With a roll of his eyes he reached for the door and held it ajar as she whisked past. “Oh, believe me, Lady Violet, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
• • •
The late-afternoon sun streamed through the shutters of Harclay’s study, glinting off the brandy that lay untouched in its heavy crystal glass on his desk. He’d been sitting here for hours now, the day quickly descending into dusk, in an attempt to discern without much luck how in hell that bloody woman had done it.
The pounding in his skull, still thick from the previous night’s champagne and almost complete lack of sleep, did nothing to help him parse the details of Lady Violet’s interview.
With a scoff he recalled how she had sidled up to the bandits, how she’d paced most provocatively about the room, the only sound the soft whoosh of her skirts as she bandied them about her hips. Clever girl, she did not forget, not for a moment, that the thieves had been found bare-assed in a whorehouse and very likely had not had the chance to finish their business. The sight of a woman, she knew, was sure to capture their imagination.
Violet had used this knowledge to brilliant effect. Not only had she coaxed the thieves to talk; she’d coaxed them into talking about the details she was after. To Harclay’s great pleasure, the bandits had revealed exactly what he’d wanted them to: everything . . . and nothing.
The way the bandits—and Mr. Hope’s security force—had looked at Lady Violet drove Harclay mad, even now. It was all he could do not to wrap her in his arms and remove her from their openly ravenous gazes. The thought of sharing any part of her with any of these men made his blood run hot; he’d stood protectively at her side throughout the entire interview, brooding in what he hoped appeared to be threatening silence.
Pointing to the bandits’ hands and arms, Violet had correctly deduced that the thieves were part of a traveling circus, acrobats in town for nightly exhibitions in Vauxhall Gardens. In barely decipherable cockney they’d told their story: how they’d been approached one evening a week before by a strange-looking fellow with bad teeth and a fake beard (how, Harclay wondered, did they know the beard was false but miss the awful wooden dentures?). How the man had offered each of them fifty pounds—twenty-five right then, the other half after the crime had been committed—to make a mess of Mr. Hope’s ball.
“But what of the diamond? What instructions did the man give you about stealing Mr. Hope’s diamond?” she’d asked.
The acrobats responded with blank stares.
“We ain’t bover wif no diamond,” one of them said. “Man make no mention ov it, just paid us to make a right nice racket.”
Violet met Harclay’s gaze above the heads of those gathered about the table, eyes narrowed in concentration. He could see the silent calculations taking place in that lovely head of hers, the effort to put together the scant pieces of this puzzle.
“And what of the other twenty-five pounds the man owes you? Have you received it yet?”
“Nah,” replied the man. “Seein’ as we been caught, we ain’t expectin’ to see the rest. Though that ain’t exactly fair, now, is it?”
Harclay had not had the chance to discuss the findings with Lady Violet. Mr. Lake, that one-eyed ginger—really, Hope was possessed of a most bizarre acquaintance—had immediately cornered her after the interview. To Harclay’s dismay the two of them had disappeared down the hall, heads bent in conversation.
Even now his chest flared with something unpleasant, something hard, at the memory of Violet’s arm looped through Lake’s. Just what did she tell him, and he her? Did they deduce, correctly, that these red-faced scalawags had nothing to do with the diamond?
Had Violet, with that cunning, scheming mind of hers, somehow concluded that Harclay himself was the thief?
He jumped to his feet, unable to bear the speculation a moment longer. The light from the window burned gold, and felt warm on his skin; checking his pocket watch, Harclay saw it was quarter to five. If he hurried, he could make it to Lady Violet’s house just in time to escort her on a stroll through Hyde Park. The fashionable hour, that golden stretch between five and six in the afternoon, was fast approaching.
It was admittedly a bit late for a call and, seeing as he’d never called on Lady Violet or her family before, a somewhat minor breach of propriety for him to appear on her doorstep.
Harclay smiled. Never mind minor breaches; he’d devoured Violet whole, had put his hands on her body and brought her to exquisite pleasure. She didn’t seem to mind then; she probably wouldn’t mind now.
As Avery helped him into his jacket in the front hall, Harclay assured himself that he called on Lady Violet for strictly practical purposes. He needed to know what she was thinking, how far she was coming in solving the crime.
Yes, he concluded, a short stroll would surely accomplish that. And then he’d take his leave, be on his way, perhaps stop at White’s for a nip and a refreshingly female-free meal.
But the lightness of his step, and the irrepressible smile on his lips—“I see your health is restored, my lord,” Avery said with a grin—told a much different story.
Harclay was about to exit through the front door when Lady Caroline skidded into the hall. She stood before him with arms akimbo, trying her damnedest to arrange her features into a scowl of consternation.
“And where, dear brother, do you think you’re going?”
It was all he could do not to groan aloud. “If you must know, dear sister, I am going to call on Lady Violet. I feel rather terribly for her, what with the missing diamond and all that. It’s only proper I see to the condition of her nerves.”
Caroline surveyed him through narrowed eyes. “The condition of her nerves? I don’t believe you for a moment. But if you allow me to accompany you, I promise not to pursue the matter any further.”
Harclay sighed. These women—all women—would be the death of him, the death of all mankind.
A female-free dinner at White’s was a refreshing prospect indeed.
Eleven
Taking yet another turn about the room, Violet clasped her hands behind her back. “I cannot make sense of it, Mr. Lake,” she said. “Why were those men hired, if not to steal the diamond? Why waste hundreds of pounds on acrobats, just to have them shoot up Mr. Hope’s ceiling?”
Her thoughts throbbed in her head, racing and tangling and tripping over one another to form a rather impossible knot. Somewhere in the back of her mind she sensed her exhaustion, the ache of her knees, and the roil of her belly as the last of Lord Harclay’s champagne worked its way through her body.
Damn the man to hell, she had better things to think of than his kiss, the vision of him in buckskins and billowing sleeves before the fire. But despite her best efforts to focus on the task at hand—finding the French Blue’s thief—time and time again her thoughts returned to the Earl of Harclay, especially as the afternoon wore on and her patience wore thin.
“Did the acrobats mention anything else? Anything at all?” Mr. Lake asked.
Violet had convinced Hope and Mr. Lake to decamp to her family’s house so that she might change clothes. They were in Violet’s study—well, her father’s study, really, but she’d repurposed it the previous year after the duke grew too ill to use it—and Mr. Lake was seated across the large desk in one of two round-backed chairs. His stiff leg was stretched out before him, and every so often he would reach down and with a wince squeeze the muscle above his knee.
He was a handsome fellow, Violet thought, despite his wounds; even his eye patch made him appear mysterious, debonair. He was careful in his dress, and in his grooming: his thick queue of strawberry blond hair was tied with a narrow green ribbon that matched the color of his eye.
She’d certainly heard of him. Mr. Lake came from an old, well-respected family, but as the third—or was it the fourth?—son, he was forced to seek a life outside the family manor. Despite his lack of fortune he�
��d managed to purchase a commission in His Majesty’s army; beyond that, she knew nothing. Violet suspected the details of his employment were intentionally scarce.
“Wait,” Violet said, suddenly coming to a halt. “What if that man—the one in the wig, who hired the acrobats—what if he was using them to create a distraction? As a way to create chaos, so the crowd was too occupied by the gunshots and the sudden darkness to notice him snatching the diamond from around my neck?”
Mr. Lake clapped his hands. “I think you’re on to something, Lady Violet. Now it makes sense, if the thief indeed employed a Trojan horse–type strategem. Distract Mr. Hope’s guests with acrobats hurtling through the windows, shooting their pistols, and dousing the lights, so that the thief could attack and steal the jewel unimpeded and under cover of darkness.”
Violet nodded, slowly. “Clever. Yes, very clever indeed. Still, you must admit it was reckless of the thief to steal a priceless diamond in the midst of the season’s grandest ball. He snatched the French Blue, and managed to escape with it, in plain sight of nearly five hundred people. Five hundred. And as far as we can tell, no one saw a thing.”
“It doesn’t help our case that nearly everyone in that ballroom—guests, orchestra, staff—was in costume,” Mr. Lake said. “What if the thief was not among the acrobats or the gun-wielding guards at all, but among the guests? Dressed like everyone else in the guise of a courtier or king? That way he could move virtually unnoticed through the crowd.”
Violet nodded. “It is certainly possible. But Mr. Hope is so well liked, and well respected, by his guests. What motive would drive someone to steal from his benevolent host?”
Mr. Lake held up his hand. “Let’s go over this one more time. Tell me everything you remember, from the time you arrived at the ball to the moment of your departure.”
Violet fell heavily onto the wide leather chair opposite Mr. Lake—this was to be the third time she told her tale—and began talking. She told him of her arrival with Auntie George and Cousin Sophia, of Mr. Hope placing the French Blue about her neck.
And then she told him about Lord Harclay. She remembered with startling clarity the way he looked when he approached her from across the ballroom, and the feel of his hands on her body as he led her through the waltz. How in the darkness he pulled her against him and whispered, You must trust me, and keep close, in her ear; how he pummeled the intruders, then slung her over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a parasol.
“Interesting,” Mr. Lake said, interrupting her reverie.
Violet looked away, so that he might not see her blush. “What’s so interesting this time around?”
“It seems you were accompanied by Lord Harclay—only Lord Harclay—the entire evening. Are the two of you in any way connected? Courting, perhaps?” Mr. Lake said.
Violet admired the man’s blunt manner—it would go a long ways, she knew, in the search for Mr. Hope’s diamond—but at this moment it was all she could do not to reach across the table and box his ears.
“Absolutely not! He merely asked for a dance, and I couldn’t very well refuse the Earl of Harclay. It just so happened we were at each other’s side when the acrobats crashed through the windows.”
“And he was at your side when the diamond was stolen?”
Violet shrank back into the chair, thinking. “Yes,” she replied, the realization dawning on her. “Yes, I suppose he was. Almost as soon as the men attacked me, he was batting them away. He must’ve been right there beside me.”
Mr. Lake steepled his fingers. “But Harclay says he saw nothing?”
“Well, he hasn’t said as much; but I assume if he did see the thief in action, surely he would have said something to me or, better yet, tried to catch him. Besides, he was too busy pummeling my assailants to have paid much attention. And then there was the darkness—I could hardly see my own feet.”
Mr. Lake nodded, furrowing his brows. “I shall have to talk with him. Perhaps he has some insight, some small piece of information, that we have overlooked.”
“Perhaps,” Violet replied. She rose to her feet and resumed her slow, steady steps around the room.
The clock sounded five strikes from the mantel, and Violet yawned as if on cue.
“Well,” she said, “we’ve come quite far today, though not far enough. At the very least we have a better idea of who our thief might be. Someone with the skill and confidence to work alone; someone with the cheek to steal a fifty-carat stone in front of five hundred people; someone with funds enough to squander hundreds of pounds on mere distractions; someone, perhaps, who was at Mr. Hope’s ball before the acrobats incited chaos.”
Violet tapped a finger against her chin. “But who could that someone possibly be?”
There was a slight rap at the door, and Violet turned to see William Townshend, Earl of Harclay, standing in the threshold with his hat in his hands.
• • •
The weather was particularly pleasant, the late-springtime sun shining with such ardor that most of the ladies strolling in Hyde Park had traded their long pelisses for more stylish cropped spencer jackets.
Harclay thought Lady Violet looked particularly fetching in hers, a lavender concoction of muslin and lace that, though it covered her bosom well enough, somehow drew attention to that part of her he so admired. It was difficult not to stare as they made their way through the park, already crowded with members of the fashionable set taking a leisurely stroll before the evening’s more rousing events. For a moment Harclay wondered which of those events Lady Violet would attend, if any. He wouldn’t mind another waltz with her in his arms, though in all likelihood he’d have to travel to Vienna to find one; his countrymen the English were such terrible prudes.
“Your sister and Mr. Lake certainly get along,” Lady Violet said, glancing over her shoulder.
“It appears so,” Harclay replied, craning his neck. Caroline and Mr. Lake strolled a few steps behind, her gloved hand resting firmly on the man’s forearm. They’d been inseparable since Mr. Lake, despite his injuries, very nearly carried Caroline down Lady Violet’s front steps to keep her from taking a tumble.
“It must please you to see your sister happy after all those months of mourning. Poor dear, I can’t imagine losing one’s husband, and at so young an age.”
“She is very dear to me indeed, though heaven knows she owes me a fortune. The surgeon alone cost me a hundred this year. Do you know she’s broken five bones—nose included—and is missing three teeth?”
This made Lady Violet laugh, a little sound that made his heart swell. “Do you know, Lord Harclay, that you owe me two thousand pounds? You said you’d have it ready at breakfast. Surely you know debts of honor must be paid straightaway.”
“Perhaps”—he arched a brow—“I prefer to be in your debt, my lady. That way I have an excuse to enjoy your presence for an indefinite period of time, for I know you shall pursue me until you have what you’re after.”
For several beats Lady Violet surveyed him in silence. Harclay could tell by the gleam in her eye that he’d set the wheel of her thoughts in motion. To his delight, he found her endlessly clever. He’d meant his comment to give her pause. It wouldn’t be long, he knew, before she pinned him as the thief.
At last they came upon the Serpentine River, that glorious man-made stretch of green-blue water that divided Hyde Park neatly in two. Paddleboats dotted its molten surface, carrying ladies with parasols and their outstretched beaus. The noise from Rotten Row opposite the water carried over, the shouts of dandies loud and clear as they trolled about in precariously bright-colored phaetons.
It was London in springtime, a spectacle Harclay had experienced every year throughout his nearly three decades of existence. But today the experience was different; with Lady Violet’s arm looped through his own, the tableau of Hyde Park that stretched before them suddenly took on new significance. T
he sun was brighter; the water, clearer and more invigorating; the people friendlier; and the smells—well, for the first time the scent of freshly shorn grass overpowered that of horse manure.
“But what if I tire of your ploy?” she said at last. She fixed her gaze on the river, holding her gloved hand to her brow to block out the sun. “I could put that two thousand to good use, you know.”
“Then perhaps I shall have to double down,” he replied.
“Again? Four thousand! Why ever would you do such a thing? I imagine these sorts of sums are rather ruinous after a while.”
He let out a long, low whistle. “Only ruinous when I deal with you, Lady Violet. You see, when I gamble, I usually win. As to why I propose doubling down—well, I’m afraid the only answer I have for you is because I can.”
“Because you can,” she scoffed. “Of course.”
Harclay shrugged. “What other reason is there?”
Lady Violet turned to face him. She stepped closer, as if by getting a better look she might better understand him, peculiar creature that he was. Harclay was at once startled and terribly aroused by her proximity. Her perfume—tuberose, pepper—tickled his nose and made his blood riot in his veins. By the way her eyes darted about his face, he could tell she was looking for something, some clue that she had missed.
Oh, she was getting close. Very, very close indeed.
“And you think you can win?” she said.
He smiled, inched his face closer to hers. “I know I can.”
“Awfully confident, aren’t you? And such cheek, thinking you might have a chance after I beat you soundly, not once but twice! Though I suppose to you, it’s only money.”
“Only money indeed.”
Lady Violet’s gaze landed on his lips. “Only money,” she repeated. “Only money.”
She suddenly grew very still; the color faded from her cheeks, and her smile drew itself into a frown. He watched her eyes go wide as the realization dawned on her, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place at last.
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 9