wait a moment, who is that—”

  An ominous one-two click sounded behind Artois. Mr. Lake’s looming figure appeared in the lane, a gun in each hand.

  “Get in the carriage,” he growled to Artois. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you.”

  Eyes as round as saucers, Artois held up his hands. “What the devil is this?”


  Grasping the comte by his cravat, Mr. Lake shoved his bulbous person into the hack and slammed the door unceremoniously behind him.

  Lying spread-eagled on the floor, Artois was too stunned to speak.

  “I’m afraid, brother dearest, we’ve got company,” the king said grimly.

  Violet aimed her pistol at Artois. “Give me the note.”

  The comte’s tremulous gaze darted from the king to Violet and back again.

  “Give her the note, Artois,” the king said, voice rising with impatience.

  With shaking hands, Artois managed to pull the folded note from his jacket. He handed it to Violet.

  She held it up to what little light streamed through the curtains.

  “How much is it for?” Harclay asked, straining to take a look.

  “Thirty thousand,” Violet said, folding the note before handing it to him. “Looks genuine enough to me.”

  Harclay slipped the note into his waistcoat pocket and banged the roof of the hack, calling for the London Docks. They creaked slowly into motion; with both the king and his brother inside, the hack probably weighed more than a house.

  While the hackneys were hired, the coachmen were not; they were Harclay’s men. He prayed they knew their way around the East End, where they were headed. It would not do to be lost in so squalid a place as Wapping.

  “Who are you?” Artois spat out, looking up from the floor at Harclay. “And what do you want?”

  Harclay smiled and leaned forward. “The French Blue, of course,” he said. “And you’re going to help us get it.”

  • • •

  William’s strength was fading. Violet could tell by the way he winced with every jolt and shove of the hack as they rode toward the Docklands.

  Her own wounds had begun to pulse as the nervous, thrilling excitement of the evening wore off. Praise God she had not torn her stitches during the whole “Palace of Pleasure” episode, but she had certainly bruised her ribs anew as she brought William back to life.

  The Comte d’Artois’ stench did not help matters; more than once she thought she might empty her stomach all over the hack. Though after everything they’d experienced in the last handful of hours, what was one more horror, one more embarrassing, foul-smelling incident?

  Her heart raced faster and faster the closer they came to the docks; the anticipation was unbearable. She had a bad feeling about what lay ahead. They were going to one of the most dangerous areas of the city, a thirty-thousand-pound note in their hands, to seek out a shadowy figure they’d heard about but never met. What if this Eliason fellow proved to be no better than a thief himself, or worse, a murderer?

  She fell back against the seat, trying to still the shaking that had started in her hands and was now spreading up her arms. The gun felt cold and heavy in her lap.

  As if reading her thoughts, Harclay reached over and took the pistol. For a moment his hand lingered, his fingers brushing against hers. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to melt into his touch.

  “Soon,” he said. “Soon.”

  Soon we will have what we came for.

  Violet smelled the river before she saw it. A hint of water and salt, overwhelmed by the odors of fish and unwashed men and sewage.

  She swallowed audibly. She was definitely going to be sick.

  William laid his hand on her knee.

  “I’m all right,” she said. She turned away from him so that he might not see the nausea written so clearly on her face; but with his hands on her she did feel a rush of faith, of fortitude, to face whatever came next.

  The hack pulled to a stop. Violet squared her shoulders.

  Mr. Lake opened the door and helped Violet and William to the ground. While Avery, Lake, William, and Mr. Hope pried the king and his brother from the hack, Violet walked to the edge of the water and quietly lost her dinner.

  There was a tap on her shoulder. “Violet,” William murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, “that’s the second time I’ve seen you sick in as many days. I want to know the secret you’ve been keeping from me. You don’t have to tell me tonight, but whatever is happening, I know it’s got something to do with me. I’ll have the truth, if only so I might help you to feel better. Here.”

  He pressed a flask into her hand.

  The thought of brandy made her gag. “No, thank you, I’d rather not—”

  “It’s water. Wash out your mouth.”

  Violet did as he bid her; the water felt clean on her lips.

  “Thank you.” She tried to pass him the flask, but he held it against her breast.

  “You keep it.”

  Tucking the flask into her stays, she took a breath and managed to smile. William clasped her arm in the crook of his own and led her back to the waiting hackneys. King Louis and Artois were leaning against a hack, catching their breath after the exertion of climbing out of it.

  Mr. Lake and Mr. Hope stood off to the side, pistols in hand, with Caroline and Sophia.

  William approached the two royals. “You know where this man Eliason keeps his ship?”

  Neither Artois nor the king answered. Harclay stepped forward, waving the thirty-thousand-pound note before them.

  “I’ve already got your money. Don’t make me take your manhood, too. Do you know where this man Eliason keeps his ship?”

  “Oui,” Artois sniffed.

  “And you will lead us to him?”

  Before Artois could answer, the king stepped forward and motioned to their small crowd. “Yes. But we cannot take all of you. Eliason is a greedy man but he is not stupid. If he sees so many coming, he will turn up his tail and run.”

  Artois nodded. “Yes, he will run. We will only take two.”

  Mr. Hope shook his head. “It’s a trap, Harclay. If these two won’t lead us to Eliason, then we’ll find him ourselves.”

  Violet looked over her shoulder at the vast, darkly glittering pit of the docks. A few tiny lanterns punctured the night, but otherwise the blackness was complete. There was no sound, save for the quiet lapping of the Thames, the slow, weary creaking of the ships. Somewhere a horse whinnied; in the distance, she could hear the muted cacophony of a tavern.

  Unless William was indeed the cutthroat pirate she imagined, they would never be able to navigate the docks, much less locate a single man on a single ship.

  “No,” Violet said, stepping in. “Lord Harclay and I will go with the king.”

  Everyone erupted in protest. Mr. Lake warned that William may collapse again; Caroline noted that Violet did not look very well herself; Avery wrung his hands; and Mr. Hope growled that he did not trust Harclay with the diamond, not for a bloody moment.

  “You have my word, Hope,” Violet said, looking Hope steadily in the eye, “I will return the French Blue to you.”

  Hope’s gaze slid to the earl. “You must understand why I question your loyalty, Lady Violet,” he said, eyes flicking to William.

  “I do.” She nodded. “But you’ve got to trust me. Trust us. Lord Harclay’s the one who started all this—let us, together, finish it. Mr. Lake is too big, too obvious. He’s liable to scare Eliason witless. And you, Mr. Hope.”

  Violet looked past his shoulder, at Sophia. “You have other matters to attend to.”

  A beat of silence passed as Hope considered Violet’s proposal.

  “Very well,” he said at last, Sophia’s hand on his arm. “But make no mistake, Lady Violet. If you’re not back here in half an hour with my diamond in hand, I’ll search for you myself and have you both thrown in jail. Do I make myself clear?”

  William rolled his eyes. “Set your watch, Hope: we shall be back before the stroke of one with your precious diamond. You forget I was the one who fooled you all and stole the French Blue out from under your noses; and I will be the one to get it back again.”

&nbs
p; Violet could not suppress the smile that bloomed alongside the pride in her chest. William had been poisoned and smacked silly by Sophia, but he was still up to his old tricks. And she had no doubt he would find the diamond.

  Then all would be well in the world and she could go back to her family and her fortune and her life.

  A life without William.

  Violet pushed the thought from her head. There would be plenty of time to think of that later; she had William at her side and the French Blue within her grasp, and she was going to enjoy the thrill of the chase one last time.

  “Let’s be off, then,” William said, cocking the pistol and aiming it at the king. “Ready, Majesty?”

  King Louis and the Comte d’Artois exchanged glances. They pushed off the hack and drew to their feet. Artois accepted the lantern Avery proffered, having stripped it from the coach; and then, together with Louis and Artois and William, Violet descended into the darkness.

  “Remember what you promised me!” Hope called after them.

  Artois led them along the edge of the docks. Weathered storehouses lined the lane to their left; to their right, a thirty-foot drop into the River Thames. A thousand ships, and then a thousand more, creaked quietly on its surface. Ropes snapped and rubbed against the plank docks below; sails crackled in the breeze.

  Pausing before a stuccoed arch, Artois held up the lantern to a small wooden sign that swung from a beam overhead. It read: LONDON DOCK, EST. 1805.

  Before them loomed a tall wooden door, bolted to the arch with an enormous iron lock.

  Artois turned to them. “I don’t have the key,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I suppose we shall have to turn back.”

  William held up the gun. “Don’t make me strip you to your skivvies, Artois. Take out the key and unlock the door.”

  “You heard him,” the king said, dabbing the sweat from his forehead. “He doesn’t have the damned key. Now let’s go!”