Not one minute awake and already her heart was pounding.
So was the person at her door.
Caroline rolled to her feet, noting with a small measure of distaste that she was still in her costume from last night.
But her thick-hipped panniers, those were thankfully missing. Where did I lose them? she wondered.
Oh, yes, she’d thrown them at one of Thomas Hope’s grooms while Henry tried—and failed—to steal a horse.
Of course.
She risked a glance in the mirror above her gilded vanity, and was shocked the glass did not shatter on account of her reflection. With trembling fingers, she quickly smoothed the swirling bird’s nest of her hair. She squared her shoulders.
It didn’t matter what happened last night.
Today was a new day, the day on which she would begin her life anew as Dowager Countess of Berry, a widow free from the complications of coupling. There would be no Henry. There would be no Hope, or his missing diamond.
Those things did not concern her.
“M’lady!” a familiar voice hissed from the other side of the door. “M’lady, if you please, it’s urgent!”
Caroline opened the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, was her maid, Nicks; the girl from Hope’s ball—the one with the blue-gray eyes, who’d worn (and lost) his diamond—peeked over her shoulder.
Caroline struggled to contain her surprise.
“But you’re still here?” she said, quite rudely, to the girl.
“Oh, God,” the girl replied, blushing a little, “you didn’t—”
“Hear you last night? Of course I did. Do come in.” She ushered them inside her chamber and quietly nudged the door shut, turning back to her visitor. The girl’s gown was practically in shreds. “From the looks of it you lost that bet.”
“Actually,” the girl said, looking up to meet Caroline’s gaze, “I won. It’s just that his lordship your brother is an awfully sore loser.”
Caroline found herself grinning. “You should’ve seen him when he was little. If he lost a game, or came in second in a race, he’d cry so hard he would faint.”
“He is stubborn,” the girl said, glancing at her hands. “Among other things.”
Across the room, Caroline met eyes with Nicks; she saw a good deal of disapproval in her maid’s gaze, a touch of curiosity. Taking in her mistress’s deflated costume and disheveled hair, the disapproval in Nicks’s eyes darkened. Caroline did her best to ignore her.
“Apologies to bother ya so early in the mornin’,” Nicks huffed, turning to straighten the pillows on Caroline’s bed, “but Lady Violet here needs to borrow a bit of clothin’. Can’t go down to breakfast lookin’ a right mess like this; she’ll scare the wits out of the servants and—er—rile his lordship, if yer know what I mean.”
“Lady Violet,” Caroline said, nodding her head. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. You aren’t—?”
“Married? Heavens, no. I am Violet Rutledge.” Here she bobbed a curtsy. “And I’m afraid I am in need of a morning gown.”
Caroline liked Lady Violet already, her wit, her forwardness, her disdain for all things matrimonial in nature; she had an inkling William liked her for these very same reasons.
She was a pretty girl, youngish, but old enough to be nearly on the shelf; surely with eyes—they were wide and very blue, a startling foil to her raven-hued hair—and a bosom like that, she’d received any number of offers from gentlemen. Why, then, had she chosen spinsterhood?
“It’s a long story,” Violet continued, reading Caroline’s thoughts. “But your brother practically kept me prisoner here after the unfortunate events at Thomas Hope’s ball last evening. We had champagne, and . . . and then, well”—she looked down at her dress—“things got rather out of hand.”
“I see,” Caroline said.
Violet’s gaze traveled up the length of Caroline’s costume. “And I see you were in attendance at the ball as well, though William made no mention of your presence.”
“He doesn’t know I was there,” Caroline said, sidling up close to Violet. “Nor does he need to.”
Violet looped her arm through Caroline’s. “I do so admire a woman with secrets; there are precious few of us these days. Come, let us dress; I’ve a diamond to hunt down, and you, a very secret male admirer.”
“What? Who? What?” Caroline felt her face flush with heat. “I don’t—er—know what you’re talking about—how do you—?”
Violet pressed a cool finger to the back of Caroline’s neck. “He left his mark,” she said softly. “And his jacket, there on the bed . . .”
Caroline’s hand flew to cover the offending spot. Damn Henry and those lips. If she ever saw him again, she would be sure to slap him one last time for good measure.
“Nicks,” she called. “If you please, do lay out the blue morning gown—the one with the high neck. Yes, that’s the one, thank you.”
* * *
Arm in arm, Lady Violet and Caroline entered the well-lit warmth of the breakfast room at a quarter to eight. It was hellishly early to be awake, especially after last night’s late hours and all that dreadful wine she’d had; Caroline couldn’t tell if her belly ached because she was hungry, or because she was about to empty its contents all over her brother’s pristine upholstery.
Even in her state of half-dead misery, Caroline did not miss the way William’s face lit up when Lady Violet came into the room. His color was high, and as he rose to his feet he fumbled, quite adorably, trying to fold the newspaper in his hands.
Violet, too, was blushing, and as Caroline looked from one to the other she wondered what, exactly, Violet meant when she’d called William a sore loser.
“Ladies,” he said, bowing awkwardly. “Lovely of you to join me, and at so early an hour. I trust you have made each other’s acquaintance?”
Caroline raised a brow, biting back a smile. “Indeed. The maids informed me of Lady Violet’s presence this morning, and I went straightaway to see her. Poor dear told me about the tragic events at Mr. Hope’s ball. To think, a thief made off with the French Blue in the midst of a crowded ballroom! I wonder how he did it.”
“Well”—William’s cheeks burned a brighter shade of red—“hardly worth thinking about, seeing as it’s over and done. We must focus our energies on helping Mr. Hope capture the perpetrators, so that the diamond might yet be found.”
Caroline’s gaze narrowed as something—something that felt vaguely like suspicion—caught inside her head. It was obvious William did not wish to discuss the theft; was he being dodgy, or merely polite before his blue-eyed paramour?
She shook the idea from her thoughts. Henry, that blackhearted bully, had rubbed off on her. Not everyone, she reminded herself, was embroiled in a sinister plot; she need not be suspicious, especially of her dear—if often daft—brother.
Nevertheless, Caroline was so entertained by his obvious excitement at Lady Violet’s presence that she accidentally elbowed the footman, Kane, who at that moment happened to be carrying a tray of fragrant little sausages. Kane went flying and so did his sausages; one of them landed, tellingly, in Caroline’s lap. She tried not to blush.
They passed the rest of breakfast pleasantly, Caroline wondering all the while if Lady Violet’s poor mama would buy their tale that Caroline, being a widow (and, at thirty, an ancient one at that), had been a most rigorous chaperone for Violet and William last night. The circumstances that had brought the two of them together were, admittedly, irregular; still, if anyone discovered Lady Violet had spent the night at the residence of a known rakeshame, she would be ruined.
They were just getting to the juicy bits of last night’s events when William’s slick-haired butler, Mr. Avery, appeared at the door. Unlike his master, Avery was strangely pale.
“Forgive me, my lord, I’ve rather urgent news from Mr. Ho
pe. One of his men waits now in the front hall. It seems they have caught the thieves and are keeping them at Mr. Hope’s house for questioning. Mr. Hope also asks after Lady Violet Rutledge.”
Utensils dropped with an impolite clatter to plates; napkins were tossed across the table; Caroline, Lady Violet, and William jostled one another out of the breakfast room into the gallery.
“Where do you think you’re going?” William murmured in Caroline’s ear.
Her heart beat loudly inside her chest, an insistent, heady pace that drowned out her thoughts and, apparently, her reason. “I’m coming with you to Hope’s.”
“But you’ve nothing to do with the French Blue, or its theft.”
She didn’t, but Caroline had the funniest feeling that Henry did.
Besides, she owed him a solid slap for the mark he’d left on her neck.
“You’re staying,” William warned.
“I’m going,” she said.
And even though it went against everything she’d said, everything she’d promised herself in the small hours of last night, even though it was foolish, and probably dangerous, and definitely irresponsible, Caroline was going to Hope’s, whether her brother wished it or not.
Seven
Henry had found the thieves in—where else?—a close, smelly tavern in Cheapside.
It had been a quick, if unexciting, chase. After collecting Mr. Moon from another close, smelly tavern (this one in Whitechapel), together they tore their way through the darkened streets until at last they cornered their quarry in a dark little hole called the Cat and Mouse.
But even as Henry reveled in the thrill of yet another job well done, he could not shake the memory of Caroline. Caroline across the park; Caroline across the ballroom; the back of Caroline’s neck, the taste of the skin there.
He finished his fourth cup of scalding-hot coffee, blinking back the exhaustion he felt at not having slept a wink. He was in the bowels of Hope’s Mayfair mansion, standing just outside the kitchens in a high-ceilinged hall flooded with early morning sunlight. Behind the door to his right, the thieves were bound in the servants’ dining room.
The door opened and Mr. Moon emerged, jaw speckled with the shadow of dark stubble; he held a pipe, long ago extinguished, between his teeth.
He appeared ready to collapse.
“No luck,” he said quietly, and shook his head. “Searched ’em, threatened to pull out their fingernails and cut off their b—”
“Too early,” Lake growled.
Moon cleared his throat, plucking the pipe from his teeth. “Right, then. Performed the usual tasks, but so far, no sign of the diamond.”
“Hm.” Lake crossed one ankle over the other and leaned against the wall. “You think they sold it?”
Moon shrugged. “They claim they don’t know a thing about the French Blue. Say they’ve never even heard of it.”
Lake yawned so thoroughly it made his eyes water. He dropped his cup to its saucer with a clank. “Out of all our assignments, why does this one have to be so difficult? I sincerely hope we don’t have to cut off their ba—”
“Lake! Any luck?” Hope hurried down the hall, running a hand through his disheveled curls. Lady Violet Rutledge and Lord William Townshend, Earl of Harclay, followed closely behind.
At once Lake’s pulse quickened; he straightened, uncrossing his ankles. William Townshend, Caroline’s brother.
What was he doing here?
And, more importantly, had his sister accompanied him on this early morning jaunt across town?
Henry glanced at the ceiling; was she waiting upstairs in the drawing room at this very moment?
He looked back down and met eyes with Hope. “Nothing yet. But we could use more coffee.”
Lady Violet peeked over Lake’s shoulder at the door. “Let me talk to them. I’ve got an idea.”
It was all Henry could do not to roll his eyes. If this little twit hadn’t lost the jewel in the first place, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
Then again, he didn’t have any better ideas.
With a sigh, Henry pressed open the door and led them into the room. The thieves glowered, faces red as they tugged at the bindings that bound their hands to the spindles of their chairs. The room was ripe with the smells of coffee, sweat, and sour ale.
Half expecting Lady Violet to run screaming for the door, Henry was surprised to find a saucy grin on her lips, her eyes flashing seductively as she sashayed toward her rapt audience. She flirted and whispered, talked and touched; Harclay watched from the corner, face tight, fists balled at his sides.
It took her all of five minutes to make them sing.
“What big hands you have!” she said, running a finger along one of the thieves’ arms. “And these muscles—my, my! So strong and manly. How popular you lot must be with the ladies.”
The man smiled, revealing more gums than teeth. “We’s acrobats, m’lady, been with th’ show at Vauxhall free years now, crowd does luv our tricks, ladies, too,” he said. His accent was so thick he could chew on it—if, that is, he had more teeth.
Violet sat on the edge of the table, fingering the man’s lapel. “Tell me, then, how you ended up in Thomas Hope’s ballroom last night.”
The man glanced down at Violet’s hand. Henry could practically feel the Earl of Harclay’s simmering wrath roll to a boil.
“Was ’bout a week ago,” he said. “We was down the pub—yeah?—when a man wiv a fake-like beard, teeth rottin’ out ov his head—yeah?—sat down,” the lead man said. “Said he’d give fi’ty pounds to the each ov us for making a right nice mess of your fancy-pants party. Twen’y-five before, twen’y-five after. We’s still waitin’ on that last payment—yeah?—if any of yous know where I can find tha bugger.”
Henry brought a knuckle to his lips. An obviously fake beard? That was one he’d yet to encounter until this very moment.
“But what of the diamond?” Violet pressed. “What instructions did the man give you about stealing Mr. Hope’s diamond?”
The acrobats replied with blank stares.
A pulse of dread shot through Lake.
They didn’t do it. These men may have been scalawags, and stinking ones at that, but they were not thieves.
But if they didn’t steal the diamond, who did? This was bad; very bad news indeed. Henry had to find the diamond, and soon. So many lives depended on it.
And he had to get out of London. Away from Caroline, before he broke the promise he made twelve years ago to protect her. Keep her safe from the violence posed by who he was, what he did.
“We ain’t bover wif no diamond,” another man said. “Make no mention ov it, just paid us to make a nice right racket.”
Violet drew back, tucking her folded hands into her skirts. Henry could tell she was just as perplexed as he.
“And what of the other twenty-five pounds the man owes you? Have you received it yet?”
The man shook his head. “Nah. Seein’ as we been caught, we ain’t expectin’ to see the rest. Though that ain’t exactly fair now, is it?”
Violet met Henry’s gaze. Something didn’t add up here. The diamond couldn’t have disappeared into thin air; someone had to have taken it.
But who?
Dread knotted in his belly as he glanced across the room at Lord Harclay. From the looks of it, the earl’s head was about to explode. Was he jealous of the lust flashing in the acrobats’ eyes as they followed Lady Violet about the room?
Or was that panic Henry saw in his lordship’s pained expression?
This interview was creating more questions than it answered.
Lake closed his eyes, pulling at his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. His head ached fiercely. He wondered if, in his exhausted delirium, he’d begun imagining things.
He wondered if Lady Caroline Osbourne was still upstairs
in the drawing room. (If she’d ever been there in the first place.)
He felt impatient, suddenly; it was stifling in here.
He followed Lady Violet and Lord Harclay out into the hall, closing the door soundly behind them; the air felt fresh as a field of flowers compared to the close smells of the dining room.
Mr. Moon looked up hopefully from his coffee. Henry shook his head.
“Keep them here for now,” he said, making his way down the hall, “until I figure out what to do next.”
Moon leapt to his feet. “Right then, sir,” he called after his superior. “And when might that be?”
Henry threw up his hands. “Tomorrow. Today. Never, probably.”
Lady Violet appeared at his elbow, trotting breathlessly beside him. “I,” she panted, “can help you, Mr. Lake.”
He arched a brow. “You’ve been helpful enough, my lady, thank you.”
“No.” She tugged him to a stop by his arm. “The diamond was snatched from about my neck. It is my responsibility to get it back. Besides, I’ve a good deal of money invested in Hope and Company stock. If word gets out that Hope cannot safeguard his own assets, much less anyone else’s—well, I don’t need to tell you that the bank will be ruined, and so will I. Please, Mr. Lake. We’ve got to find the French Blue. I’ve got to find it, before I lose everything.”
If only she knew the safety of England, and all her brave soldiers, were at stake, too, he thought. If the diamond was lost, Violet would not be the only one to suffer.
Henry tugged a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. His heart beat an uneven tattoo inside his chest. Even with all this danger and talk of destitution—even with the very real threat of defeat looming over him—all he could think about was getting up to that damned drawing room.
“I suppose I need all the help I can get,” he said, sighing. “We’ve got more information than we started with this morning, but it’s still not enough. You might contact me through Hope if you find out more.”
The Undercover Scoundrel Page 8