“But we’ve no other suspects, you see. And as I’ve watched my clients vanish, scared off by my seeming incompetence; as I’ve watched the value of my company plummet—well, I need someone to blame. And I’m afraid that someone is you.”
The earl froze as the meaning of Hope’s words dawned on him. “Please, Hope, listen to me. I’ll give you anything, anything at all, but it is imperative that I make this withdrawal, or Vio—”
Hope held up his hand. “No,” he said simply, and turned back to his papers.
“No?” Harclay replied, voice rising with panic. “What do you mean, no? I’ve well over a hundred thousand at this bank, and I demand access to those funds!”
“I’ve locked your accounts until the French Blue is returned to me. You’ll not see a bloody penny before, mark my words. And if you did not steal my diamond yourself, as you claim, then this shall certainly prove motivation for you to help us find the man who did.”
Harclay stared at Mr. Hope, speechless. Rage and fear, helplessness and panic, choked him. He’d never felt this way; he was used to being immaculately aloof, handsomely amused. How the hell had he come so far, changed so much?
In a single rapid beat of his heart, the answer came.
Violet.
What would those bastards do to Lady Violet, now that he couldn’t pay? How would they kidnap her? What if they harmed—or, worse, killed her on account of his playing this all wrong?
“Goddamn it, Hope!” Harclay shouted. “I need that money. Seventy-five pounds, and I swear I shan’t ask for more until the diamond is found. I’m in trouble, and so is Lady—”
“That’s your problem,” Hope replied savagely, color flooding his cheeks as he again rose to face the earl. “Now get out of my bank before I summon my men.”
Harclay thrust his face into Hope’s. “If you do this, you’ll have blood on your hands.”
“Mr. Robbins!” Hope called, and the large man from the stairs appeared at Harclay’s side. “Please escort Lord Harclay out of the building. No need to make a scene. Unless, of course, he resists.”
Harclay thrust his finger into Hope’s chest. “You’ll regret this, I swear it. I’ll make you regret this.”
The earl was yanked from behind, and Mr. Robbins tugged him down the stairs and through the bank. Harclay saw naught but red; now he knew how King Louis, poor bastard, felt as he was dragged through the streets of Paris to greet madame guillotine.
Once they were outside, Harclay shrugged off the man’s grip and swung onto his horse. Without a backward glance he tore out into the street. He needed to get to Violet, and quickly. His time was up; the acrobats would be after her, if they weren’t already.
• • •
Arm in arm with Lady Caroline, Violet trailed through the house’s endless number of chambers, each larger and lovelier than the last. There were the bachelor’s quarters on the third floor, outfitted with secret staircases and copious amounts of leather; the music room, complete with a pianoforte salvaged from Versailles; even the halls were studies in elegance, trimmed in painted paneling, the ceilings wild with heavenly frescoes.
While rounding a corner, Violet managed to peek into Harclay’s personal chambers. A score of maids were busy changing the linen, the snap of sweet-smelling sheets filling the air as they floated on the springtime breeze. Violet recalled with a little shiver the feel of those same sheets against her bare skin. How different the room appeared in the light of day; how very much the same.
She was tempted to slip into his dressing room, snoop about his sock drawer—really, how foolish of her to think he’d hide Hope’s diamond there of all places—but Violet knew Harclay’s chamber was sacred to him. To her, too, having christened it with her cries of passion, the blazing desire that moved through her on that very same bed.
It would be wrong to defile his sanctuary by ransacking it in her search for the French Blue—wrong, and callous. But there had been more headlines about the theft, more news of investors big and small pulling their money from Hope’s bank; all week she’d watched the price of her shares steadily decline. If she didn’t find the diamond, and soon, she faced the very real possibility of poverty.
The thought terrified her, it did; and yet as she made her way through the earl’s achingly lovely town house, her mind wandered again and again to Lord Harclay. That peculiarly pleasant scent of his was everywhere; his passion and ardor and respect apparent in each priceless antique, in the smiles of his staff and the pleasant glow emanating from his sister.
For a moment she allowed herself to fantasize about being a part of all this loveliness. To share such a life with such a man; to see him, and live with him, in these rooms, every day for the rest of her life—
She gasped at the strange, dull pain that sliced through her heart.
“Goodness, my dear, are you all right?” Lady Caroline asked, brow furrowed. “You look flushed.”
Violet landed unceremoniously in the nearest seat. “Yes, yes, I am—I am just fine, thank you. This heat! It seems summer has arrived early.”
“Indeed it has,” Caroline said, taking a seat in the chair beside her. A knowing smile curved about her lips. “You’re worried you’ll never find it, aren’t you?”
Violet drew back, shocked. “I—I don’t understand,” she stammered.
“Love,” her hostess replied, blinking. “You’re worried you’ll never find love.”
Letting out a relieved laugh, Violet shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve other things to worry about, Lady Caroline.”
“Well,” she replied, looking away and smoothing her skirts, “I am. I’m worried I’ll never find love. The good kind, anyway.”
Violet allowed a long moment to pass before speaking. “Your husband—did you not love him?”
“I thought I did,” Caroline replied. “Indeed, when we were married, I was overwhelmed by my affection for him. But when I—I lost a baby, you see,” She paused and shook her head. “We were both mad with grief. My husband especially. He haunts me still.”
Violet reached for her hand. “And now you fear his ghost shall chase off whatever happiness is meant to come your way.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Caroline replied. “And that is why I now must beg your forgiveness and excuse myself. I’ve—something to see to.”
For a moment she eyed Violet, waiting for her to respond.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Violet assured her, taking Lady Caroline’s hand in her own. “Lord Harclay shan’t know of it. You have my word.”
“Thank you, Violet, I am grateful for your discretion.” Caroline rose to her feet. “Are you sure you’ll manage on your own? You have free rein of the house. I imagine my brother shall be returning shortly. He’ll have my head when he discovers I’ve left you.”
“Nonsense,” Violet replied. “Now off with you, Lady Caroline. It won’t do to keep Mr. Lake waiting.”
Caroline smiled, a sheepish sort of thing. In an ungainly swirl of purple and blue silk, she took her leave.
At last, Violet was alone. In Lord Harclay’s house. The diamond, if she could find it, was hers for the taking.
She hesitated. Ten paces to her right, a handmaid emerged from Lord Harclay’s chambers, shutting the door soundly behind her and disappearing down the hall.
Silently Violet stood, and as if in a dream she walked slowly toward the door. Her thoughts rioted; inside her chest she felt that same, searing pain from moments before.
She steeled herself against the sensation. Now was her chance; she would likely never have this opportunity again. And with Harclay due home any moment . . .
With one last glance over her shoulder, she took the heavy knob in her hand and turned it. She cringed as the door creaked open. Quickly she slid inside the room and closed the door behind her.
It was warm in Harclay’s bedchamber,
despite the breeze that blew in from the open windows. The afternoon sun was high and bright, shimmering off the blue silk bedclothes; the scents of clean linen and lemon furniture polish tickled her nostrils.
The chamber, so intimate and shadowy the night of her failed stable snoop, was suddenly overwhelming. She must have overlooked the amount of furniture it contained. Heavens, there appeared to be dozens, hundreds, of drawers and bookshelves and curios—all possible locations in which the diamond could be hidden.
Best begin with that damned sock drawer, she rationalized, if for no other reason than that it was as good a place as any to start.
Violet tiptoed through a far door into the adjoining dressing room. Polished cherry cabinets lined every wall; leave it to Lord Harclay to have not one sock drawer but twenty.
She reached out and gently opened a large, heavy drawer. Peeking inside, she found it was filled with neat stacks of blindingly white neckcloths.
Well, she thought with a smile, the earl certainly keeps his valet busy. This drawer alone could outfit an entire army of well-dressed dandies.
Carefully she picked through the starched fabric—if ironing were art, these neckcloths would be masterpieces—but found nothing.
She closed the drawer and moved on to another, and then another, digging through each one, running her fingers along the wood’s smooth, gleaming edges. There was something particularly intimate about touching Harclay’s cravats, his breeches, the carefully pressed linen shirts stacked neatly on a shelf; as if by touching the fine fabric of his shirts she might better understand the feel of his bones, his warmth.
His scent was everywhere, the lovely smell of his skin rising from the silks and satins as she fingered them. A wave of longing washed over her. It had been all of three hours since they’d parted; it might as well have been an eternity. These clothes, lifeless and yet very much alive with the memory of Harclay’s flesh and shape, were a poignant reminder of his absence.
Violet shut the drawer, drew a long breath through her nose.
The diamond. Remember the diamond.
Squaring her shoulders, she resumed her assault on Harclay’s wardrobe. At last she found it: the sock drawer of which she’d been enamored since the night Hope’s diamond was stolen.
With renewed vigor, she tore through its contents: a seemingly endless array of silk stockings, each a fashionable shade of black or white. They felt as fine as water against her skin as she dug deeper into the drawer.
Violet couldn’t tell if it was disappointment or relief that caused her heart to flutter as she dug yet deeper and came up empty-handed.
But the diamond had to be here—she’d pinpointed this spot from the moment she’d called Harclay out as the gentleman jewel thief he was.
The middle two fingers of her right hand brushed up against something solid. Her heart suddenly, jarringly, stilled as she wrapped her palm around an object roughly the size and shape of a walnut. It was swathed in a heavy silk stocking, so she couldn’t be sure—and what was that beside it, another sock, perhaps, this one filled with something weighty, irregularly shaped—
She jumped at the loud thwack of the chamber door as it slammed shut. The object, whatever it was, fell from her hand as she wheeled about.
Her heart, still dumbfounded and motionless, rose to her throat as her eyes fell on the man before her.
Twenty
“Lord Harclay!” Violet exclaimed, her hand going to her throat. “You gave me quite a fright!”
One look at him and she knew something was afoot. He appeared distraught; the morning’s unease had grown, it seemed, to full-blown terror. His hair was askew and his face ashen. Mud caked his boots to the ankle, and there was a wild look in his eye that hadn’t been there before.
“Heavens, what happened—”
But before she could finish, Harclay crossed the room in three enormous strides and, taking her face in his hands, brought his mouth down to hers. The kiss was urgent, savage, unlike any other they had shared. She felt herself yielding to him, her arms circling his neck as she dug her hands into his hair.
At last he pulled away, tugging her bottom lip one last time between his teeth. They were breathless, their chests working against each other as they gasped for air. A stray beam of sunlight passed across the back of Harclay’s head, surrounding him in a halo of gold. She stood, transfixed, as illuminated dust motes floated lazily about him.
Harclay held her close against him. She laid her ear to his chest and heard the frantic beating of his heart. It was all so overwhelming; how unlike him to show such emotion, to handle her so roughly and then press her close against him as if he would suffocate without her.
“What’s wrong?” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “Tell me, Harclay, please.”
He looked down at her, and she could tell he was weighing his words, wondering how much he should share. He shook his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. “Tell me, Lady Violet, do you have plans for this evening?”
“Plans?” She blinked. Out of all the things he could’ve said, she wasn’t expecting that. “Almack’s, of course. By the grace of God we managed to secure a voucher for Cousin Sophia, dear girl, and now she is most eager to attend.”
Harclay groaned. “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten today is Wednesday. How I loathe Almack’s—ghastly company and no liquor. It’s paramount to torture. Alas, it seems I have no choice in the matter.”
“I don’t recall asking you to escort me.”
The humor left his eyes as he looked down at her. “From this moment forward, Lady Violet, I shan’t leave your side.”
She surveyed him, her pulse quickening. “You can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“You can’t come running into my arms, kissing me like—well, like that—and expect me to believe that nothing is wrong. What sort of trouble are you in, Lord Harclay?”
A beat passed between them before he spoke, his voice low and strained. “I do not wish to share this burden with you, Violet; you must trust that I am able to bear it alone. But know this: I shall keep you safe, no matter the cost. You’ve nothing to fear, I swear it.”
“I’ve plenty to fear, if that’s the only explanation you’ll give me.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead and looked past her to his disheveled drawers. “Have any luck this afternoon? I see you’ve been at my dressing room.”
Violet hesitated, remembering the promising objects she’d discovered in his sock drawer. She couldn’t very well speak to him of it; by the time she was able to retrieve them, whatever they proved to be, he’d have moved it to a more secure location.
In all likelihood, the objects she’d discovered were not jewels anyway but snuffboxes, perhaps a misplaced pair of cuff links. Even the Earl of Harclay wasn’t bold enough to hide a priceless gem in his sock drawer.
Was he?
“No luck at all, I’m afraid,” she said at last, mustering the most charming smile she could manage. “Your wardrobe proved a formidable opponent. Just how many waistcoats do you own?”
“Far too many.” Harclay sighed. “My valet is a most enthusiastic shopper; I don’t have the heart to turn away any of his designs. Most of them end up in his wardrobe, anyway. The arrangement seems to suit us both.”
“Very generous of you,” Violet replied, narrowing her eyes as she surveyed the man before her. In bright flashes of memory, she recalled the way he’d defended her at Hope’s ball, his tenderness toward Auntie George, his rapport with her father. Was it possible that Harclay, beastly thief, gambler extraordinaire, libertine, was a man of decency, of goodness?
“Well!” he said, and to her chagrin, he loosened his grip on her face and stepped away. “Quite enough poking about for one day, don’t you think? Best we get you home in time to change. I’m afraid we’ll need a bit of time before Almack’s to get good and fo
xed.”
“Foxed at Almack’s?” Violet raised a brow. “How daring, even for you.”
• • •
Tugging the bodice of her ball gown a smidge lower, and then lower again, Violet surveyed her appearance in the mirror and moaned in frustration.
“This one won’t do, either,” she said and turned her back to Fitzhugh so that she might undo the gown’s buttons.
“But you’ve tried on every dress you own!” Fitzhugh waved to the tangle of colored silks and satins that covered Violet’s bed. “There’s naught to be done; the one you’ve got on is most lovely. And the earl will like it just fine.”
“The earl?” Violet said, whirling to face Fitzhugh. “But how did you—”
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling. “He’s only been waiting in the drawing room downstairs for nigh on two hours. Are you certain he doesn’t mean to make an offer?”
Violet scoffed. “If he does, I shall take it as a sign of the apocalypse. Lord Harclay would rather suffer a fiery death than take a wife.”
“Ah,” Fitzhugh replied. “No wonder you like him. A rake, the kind of man one could never possess. Makes for a thrilling chase, does it not?”
Violet shook her head. “No. No, like is far too mild a word, Fitzhugh.”
The maid coaxed Violet into the cushioned seat before the mirror and went to work on her mistress’s hair.
“The earl’s had his men here all day, you know,” Fitzhugh said, words garbled by the pins she held in her teeth.
Violet’s heart skipped a beat. “His men? Whatever do you mean?”
“At least a dozen of them, standing guard at the doors. Your father was in a right tizzy ’bout it, he was. The earl sent a note apologizing, but there’s been talk of nothing else among the servants downstairs.”
Violet swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. Something was amiss—why else would Lord Harclay have her house under his watch? Did he fear for her life? Her father’s, her family’s? Or did he mean to do them harm himself?
The Gentleman Jewel Thief Page 17