Fitzhugh again shook her head. “Some strange fellow, bruises all over his face and his arm in a sling. Stooped over, too, as if it pained him to stand straight. Very polite, though.”
Violet could not suppress the smile that rose to her lips. Poor Avery.
“Well?” Cousin Sophia said. “Open it!”
With trembling hands Violet opened the packet.
“It’s an invitation,” she said, furrowing her brow as she read it.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF SOMMER
AND ALL THE LADIES OF HIS HOUSE,
HIS LORDSHIP THE EARL OF HARCLAY
REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE
AT A MASQUERADE BALL
THIS EVENING, AT HALF PAST EIGHT O’CLOCK.
A PRIZE SHALL BE AWARDED
TO THE JEWEL WHO SHINES BRIGHTEST.
Violet met her cousin’s eyes across the table.
“Well?” Sophia said, voice high with anticipation.
“We’re going to need Mr. Hope’s help. Mr. Lake’s, too—come, Sophia, we haven’t much time!”
• • •
Night fell lightly upon the city, the slow dimming of a lovely summer day. The weather was fine and warm; stars blinked awake one by one across a bluebell sky.
Perhaps it was the prospect of seeing William, after presuming him dead, gone forever these past weeks; perhaps she was relieved to finally end this chase, in the hope of beginning another; or maybe it was a revived hope that William had recovered the French Blue, so they might return it to Hope and share in the success of his bank.
Whatever it was, Violet felt magic in the air around her. The breeze wove a spell; she could feel it coming to life just beneath her skin. She stood before the open window in her bedchamber, the summer air tickling stray wisps of hair about her temples as she waited for the night to begin and the magic to unravel.
At last it was time. Cousin Sophia came to her door, all smiles and glimmering gauze. Violet had convinced her that they should wear the same nymph costumes they’d donned for Hope’s ball.
“Otherwise, he might not recognize me,” Violet had said, pressing her domino mask to her face.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sophia replied with a roll of her eyes. “Lord Harclay would recognize you anywhere, dressed in anything. The man’s got eyes for only you.”
• • •
Violet climbed the familiar steps of Harclay’s town house arm in arm with her father. She leaned heavily against him, glad of the support he offered her; she trembled with anticipation as they crossed the threshold.
A thousand questions swirled in her head with every beat of her heart. Was William really alive? Where had he gone? Was he hurt, was he still reeling from the accidental poisoning, and, God damn him, why hadn’t he written sooner? The diamond—had he managed to rescue it from Eliason’s clutches? Or was it gone, lost forever to the River Thames?
If he was indeed alive, and he did indeed show his face tonight, Violet didn’t know how she’d react. Part of her longed to kiss him wildly, to have her way with him right there in public; the other part itched to slap him soundly and turn her bare shoulders to him, torturing him with the knowledge that he could’ve had her shoulders, and all her other bare parts, if he’d only behaved.
Together with Cousin Sophia, Auntie George, and her father, Violet was escorted inside by a masked footman she did not recognize. It was not yet nine o’clock and the crush was immense. Every member of le bon ton, it seemed, had turned out at the earl’s last-minute invitation, and in extravagantly inappropriate costumes. Every guest wore a mask and a mischievous grin; apparently Violet wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the anonymity of a masked ball, the titillating possibilities it presented.
The house blazed with light and life; it was impossible to imagine that just days prior it lay empty, its dark windows gaping at passersby. That familiar scent—William’s scent—invaded her every sense. For a moment she closed her eyes and allowed relief to wash over her at the mere presence of the house, of him, around and in and above her. For two weeks now she’d believed she’d never step foot in this house again. Now that she was here, she was not about to pass the precious time doing anything other than relishing the fact that he was alive. And he might yet be hers again.
Just over her shoulder a man cleared his throat. Holding the domino mask to her face, Violet whirled about. Her eyes fell on a somberly dressed man stooping uncomfortably before her. His right arm was tucked into a sling; with his left he held aloft a silver tray, on which rested a small, square note.
“Avery!” She gasped in disbelief, heart dropping to her knees. “Are you—does it—might I—oh, heavens.”
“Indeed,” he said with a grin. He lifted the tray. “My lady, this is for you.”
Violet eyed Avery as she took the note in her hands. “Thank you.”
Before she could ask him how he’d found her, or who’d sent the note, he disappeared into the crowd.
Assured that no one was watching, Violet excused herself from her father and slipped into a dimly lit alcove toward the back of the house.
Her gloved fingers were clumsy and slow, but she managed to tear open the letter nonetheless. She unfolded it quickly, in her haste dropping it not once but twice to the floor.
Her heart pounded ruthlessly as she read it.
The waltz. Save it for me.
When I see you dressed like that, I am indeed an expert in wood.
Yours, W.
Violet raised her eyes and looked about the alcove and adjacent gallery, hoping to find William there, waiting for her with a sly smile and a coupe of champagne.
She found nothing but a whirl of masks and laughter, people milling clumsily about. Desire perfumed the air; she was drowning in her own, set ablaze by the three blunt sentences she read over and over again.
Violet had to find him. Never mind that waltz; she couldn’t wait that long. Tucking the note inside her stays—good God, it was tight in there, tighter than the day before—she slipped from the alcove and lost herself in the search for William.
Thirty-eight
“There you are!” Mr. Hope exclaimed, pulling back his mask. “We thought you’d abandoned us, Lady Violet.”
Violet bit her lip to keep from swearing. She had hoped to avoid her fellow plotters, her impatience rabid and wild to at last put her hands on William and feel his on her own body.
“I would never,” she replied wryly. She looked past Hope’s broad, rounded shoulders into the cavernous ballroom. She’d never seen so many people; how was she ever going to find William?
Her heart sank.
“Our plot is still in play, yes?” Hope said, raising a brow.
Violet sighed. “I gave you my word, Mr. Hope. If Wil—if Lord Harclay does not hand over the diamond tonight, we’ll have him arrested. But he’s here; I know he’s here. And if he’s got the French Blue, he’ll give it to us.”
“I wish I shared your unwavering faith in Lord Harclay,” he replied. “I do hope you’re right, Lady Violet. This business has gone on long enough.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hope, I was just on my way—yes, on my way to the retiring room. I’m feeling a bit flushed.”
With a nod of her head, Violet scurried into the ballroom. The dancing had already begun. A string quartet filled the space with loud, boisterous music, and dancers thundered across the crowded floor, clapping and twirling in time to the beat.
She did not recognize a single face, each hidden behind a mask. He’d done it on purpose, that cad; William had intentionally hosted a masquerade ball so that he could watch her, see her, without allowing her the same courtesy.
Stamping her foot in frustration, Violet accepted a glass of punch from a footman and pretended to sip it as she pushed her way through the ballroom. Behind curtains and fans, couples engaged
in explicit games of seduction; a few women fainted, taking care to keep on their masks as they did so; old men ogled said women freely.
All this, and yet no sign of William. She felt his presence everywhere, in the music and the sweet-smelling punch and the scent of the air. But he was nowhere to be found.
Just as her eyes were beginning to well with tears of disappointment, she sensed a peculiar prickling at the back of her neck. In her chest her heart skipped a beat.
Violet knew that sensation—the feeling that someone was watching her, his gaze boring through the layers of her skin and setting fire to her blood.
It was William.
She whirled around, pulling the mask from her face.
Frantically she searched the crowd around her, looking for his dark eyes, his dark hair, that dark smile.
Nothing, save a sea of masked faces, gleaming silks, mouths wide with laughter.
She blinked, straining her eyes. Was she missing something? He couldn’t have gone far; he was close, very close, she felt it—
“The next dance,” a voice, low, rumbling, whispered in her ear, “is a waltz.”
A shiver shot up her spine at the feel of his lips against her skin. Her eyes fluttered shut.
When she opened them, he was gone.
Struggling to catch her breath, Violet pushed her way toward the dancing in the center of the ballroom.
The music swelled to a rousing climax and ended abruptly two beats later. The room erupted in the spirited clatter of polite clapping and drunken shouts for more! more!
Ducking onto the dance floor, Violet looked about for a sign, any sign at all, that William was here, and that he indeed intended to dance a waltz with her.
For a moment the ballroom filled with the conversation of a thousand guests. And then, to gasps of shock and delight, the leading lady and master of the dance together announced a waltz. A stunned silence descended upon the crowd.
Violet swallowed, heart pounding so loudly in her ears it was a miracle no one else heard it.
The dancers began to pair off, two by two. In the flurry of coupling, Violet turned this way and that, standing like a fool by her lonesome in search of a beau who might never come.
The room spun about her, a whirl of color and light and sound. Where was he? Had he run, leaving her stranded for everyone to see?
Her lips burned. She’d never longed for anything like she longed for his mouth against hers.
A note was played, and then another. Violet turned and turned, eyes raking the crush about her. She’d know those shoulders, that tapered waist, anywhere, even here, surrounded by hundreds, thousands of bodies.
Panic pulsed through her. William wasn’t there.
The music bloomed to life, heady and hypnotic. Around her the dancers began to move. Men with their straight backs and splayed fingers; ladies, their skirts whispering, their bosoms pressed ever so slightly against their partners’ chests.
If only William knew how willingly, how thoroughly, she’d press her bosom to his chest—would he come for her then?
Ignoring the stares of the dancers that spun around her, Violet continued to search for him.
Out of the ether a warm, callused hand slid around her own. The hand pulled her around, and around again, and then Violet was facing a tall gentleman wearing a black leather mask. His eyes flashed; his shape—it was so perfectly formed, angles and slopes and sinew, it made her heart skip a beat.
It was him.
The breath left her body as he tugged her to him, enveloping her with a single arm. His hand slid to the small of her back, fingers digging into her stays.
She couldn’t speak. Neither did he.
William pulled her against him and pulled again, their bodies gasping for each other, insatiable. His hands on her were firm and brooked no resistance.
Fire sliced through her, white-hot desire that made her limbs feel drunk with need.
He took a step; she followed. They began their dance, her eyes never leaving him as they worked their way, one-two-three, through the steps.
She felt the fire seeping back into her spirit as he looked at her, a small smile playing at his lips. He was alive. He was here.
He was hers.
For a moment, at least.
Violet had so much to say, but for now she was content to stare, swallow him with her eyes.
He appeared healthy, and happy. His face was bright with color and bore no trace of the poison or the episode on board the Diamond in the Rough.
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath since the dance began until it ended. She exhaled long and hard as the music ground to a stop around them. William loosened his grip on her—no! she wished to cry, keep holding me—and stepped away, bowing.
Violet blinked.
When she opened her eyes he was gone, disappeared as if he were never there at all.
“William?” she whispered, turning, and turning—
There was a small breeze at her back and then a strange, cold weight against her chest. She caught William’s scent just before she looked down at her bosom.
The French Blue winked from between her breasts. It hung from the very same collar of white diamonds Hope had lent her that fateful night some weeks ago.
Polished and gleaming, it bore no trace of its long, bloody journey to this very spot, this very moment. In the light of the chandeliers it appeared more blue-black than gray; its facets winked purple and red and nearly blinded her with their brilliance.
She swallowed the nausea that rose in her mouth.
William, Earl of Harclay, had at last returned the French Blue.
“But how—?” she said, throat thick with tears. She brought her fingers to the diamond, as if to assure herself that it was real, that the jewel that once belonged to the kings of France was now hanging from her neck.
How the devil had Harclay managed it?
Again she looked up and searched for him. By now guests had begun to stare, forming a circle around Violet. Behind their masks they whispered, pointing to the enormous diamond that glittered from her bosom.
William was nowhere to be found.
The bastard had left, escaped into the anonymity of the night.
Heart pounding, she tried to think. He couldn’t have gone very far. If she found him, she might catch him before he was gone forever.
And she had a good idea where he’d gone.
Gathering her skirts in her hands, she plunged into the crush, shouldering a passage through the sea of bodies. It wasn’t easy—a woman spilled her punch down the back of Violet’s dress, and a trio of gentlemen as fat as bears refused to move until she stomped their bejeweled feet—but at last she made her way out of the ballroom and into the gallery.
Moving as fast as her legs would carry her, Violet pushed past the crowd to the back of the house. A footman carrying a tray of champagne coupes was just emerging from a door at the end of the gallery. Violet flew past him, ducking through the door just before it closed.
In her haste, she nearly fell down the narrow servants’ stairs. The smells of the kitchen grew stronger as she descended into the bowels of the house: roast chicken, butter, the yeasty tang of freshly baked bread.
Violet ran headfirst into a handmaid, causing the poor girl to cry out and drop the mop and pail she was carrying.
“Oh! Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” Violet said, helping the girl collect her instruments from the floor. “You’ll have to forgive me; I’m in a bit of a rush—”
Without looking back, Violet darted into the kitchen.
Though the cavernous space bustled with activity, her eyes fell on the large plank table in the center of the room.
The cook, a small, round woman with white hair, looked up from her cake. Her face creased into a smile.
“And where do you think yo
u’re going?” she said to Violet, her pastry bag of icing poised in midair.
“I—I’m looking for—”
The cook nodded toward the back door. “He’s thataway, my lady. Just missed ’im, you did. You’d best hurry!”
Violet didn’t want to ask how the cook knew she was looking for William—had the woman heard them that night on the table?—and instead thanked her and leapt into the narrow servants’ hall.
Running, running, her lungs burning with the effort, Violet turned a corner. At the end of the hall she saw a man slip through the back door, his coattails nearly catching between the door and frame before they disappeared altogether.
“William!” Violet panted. “Wait, please wait!”
She reached for the door and yanked it open, the warm night air rushing to meet her as she tripped into the drive.
“William?” she called. She looked right, looked left.
The drive was crowded with carriages of every shape and size, horses chuffing at one another in annoyance. Twenty paces ahead, the shouts and laughter of drivers, groomsmen, and hired hands sounded from the stables.
Out of the corner of her eye, Violet caught William’s dark figure slipping around the side of the house. She bolted after him, gravel flying from the heels of her slippers.
Breathlessly she rounded the corner, reaching out with her hands as if to catch him by those elusive coattails.
All she managed to snatch were two fistfuls of thorny rosebushes.
Cursing, she pulled back her hands and sucked gently on her sliced fingertips.
“Damn you, William, where did you go?” she cried out to the night, stomping her foot.
This side of the house was deserted, save for the coaches that lined the drive. It was quiet here and very dark. Even though it was warm outside, she shivered, and for the first time wondered at her foolishness. She had Hope’s diamond around her neck and all the world at her feet. What was she doing here, alone in the dark, searching for a man who clearly didn’t want to be found?
Tears welled uninvited in her eyes. She wiped them away with the backs of her hands, willing her heart to harden, her feet to move back toward the house and the masquerade. Mr. Hope, Sophia, all the others would be waiting for her; they would not wait forever.
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 32
