He shook his head. “You must go, Violet, you must go now. I’ll be right behind you, I swear it. I’ve just got to find the diamond.”
But before Violet could reply, Eliason emerged from the haze and dashed by her, grazing her with his elbow. With all her strength, Violet pushed against him, throwing him against the wall.
In the midst of the smoke and the fire, Harclay caught a peculiar dark sparkle emerge from Eliason’s hands and soar through the air. Whatever it was, it soared through the air and landed somewhere very close to the earl’s feet.
His heart leapt, then sputtered.
The diamond.
It was the French Blue. At his feet.
He heard a fleshy clap and turned to see Eliason grabbing at Violet, pummeling her face and arms with his tiny hands. She cried out, trying to fight back, but for so little a man he was strong, and he was fast.
Wrath, rage, fury like he’d never known before rushed through Harclay and took captive his body. His limbs snapped into action as if guided by an unseen force; one, two, three, his fists found purchase in Eliason’s cheek, jaw, temple.
One, two, three: belly, chest, shoulder.
When it was over, and Eliason slid to the ground a bloody, blubbering mess, Harclay turned to Violet and pulled her against him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, smearing her face with blood as he ran his thumb across her cheek. “My God, Violet, I’ll kill him—”
“Don’t,” she said. Her voice shook as she spoke, but she straightened, squaring her shoulders. “William, let’s go.”
A great, gurgling rush of water roared through the door. It pooled around his feet and sopped the hem of Violet’s dress.
By now the smoke was so thick Harclay was unable to see much at all. Somewhere in the haze he heard Eliason moaning and the king and Artois choking as they rolled about the floor. Harclay’s own lungs felt as if they were stuffed with cotton; his eyes and nose and mouth burned and blood trickled down the back of his throat.
He had a handful of minutes, maybe less, before the smoke finished him off.
Nothing like waiting until the last minute, he thought wryly.
“Go,” he said, holding Violet very close so that he might look into her eyes. “Go now.”
“I won’t leave you—”
“Go!” he said. Without waiting for a reply, he gently pushed her to the door. The water was now up to his knees. “Can you swim?”
“Not really,” she replied, pausing.
He cursed under his breath. “If you go now, Violet, you’ll be able to jump from the ship onto the dock. Go, do it now!”
And he pushed her again, this time out the door. The smoke clouded the distance between them.
And then she was gone.
With her went his strength. The pain returned with a searing vengeance. His eyes watered and burned and he could barely see. The water against his legs was cold and foul smelling.
He didn’t have much time.
Gritting his teeth, he turned back to the cabin. All but the very back was underwater. Somehow the king and Artois had risen to their feet and were now clasping each other by the elbows, moaning and cursing as they splashed toward the door.
Through the smoke, the king glared at Harclay, his fat fingers scrambling to save what was left of the wig on his head.
“You scum! You bastard!” he cried, waving the wig at the earl. “Look, my favorite wig is ruined!”
“Never mind your bloody wig,” Artois grumbled. “What about my life? The note for thirty thousand, it’s gone! Poof! Just like that. What if it floats down the river and some fisherman picks it up? The Italians, they will have my head!”
He turned to Harclay, eyes blazing with hate. “We ought to beat him, brother, right here, right now, for what he’s done to us.”
The king slapped the wig back onto his bald head and turned on Harclay. Together the royals tottered toward Harclay, waving their polished canes menacingly.
Harclay would’ve laughed if it weren’t for the weak numbness spreading through his limbs. Any other day he could outrun and outsmart these egg-shaped idiots without breaking a sweat. But today he was afraid.
The earl fell to his hands and knees, the water seeping into his breeches and coat. Frantically he felt about the floor for the diamond. Eliason had dropped it right here—or was it over there, by the table?—it was impossible to tell . . .
King Louis and Artois were very close now. Artois reached out and with his cane swatted Harclay on the arm.
He scooted away from them, running his palms over the submerged floorboards. Nothing; he couldn’t see or feel anything, save the slowing beat of his heart.
He looked up and through the fog saw Eliason’s giants rising behind the king and Artois. Panic flooded his every sense. How in hell had they survived Violet’s attack? With a bit of luck he could outwit the royals; but together with the giants—it was too much.
Pain radiated up his right arm; it gave out.
Harclay’s left arm managed to hold him aloft for half a heartbeat before it, too, gave out.
He fell with an unceremonious splash into the water, face-first.
The water was so cold that Harclay almost didn’t feel his nose pound against something sharp and hard.
Again he tasted blood. But something else, too: something akin to excitement, relief, a thrill that shot up the length of his spine.
With what little strength he had left, he grabbed for his nose but found instead a small, hard object with razor-fine edges.
He knew without looking that it was the French Blue.
The diamond.
Hope’s diamond.
Harclay fell back on his haunches and pulled the jewel from the water. Even in the haze, it glittered seductively, flashing blue, red, purple. For a moment he stared at it in disbelief.
The diamond felt heavy in his hand, and cold. As if under a spell, he was hard-pressed to stop staring. There were few things in this world more beautiful, more alluring, than this jewel.
Very few things.
In fact, the only one more beautiful was Lady Violet Rutledge.
Harclay blinked, one last pulse of strength rushing through him at the thought of her. He had to get out of here, and quick, so that he might yet salvage her family, her future, her fortune.
He tucked Hope’s diamond into his jacket. With no little effort he managed to rise to his feet. As soon as he was upright, however, he came face-to-face with King Louis and Artois; at his back, he sensed the giants approaching. They grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back.
Helpless against the onslaught, Harclay bit his lip against the ringing blows the royals delivered to his person. Bastards were stronger than they looked; their canes felt as if they were made of steel.
As if four against one weren’t enough, Eliason suddenly emerged from the smoke. His eyes were bloodshot and crazed.
Pushing aside the royals, he shouted, “Where is the bloody diamond, you scum, where is it?”
When Harclay did not reply, Eliason drew back his fist and flung it into Harclay’s cheek.
He saw stars, and then he was falling, falling, and landed hard on his knees. Even then he struggled to remain upright, but at last he twisted and fell on his back into the water.
Eliason was holding him under. Harclay’s lungs burned with the desire for air. He waited and prayed for a reprieve, but none came. Eliason’s grip on him was firm, and without air, he hadn’t the strength to fight back.
This is it, he thought wildly. So this is how it all shall end.
His eyes flew open underwater, one last look at the world. The water burned his eyes, but he resisted the impulse to close them.
For, to Harclay’s great surprise, and even greater relief, his gaze met that of Avery.
Last the earl
had seen him was sprawled on the ground, blood dripping down his face on account of the giants’ ministrations.
Avery winked at him, his hair fluttering wildly about his head in the water, and waved something white—paper, it was a piece of paper—before his face.
Harclay winked back, just before his vision dimmed. The burning in his lungs became unbearable; he felt as if his entire body might explode.
There was a great rush of pain from his toes to the very top of his head.
And then there was nothing.
Thirty-seven
London, Mayfair
Two weeks later
It was the Rutledge family’s last night in the London house they had called home for five generations. There were too many bills that had to be paid, too many debts to settle. And so Violet had been forced to sell the home in which she and her father, and his father before him, had been born.
There were trunks and crates everywhere. Standing at the back door, the family’s solicitor scribbled furiously in his ledger as each crate was carried out. Nearly everything, save their clothes and personal effects, was being sold. Even then, Violet knew they would be hard-pressed to settle all their debts.
“Well,” the solicitor said, slamming shut his ledger, “I believe my work is finished here. I shall be back in the morning to make the final arrangements.”
Violet stared blankly at the deepening darkness, arms crossed about her ever-increasing bosom. If only William could see her now; pleasurer that he was, he’d probably enjoy her changing body, the widening curves, the new, aching sensations. And in his hands—God have mercy—such spots would be plied and teased and pleasured to their full effect.
Swallowing the moon that rose in her throat, she pushed the thought aside. No more thinking of William. He was gone, to heaven or hell or India, she did not know. But he was gone nonetheless; it had been two weeks now since that hellish night on board the Diamond in the Rough, when she’d seen him last. No one had heard from the earl or seen him. His house was dark, and when Violet called, no one answered the door.
Harclay had disappeared.
It made Violet ache to no end.
She squared her shoulders. No matter her aching; she had other things to think about, matters to tend to. And such matters would not wait.
“Thank you, Mr. Riley,” she replied, still staring out the open door. “We shall be leaving for Essex in the morning. Please do be early.”
Mr. Riley bowed curtly. “If there is anything else—”
“No, thank you. You may go.”
He turned to leave, but at the last moment he hesitated.
Violet turned her gaze to him. “Yes?”
Clutching his ledger in his hands, he said, “I’m awfully sorry about all this, my lady. You understand I did everything in my power to keep you here.”
A beat passed between them. Violet managed a small smile. “Of course.”
Bowing a second time, Mr. Riley offered a sympathetic smile. He turned and left.
Violet uncrossed her arms and closed the door. Behind her, the kitchens were oddly quiet. Cook, and Cook alone, was preparing their last dinner, a simple meal of cold bacon, bread, and butter. The lonely sound of a single knife, slicing a single loaf of bread, was enough to break Violet’s heart.
Above stairs, everyone gathered at the table in silence. There were no footmen left to serve them, so Violet sat beside her father and helped him cut his bacon and butter his bread.
Halfway through the meal, Auntie George began to weep. Her weeping grew steadily noisier, so noisy that Sophia, too, started to cry.
Violet very nearly rolled her eyes. If the thought of brandy did not make her retch, she would’ve raided her father’s liquor cabinet on the spot. It was enough to keep her own emotions in check; but witnessing her family’s heartbreak made her feel exhausted and utterly defeated.
And still she could hardly think of anything but William. Yes, her world was crumbling all about her, but within her another battle raged. She tried to forget him, to accept that he was either dead or a cad who’d run away with the diamond, her fortune, her heart.
But day and night he stayed with her. He followed her through the motions of her day, from breakfast to tea and back into her bed at night. She hardly spoke or ate; his memory, it seemed, was enough to sustain her. But when across the pillow she reached for him, imagining the feel of his shirt in her fingers, the tears came heavy, hot.
He was gone, he was gone, gone, and there was nothing she could do to bring him back.
The regret she felt was suffocating. Only when he’d left, disappeared, died, did she allow herself to embrace her love for him. It swallowed her whole, eviscerated her.
But it was too late. The earl was not coming back. She would never have the chance to apologize, to beg him to take her back, to say yes, yes, darling, I will be yours today and all the days after that.
The shock of losing him kept the truth at bay—that she’d never again feel the thump of his heart as he pressed his chest to hers, that she’d never have the chance to curse at him one last time, the chance to witness the lust that sparked in his eyes.
She would have to face that truth someday.
Today, however, was most certainly not that day.
Later that evening, as Violet made her way up the wide stair for perhaps the last time, she paused, clenching the polished rail as if for life itself. Her side hurt, and her never-ending nausea was particularly virulent this evening. She stood very still, listening to the sounds of the house. The creak of the floorboards in Sophia’s chamber; the soft ticking of the clock in the hall downstairs; a clacking carriage passing outside the front door.
And then—a muffled clap.
An unfamiliar sound.
Heart pounding, Violet crept across the landing to her chamber door. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening.
Nothing.
Slowly she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The room was dark, save for a single candle on the table beside her bed. Its flame danced in a warm gust of air that blew in through the open windows.
The open windows.
Earlier that day, Violet had closed them against the evil smells rising from the lane below. Fitzhugh was ill, and she’d returned to her chamber after helping Violet dress that morning; the other servants had been dismissed a week since.
No one could have opened the windows.
Except an intruder.
Violet’s heart leapt in her chest. There was only one man she knew daring enough to climb three stories and through her window.
With, of course, the aid of a strong back.
She turned back to the room, breathless.
“William?” she whispered, choking on her tears. “Is that you?”
Silence.
Violet took another step into the chamber, closing the door behind her. She reached for the candle and held it aloft as she swept across the room. She looked under the bed, peeked inside her wardrobe. She ducked her head out the window and looked both ways down the street.
Nothing. No one.
William was not there.
She fell heavily onto the bed, wiping away her tears with the heel of her hand. Placing the candle back onto the table, she collapsed against her pillow in anticipation of a good, long cry.
A crunch sounded beneath the weight of her head. Bolting upright, Violet reached behind her and found a packet of thick paper placed carefully on the center of her pillow.
William.
His scent rose from the paper as surely as if he were in the room himself.
A familiar endearment, written in familiar script, was scrawled across its surface.
Darling.
For a moment Violet thought she might be sick all over the bedclothes.
She cracked the Earl
of Harclay’s wax seal and tore open the envelope. A small card fell into her lap, followed by a folded sheet of wrinkled paper.
Violet opened the card and in a single breath read the note aloud.
This should cover the two thousand I owe you. Yours always, W.
She glanced at the folded sheet in her lap. The paper appeared worse for the wear, wrinkled with water stains and marred by muddy blotches.
Taking the sheet in her hands, she carefully unfolded it. Its edges were frayed; she winced as she accidentally tore off a corner with a fingernail.
She held her fingers to her mouth and cried. And cried. And cried. So many tears, she could hardly breathe in the tiny beats between them.
Violet held in her hands the thirty-thousand-pound note the Comte d’Artois had procured to buy back the French Blue. Like all flimsies, the note bore the name of the issuing bank—in this case, an Italian house based in Florence—but made no mention of to whom, exactly, the note belonged.
The note, and the accompanying fortune, belonged to whomever possessed it.
And now it belonged to Violet. For now, at least. How like William, the blackguard, to believe stealing thirty thousand pounds from French royalty fell under the same romantic notion as stealing a priceless diamond. She’d have to give it back; Violet was many things—drinker, cheater, adventurer (albeit one prone to injury)—but she was not a thief. As much as it pained her, she would return the money to that rascal Artois.
Eventually, that was.
Surely he wouldn’t miss a thousand or two, perhaps in exchange for her goodwill. Just enough to pay off her creditors, keep the house, repair the family vehicle . . .
It was, after all, only money.
• • •
The next morning Fitzhugh ran breathless into the breakfast room.
“What is it?” Violet asked with alarm, dropping her teacup with a clatter. “Is something amiss?”
Fitzhugh merely shook her head and handed Violet an enormous packet inscribed with the finest calligraphy. “Forgive me, my lady, but this just arrived. Thought you’d like to see it straightaway.”
For a moment Violet stared at it, pulse racing. “Did you see who delivered it?”
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 31
