The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  Harclay allowed himself a small chuckle. One of his favorite wagers, that, and now a legend at White’s.

  Sweeping his gaze over the crowd, his eyes caught on the gleaming baubles that hung from the ears and wrists and necks of several ladies, and the more discreet jewels that decorated gentlemen’s waistcoats, their pocket watches. All these were nothing, he knew, absolutely nothing compared to the French Blue.

  But the jewel was nowhere in sight. He managed to press his way to the refreshment table, where he exchanged his empty goblet of brandy-disguised-as-wine for a fresh one. Pulse thumping gloriously in anticipation, he surveyed the gathered guests over the rim of his glass. Dancing was about to begin, and out of the crowd came shouted requests for a cotillion, a reel.

  Harclay dug his pocket watch out of his waistcoat. Nearly half past eleven; he didn’t have much time now. He glanced about the ballroom, his gaze meandering through the hundreds of bewigged heads. Hope’s hired guns lurked none too discreetly in corners and doorways; though dressed in full Sun King regalia, they were as conspicuous as foxes in a henhouse.

  Harclay followed their gazes—there were so damn many of them! he thought with a thrill—until his own landed somewhere at the far end of the ballroom, close to the couples who were gathering to dance. At last his eyes settled on the bare shoulders of a single female.

  The lady in question stood with her back to him. Licking his lips, Harclay couldn’t help but notice what a lovely slope of back it was: pale, smooth skin that rounded softly over sinew and proud but feminine shoulders. There was something distinctly erotic about her naked flesh, something seductive about the way she held herself. His eyes followed the line of her spine up to her neck; the tiny hairs there cast gold in the light of the room, and he imagined touching her fine skin, first with his fingers, then his lips . . .

  No, his blood roared, though it did nothing to quell the familiar tightening in his groin. Absolutely not, you randy, rutting pig; now is not the time, nor this the place.

  It was imperative that he focus not on lovely shoulders and skin but on the task at hand. The time was drawing near, and he needed his wits about him; the theft required a series of actions as deliberate and intricate as the steps of a country dance, and it wouldn’t do to be distracted by the charms of a lady, no matter how lovely her skin and shoulders.

  But heavens, they were most lovely, delicious even; and when she turned suddenly to face him his breath caught in his throat, for to his dismay—or perhaps his delight; he couldn’t quite tell—her front was even lovelier than her back.

  The earl loved women, admired them, and was, for a short spell five years before, even addicted to them. It was no great secret he’d enjoyed the charms of famous actresses, royal highnesses, an American or two. But of late his desire had cooled somewhat, for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend. He hadn’t taken a lover for some months now, which, as England’s most notorious lothario, Harclay found rather depressing.

  So it was at once unsettling, inconvenient, and wholly pleasurable to feel desire pulse through his veins once again at the sight of a beautiful woman.

  His desire raced to fever pitch as Harclay’s eyes traveled from the lady’s round eyes to the enormous glittering jewel that rested just above an enticing slice of cleavage.

  The French Blue.

  How clever of Hope, thought Harclay, for the jewel appeared all the more alluring worn around this striking woman’s neck. Her eyes, gray-blue and dark, glittered the same shade as the diamond and were just as lovely. For a moment he lost himself in those eyes, impenetrable pools full of laughter and mischief and was that a bit of naughtiness twinkling at the edges?

  His body went up in flames, pounding with desire: desire for her, for the diamond. It was lust like he’d never known, and he felt damnably, deliciously like himself for the first time in ages.

  Harclay vaguely recognized her as Lady Violet Rutledge, daughter of the Duke of Sommer and heiress to his meager fortune. If Harclay remembered correctly, this was to be her third season; at her age, she was nearly on the shelf and, he mused, likely lonely, frustrated in more ways than one, and ripe for the picking.

  It was too easy, really. If he’d known Hope had chosen her to wear the diamond, Harclay wouldn’t have hired all the gunmen, and certainly not the acrobats. Hell, with a few choice words, a discreet grope here and there, Harclay could have Lady Violet in his bed and the diamond in his safe by half past midnight.

  Besides, after a few turns in the sheets, he could easily divert her thoughts from the theft to rather more unsavory things. After a few hours with her in his arms, he could surely make her forget the crime, the diamond, the chaos that was about to ensue.

  Making his way toward her, the earl made no effort to suppress the achingly enormous smile that found its way to his lips.

  • • •

  Lady Violet was chatting companionably with Mr. Hope and his Turkish antiques merchant when she felt the prick of someone’s gaze at the back of her neck. At first she ignored it—she was, after all, wearing the Sun King’s fifty-carat diamond about her neck—but when the sensation did not abate, and instead began to pulse with heat, she turned at last to face it.

  God in heaven, it was that cad William Townshend, Earl of Harclay. He was positively devouring her with his gaze. In principle she despised the man, as a lady of good breeding ought. But in his smug smile and overwhelming allure, Violet saw a challenge; in his eyes she recognized her own thirst for a thrill.

  A fellow adventurer.

  She couldn’t resist.

  Harclay smiled, that devil, showing rows of perfectly straight white teeth as he approached from across the ballroom. The crowd seemed to part as he strode forward, falling away from the earl’s tall, broad figure. Despite Mr. Hope’s Versailles theme, the earl was dressed exquisitely in the very latest of fashion, a nonpareil the likes of which Violet had never seen. He wore an emerald coat of so dark a hue it appeared blue, and then black, when he moved this way or that; his purple waistcoat and black breeches were made of the finest satin and were cut so close Violet could easily discern the earl’s delectable physique.

  His stiff white cravat, simply yet skillfully knotted, set off the square slant of his most perfect jawline. Swallowing the image of his person now that he was in full view, Violet’s heart caught in her throat and for a moment stopped beating altogether. He was handsome, darkly, devastatingly so; and like every woman with two eyes and a pulse, she was positively thrilled by him.

  Every set of eyes in the room followed the earl as he took Violet’s hand and placed his lips on her fingers. He rose and smiled again. Violet drew her lips into the most lascivious grin she could manage, the area between her palm and first knuckle burning with the memory of his kiss.

  He drew close, his breath warm on her neck, and whispered, “A most lovely costume, Lady Violet. A wood nymph, I presume?”

  Lord Harclay was shameless, whispering in her ear like a drunken goat; despite the flutter of her pulse—a warning, a thrill—Violet was captivated. He was handsome, surely, but it was his confidence, his defiance of every rule and manner and courtesy, that drew her in as a moth to a flame.

  Grinning ever so slightly, she flitted her gaze to his breeches and raised a single brow. “I daresay you’re the expert in wood, Lord Harclay.”

  It was brazen, it was indiscreet, and God forbid anyone should have overheard her say it; poor Auntie would never recover. And yet the look on Lord Harclay’s face—barely contained shock, his color high with pleasure—made saying it well worth the risk.

  “I have that effect on gentlemen,” she continued breezily. “The diamond doesn’t hurt, either. A beautiful spectacle, wouldn’t you say?” Violet splayed her fingers across her chest on either side of the diamond, her littlest fingers toying with the low neckline of her gown.

  “Beautiful indeed,” he replied, drawing even cl
oser.

  The top of Mr. Hope’s enormous wig appeared over Lord Harclay’s shoulder.

  “Lady Violet!” Hope said. He fingered her elbow while directing a look of consternation at Lord Harclay. “I trust you find your present company agreeable?”

  Her eyes never leaving Lord Harclay’s, Violet replied, “I know the gentleman finds my company very agreeable indeed.”

  “Most arousing, yes,” Harclay said with a small smile, fingering her other elbow.

  Hope drew back, brow creased. After a moment he cleared his throat. “The two of you are already acquainted, then—”

  Harclay wrapped his fingers about her arm and pulled her from Hope’s grasp. “You must excuse us, Hope, but Lady Violet is positively parched.”

  She bit her lip. “But I’m not thirsty.”

  He turned his head, eyes sparkling with laughter. “Oh, I do believe you are, Lady Violet. Though perhaps not for drink.”

  The earl’s hand slid to grasp her own as he led her through the crowd. In her chest her heart skipped a beat as the warmth of his palm seeped through her satin glove. His grasp was gentle but firm; he moved through the crush of bodies with patient authority, nodding politely at acquaintances as he went.

  At last they reached the refreshment table. She tried to drop his hand but he held fast. He pulled her very close to him, hiding their joined hands beneath the table.

  For a moment they stood beside each other without speaking. Violet tried in vain to catch her breath; it didn’t help that, beneath the table, her hand kept brushing Lord Harclay’s leg. His flesh felt impossibly solid, unyielding to her touch. For a moment she wondered if the rest of him felt as hard, as warm, as strangely inviting.

  “Would you like the punch?” he asked, nodding at the enormous cut-crystal bowl in the center of the table.

  “I usually find punch rather weak for my taste,” she replied, pleasure coursing through her at his start of surprise, “but Hope’s concoction is as potent as brandy.”

  Lord Harclay reached for a coupe of punch and handed it to Violet, his dark eyes flashing as they met hers. “I’ve never met a lady with a taste for brandy,” he said. “At least not one who admits to it.”

  “I’ve quite a few vices that might surprise you,” she replied, leveling her gaze with his, “and I’m not afraid to admit to any of them.”

  He tugged on her hand, pulling her even closer. So close that their noses nearly grazed each other. It took every ounce of her control not to wince, pull away . . or dive in and discover just what, exactly, his lips felt like against her own.

  “I’d very much like to discover the nature of said vices,” he said, voice low, smooth, full of forbidden things.

  “If only you were so lucky,” she murmured in reply, pulse thrumming.

  He took another coupe of punch from the table and held it between them. “A toast, then,” he said, “to your vices, in the hope that I shall indeed be lucky enough to partake in them.”

  Violet clinked her glass against his and brought it to her lips. “And what about you, Lord Harclay? Rumor has it you’ve no small number of vices of your own.”

  His eyes flicked to the French Blue. “More than you could possibly imagine, Lady Violet,” he said and took a long pull of his punch.

  She watched him drink, the sinewy muscles of his neck working in time to his lips. The effect was hypnotic; so hypnotic that she failed to notice the gentleman, a boy, really, behind her, elbowing his way to the tables, until it was too late.

  His sharp elbow found purchase just between her shoulder blades, pushing her into Lord Harclay’s chest with a force that knocked her breathless. The coupe turned over in her hand, and punch spilled down the front of her gown.

  “Make way, make way!” the man bellowed. “Can’t you see the crush? Move along!”

  Violet felt Lord Harclay grow stiff against her. She looked up to see his eyes darken with wrath as he turned toward the offender.

  Oh, no. No, no, no. Even through the haze of desire that hung between their bodies, she could tell this wasn’t going to end well.

  She was right.

  Harclay stuck out his foot just in time to trip the boy. He flew ass over heels to the floor in a whirl of blue coattails and fine French lace.

  After a beat the boy scrambled to his feet, face wide with shock as a rather impolite shout of incensed disbelief escaped his lips. He tugged the lace at his sleeves into place and huffed, smoothing the scant hairs of his sideburns.

  “Apologize to the lady,” Harclay said quietly. He cupped her shoulders and turned her to face the thin, pockmarked boy she now recognized as the Marquess of Tarrington’s son and heir. The rotten stench of liquor and sweat rose from the boy like smoke from a cigar.

  The boy sniffed his nose even higher. “She was in my way.”

  Behind her, Violet felt Lord Harclay suck in an impatient breath. “Apologize to the lady,” he repeated.

  By now a small circle of spectators had formed about them, their faces open with glee at the unexpected treat of a public confrontation.

  “Please,” Violet said, turning to Lord Harclay, “it’s nothing; let’s get on—”

  “Apologize,” the earl said yet again, this time through gritted teeth, “to the lady. And if you don’t, I swear to make a bloody mess of that ghastly thing you call your face.”

  The boy swallowed, face red with embarrassment, and lowered his nose. “I’m sorry,” he spat out and turned away.

  But Harclay would have none of it. He reached forward and none too gently grasped the boy by the shoulder, turning him to face Violet.

  “Try it again,” Harclay growled. “This time like you mean it.”

  The boy appeared as if he were about to weep. He bowed and, speaking loudly, said, “I apologize sincerely, my lady, for whatever grief I have caused you. I beg your forgiveness.”

  “Th-thank you,” Violet stammered. Her gown felt sticky against her skin and unpleasantly damp. She must appear a fright.

  “That will be all, Lord Casterleigh,” Harclay said. “Now be off with you before I make good on my oath.”

  Without hesitation the boy scurried into the crowd. Lord Harclay turned to Violet, monogrammed handkerchief in one hand and a fresh coupe of punch in the other.

  She took the handkerchief and went to work on her gown. The glittery gauze hid most of the stain, and what with the diamond about her neck, no one would pay much mind to her costume anyway.

  Still, her cheeks flamed with mortification. Damned punch; she’d been so suave, so savvy in her flirtation with the earl, and then this had to happen.

  “You missed a spot,” Lord Harclay said, pointing to a stain just above her right breast.

  Violet looked up from her ministrations to see him feasting on her person with his eyes. Incensed, she threw his handkerchief at his chest and took the coupe from his hand.

  “I’m going to leave that spot, just to spite you”—she sipped at her punch—“so that your imagination might run riot with all the possibilities of removing it yourself. Perhaps with those lovely lips of yours; perhaps with some other, no less thrilling, methods.”

  Lord Harclay pulled back in mock horror. “You mean to torture me, don’t you, Lady Violet?”

  She finished the rest of her punch in a single gulp, licking her lips. “Indeed I do. And I shall relish every moment of it.”

  “Excellent,” Harclay replied, taking the empty coupe from her and setting it on the table. He led her back into the crush. “A dance, then, to begin said torture?”

  Four

  Without waiting for Violet’s reply, Lord Harclay turned toward the musicians. In a commanding baritone that belied his most indecent condition, he called for a waltz.

  “A waltz?” Violet drew back. “But Hope won’t have it! And neither will his guests. It’s far too provocative,
even for the likes of you and me.”

  But Harclay merely smiled. He dug a small satin pouch out of his waistcoat and tossed it across the ballroom. It landed with a satisfying clank in the outstretched palm of the gentleman playing first violin.

  “A waltz, if you please!” Harclay called once more, and to Violet’s great surprise the members of the orchestra took their seats and made to play.

  A wave of disbelieving murmurs rolled through the room, but guests began to take their places—Violet could hardly believe so many members of polite society knew the dance, despite its reputation—and Mr. Hope appeared out of the ether, wig leaning precipitously off his head.

  “I believe I’ve the pleasure of the first dance, Lady Violet?” he said, holding out his hand.

  But Harclay stepped between them, his eyes, burning, on her face. “You’ll have to forgive me, Hope, but I’ll take that pleasure for myself.”

  It wasn’t a question, a polite “if you please”; no, Harclay’s words were a command, delivered with quiet, savage equanimity. I’ll take that pleasure for myself.

  Mr. Hope stepped back, too startled to reply; and Violet—well, Violet fought to keep from smiling.

  Harclay slid her arm into the crook of his own and led her to the middle of the floor. In the midst of a flurry of couples readying for the dance, he stopped and wound his way around Violet so he faced her. When he looked at her—damn him and those wicked, wicked eyes—she blushed and he smiled at her indiscretion. He stepped closer to her, eyes focused on her lips. His ardent attention made her feel suddenly, thrillingly alive.

  Together they bowed. Harclay again stepped closer and put his hands on her: the right, firmly planted on the small of her back, and with the left he grasped her own, his fingers tangling with hers. Already currents of heat and blood coursed through her belly.

  He breathed on her neck. She thought she might die.

  The orchestra played the first notes of the waltz, and Harclay moved crisply, expertly, as if he’d been waltzing since he was in short pants. His eyes, dark, glittering in the light of the chandeliers above, never left hers. She felt the heat rise to her face and yet found it impossible to look away. Violet had never spent more than a fleeting moment this close to a man—a greeting, a polite kiss, a curtsy—but here was the Earl of Harclay, wealthy rake, ravager of virgins, with his arms wrapped around her, coaxing her breast closer and closer to his. So very, very close.