Violet looped her arm through her cousin’s and led her into the hall. “Don’t worry,” she replied, patting her hand. “We’re all foxed, no shame in admitting it.”
They followed Lady Caroline through the house, the halls blazing with the light of dozens of chandeliers, sconces, and candelabras. Violet’s heart sank at the scope and scale of the place; while it wasn’t palatial, it was whatever came just before that. How foolish of her to think Harclay would hide the diamond in his sock drawer; there were literally thousands of nooks and crannies and hidden moldings in which he could keep the French Blue.
Even with the help of a hundred of Hope’s men, it would be akin to finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.
Still, she couldn’t give up, not this early in the chase. There had to be a way of forcing Harclay’s hand, of discovering the diamond’s location. And she was going to be the one to do it, come hell or high water.
Lady Caroline led them to a different drawing room, this one with walls upholstered in emerald green velvet. A new-fashioned billiards table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by clusters of leather chairs and twill sofas. A well-stocked sideboard beckoned from one wall, and it was all Violet could do not to sidle up and ransack its contents.
Cousin Sophia and Auntie George were sequestered on a sofa, Auntie George waving a finger before Sophia’s face in apparent consternation. Lady Caroline took advantage of the rare moment of privacy and turned to Violet.
“Come, Violet, let us take a turn about the room,” she said and held out her hand.
“Dinner was lovely,” Violet said. She tried not to wince when Caroline trampled her foot.
“Lovely indeed. William hasn’t hosted company at this house for years. No one could convince him to dust off the old family china—no one, that is, until you came along. He dances a waltz with you at Hope’s ball and suddenly all is aflutter! My brother, bless his black soul, doesn’t hand out compliments often; but oh, Lady Violet, you must realize dinner was his way of complimenting your charms, and your beauty.”
Inside her chest Violet’s heart skipped a beat. Trying her damnedest to ignore the strange sensation, she scoffed a reply. “I hardly think Lord Harclay invited me to dinner so that he might compliment me. It’s—well, it’s a bit of a strange situation, really, between the two of us.”
“Strange, yes!” Caroline smiled. “I haven’t seen my brother look at anyone the way he looks at you. I saw the way you two gaped at one another at the table. You were blushing so violently I was worried you might swoon.”
Violet straightened. “I do not swoon, Lady Caroline, and I am quite proud of that fact. And besides, I am hardly the only woman he has looked at. I daresay he’s looked at half the women in London.”
“Oh, he’s looked, all right,” Lady Caroline said. “But not the way he looks at you.”
“He’s not looking at me for the reason you think,” Violet replied.
Caroline waved away her words. “Oh, that little thing, about you accusing him of stealing Hope’s diamond? It will pass, as those sorts of things usually do.”
Violet halted, nearly sending Lady Caroline headfirst into a polished credenza.
“You know about that?” Violet gaped. By now her blood was thrumming; she felt the familiar trickle of perspiration along the boning of her stays.
“I do. You forget, Lady Violet, how quickly word travels in London this time of year. Of course, I hope to convince you that the only thing William ever stole is perhaps a biscuit from Cook’s tin.”
“I regret that I disagree,” Violet said slowly, and they resumed their stroll. “I do so hate to trouble you, Lady Caroline—”
“It’s no trouble as long as at the end of it you make an honorable man of him. Honestly, this libertine business has gone on long enough.”
“But the diamond,” Violet choked out. “It is imperative we recover the diamond—”
“The diamond, yes, no doubt in my mind you’ll recover it. You’re a clever girl, Lady Violet; clever and confident. A combination, it seems, my brother is unable to resist.
“And though I trust you know how to handle such a delicate matter,” Caroline continued with a confidential pat on Violet’s hand, “you must proceed with caution. William can be quite the cad, but he does care for his family and friends—cares for them quite deeply. As deeply, I believe, as you care for your own family.”
But before Lady Caroline could finish that tantalizing tidbit, the man himself strode into the room. It could’ve been the wine taking captive Violet’s senses or it could’ve been Caroline’s confession or the memory of his hand grazing hers at the table, but God above Harclay cut a dashing figure. He was laughing at something Mr. Hope had just murmured in his ear; Harclay’s teeth flashed, revealing lips stained purple from wine.
And oh, the very thought of how delicious he would taste after that excellent bordeaux—Violet forced the thought from her head. Remember, she chided herself, your family, and your fortune, rest on proving this man a thief and a criminal.
The men trailed masculine scents of cigar smoke and brandy into the room behind them. Eyeing the billiards table, Mr. Lake challenged the ladies to a game. Caroline disappeared from Violet’s side in a tumble of ungainly movement, while Cousin Sophia all too eagerly accepted a billiards cue from Mr. Hope.
Violet sighed. So much for Hope’s probing; the only information he seemed to have culled from his audience with Harclay was the difference in taste between a Canadian whiskey and an American one.
“And you, Lady Violet?” came a familiar voice. “Are you as skilled at billiards as you are at cards?”
Violet turned to face Lord Harclay. His dark eyes were trained on her person in an illicit fashion, as if he knew what she looked like under all the layers of her clothes.
Which, of course, he didn’t; though he certainly knew what she felt like.
“Billiards is hardly an appropriate pastime for proper English ladies like myself,” she replied smoothly. “Though from the well-worn appearance of your table and cues, I venture you are quite the master.”
“Master, no,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “But I am good enough to teach you how it’s done. Come, I’ll let you play with my stick.”
Violet sighed, rolling her eyes. “Even I know it’s called a cue. You’re just trying to make me blush.”
Harclay drew to her side, his enormous hand splayed lightly on the small of her back. His wine-stained lips at her ear, he whispered, “I hate to inform you, Lady Violet, but it seems to be working.”
“You flatter yourself. It’s the wine, my lord, and not your ill-mannered remarks that have made me flush,” she said. Gently pressing her fingertips to her cheek, she could feel the scalding heat of her skin. Goodness, she was probably the color of a tomato.
Harclay tucked her arm into his side and led her toward the billiards table. From a waiting footman—really, did the earl employ the whole of Christendom?—Harclay took a sleek cue inlaid with black and white ivory checkers and handed it to Violet.
“Ladies first,” he said and nodded across the table. Both Lady Caroline and Sophia were practicing awkwardly with their cues.
Violet looked upon the cue with no little distaste. “How do I even hold it?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Harclay replied with a grin. He stepped toward her, his peculiar, heady scent enveloping her in a cloud of heat, and held up his hands.
“Now, Lady Violet, I’m going to have to touch you—”
An enormous clatter, followed by several cries of terror, interrupted Violet’s reverie. Just as she was imagining the delicious feel of his hands all over her body—surely billiards was a pastime of great physical contact?—Lady Caroline managed to launch a cue ball off the table. With sickening accuracy it flew across the room and slammed—thwack!—into Auntie George’s forehead.
“Oh, dear,” Violet breathed. Before she could so much as blink, Lord Harclay was on his knees at Auntie George’s side. He held up her head and was calling for water, smelling salts, anything that might revive her.
“And brandy!” he said to the footmen. “Make haste, make haste! We haven’t a moment to spare.”
Violet blinked, just to be sure she wasn’t imagining the scene before her. Was Auntie George really sprawled out on Harclay’s priceless Axminster carpet? And was Harclay actually performing a selfless act and helping her?
It was hardly to be believed.
Violet fell to her knees beside Harclay, and together they cooed and prodded and patted until Auntie George came back to life. Dazed—the wound was sure to bruise—she was otherwise unharmed.
“I do so apologize, Lord Harclay,” Auntie George said, tears streaming down her face, “I’m terribly embarrassed, I swear to you I don’t usually put on such a frightful display.”
Harclay smiled down at her, and with his giant callused thumb gently pushed the tears from Auntie’s cheeks. His tenderness, his patience was at odds with everything Violet knew about the earl. But he had come to her rescue at Hope’s ball, defending her against that rude, pimply boy who’d doused her with punch. A waste of good brandy, that; it would’ve been a disaster besides, if Harclay hadn’t made it right.
Violet watched as the earl brushed an errant curl from Auntie George’s brow. Who was this man? Was he a rascal, a gentleman jewel thief out to ruin the livelihoods of hundreds, of thousands of people? Or was he a kindhearted fellow who flattered old widows and loved nothing so much as his family, his friends, a decent turtle soup?
“No need to apologize, Lady Georgiana,” Harclay practically purred. “Might we make up a room for you here? I hardly think it wise to subject you to the rigors of travel.”
Auntie George managed to sit upright; her eyes rolled a bit in their sockets, but she appeared otherwise recovered. At once her gaze fell on Sophia, arm in arm with a certain Mr. Hope; and Auntie shook her head. “Lord Harclay, that is most kind of you, most kind indeed, but I would hate to put you out. No, I believe I’ll be quite all right, if you’ll just help me to my carriage. Come, Sophia, it’s time to leave.”
Brushing off the other gentlemen, Lord Harclay lifted Auntie George in his arms and made for the front door. As Violet followed them through the hall, she heard Auntie’s tinkling laughter and caught Harclay smiling down at her as if she were not a plump, dazed dowager but a debutante in the flower of her youth.
Avery, who by now was as white as a sheet and making profuse apologies, opened the front door. The nighttime air, heavy and a bit chilly, sauntered into the house. Violet stood at the threshold and shivered. A sudden, puzzling desire to stay overwhelmed her. Outside, the night smelled of rain and a sleepless evening ahead. Harclay’s house was so warm and bright, and she hadn’t made any progress at all in seeking out Hope’s diamond.
The other guests were being helped into their coats and hats and gloves; it seemed Auntie George’s accident signaled the end of the evening.
Violet’s heart sank. But it was too soon! Too early! There was work to be done . . .
Of course, Harclay’s presence, and his promise to touch her, had nothing to do with her desire to stay. Absolutely, positively nothing at all.
At least that was what she told herself.
Violet climbed into the carriage and waved good-bye to Harclay as he strode up the steps and into the house. In the seat across from her, Auntie George was already laid out and snoring.
Her gaze shifting from Auntie George to Harclay’s house and back again, Violet made up her mind. With her chaperone knocked out cold, she had the rare opportunity to search the earl’s house without Auntie’s well-intentioned, but extremely irritating, interference.
Holding a hand to her lips, Violet caught Sophia’s gaze.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Sophia hissed, reading the intention so clearly written in Violet’s eyes. “And if you go, I want to come with you.”
Violet shook her head. “Next time, Sophia, I promise! I’ll be home before dawn.”
Before Sophia could protest any further, Violet slipped from the carriage. It groaned ominously beneath her weight; she cringed—surely Harclay couldn’t hear that from the house, could he?—but continued forward. The coachman looked down and was about to speak, but Violet again shook her head and motioned for him to carry on.
She turned to face the house. Behind her the carriage wheels creaked as they made their way down the lane; and then—
Silence. Lovely, portentous silence.
Heart drumming in her chest, she wrapped her coat more snugly about her breast and slipped to the back of the house. Gravel crunched beneath her feet; fearful of making noise, she attempted to move off the drive but ended up tangled in a rather tremendous hedge of ivy.
It grew dark the farther she moved from the street. Using solely her sense of smell—for horses, as much as she admired them, were malodorous creatures—Violet managed to locate the stables.
A good place to start, she reasoned, though the diamond wasn’t very likely to be hidden there. No matter; she was happy to turn over every pillow, turn out every room and closet and alcove, if it meant finding the French Blue.
Closing the door quietly behind her, Violet stepped into the stables and cast off her hood. A single lantern illuminated the space; from the looks of it, the stable hands had just finished their nightly cleanup and were off to bed.
The stables were, as she expected, immaculately clean. The familiar smells of hay and horseflesh filled her nostrils; somewhere a horse snuffed, while another moved lazily about in its stall.
She took the lantern and held it high as she made her way through the space. The very idea of her trespassing thrilled her; her heart was beating with such solid intent, she could hardly breathe.
And to think—she could be getting that much closer to the diamond! Violet’s footsteps quickened. She glanced this way and that, crouching to examine a feed basket, a barrel of apples, and a particularly lovely saddle fashioned of Spanish leather. She turned up nothing, but the excitement of the chase was intoxicating. The more she looked, the more determined she became.
Violet stood and was about to search an alcove when a voice—that voice, his voice—sounded over her shoulder.
“Aren’t you glad I told you to refrain from imbibing too much wine, Lady Violet?” Lord Harclay said. “Otherwise you’d be far too drunk to search my property for the French Blue.”
Violet spun around, lantern swinging in her outstretched hand. The earl leaned against the wall, one leg draped casually over the other, his arms crossed about his chest. He was grinning—a saucy, knowing grin—and his dark eyes danced in the low light.
Her blood jumped. She wasn’t in her cups, not nearly, but Violet had enjoyed just enough wine to make her head feel pleasantly fuzzy. She hadn’t considered what she would do were she to be caught.
She ignored the thought that she’d hoped to be caught by Harclay; that she wanted to be caught, and taught a lesson or two by this shameless rakehell.
Violet opened her mouth, then closed it when she could think of nothing to say. Harclay stood quietly before her, waiting for her reply.
Rain, soft at first, tapped on the roof above. All at once the tapping became thunderous and heavy, signaling a downpour.
Still Violet’s tongue was as stone in her mouth.
Her pulse was loud in her ears, and it suddenly grew very hot in the room; so hot she could not bear it.
Violet dropped the lantern with a solid thwunk. She turned and ran.
Fifteen
Harclay dashed through the door after her. Rain pummeled his face and shoulders; a few steps and he was soaked through to his undergarments. The water, enormous, chill drops, practically sizzled when it met his skin; he was burning, had been alive with desire since the moment Violet swept into his drawing room.
And what luck, to find her snooping about his property alone. Dear girl couldn’t resist—but resist him, or the pull of the diamond, he couldn’t tell.
No matter her reasons, she was here, trailing the scent of roses in her wake. And he wasn’t about to let her escape.
Lady Violet, however, was quick on her feet. She tore across the drive, her slippers finding purchase in the gravel. He cursed as he skidded after her in his ridiculous beribboned dress shoes. Damnable pumps, he swore never to wear them again; they pinched his toes besides.
“Violet!” he called after her, the rain nearly drowning out the sound of his voice. “Lady Violet, wait!”
He at last was able to snag the sleeve of her dress. Wrapping his fingers around her arm, he tugged her none too gently to a stop and whirled her around to face him.
“Heavens, girl, I’m not going to hurt you!” he panted.
Violet’s eyes flashed with something he didn’t recognize—not anger, no, but something akin to it. Lust, perhaps, mixed with no small measure of hate.
Whatever it was, it thrilled him to no end.
“Despite what the others may think,” she spat out, shaking off his touch, “I know you are guilty, Harclay, and I intend to prove it with hard evidence. How else am I to find the diamond if I don’t actually look for it?”
Rivulets of rain coursed down her hair, already plastered to her head, and soaked her thin pelisse. The silk gown she wore underneath was beyond ruin. He felt a pang of guilt for driving her out into the rain; he’d already been witness to the ruin of her nymph costume. The dear would have no clothes left after he was through with her.
“Here,” he said, and he tugged his arms free of his jacket. He wrapped it around her shoulders—little good it would do now, but still—and nodded to the house. “Let’s go inside and talk about this. I’ll have Avery bring up some tea.”
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 12