The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  It was enough to send the earl into a fit of fury.

  Beside him, Violet was tugging at his arm. “Wait, William, don’t—”

  But he was beyond words. He swung out into the drive, gravel skidding from his enormous, livid stride, and before Mr. Lake knew what he was about, Harclay walked right up to him and drove his fist into the man’s cheek.

  Caroline’s scream filled Harclay’s ears as he watched Mr. Lake stumble backward, nearly losing his balance before regaining his footing.

  The earl had forgotten just how big Mr. Lake was; though he was crippled, the man practically had muscles sprouting from his ears, and was half a head taller than himself.

  He pushed the thought from his head as Mr. Lake stood before him, holding his cheek.

  “Mr. Lake,” Harclay said dryly. “Imagine finding you here, and at this hour! What an unexpected surprise. To what do we owe the honor?”

  “I daresay my intentions are better than your own,” Mr. Lake spat out. He nodded at Violet, who suddenly appeared at Harclay’s elbow.

  The earl tucked her behind him and held her there with his arm. “You haven’t a clue what my intentions are, Lake. My affairs are my own,” he hissed. “You trespass on my property. You harass my sister, despoil her under cover of darkness, while she is under my protection. Tell us, what other secrets have you been keeping?”

  Mr. Lake gritted his teeth and took a menacing step toward Harclay. Behind him, Violet let out a little cry of fright, and Mr. Lake drew up, his face mere inches from the earl’s.

  “Stop it!” Caroline called from her window. “Stop it this moment or I’ll—I’ll jump from this window, I will!”

  “I’d catch you if you did,” Mr. Lake replied, his eyes never leaving Harclay’s. “Though I daresay your brother might shoot me in the back before I could reach you.”

  “I would do it gladly, if it meant getting rid of you,” Harclay growled.

  “Not if I do away with you first, you rotten, cowardly thief,” Mr. Lake said. “I am getting close, very close indeed, to recovering Hope’s diamond and incriminating you as the crook who stole it. The jewel is, through a bit of deft maneuvering, within my grasp. It won’t be long now before you are locked away in jail, your title forfeit, your fortune gone.”

  A cold, clammy spider of foreboding crawled up Harclay’s spine. Through deft maneuvering the jewel is within his grasp.

  Of course. Why hadn’t the earl seen Mr. Lake’s guilt sooner? The realization washed over him with heady force, the blood marching madly in his ears.

  “You,” he spat out. “You were the one who informed those damned acrobats that I was the man who hired them. It’s all your doing—the ransom note, Hope turning me away at the bank, and”—Harclay swallowed, hardly able to finish—“and Violet’s kidnapping. It was all you.”

  Mr. Lake thrust his face toward the earl’s, nearly head-butting him. “It was the only move I had to make, and so I made it. I never meant for Violet to be involved; on my honor, I would never, never place her in harm’s way. Though I cannot say you didn’t deserve it. Plundering Lady Violet, ruining her fortune and her family. You didn’t expect to get away with it, did you?”

  Harclay bit his lip against the white-hot wrath that exploded in his chest. He’d never felt such wild emotion. All he could think of was Violet and the terror he’d seen on her face through the hackney window as the acrobats made off with her.

  His fury was beyond dangerous. His hands curled into fists at his sides, he knew they would fly into motion at any moment, not stopping until Mr. Lake was a bloody, pulpy mess, not stopping until Violet’s suffering was avenged.

  When he spoke, Harclay’s voice trembled with quiet rage. “Today, at dawn,” he said. “Farrow Field, just outside the city. I’m sure you know it well. Choose your second. I shall bring the surgeon.”

  His words elicited a gasp of surprise from Violet, but before she could protest, Mr. Lake stepped back and bowed.

  “I accept your challenge,” he replied. “And make no mistake, Harclay, I don’t mean to aim wide.”

  Harclay smiled. “I would be insulted if you did.”

  He heard movement behind him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Violet dashing between himself and Lake. Caroline skidded through the kitchen door and was hot on Violet’s heels, coming to a halt at her side.

  The two ladies surveyed their respective gentlemen, eyes gleaming.

  “Idiots, the two of you!” Violet cried. “What good will a duel do, except to wound or kill you both?”

  Caroline glared at her brother. “If you hurt him, Harclay, you’ll be as good as dead to me,” she said, her voice deadly calm. “Do you understand? I’ll disown you, shame you, throw you to the wolves.”

  Harclay glared back. “He isn’t worth your affection, Caroline. He’s no better than a dog.”

  “How would you know?” she snapped in response. “You don’t understand the first thing about him! And now you’re off to kill each other. Don’t you have a thought for my happiness? For Violet’s?”

  Caroline motioned to the lady in question. “The two of you will destroy us all through this duel of yours. I beg you, both of you. Cry off.”

  But the earl would not be swayed. “Cry off? When the blackguard compromised you, and nearly had Violet raped, nearly had her killed? I think not.”

  Harclay turned to Mr. Lake, rage blurring his vision. “I shall see you at dawn.”

  In one swift, violent motion, he pulled Violet to his side and made for the lane in front of the house.

  Violet looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry!” she called out. “We shall remedy this, Caroline, I swear it!”

  Twenty-six

  In the sanctuary of her bedchamber, Violet waited for the darkness to fade into dawn. Despite her protests, Harclay had refused her request to accompany him and instead had locked her in her own house, admonishing her to “get some rest.”

  Like hell she would! She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Rest, after making love to William, discussing their beautiful babies together? Rest, after witnessing the earl challenge Lake to a duel?

  She’d never seen William so angry, so brutally emotional; his fury had frightened her. The thought of losing him to Mr. Lake’s pistol was terrifying. Violet couldn’t allow the duel to go on—couldn’t allow Harclay to die protecting her honor.

  What little was left of it, anyway.

  Doubtless Mr. Lake was a crack shot. Heavens, the man had survived years in Spain under Wellington; surely his skill with firearms was nothing to scoff at.

  It was all so hideously wrong and hardheaded. It took a special kind of idiot to willingly stare down the barrel of a gun in a freezing field at dawn. Honestly! It was a wonder any men were left in the world at all, what with their propensity for brandy and insults and pistols.

  And yet her heart ached at the thought of doing nothing, of leaving William at Mr. Lake’s mercy. Damn the man to hell, she had to save him from himself. But how? Locked in her father’s house, she couldn’t very well run breathless onto Farrow Field, begging the men to lower their weapons. She didn’t even know where Farrow Field was, though through the years she’d heard whispers of it. The gentleman’s choice spot for a duel; many men had lost their lives there or had been grievously wounded. It was certainly no place for polite females.

  Violet almost laughed out loud.

  She certainly wasn’t polite; if she had been, none of them would be in this mess in the first place. No, she knew herself to be something altogether different. A gambler, a cheat, a singular spirit with little care for what others thought or did.

  And it dawned on her that William, the Earl of Harclay, was very much the same.

  They both cursed and drank and danced the waltz; they kissed hard and laughed harder and never refused a surprise midnight visit.

  Whe
ther Violet despised or adored him for their likeness, she knew in that moment she could not allow him to be shot in the chest on her account. Surely William knew her well enough by now to know she wouldn’t let him go without a fight.

  She turned to the window, heat rising to her cheeks at the memory of Harclay falling through it. The darkness was muted somewhat by the first gray strokes of dawn’s approach. There wasn’t much time left; she had to take action, and quickly.

  Harclay falling through the window.

  Violet remembered him laughing at her wonder. I’ve got a strong back he’d said.

  “Of course!” she cried aloud, hand flying to her forehead. “Fitzhugh! Fitzhugh, please, we must hurry!”

  • • •

  “The terms,” Avery panted as he at last reached Harclay after running across the field, “are as follows: twenty paces and, of course, the salute. Only at the drop of my handkerchief may you shoot.”

  With trembling hands, Avery accepted Harclay’s dueling pistol to check it one last time.

  “Nervous, are you?” Harclay asked with a wry smile.

  “No, sir,” Avery replied curtly. “Just a bit rusty is all. I’ve been laboring all these years under the impression that you’d fought your last duel quite some time ago, when you nearly lost a leg to that thin gentleman with the tiny head.”

  “Ah, yes, my duel with Lord Araby,” Harclay scoffed. “Imbecile was killed not thirty minutes after, at his second duel that morning. Ah, the days of our youth. How foolish we were.”

  “Were?” he scoffed, shaking his head.

  Before Harclay could reply, Avery placed the gleaming Manton dueling pistol in his master’s grasp and motioned him onto the field.

  Only as the earl strode through the grass, the morning air clammy against his skin, did the reality of his position sink in. He’d fought tens of duels, and he’d managed to survive mostly unscathed. So why did this duel, this fight, feel so different?

  He glanced across the field at Mr. Lake, his enormous frame looming in the half-light of dawn. Not only was Lake possessed of the same size and skill as Harclay—it would be the first time the earl had faced such a formidable opponent—but never before had Harclay fought to protect a woman’s honor.

  And Violet was not just any woman. She was his woman, the maddening, lovely woman who had managed to capture his attention and his imagination and now his heart.

  Before, Harclay was always the one doing the insulting. How many times he’d been called to account by offended fathers, brothers, uncles, husbands—well, suffice it to say it was not an insignificant number.

  But now—now Harclay was the offended party; he was the offended lover who would risk his life on behalf of the woman for whom he cared. Cared for very much.

  So much it scared him.

  The earl glanced up at the sky. The last of the stars were fading out to gray; the horizon burned pink and yellow with the approaching sun. It was going to be a fine summer day, warm and bright. He wondered how Violet would fill the hours; would she think of him, of all they’d shared last night?

  Just thinking of her face, beautiful and clever, sent a shock of pain through him. He must’ve gasped aloud, for suddenly the surgeon appeared at his side. Only after Harclay’s adamant assurances that yes, yes, he was quite all right, did the man once again turn his back and disappear to the edge of the field.

  Squaring his shoulders, he held up his head and met Mr. Lake’s fiery gaze. Rage, hot and wild and blinding, filled Harclay once again. He understood why all those men he’d dueled against had put their lives on the line, though such duels were usually resolved before any shots were fired; at this moment, Harclay would do anything, kill a man or set fire to the world, so that Violet’s suffering might be avenged.

  The deadly silence that settled between Harclay and Mr. Lake was pierced by Avery’s voice, instructing them to meet at the center of the field. Lake’s steps were sure, his limp all but gone. Harclay covered the distance in a handful of long, angry strides before coming face-to-face with Mr. Lake.

  “Lord Harclay,” Lake said and made his salute.

  Harclay nodded and returned the favor. His opponent’s one green eye gleamed in the morning light, hard and inscrutable. Lake’s fair skin was mottled red about the cheeks, lending him a ruddy, healthy air. For a moment Harclay thought of Caroline, and though he was about to kill the man, he understood why Mr. Lake appealed to her. How unlike her old goat of a husband he was: strong, intimidating, determined.

  Which explained, of course, why Harclay had caught him sneaking out of Caroline’s room in the middle of the night.

  “I am sorry to have offended you,” Mr. Lake said, his voice even. “But I love your sister. I care only for her happiness, her honor, and if I live I have every intention of making her my wife.”

  “Caroline deserves better, and you know it,” Harclay replied savagely. “I do not accept your apology. Avery! We turn at your command.”

  Avery stepped forward, as if to separate the two gentlemen; he glanced uneasily from one to the other. He opened his mouth as if to speak—Harclay could see the words in the man’s eyes, Are you sure you want to do this, all things considered?—but the earl cleared his throat in warning.

  “Very well,” Avery said, defeated. “Ready!”

  Together Harclay and Mr. Lake both turned on their heels so that their backs were pressed against each other, guns held skyward at the crooks of their shoulders.

  “Count paces!” Avery called.

  The earl stepped forward, silently counting his paces as he stalked across the field. One, two, three, four.

  Twenty paces was nothing to scoff at; Mr. Lake must have been nearly as expert a marksman as Harclay to agree to such a distance. If Lake meant to shoot him right between the eyes, there was a very good chance that he would do it. Harclay knew this duel would end only in blood.

  Eleven, twelve.

  The dew from the grass beaded on the toes of his boots. It reminded him of the way droplets of rain had run down Violet’s face and neck that night he’d caught her in his stables. Though he wondered what had possessed her to begin her search there of all places, he couldn’t deny he was glad she had; for she appeared heavenly in the rain, dress sticking to her skin in all the right places.

  The thought of never seeing her again, never peeling off her clothes and having her to himself, settled black and heavy over his chest.

  Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

  Harclay struggled to breathe. From the corner of his eye, he saw the surgeon and his assistants turning away from the field, averting their gazes.

  Around him the world was quiet, save for the soft shifting of grass beneath his boots; but in his ears his heart marched loudly, a plea to stop, to end this silly exercise.

  He did not stop.

  Nineteen, twenty.

  Harclay whirled to face his opponent, the movement swift and calm, his thoughts an unbearable cacophony. He raised his arm and stared down the polished barrel of his gun, only to meet eyes with Mr. Lake across the field.

  Gulping back the rising tide of foreboding that rose in his throat, Harclay released the safety on his pistol.

  Avery approached, holding a handkerchief high above his head.

  With one last, weary look at his master, he let the handkerchief fall from his fingers.

  Harclay did not hear Violet’s cries until it was too late.

  Twenty-seven

  Violet tore across the field, ignoring Fitzhugh’s panted warnings and Caroline’s admonishments not to leave her behind.

  “Stop!” Violet cried, holding up both her arms. “For the love of God, stop!”

  William was standing on one end of the field with his back wedged toward her. His stance was purposeful, authoritative, as if he’d done this a hundred times before; legs wide apart, shoulders squared, his arm t
hrust forward with the pistol held fast in his hand. She could see the billowy white linen of his shirt peeking through the cuff of his jacket—the same shirt he’d tugged over his head just hours before, after giving her the most intensely pleasurable night of her life.

  Violet quickened her steps. She watched in horror as Avery approached the field and raised a bright white handkerchief above his head.

  “No!” she shouted. “No, no!”

  This can’t be happening, she thought wildly as she pumped her arms and legs with all the strength she could muster. Please let this be a nightmare, some trick of the imagination, for if Harclay dies, if Mr. Lake dies, it will be my fault.

  She was coming upon Avery now. Behind her, the surgeon had seen her and was chasing after her, motioning wildly for her to stop. But she couldn’t; she had come this far, and the momentum of her body, and of her determination, would carry her over the threshold.

  Her insides lurched as Avery let go of the handkerchief; she nearly slammed into him half a heartbeat later, and narrowly missed him only to cross directly into the line of fire.

  She realized she was a perfect target for the gentlemen’s dueling pistols only after the shots went off. It all happened so quickly, in the space of a single breath, that she hardly understood what was occurring.

  “Please!” she was crying, her hands still in the air. She turned her head to face Harclay, just in time to watch him fire his weapon. For a split second his face was concealed by a cloud of gun smoke; and then his brows went up in surprise, his dark eyes wide with terror as his gaze fell upon her.

  William opened his mouth—he was shouting, she could tell from the tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes—but she could not hear it. There was a rushing, violent sound just off to her right, so loud it was deafening.

  White-hot pain sliced through her ribs as the bullet dug into her flesh. For a moment her vision went black. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and she felt her knees buckling and the weight of her body carrying her down, down, my God, am I dying, have I already died?