Clear as day he saw the recognition in their eyes. They knew he was the masked man who’d hired them those weeks ago.
But how? When Harclay had confronted them in Mr. Hope’s kitchen, they hadn’t a clue who he was. Someone must have tipped them off; someone who knew Harclay still owed the thieves quite a bit of money.
“Bloody hell,” Harclay cursed under his breath. The chase was proving to be an interesting one, certainly; now he would be pursued by not only Lady Violet and Mr. Hope but these villainous little bastards, too.
Ah, well. He’d just pay them the rest of what he owed and be done with it. A trip to that squalid little tavern in Cheapside tonight, and the earl could begin plotting the French Blue’s return.
Still. Something about the way the acrobats were looking at him—glaring, really—felt wrong.
He turned to Violet. “It wasn’t you, was it? Who told these men that I was the one who hired them?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Though I do wish I could take credit. A brilliant move, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps,” Harclay replied, returning his gaze to the stage.
Seventeen
The streets of Cheapside were quiet, eerily so. A lone figure, wrapped tightly in a misshapen cloak, trudged past. The smell that rose from the mud was nothing short of biblical.
Harclay turned down a narrow alley, his horse nickering as they probed deeper into squalor. Above, misshapen tenements hovered over the street and blocked out the clouds that hung low in the nighttime sky.
A rat—or was it a dog?—scurried across the alley and through a hole in the wall of a wattle-and-daub house up ahead. A rough wooden sign hung from the rafter, emblazoned with the image of a mouse dangling from the jaws of a black cat.
Harclay reined in at the familiar sight of the Cat and Mouse. He dismounted, his boots sinking to the ankle in a particularly pungent puddle.
At least I don’t have to wear that ridiculous beard, he reasoned, now that the acrobats knew who he was. And the wooden dentures he’d donned to recruit the acrobats that first time around had made speaking without a whistling lisp most difficult.
Perhaps it wasn’t so bad someone had sold Harclay out to the acrobats; it certainly saved the earl no small amount of trouble today.
The Cat and Mouse was typical of most public taverns, if not slightly more filthy and certainly smellier. It consisted of one large, low-ceilinged room, its round wooden tables scattered around a soot-blackened hearth. Even at this hour, the place bustled with the usual crowd: prostitutes, and the men who paid for their services. The air was dark, lit only by fat tallow candles, and reeked of unwashed bodies, tobacco, and stale ale.
Not long ago, Harclay would’ve relished a retreat to a tavern, albeit one slightly more upscale than this. But today he had no time for such frivolity; he waved off an approaching barmaid with a monumentally large, swinging bosom, and made for the back of the tavern.
There, seated around a corner table with their backs to the wall, sat four smallish men. They were hunched over their mugs, eyes gleaming mischievously as they watched Harclay approach.
Without much ado, the earl tossed a small but weighty satchel onto the table with a satisfying clink. Like vultures pouncing on a carcass, two of the acrobats dug greedily into its contents, while the third raised his head in greeting.
“Milord,” he said with a black-toothed smile. “Mighty kind ov ya to join us. Take a seat, if ya please.”
“Who told you?” Harclay asked, ignoring the man’s invitation. “Who told you I was the one who hired you?”
The acrobat’s smile widened. “Can’t be givin’ away all our secrets, milord,” he replied, and turned to his accomplices. “How much ye got, lads?”
“Seventy-five pounds, even,” Harclay said. “I counted it myself.”
“Seventy-five!” the man scoffed. “A most meager sum indeed, what wiv all the bover we been through. Wouldn’t you agree, lads?”
The two acrobats looked up from their pile of guineas and grunted their agreement.
“That’s what I owe you,” Harclay replied steadily. “And that’s what you’ll get. Not another copper.”
“We ain’t shook no hands.” The acrobat grinned. “And we ain’t signed no papers. Now that we knows where ya live . . .”
Harclay’s blood jumped. He placed his hands on the table, leaning forward until he nearly butted heads with the scalawag. “You threaten me again, or so much as show your face on my street, and I’ll kill you. Understood?”
The acrobat leaned back, his rabbitlike eyes glittering. “Understood, milord.”
Harclay stepped out into the night, pulling his cloak closer about his shoulders. It had begun to rain, though only a scant drizzle made it past the upper stories above, hanging over the lane.
He tried to shake off the feeling of unease knotted in his belly. Those blackguards were nothing more than greedy drunks. He’d paid them the seventy-five they’d agreed to; they wouldn’t dare come after an earl, and a wealthy, well-connected one at that.
The earl let out a sigh, relieved to be done with the thing, and urged his horse into a gallop. Harclay rode like the devil through the darkened streets, his eyes blurring as they picked up the pace. He didn’t know why he rode to Violet’s, or how he even got there; but he did not stop until he drew up in the mews behind her house.
• • •
Violet closed the door and fell back against it, relieved to finally be alone in the sanctuary of her bedchamber. Behind her closed eyes the week’s heady scenes played out. Her waltz with Lord Harclay—she remembered everything about it; she shivered at the memory of his hand on the small of her back, his lips on her ear. And then there were the caresses in his drawing room, and his slow, patient kisses—kisses he’d pressed on every slope and corner of her body—last night on his bed.
Piece by piece she took off her clothes, the feel of the fabric sensuous against her skin, until she was naked. Tonight she especially loved the feel of her body. It reminded her of Lord Harclay, his eagerness to touch her, and the way she felt when he did; the small, quiet scrape of his hands moving on her skin, the goose bumps, the pounding of their hearts against each other.
And that blasted diamond—she was getting close, if not to the French Blue, then to Harclay’s confession. He’d acted strangely tonight, tugging her about Mr. Hope’s supper box in a furor she didn’t quite understand. Perhaps, at last, he was coming apart at the seams; perhaps the guilt was gnawing him into an admission of his sins.
She climbed into bed, sliding beneath the sheets. As she turned to blow out the candle, she heard a soft tap against the window across the room. She froze.
“Who’s there?” she whispered, wrapping the sheets tightly around her torso.
Speak of the devil, she thought with a smile, and he doth appear. Lord Harclay climbed through the window and landed none too elegantly on his feet. She could hear the patter of rain through the open window; he was soaking wet. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his coat and was dressed simply in a white cotton shirt, now sheer, and black breeches.
The pirate—ah, he was alive and well.
“Climbing through a window,” she whispered. “Really? You must be blinded by your lust for me.”
“Ah, humble as a saint, you are,” he murmured, tugging his legs free of their muddy boots. “Besides, I doubt I’m the only one in this room ‘blinded,’ as you say, by my baser needs.”
As if on cue, Violet smacked her lips in appreciation as Harclay drew up before her, his clothes plastered against his enormous frame. “Tell me, my lord, why have you come?”
He crawled on top of her, straddling her with his knees. “Why, Lady Violet, I mean to pleasure you, of course. If I am not mistaken, you seemed to have enjoyed my . . . attentions last night.”
Droplets fell from his curls onto her face. One
landed in her eye and she laughed. He smiled and shook out his hair, then leaned in to kiss her wet skin.
“But how,” she panted, “did you manage to climb up so high?”
Laughter rumbled in the earl’s chest. “I’ve got a strong back,” he said, trailing kisses along her jaw.
Her blood quickened as his lips moved over her throat, down to her collarbones; the sheet fell away. He moved to her breasts, his kisses rallying her body awake. She propped herself up on her elbows, pressing herself against him, and with trembling fingers he traced the outline of her hips. She breathed, kept breathing, unable to express the terrifyingly delicious effect of his hands on her body. He moved his mouth over one breast, then the other, up to her throat, her jawbone. He took her lower lip between his teeth, pulling, antagonizing the heat low in her belly.
“Wait,” Violet said, holding her hand up to his chest. “Wait. Tell me truthfully—why did you come?”
Lord Harclay paused, holding her gaze. A beat of silence passed.
Violet’s heart went wild in her chest. It was wrong of her to bait him like this, but she needed to know—needed him to tell her why he’d pulled her aside in Hope’s supper box, why he’d risked his life climbing through her third-story window in the middle of the night.
How could he care for her when he was attempting to rob her of her future? Like her affection for him, it didn’t make sense.
“Damn you,” Violet said in a clipped voice, throwing the blankets aside and turning as if to rise from the bed. “You haven’t answered a single question I’ve asked you—”
“I needed to make sure you were here. Safe,” he said. For a moment he paused his indecently thrilling assault on her person and looked into her eyes. His were dark, flashing with desire, but there was something else, something new. Was it fear?
There was a sudden tussle at the door. Violet froze; it was a miracle the whole of London couldn’t hear the blood pulsing in her ears. Harclay fell to the bed beside her, pulling his wet shirt off over his head and slinging it across the room.
Violet cuffed his shoulder and held her finger to her lips. “You know if we’re caught we’ll be forced to do terrible things!” she hissed.
He raised a brow. “Terrible things?”
“Marry.”
She was surprised when, rather than some witty riposte, Lord Harclay met her words with steady silence; and was surprised again when she felt a pang of regret. It was obvious his silence meant he did not wish to be caught—and thus be forced to marry her—didn’t it?
She stiffened her spine. She certainly had no intention to be wedded, either, especially to a beastly rakehell like him.
Still. His silence irked her.
“My lady?” came a voice at the door. “Is everything all right? I heard a noise and thought to check on you.”
“Yes, Fitzhugh, I am well. Nothing more than a . . . strange dream,” Violet replied. “You may go back to bed.”
Violet and Lord Harclay listened with bated breath as the sound of the maid’s footsteps faded down the hall. Silence settled between them; Violet was aware of the slow rise and fall of Harclay’s bare chest beside her on the bed.
She turned to him, propping herself up on an elbow. She made no effort to hide her nakedness; though she’d known the earl no more than a week, they were the both of them beyond silly things like clothes.
Harclay’s eyes trailed from her eyes to her lips to her breasts. His gaze was like a caress. Her skin ignited as if it were his fingers doing the work; and yet he made no move to touch her.
“God, you’re lovely,” he said hoarsely. “If this is the state in which you sleep every night, I should climb through your window more often.”
Violet smiled. “I daresay Fitzhugh will grow suspicious of all the strange dreams I’m having.”
“You could always come visit me, at my house. I so enjoyed last night’s interlude,” he replied, pressing a kiss onto her neck. “You’d have the opportunity to snoop about my rooms, besides.”
She looked away, trying her damnedest to ignore the pounding of her pulse as his lips trailed lower, lower. “I’m afraid this is all rather dangerous, even for us. A diamond is one thing, Harclay; being forced to wed, quite another.”
He took her nipple in his mouth for one last kiss. She gasped aloud as heat sliced between her legs.
“Dangerous enough that you wish me to stop?” he murmured, his lips hovering a hairbreadth from her breast.
She nodded rather more vigorously than she intended. “Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m safe, see? No use prolonging your stay. Fitzhugh or, God forbid, my father is sure to hear us if we continue—”
“If that is your wish,” he said with a sigh, “then I shall take my leave. As long as you remember what you promised me—if you see anything, hear anything strange, you’ll send for me.”
Violet watched as he stood and struggled into his sopping wet shirt. “What aren’t you telling me?” she said quietly. “If you were in your right mind—assuming you are even possessed of such a thing—you wouldn’t care a whit about my safety. Surely you recall I mean to ruin you?”
“I vaguely remember something of the sort,” he said, furrowing his brow in mock confusion. He pulled on his boots and turned to her, leaning over her on the bed. “Despite that fact, dear girl, I am far too involved in this intrigue between us to ever feign indifference. Whether you’ll have me or not, I do care.” He pecked her lips with his own and made to leave.
“Do be careful, Lord Harclay, for should you fall and break your neck, the diamond will be lost to us forever,” she replied tartly, ignoring the softness of his words. “And if what you say is true, then you won’t risk my future happiness by climbing through my window again.”
But he did, the next night, and the night after that; every night for nearly a week, he climbed through her window and into her bed. And though he merely teased her—their affaire progressed no further than his expert touch would allow—Violet found she very much looked forward to their candlelit conversations, if one could call their rather more carnal encounters such a thing.
She told herself her enthusiasm was nothing more than a desire to seek out the diamond, to uncover whatever it was he was hiding from her. But her heart, the way it pounded at the sound of Lord Harclay prying open the window at half past midnight, called her bluff. And even she, consummate cheat that she was, couldn’t work her way around that truth.
• • •
The note arrived one week to the day after Harclay stared down the acrobats at Vauxhall Gardens.
He was walking home after a particularly frustrating—titillating—midnight visit with Lady Violet, his thoughts lost in a haze of desire. Though his mind was plenty occupied with memories of her body, the delicious scents of clean water and perfume that rose from her skin, again and again his thoughts returned to her words on that first night he’d climbed through her window.
Violet had warned him to silence and said something about being found out and forced to marry. She’d caught him entirely off guard with that hateful word, a word he’d banished from his vocabulary altogether the moment he came of age.
Harclay had stared into the darkness without replying to Lady Violet. He knew she had little, if any, desire to marry at all; doubtless she’d wanted to bite her tongue after speaking of such an odious subject. Hence, he reasoned, her silence.
But his silence—well, the comment had struck him as violently as a blow to the belly. For to his great shock, he hadn’t been mortified, scared stiff, by her mention of marriage. Rather, it lay lightly on the current of his thoughts, as it still did now, days after the fact.
For years he hadn’t thought of marrying anyone, much less a woman intent on branding him a thief. Not until that moment, when the words fell hushed and expectant from Violet’s lips, languorous and swollen from his attentions.
And yet the very idea that her words didn’t irk him was terrifying indeed. What did it mean? Why did he not recoil in horror, as any man in his right mind should? Marriage was where good men went to die; marriage meant responsibility and fidelity and the screaming hysterics of babies . . .
So why did the idea of marrying Lady Violet, quick-witted beauty though she was, not frighten him to his very toes?
Virtually paralyzed by this strange machination of his mind, Harclay had lain very still, his tongue like stone in his mouth. Good thing her body was there to distract him—her breasts were far too perfect to ignore—and the evening proceeded as if nothing were amiss.
In his usual manner, Harclay walked the four blocks from Violet’s town house to his own, the gas lamps casting his shadow in sinister shapes about the cobblestone streets. Last he’d checked it was quarter to two in the morning; beyond the lamps the darkness was complete, oppressive.
The earl headed toward the back of his house, silent and dark save for a few windows high up; his rooms, kept warm and lit by the indomitable Avery.
As Harclay approached the door—the very same one through which he’d ushered Lady Violet, sopping wet and chilled to the bone, just days before—a flutter of white caught his eye, there on the stoop. At first it appeared to be a wounded bird, perhaps, or a feather missed by the cook, but on closer inspection Harclay discovered it was a page of newspaper, folded clumsily so that it was no bigger than his pocket watch.
He bent down to pick it up. As his fingers smoothed the surface of the paper, he felt a pulse of fear, cold and hard, race up his spine.
Harclay raised his hand to knock on the door, but Avery opened it before he had the chance.
“My lord,” he said and then, his eyes alighting on his master’s pale features, exclaimed, “is everything all right?”
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 15