The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  When Harclay looked her in the eye he saw lust, and champagne, and desire and sex and fear. In her hands she’d fisted the fine fabric of his shirt, as if she clung to him for dear life itself.

  “Please,” Lady Violet repeated. Having a beat or two to compose herself, her voice was a bit steadier, her resolve stronger.

  Gently he slipped a finger inside her, watching her face all the while. Instinctively she tightened around him, urging his finger deeper. She felt small, hard with desire, and deliciously wet.

  Her eyes rolled back with pleasure as he began to move his fingers in tandem, one rolling the hood of her sex, the other deep inside her. Her hips circled against him, urging him to move faster, harder, and he obeyed. As she tightened further around him he slipped a second finger inside her.

  Violet’s eyes went wide but she did not protest. He stroked and he pulled and he touched until he thought he might explode himself. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers digging into his hair, pulling it as she came closer and closer to her pleasure.

  When it came he cried out with her, losing himself in the sensation of her pulsing hard and fast around his fingers. Her climax was violent and all consuming; she leaned against him, legs shaking, and he held her, waiting for the waves to subside.

  His cock strained painfully against his breeches. How lovely it would feel to bury himself in her wetness, in that small, pulsing place that begged for him.

  But, damn it all, he was a man of honor; and having just lost the wager, not once but twice, he couldn’t possibly take her.

  At least not now. Not like this.

  Besides, delaying the pleasure would only increase it when—if—he ever did indulge in that particular vice with Lady Violet.

  Not that it didn’t bloody hurt to step away from her now.

  At last Lady Violet opened her eyes; they were slick and sated and very blue.

  Wordlessly, and with great regret, Harclay removed his fingers from her sex and let her chemise slide back down to her ankles. He loosened his grip and set her down on her feet, stepping back. Lady Violet stood still, unable to move or speak.

  For some moments they stood beside each other, surveying a large painting of a woman in ornate court dress that hung above the fireplace. It took every ounce of his self-control not to take her in his arms, throw her on the settee, and have his way with her. How delicious she’d feel, still wet and willing, and, good God, those moans of pleasure—

  “Ghastly portrait,” she finally said. “All that lace and silk and still the old bag is as bracket faced as they come.”

  “That’s my great-aunt Eugenia.”

  “You look nothing like her,” Lady Violet said quickly and focused her gaze on her slippered feet.

  Several beats of uncomfortable silence passed between them before he spoke.

  “I hope you enjoyed”—Harclay gulped—“that as much as I did.”

  She did not look at him, but he could tell by the violent coloring of her cheeks that she had enjoyed it indeed.

  “I’d like to brand you a cad, a shameless defiler with a thirst for one thing, and one thing only,” she began softly, meeting his eyes at last. “But unlike the cad I’d thought you to be, you defended me before Lord Casterleigh. Why? Why’d you make that silly boy apologize? It wasn’t necessary, you know.”

  Harclay stepped toward her. “Of course it was necessary. The idiot practically pushed you to the ground! No man should treat a woman with any measure of disrespect, big or small. Especially not a woman of mine.”

  His voice caught on that last word. Bloody hell, he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. But there it was; his face burned.

  “Now it’s my turn to apologize,” he said softly, looking away. “I didn’t mean—”

  Violet smiled. “I know what you meant.”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest, but he did not reply. Silence settled between them, the slow, subtle cracking of the fire the only noise in the room.

  Harclay cleared his throat. “I, ah, didn’t . . . didn’t hurt you, Lady Violet, did I?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s just—well, you’re a bit of a sore loser, Lord Harclay. And after the way you played, I hardly believe you deserve to win.”

  “Aha,” Harclay replied. “I can’t say that I disagree.”

  He paused, gathering his thoughts. “But what about a consolation prize? A single question, which you must swear to answer truthfully.”

  Lady Violet pursed her lips, considering his request. “Very well, Lord Harclay. What is it that you’d like to know?”

  It was bold of him to ask, very bold indeed, but he suddenly, urgently needed to know the answer. He told himself he asked on behalf of his own safety, so that he might avoid any mistake that would reveal him as the culprit of the theft.

  But his racing pulse, and the ache in his chest, told a much different tale, one that Harclay was not entirely familiar with.

  The words came out in a single, nearly unintelligible breath.

  “What, exactly, is the nature of your acquaintance with Mr. Hope?”

  Eight

  Violet stared at Harclay as if a third ear had sprouted from the middle of his forehead. Of all the questions he could have asked, he’d chosen the one she absolutely, positively did not want to answer.

  Not only was the earl terrifically handsome and, from what she could feel through her chemise, well-endowed, he was also savvy, clever in a way that was wholly unexpected for a man of his position. No doubt he was fluent in Greek and Latin and all that rubbish they taught at Eton and Cambridge. But he was fluent, too, in body language; he could read emotions, read a person, from a mere desultory glance or two.

  He had, after all, pinned the very crux of her predicament after a single evening together and in a single, devastating question.

  She met his eyes, hoping to find some clue as to why he asked, what answer he was looking for. But while Lord Harclay was a master at reading others, he was scrupulous in ensuring no one would return the favor. His features were carefully arranged in a vague expression that could have been boredom, polite interest, even distaste. It was the kind of expression he’d wear while listening to Great-Aunt Eugenia complain about her son-in-law’s predilection for American whiskey, her husband’s for Chinese opium.

  What with her blood rioting, her legs and belly molten from his touch, Violet could hardly think. How could she possibly explain her dire circumstances to him, enormously wealthy, titled earl that he was? He would never understand. He’d judge her as a destitute fortune seeker intent on ensnaring the richest man she could find.

  Which, maddeningly, couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Violet took the first route that came to mind and pasted the most seductive smile she could manage on her lips.

  “My dear, dear Lord Harclay,” she purred. “Jealous, are we? Mr. Hope is a very handsome, very powerful man. Though I would hardly think a gentleman of your esteemed lineage would stoop to compete with a man of business.”

  The earl turned to her. His hands, she saw, were clasped tightly at the small of his back, as if he were restraining himself from reaching out to touch her.

  “The only man with whom I compete is myself, Lady Violet, though I daresay Mr. Hope would make a most dangerous adversary.”

  He stepped forward, his face suddenly close to hers. He loomed above her—Violet’s head barely grazed his chin—and in a low, steady voice said, “When you agreed to my request, you swore to answer truthfully. Out with it, dear girl; I’ll not let you out of my sight until I have the hard facts.”

  Violet swallowed, trying her best to remain standing as the weakness in her knees suddenly returned.

  There was no escaping this man. She’d just won two thousand pounds off him, and she did not doubt he would have what she owed
him, whether she wanted to give it up or not.

  With a sigh of resignation she turned back to the sofa. She sat quietly on its edge, bending to retrieve her blanket from the floor and wrapping it tightly about her shoulders. She turned her head so that she might not have to meet his eyes as she shared the awful truth.

  “Best to start from the beginning, I suppose,” she began. “My grandfather, the eighth Duke of Sommer, was a man of many interests. Art, architecture, antiques—our houses are stuffed with his treasures. Unfortunately, keeping his tenants fed was not among them. Like many of his neighbors, he hoarded the crops grown on his land, grain in particular, so that he might sell them at inflated prices.

  “This, of course, led to the bread riots. In ’95, and then again in ’01, if memory serves. People were starving, but dear old Grandpapa made a fortune selling his grain to far-flung merchants. My father was appalled; in true British fashion they did not get on, he and Grandpapa. When my father inherited the title ten years ago, he reversed my grandfather’s policies. He distributed his grain freely, so that people in our villages, and in London, might have something to eat.”

  Harclay offered a barely perceptible nod. “Very noble of him.”

  “Noble indeed,” Violet replied, smoothing the blanket about her knees. “Though by the time I came out our family’s fortune was all but gone, my father in his kindness having spent it. What little was left he invested in Mr. Hope’s bank. My father is of the belief, you see, that the future lies not in land but in commerce.”

  “And you agree with your father, Lady Violet?”

  She turned to look at him. He surveyed her dispassionately, though his eyes took on an intriguing sort of gleam. He was testing her, sounding out her honesty, her engagement with the truth.

  “I do,” she said. “Though, as you may have heard, my father has been . . . unwell for quite some time now. I’m afraid he may have invested our family’s funds when he was not of sound mind.”

  “I see,” Harclay said. “But surely you trust Mr. Hope to safeguard your investment. He’s made me plenty of money.”

  “Of course I trust Mr. Hope! He has a brilliant mind for business and is a most interesting character besides. But for my father to have invested the bulk of our funds in Hope and Company stock—well, I don’t need to tell you of the risk. Now that we own little more than a hundred or so shares, my family’s inheritance, our fate, is inexorably tied to that of Mr. Hope himself.”

  Again Lord Harclay nodded, this time with slightly more vigor. “I see indeed. That explains why you are concerned about the theft making the papers.”

  “If the public learns of the theft—why, who would trust Mr. Hope to keep his money safe if Hope himself was robbed, and in his own home? It would be a terrible blow to Mr. Hope and to his bank. The value of my shares would plummet, my inheritance all but gone—and with my father to look after . . .”

  To her great horror, Violet could not finish. Her throat grew thick with tears; she hadn’t realized just how terrified she was until this moment. She wanted to blame the champagne—damn Lord Harclay and that blasted bottle!—for she wasn’t usually one to blubber; but she knew better. The reality of her predicament weighed crushingly on her shoulders, and it was all she could do not to burst into noisy, wet sobs.

  She managed a glance at the earl and was surprised to see her own horror mirrored on his face. He quickly smoothed his features into his customary inscrutable expression, but she did not miss the darkness that flickered in his eyes.

  Intriguing indeed. Was it possible the Earl of Harclay, that wildly wealthy rakehell, sympathized with her plight?

  No, no, she reasoned, certainly not. It was probably as she feared: he thought she’d come to yoke him into matrimony, to pay down her debts with his fortune.

  Violet straightened, cleared her throat. “So you see, Lord Harclay, my relationship with Mr. Hope is purely one of business. Of course we are well acquainted with one another, seeing as our fortunes are so closely bound; we mingle socially, I pilfer his brandy when he’s not looking, that sort of thing. But at the end of it we are business partners.”

  The earl appeared rather stricken and looked as if he were about to reach out and—what? Embrace her, take her by the shoulders and shake her, imploring her to get hold of her emotions?

  Violet rose before he could so much as lay a finger on her person. At last Harclay turned to her. “If there’s anything I can do to help, Lady Violet, anything at all, you need only ask.”

  She smiled. “Two thousand, if you please, and not a penny less.”

  “I shall have a note ready for you in the morning, at breakfast.”

  Her belly turned over, and turned again, the blood draining from her face. “Breakfast? But I’ve got to get back to my family—and I’m not one for mornings, really, especially not after a night like this one.”

  No, no, she couldn’t very well show her worst self to this godlike creature, a creature who probably rose at dawn and loved nothing more than a long, hearty breakfast.

  “Indeed. I usually rise at dawn, and I do so love a long, hearty breakfast. None of that tea and biscuits nonsense; I like coffee and meat—bacon and sausage—and perhaps even a pottage of oats and cinnamon. Yes, that’s the ticket!”

  Oh dear, oh dear, she thought in a panic, if he can read my thoughts, I’m really in trouble.

  She tried to swallow her distress, though in all likelihood she appeared to the earl quite piqued.

  “Well, then.” He sighed and offered her his arm. “Shall I show you back to your room? I’ll have the maids come to you early, so that you might have something to eat before you go.”

  Nine

  The hall clock struck half past seven when Harclay strode into the cozy alcove of the breakfast room. It was a lovely little place, one of his favorite spots in all London, perhaps the world; shaped irregularly in a sort of octagon, the walls were covered simply in plum-colored silk, and a single large window looked out above an ivy-covered alley.

  The familiar smells of frying meat and coffee greeted him as he crossed the threshold; the familiar paper, still steaming from Avery’s iron, awaited him at the head of the table; and the familiar faces of Gregory and Mr. Kane, the footmen, were smiling at him, freshly scrubbed and well rested.

  And yet, as he sat at his place and had the familiar white linen napkin placed in his lap, he felt not at all the familiar contentment he usually did at the start of the day. Indeed, he was seized by a most unfamiliar distraction and giddiness that, frankly, alarmed him.

  After depositing Lady Violet at the door of the appropriate bedchamber—how he’d longed, quite violently, to bring her to his own and finish what he’d begun in the drawing room—he’d returned to his room and spent the rest of the night pacing before the fire.

  Yes, the knowledge that the diamond was now in his possession still thrilled him. He was most satisfied with his performance and recalled with no small pleasure how alive he had felt during the theft, how brilliantly he’d executed his plan. The gap-toothed assassins were admittedly a self-indulgent addition to the scheme; but Harclay was only human, and a man after all. Such follies, rare as they were, had to be excused.

  He did feel badly for placing Violet in so precarious a condition, what with her hundred shares of Hope & Co., and her future, hanging in the balance. It wasn’t his intention to harm her, Hope, or his bank; after all, the lion’s share of Harclay’s fortune was deposited at Hope & Co., and he owned a goodly amount of stock himself. He’d return the French Blue when the time was right, before irrevocable damage was done. He would not see Violet hurt, not by him, not by anyone; she was far too marvelous a gambler, and dashedly beautiful besides.

  Ah, Violet: he recalled her smiling wildly in his arms as he whirled her about the ballroom; what a vision she was standing before the drawing room fire, in naught but loose hair and chemise; her coquettis
h smile, half-hidden behind the bedchamber door as she waved him good night . . .

  “Sir?” Mr. Kane was saying. “Shall I bring you a small plate to tide you over until the ladies arrive?”

  Harclay blinked and for a moment stared at Kane as if seeing the man for the first time.

  “Er, indeed, that would be splendid,” he replied. His response came out gruffer than he’d intended. Apparently, and to his great distress, it annoyed him that Kane had interrupted his Lady Violet reverie.

  His fist came down on the table. “Damn that woman!”

  The china clattered; his coffee sloshed out of its cup.

  Harclay did not realize he had spoken the words aloud until Kane poked out his head and peered curiously at his master.

  “Ahem. Are you quite well, my lord?”

  Carefully, without meeting Harclay’s eyes, Mr. Kane set his cup back to rights on its saucer.

  “Not at all, Mr. Kane,” Harclay replied with a sigh. “Not at all.”

  From the hall came the tinkling sounds of female laughter. At once both men straightened. Harclay took the paper in his hands and snapped it open, lest he be caught waiting slack-jawed for their arrival.

  As was her habit—poor dear was as clumsy as a drunkard—his elder sister, the Dowager Countess of Berry, tripped into the room. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes; even as she approached thirty, Caroline seemed unable to remain upright for more than two minutes at a time. Luckily her lack of grace did little to diminish her beauty, at least in Harclay’s eyes. She had their mother’s dark features and pale, unblemished skin. Her penchant for sweeping, dramatic hairstyles lent her a Continental air, as if she were a creature of Marie-Antoinette’s court.

  Then again, Marie-Antoinette—famous teetotaler that she was—would hardly countenance a lady who always appeared to be well in her cups.

  He held his breath as Lady Violet entered. To his relief—or perhaps his dismay; he couldn’t quite tell—she was dressed smartly in one of Caroline’s morning gowns. It was a virginal sort of thing, pale muslin with a high neck and a matching pink ribbon tied around the bust.