The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  A tendril of panic unfurled in her chest. Perhaps falling into the Serpentine hadn’t been the best idea. Her skirts felt as if they were weighed down with rocks; she kicked furiously, pulling herself toward the surface with her arms, but to no avail.

  She was drowning.

  To think she would die just when Henry confessed I didn’t want to leave you. She would never know what in hell he’d meant by that; she would never know what happened after their wedding night some twelve years ago.

  Not that she had the courage to ask any of these questions, not that knowing the answers would ease her grief.

  Still.

  Caroline kicked harder. She pulled. Still she went down.

  Her lungs burned. She struggled against the impulse to inhale.

  And then something was wrapped around her chest and squeezing, tugging her upward.

  Her head broke the surface of the water and she gasped for air. Water dripped into her eyes. Her back was pressed against a familiar front.

  Henry’s front.

  His arm was slung about her torso between her breasts, and he was pulling her toward the shore. With one last tug he laid her out upon the muddy bank, his hand sliding to grasp her waist. She tried to slap it away but she kept missing.

  People were staring, drawing close but not too close. (God forfend they should actually help.) William appeared at her side; apparently he’d also gone for a dip, because his wet curls hung over his brow.

  “All right,” Henry panted. “I deserved that.”

  “Deserved what?” William snapped.

  “It’s nothing,” Caroline said. “Help me up.”

  Together William and Henry lifted Caroline to her feet. The water that streamed down her person was very cold, but her skin felt hot; the combination made her shiver.

  “Caroline,” Henry said.

  William stepped between them. “You aren’t to call her that. She is a countess.”

  “Not anymore,” she said. “I’m fine, William, really.”

  After a beat, William turned back to Lady Violet. Henry turned to Caroline.

  She tried very hard not to look at the way his clothes clung to his body. Really, she did, but like every other red-blooded woman gathered in their small circle of spectators, Caroline couldn’t resist reveling in the view.

  She could see every muscle, every slope, the pucker of his nipples.

  Her eyes slid down the length of his body and then made their way back up. His hair hung in loose abandon about his face, its golden strands trailing over his shoulders. Water dripped from his brows down his cheeks; his one eye was burning.

  And it was on her.

  Henry’s mouth was drawn into a grim line. A muscle in his jaw roped against the smooth skin there. “Are you all right?” he ground out.

  “Oh, don’t worry about your secret, Mr. Lake,” she hissed, rolling her eyes. “I swear to you, I shan’t tell a soul, nary a soul!”

  By now Caroline was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

  He reached for her. “You’re freezing.”

  “What do you care?” She stepped aside, making a beeline for William, who, annoyingly, was sharing a jolly laugh with Lady Violet over the indecent condition of his breeches.

  “Caroline—my lady—wait,” Henry called after Caroline.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Whatever your ‘business’ with Hope and his diamond and Lady Violet, leave me out of it. It’s better for both of us that way.”

  * * *

  But the world, it seemed, was conspiring against Caroline getting her way this afternoon.

  For it appeared Henry Lake wasn’t the only man in her life with secrets.

  She and William were ensconced in the quiet, velvet-lined safety of his carriage, swinging in time to the vehicle’s jolts and lurches as they made their way home from Hyde Park. Caroline sat across from William, the coachman’s coat spread out on the squabs beneath her so that her soaking skirts might not ruin the upholstery.

  “Lady Violet accused me of stealing Hope’s diamond,” William said.

  Caroline blinked, her gaze shifting from the window to her brother. “Pardon?”

  “Lady Violet thinks I was the thief. She told me so on our stroll.”

  Caroline scoffed. “Girl’s got a sense of humor. You would make a dashing criminal.”

  She said it playfully, sarcastically, but William did not share in her humor.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I did it.”

  A pause. A very stunned pause.

  And then: “What?” She bolted upright. “Wait. You—”

  “Well, that’s part of the reason why I did it. I was bored, if you want to know the truth, and what with all of Hope’s bragging about the jewel, and that ridiculous ball of his . . . well, I couldn’t very well resist.”

  For a moment Caroline stared at William. She recalled, in startling detail, Henry’s words.

  I’m unforgiving when it comes to my enemies. We’ll give that scalawag what he deserves.

  Of course her brother should prove to be that scalawag—the one who stole Mr. Thomas Hope’s priceless diamond in the midst of the season’s most well-attended ball.

  Caroline reached across the carriage and slapped William’s head. “You idiot.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t worry, I plan to give it back.”

  “Like that makes it any better!”

  “It should.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  William furrowed his brow. “Not that I planned on telling you any of this, Caroline. But I wasn’t expecting such prudish wrath from you.”

  Caroline was so furious, it took all her powers of self restraint not to box his ears once more.

  “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’re in, William? You’ve just kicked the biggest damned hornet’s nest in all of England!”

  “Of course I know!” He grinned, a smug thing that set Caroline’s teeth on edge. “Why d’you think I did it?”

  Caroline fell back on the squabs with an exasperated sigh. So much for living out the days of her widowhood in contented, unmolested peace. It was only a matter of time—hours, minutes—before Henry Lake would climb through the window of William’s house and demand answers about Hope’s missing jewel.

  Answers that, when her brother refused to share them, Henry would look to Caroline to provide.

  She reached out and slapped William once more for good measure. Crossing her arms about her chest, Caroline turned to the window. A puzzling tightness in her chest made it difficult to breathe, suddenly, at the thought of seeing Henry again; a tightness that was either anxiety or excitement, she couldn’t quite tell.

  Nine

  A gentleman jewel thief.

  Lake would’ve laughed at the absurdity of such a notion if it didn’t make perfect sense.

  He took a healthy swig of watery Scotch instead, cursing his brother for not leaving better stuff behind.

  Lady Violet was the one to put the pieces together into a glaringly obvious, in retrospect, whole. She’d fingered the earl as the thief, had even accused him of the crime to his face. Henry had to give her more credit; she was made of solid, smart stuff.

  He stood in his bedchamber before the open window. The setting sun cast a blush-colored shadow over a wide, unblemished sky; the air was warm and still. In the street below, well-appointed vehicles jostled London’s finest to the evening’s first entertainments. He could hear the tinkling of laughter, the creak and slam of doors. He drained his teacup, willing the impossible knot of his thoughts to loosen, but the Scotch, or whatever it was, wasn’t nearly strong enough.

  He’d had an inkling William, the Earl of Harclay, was involved in the theft from the moment Henry watched it happen across the ballroom. The earl had singled out Lady Violet earlier that nig
ht, and never left her side; he was with her when she was attacked by the acrobats.

  Acrobats William doubtless hired to create a distraction while he swiped the diamond, discreetly, from Violet’s neck himself.

  It was genius, really—to play at fighting off Violet’s attackers when the earl had hired them to do just that: attack her, distract her, so that she wouldn’t see her fawning paramour steal the jewel slung about her breast.

  It was a brave move, a cocky move, one that Lake would’ve applauded if it didn’t place him in a damnably impossible bind.

  Twice he’d sworn to leave Caroline be, and twice he would break his oath, just as he’d done a decade ago.

  He had to stay away from her. He should stay away from her. His was a bloody business; he’d learned, the hard way, the danger his profession posed to those close to him.

  But now that her brother the earl was their primary suspect in the theft of the French Blue, she would play a part in Henry’s hunt, whether he willed it or not. It was imperative Henry reclaim the diamond so that England might use it to bargain with France; with a dash of diplomatic savvy, he might negotiate for the lives of thousands of British soldiers, the surrender of a Spanish city, perhaps even peace. There was no telling what that potbellied pig Napoleon might forfeit in his quest to reassemble to French crown jewels.

  Nothing—and no one—would stand in the way of Henry’s hunt for the French Blue. Especially not Lady Caroline Osbourne, Dowager Countess of Berry.

  He knew better than to believe she would prove helpful in condemning her brother as the thief, even less so in seeking out the diamond. If pulling him down into a freezing lake, quite viciously, was any indication, she really didn’t want anything to do with Henry.

  “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

  He set his cup down on the bureau and turned to face Mr. Moon.

  Lake cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, crossing his arms and ankles and leaning against the casement.

  “That woman who was here the other night. Harclay’s sister. The one you’re in love with.”

  “Pffssh,” Henry scoffed. “I’m not—how did you—what?”

  Mr. Moon rolled his eyes, and turned back to the mirror as he attempted to shrug into a wig of long auburn curls. “Whatever you say, sir. If I may be so bold as to offer some advice—”

  “You may not.”

  “Tread more softly this time. I mean this as a compliment, really, I do, but you’re something of a bully. Women don’t like that.”

  “You would know.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Moon straightened, tossing his curls over his shoulder. “I would. Go slowly with her. Be kind. Handle her with a light touch. What’s the old saying? Oh yes: ‘Honey attracts more bees than a blow to the gut.’ No, no, that’s not it.” Moon furrowed his brow, lips puckered. At last he waved away the thought. “Anyway. From what I overheard last night, she might appreciate that.”

  “The honey? Or the blow to the gut?”

  Moon bent his neck at an accusing angle. “Say what you want. You’re going to lose her and the diamond if you don’t tread lightly.”

  “I’m not after her.” Feeling his face grow hot, Henry turned back to the window. After a beat, he said, “How do you know? About—”

  “Your voice,” Moon said. “I heard it in your voice. The way you spoke to her.”

  Henry placed his palms on the windowsill and took a deep breath through his nose.

  “What are you going to do?” Moon asked softly. “She’s his sister. And you and I both know he’s our thief.”

  “Maybe he’ll confess, and hand over the diamond without event.” Henry glanced over his shoulder at Moon. “No, you’re right, he won’t. It’s obvious he stole the jewel for a thrill. And there’s no thrill in surrender.”

  Henry looked at the gilt clock on the mantel. “Once it’s dark I won’t have much time—what, it’s almost June, I’ll have a few hours of darkness, if that?—but I’ll poke about the earl’s residence, see what I can find. With any luck he’s as stupid as he is cocky, and he’ll be using the diamond as a paperweight.”

  * * *

  Alas, the earl proved cocky and clever. With rising frustration Henry moved from one room to the next in Harclay’s Hanover Square house. The moon was new, the darkness complete. It was almost a gift, Henry’s one missing eye; for years he’d honed other senses, including touch, to compensate for what he lacked in vision.

  He tore through desks and laid waste to wardrobes. He felt behind paintings and rolled up carpets, running his palms over the walls and floorboards in search of a telltale gap or knob, a loose plank. He trailed his fingertips over furniture, china, linens, paper. Always silent, always careful to put things back to rights.

  All this work, and there was no sign of the French Blue.

  A dozen rooms, half a dozen hours, and nothing, nothing, nothing.

  For the most part Henry moved silently, intently, without disturbing so much as a mote of dust. But bending his knee to keep from limping was a painful endeavor, especially as the hours passed. He bit the inside of his cheek against the pain, but once, when he was creeping through the earl’s bedchamber, the sharp spikes of sensation became too much to bear.

  Hand on the knob of Harclay’s dressing room, Henry drew a noisy breath through his teeth.

  And then, horrified, he froze, heart thumping in his ears as he waited for the inevitable.

  It came a beat later—the rustle from the great tester bed across the room.

  Henry’s mind raced as he glanced down at the knob in his hand. He could slip inside the dressing room, but surely the earl, if he was awake, would hear Henry close the door. And what if this door was the only way in or out? He would be trapped. He couldn’t risk it.

  He looked to the windows. Too far; already dawn shone through the curtains. There was no time to wait. His only option was to sneak back to the chamber door, slip out before the earl was fully roused.

  Which meant he didn’t have time to search the dressing room. He cursed silently, annoyed that he was forced to leave this particular stone unturned.

  Then again, a dressing room was hardly a good hiding place for anything, much less a diamond. Harclay’s valet was in and out of that room several times a day; the drawers were his domain, not the earl’s.

  Still, the fact that Henry did not know for certain what was behind this door rankled. The diamond was not in the drawing room, the study, the kitchens. It was not anywhere Henry had already searched. Which meant the jewel could be there, inside the Earl’s dressing room.

  Harclay tossed and turned again in his bed, let out a noise that could’ve been a snore, a slurred word.

  Henry didn’t waste any time. He bolted from the room, careful to close the door quietly behind him. The house was stirring; he could hear footsteps on the back stair. He had taken too long, was careless with the few hours he’d been given.

  He didn’t see the crisply attired maid until it was almost too late. Henry was racing down a shadowy hall, focusing all his energy on not making a sound, when the woman appeared, quite suddenly, a few feet to his left, brush and pail in hand.

  Without thinking, Henry turned and, sending up a small prayer that the woman did not see him, ducked into the nearest room.

  Closing the door behind him, he turned to face his surroundings, blinking furiously as a bead of sweat made its way into his eye.

  Oh. Oh no.

  Out of all the rooms in his bloody mansion, of course he had the bad—good?—luck to find himself in hers.

  Caroline’s.

  Caroline, who stared at him from her perch on the bed. She dropped her teacup to its saucer with a clatter, and tugged her robe closer about her bosom. She straightened against the mountain of pillows at her back.

  “Mr. Lake!” she
said, voice low. “What in the world—?”

  “I’m not. I wasn’t sneaking—I wasn’t searching—”

  “Then what are you doing in my room at six o’clock in the morning, dressed head to toe in black?”

  Henry looked down at his costume. She had a point.

  He managed a tight smile. “Just doing a bit of reconnaissance. Harmless, I assure you.”

  And then, remembering himself, Henry bowed. Was that a blush staining her cheeks? Or merely the late springtime heat?

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

  “I know. I am sorry, my lady, I am, but the maid—and the time . . . ” He sighed, tugging a hand through his hair. Perhaps a change in subject was in order; it might buy him a bit of time.

  “You’re up early,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

  She looked at him for a moment; he saw the weariness in her eyes. “It seems sleep has eluded us both.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you at least recovered from our spill into the Serpentine?”

  She looked down at the breakfast tray in her lap. Running her first finger through the petals of a daisy drooping in a tiny cut glass vase, she said, “You did deserve that, you know.”

  His heart began to pound. “I know.”

  Silence stretched between them. The morning sun was hot on Henry’s back.

  “Well, then.” She set her hands on either end of the tray. “If you’ve come to ask about William, I’ve nothing to say.”

  “Ah. So you know of Violet’s accusation.”

  Caroline nodded. “I do. But let me assure you, Mr. Lake, I know nothing about the theft or the diamond or where it is now. I spent the last year in mourning at my late husband’s estate in Oxfordshire; I came to London less than a week ago. If William was planning something, I—well, I knew nothing about it.”

  Henry took a breath through his nose, reining in the impulse to pepper her with more questions. He recalled what Moon had counseled the night before.