The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  What was it she’d been saying when he walked into the study?

  The thief is someone with the skill and confidence to work alone, 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 who arrived at Mr. Hope’s ball before the acrobats arrived.

  Sounded like Harclay, all right, though by now Lady Violet knew he typically dealt not in hundreds, but in thousands of pounds.

  Somewhere in the trees above, birds twittered and flitted about them; the edge of the Serpentine lapped quietly at their feet. The springtime afternoon marched onward as if today were but one of a string of simple, idle days, each the same as the last.

  But for Harclay and Lady Violet, today was not quite so simple, nor so idle. It was suddenly complicated, mined with explosive truths and well-played deceptions and a most thrilling episode of a physical encounter. It was impossible; it was improbable.

  And great God above, it thrilled Harclay to no end. He hadn’t felt such excitement since he was a boy, allowed to accompany his father on the hunt for the first time. He would never forget the way the rifle had felt in his hands, the pounding of his heart as he took aim.

  Granted, he’d ended up shooting the poor loader in the arse, a crime for which dear Papa had whipped him senseless. But the thrill remained imprinted on Harclay’s imagination nonetheless, the same thrill he now experienced under the accusatory gaze of Lady Violet Rutledge.

  She took a deep breath, all the while her blue-gray eyes never leaving his.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” she said, swallowing. “You’re the thief who stole the French Blue!”

  Twelve

  Violet couldn’t tell if the fire that rose in her chest signaled pleasure or pain. For some moments, Lord Harclay stood quietly before her, dark eyes betraying nothing save a devilish sort of glimmer. What was he thinking, she wondered, and why does he not deny the accusation as rubbish, fiction, a tale conjured by her overeager imagination?

  But she knew the earl would do no such thing. His was a far too subtle mind to ever admit guilt, for he felt none; no, from that dark glimmer in his gaze she could tell he felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well executed, and pride.

  Pride in his skill and—dared she even think it?—pride in her savvy, her ability to sniff him out before anyone else aired the slightest suspicion. Doubtless Lord Harclay, being the extremely marriageable sort he was, what with his title and fortune and good looks, was used to women of the simpering type. Women with nary a thought in their pretty heads except how to snare him in the mousetrap of matrimony.

  And Violet certainly wasn’t interested in that. The men in her life—her father, Mr. Hope—were trouble enough, and she’d be positively birdbrained to invite this member of the male species to join the fray.

  Though, much to her chagrin, she had, admittedly, been unable to think of much else these past twenty-four hours. Lord Harclay taking possession of her for the evening’s first dance; Harclay as pirate; a fuzzy Harclay pouring her yet another glass of champagne. That was how she’d come to the sudden realization of his guilt, putting together all of Harclay’s many pieces to form a startling, thieving whole.

  He had, after all, offered a toast to “a successful evening” the night before. Successful indeed—he had managed to thieve a priceless gem before the eyes of five hundred people.

  Perhaps in the back of her mind Violet had known all along. It was obvious the man was quite reckless in his search for a thrill. Not only had he risked his reputation on a single dance—really, who called for a waltz before a crowd of hundreds of London’s finest?—he also had wagered one thousand pounds on a single game of casino. Not even the prince regent, that wastrel and debt-ridden drunk, gambled with such large sums.

  And then there was her memory of the theft itself; he had, after all, been at her side when it occurred. How easy it was for him, in the midst of her tussle with the supposed thieves, to quietly snatch the French Blue from around her neck, and no one the wiser.

  As the words fell from her tongue—I suppose to you, it’s only money—the truth suddenly, thrillingly crystallized. The only man in all the world with enough cheek, and enough cash, to orchestrate the theft of King Louis XIV’s priceless blue diamond in the middle of the season’s most well-attended ball was, without a doubt, Lord William Townshend, Earl of Harclay.

  It was all she could do not to spring in the air with shouts of “Aha!” and “I knew it!”—unseemly behavior, surely, during the fashionable hour at Hyde Park.

  The earl’s lips drew into a wickedly dazzling smile. “I am most flattered by your accusation, Lady Violet. Most flattered indeed, for whoever perpetrated this crime was a man of no small wit.”

  “I can have you arrested,” she stammered, heart knocking about her ribs. “Locked away in Newgate, with all the other thieves.”

  He took a step closer—much closer than he should—and held up his hands. “I would gladly be your prisoner, if you’ll have me.”

  Again the fire in her chest rose. “I’d whip you senseless.”

  Harclay’s smile widened. “Mm. I like the sound of that.”

  “Oh, do be serious!”

  “You’ll need evidence,” he said, his face mere inches from her own, “and clues, lots of clues. For surely this master thief of whom you speak has stashed away the diamond in some well-hidden safe box; wouldn’t you agree?”

  Bastard, Violet thought, he’s dodging me, refusing to set his wager one way or the other.

  Well, she sniffed, two can play this game.

  Gritting her teeth, Violet shoved her finger into his chest and leaned in. Her lips hovering just above his—she could tell by the spark of surprise in his eyes that he was expecting a kiss—she purred, “I know you did this, Harclay, and I’m going to prove it, whether you admit to the theft or not.”

  “I hope this means I’ll be seeing more of you, Lady Violet, preferably at my house in Grosvenor Square. D’you think people will wag their tongues at late-night visits if they are of an investigative nature?”

  “Yes, if it’s the sort of investigating you’re talking about,” she replied tartly. “Tell me, why did you do it?”

  His eyes flashed; his smile broadened. “Don’t disappoint me now, not after we’ve come so far. What a silly question; you know why,” he murmured.

  For a moment her eyes betrayed her and slipped to his lips. A familiar wave of heat coursed through her limbs. Damn him; he may have been a thief and a liar, but he was a delicious thief, and a very handsome liar.

  “You can expect plenty of late-night visits from me,” she managed, “but not of the sort you’re expecting.”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest. His lips parted, and he was about to speak—or kiss her; Violet couldn’t quite tell—when a high-pitched howl sounded behind them.

  Violet turned just in time to see Lady Caroline cartwheel into the Serpentine, a look of horror crossing her face before she fell into the water with a heavy, ominous splash!

  “My God!” Violet cried. At once she and Lord Harclay darted for the water, but Mr. Lake—an appropriate surname, Violet thought wryly, considering the circumstances—had already leapt, boots and all, into the river.

  “Stay here.” Lord Harclay held out his arm. “You’ll sink like a stone in all those skirts.”

  The earl leapt into the fray. Violet watched with her heart in her throat. Harclay wasn’t joking when he accused Lady Caroline of lacking coordination; poor dear was thrashing about in the water, sinking faster and faster until all Violet could see was her hands, waving wildly just above the surface of the river.

  At last they emerged, Lady Caroline slung between Lord Harclay and Mr. Lake as they pulled her from the water. Soaked to the bone, they laid Caroline gingerly on the shore, where she coughed up c
opious amounts of water in between her moaned apologies.

  By now a crowd, mouths gaping, had gathered to witness the spectacle. But Mr. Lake, it seemed, cared not a whit, for he fell to his knees beside Caroline and scooped her in his arms. He helped her to a sitting position and gently patted her back, coaxing out what was left of the water.

  “There, there,” he practically cooed. “There, there, Lady Caroline, it’s quite all right.”

  Violet wondered vaguely what the one-eyed man had said or done to Caroline that sent her flying into the river. But whatever it was, she appeared to have forgiven him; for she clung to Mr. Lake as if for dear life itself, embracing him with egregious vigor.

  “I swear to you,” Lady Caroline was saying, “I swear to you, I shan’t tell a soul, nary a soul!”

  Lord Harclay met Violet’s eyes over Caroline’s head. “Pray, Lady Violet, can you translate?”

  Violet merely shrugged. It was obvious Caroline and Mr. Lake were lost in the moment, in each other. Quite touching, actually, to watch the two of them moon over each other like lovestruck players in a Shakespeare comedy.

  And then there was Cousin Sophia, who was at this very moment in the company of the season’s most eligible bachelor—the Marquess of Worceshire, or was it Weddington?—in her father’s drawing room back home. Violet found him adorably dull, but Sophia seemed to like him well enough, and he did come with that castle her cousin so desperately desired.

  A certain ache panged inside Violet’s chest, right where her heart should be. She recognized it at once as the kind of silly, ill-fated longing that doomed said Shakespeare players to poison-induced deaths. Not at all Violet’s style; but oh, how lovely to be in the early throes of blossoming affection, the giddiness and excitement . . .

  “Lady Violet,” Harclay said, his words an exhausted sigh. He abandoned Romeo and Juliet and was making his way toward Violet, water dripping from his soggy person. His clothes were indecently plastered against his body, revealing an altogether Michelangelo-esque physique. Broad, rounded shoulders swept into forearms of rippled muscle and sinew; a taut chest narrowed to a slim waist, his hips accentuated by hard slices of bone.

  It was all she could do not to lick her lips and whistle in appreciation.

  But it was his smile, a sheepish sort of thing, that really captured her attention. “Lady Violet,” he said again and burst out laughing as he motioned to his sopping clothes. “Surely your thief is far too elegant a person to ever be caught swimming in the Serpentine, and at the fashionable hour! Bloody freezing, it is.”

  He looked down and she followed his gaze to the front of his breeches; and without fully understanding the joke—did cold water somehow adversely affect his excitement?—she began laughing, too, and at once she felt giddy, and excited in more ways than one.

  The laughter caught in her throat.

  Giddy and excited?

  Oh no. Absolutely not.

  She couldn’t be falling for this thieving, practically naked man dripping before her, the tatters of his shirt a reminder of the warm, inviting flesh that hid beneath. They were adversaries, enemies, the proverbial cat and mouse.

  Violet couldn’t be falling for Lord Harclay.

  Most certainly, emphatically not.

  • • •

  “You may cut the acrobats free,” Violet said as she paced before the crackling fire. “For I’ve reason to believe I’ve found our thief.”

  Hope handed his hat to a waiting footman. “Who is he? And why isn’t he here, damn it?”

  Violet exchanged a glance with Mr. Lake. They were in Hope’s study, its walnut-paneled walls gleaming in the low light of the oil lamps. While she paced before the fire, Lake sat wrapped in a woolen blanket, his wet, disheveled hair plastered to the sides of his face.

  Lake nodded at the sideboard. “Pour us a drink, Hope.”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  With a sigh Hope retreated to the sideboard. “What the devil happened to you? You look like you fell—well, like you fell into a lake.”

  “Very funny.” Lake scowled and took the glass from Hope. “As a matter of fact, it was the Serpentine.”

  Violet fought the smile that rose to her lips at the memory of Lake hurtling into the water after his Juliet. “And at the fashionable hour, too. Poor Lady Caroline—I don’t know if she’ll ever recover!”

  “Lady Caroline?” Hope furrowed his brow. “Lord Harclay’s sister?”

  “She was chaperoning Lord Harclay and I as we took our turn about Hyde Park this afternoon,” Violet said. “Halfway through our stroll, Mr. Lake mysteriously appeared from behind a tree, and next thing I knew Lady Caroline was careening into the Serpentine. The two of them get on splendidly. If I didn’t know any better, I would think they were very old friends indeed.”

  Lake blushed; Hope eyed him wearily. “You forget, Lady Violet, that Mr. Lake doesn’t have any friends. Especially friends of the female variety.”

  “My friends are none of your business,” Lake bit back. “Lady Caroline had the misfortune to fall into the river; I jumped in after her. No one was harmed. End of story.”

  Violet could tell Hope was trying not to laugh. “I am sorry to have missed this stroll of yours. Apparently it was quite eventful. You didn’t find our thief, too, in the midst of all your adventures?”

  Violet met Lake’s gaze before turning to Hope. She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the onslaught that was to come. “Actually . . . ”

  “You did?” Hope wrinkled his brow. “You did.”

  “I did indeed. You see, Mr. Hope, I’ve good reason to believe that the Earl of Harclay stole your diamond.”

  Mr. Hope sputtered on his whiskey, a great honking noise. “Really, Lady Violet, now is not the time to jest. Why, Harclay is not only an earl, and one of the most powerful peers at that; he is also one of my largest and most faithful clients. Tread carefully.”

  Violet swallowed hard and resumed her pacing. “I would not dare make such an accusation if I wasn’t convinced it were true. Just as you would not dare forget my inheritance is invested in Hope and Company stock. I understand, Mr. Hope, how much you have at stake; I, too, risk everything in this.”

  Hope looked as if he were about to cry, or perhaps erupt into a fit of rage. Violet could only hope for the former.

  “But how? And, more importantly, why? I know for a fact the man’s got more money than all the pharaohs of Egypt. Combined.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Violet replied. “Only a man of Lord Harclay’s hubris is bold and brash enough to thieve a diamond in the midst of a ball. Don’t you see? The man is desperate for a thrill. Look at how he gambles, wagering small fortunes on this trifle and that. It’s only money to him; he’s got plenty of it, and is willing to spend thousands in the pursuit of excitement.”

  Violet sidled up to Hope at the sideboard. “Harclay is rich, he is clever, and he is bored. A more potent combination for a crime such as this does not exist.”

  Even as she said the words, Violet’s heart took off at a gallop. Tread carefully indeed. With Harclay now in play, each of them stood to lose just about everything: Hope, his bank; Violet, her family, her fortune, her pride.

  Never mind the fact that Harclay was a very rich, very powerful enemy. There would be no second chances.

  “I pray you’re wrong, Lady Violet,” Hope said, finishing off his whiskey. “But if Lord Harclay is indeed our man, we need to find out where he’s hiding the diamond. And we mustn’t forget the diamond collar; I borrowed it from a . . . friend, who misses it very much.”

  Lake nodded. “There’s no negotiating with a man who wants for nothing. If what you’re saying is true, Lady Violet, the only way to get back the French Blue is to take it. I can canvass his house; and Hope, you might search his records for any mention of a recent a
cquisition . . .”

  “No,” Violet said suddenly, impulsively. “I’ll do it.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Hope turned to her. “You just said you’ve got quite a bit at stake here.”

  “I said I’ll do it. Lord Harclay and I—” Violet looked away, hoping to hide the heat that rose to her cheeks. “Trust me. I’ve a much better chance of finding the French Blue than either of you.”

  Hope cleared his throat. “Are you and the earl . . . fond of each other?”

  “No.”

  “Very well.” Lake rose from his chair, shouldering off the blanket. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you, Lady Violet. The earl is a dangerous man, and you could very well be harmed, or worse, while on the hunt for the jewel.”

  Violet met Hope’s eyes. “I’m the one who lost the French Blue. And I’m the one who’s going to get it back.”

  Thirteen

  The study was a muddle of loose paper, scrolls, and overturned pots of ink. Drawers gaped open, and a bookshelf on the far wall appeared to have been ransacked.

  Avery poked his head into the room, too frightened, it seemed, to step foot into the fray.

  “Yes?” Harclay said, voice edged with impatience. He was on hands and knees on the carpet beside his desk, peering beneath a behemoth of an armoire.

  Avery cleared his throat. “Might I be of some assistance, my lord?”

  “I’m looking for my stationery,” Harclay said, turning back to the armoire. “I’ve decided to host some guests for dinner, but I cannot find the proper paper on which to pen the invites.”

  Without looking, Harclay could sense Avery gaping, his mouth opening and closing noiselessly. Poor man didn’t know where to begin: the guests for dinner—Harclay hadn’t hosted a soul in two seasons—or the stationery, which the earl hadn’t touched for a spell longer than that.

  “A bold move,” Avery said, eyes gleaming with amusement, “drawing your enemies close, very close indeed. Are you sure it is wise, so soon after—well, after the event?”