The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  She was breathing heavily, that single step having nearly exhausted her. Perhaps William was right about listening to the surgeon. Violet had never been one to follow directions, but then again, she’d also never been shot in the ribs.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I may have overestimated myself.”

  William took a seat across from her with a little sigh, curling back a stray lock of dark hair with his fingers. “It’s difficult to stay still for so long,” he said. “A few years ago I fell from my horse and broke my leg. After being confined to my bed for a week, I couldn’t take it another moment. I got up, got on my horse, and proceeded to fall off yet again, only to break the other leg. That time, I stayed put.”

  “That sounds just like you,” Violet said, a smile rising unbidden to her lips.

  “Our blood runs hot, yours and mine.”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  For a moment William gazed at her, a silly grin on his face. She grew warm under the scrutiny of his flashing eyes and looked away.

  “I have come to share what I hope you will consider happy news,” he said at last. “About Hope’s diamond.”

  Violet’s ears perked up. “The French Blue! Have you found it yet? Sitting still has been difficult enough, but knowing the diamond remains missing makes it almost unbearable. Please tell me you have it, or you know where it is!”

  “I’ve a good idea, yes,” he replied. “It’s still in London, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Thank God! It’s kept me awake these past nights, wondering where it could be. Paris, Rome, Moscow? What a great stroke of luck! Is it the acrobats?”

  William shook his head. “We’re through with those filthy little fellows, though I’m afraid we’ve traded them for quite a motley cast of characters.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Violet said, laughing. “It seems we capture the strangest creatures in our net, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Better strange creatures than dull debutantes or half-witted earls,” William replied with a smile. “Myself excepted, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  Together they laughed, and when they were done a beat passed between them as Violet struggled—and failed—to tear her eyes from his glorious, delicious, wonderfully scented person.

  “Why are you telling me this?” she quietly asked. “You forget we chase after one another, the cat and the mouse. Those two do not chase together, not without one devouring the other.”

  “I would happily allow you to devour me, Violet, if it meant easing the pain I have caused you. I’m telling you because I want you to have the French Blue. Once it is in our possession, it shall belong to you and you alone. What you do with it shall be your decision. I don’t believe I’ll ever forget the way it looked around your neck, the way it reflected the blue of your eyes. What I would give to see that lovely picture again, Violet—I’d give anything. Everything I have, I’d give it.”

  Violet swallowed hard and sat up on the sofa.

  “You said you had a good idea about where the diamond might be. I think it best we act quickly. Though it may yet be in London, no telling when it might disappear again, and this time for good.”

  Harclay told her about his stroke of luck at White’s. He told her about the enormously fat king Louis XVIII and his brother, the Comte d’Artois, and their plans to secure a loan of thirty thousand pounds and meet the day after tomorrow, so that together they might buy the French Blue from a certain Mr. Eliason.

  “That is where we come in,” William continued, face alight once again with the prospect of a new chase before him. “I had Avery do a little digging on my behalf—you’d never know it from his demeanor, but the man knows half of London—”

  “What did he find?” Violet blurted out. “Is the king a bastard? No, an impostor! The possibilities are endless, just endless!”

  William cleared his throat. “Well, Avery didn’t find much on the king or his brother. Aside from the usual royal follies, of course—eating, a peculiar interest in tiny dogs, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh,” Violet said, deflated. “I always believed royals would choose far more intriguing sorts of sin. Especially the French.”

  “But”—William held up a finger—“Avery did uncover one interesting tidbit about King Louis. It seems he has a taste for unsavory women.”

  Violet drew back in surprise. “But the man’s big as a cow and can hardly walk! How is he supposed to ‘do the deed,’ as they say?”

  “He doesn’t. That’s the key. Apparently he just likes to watch.”

  “Well, that is intriguing,” Violet replied. “I assume you mean watch as in—”

  “Yes,” William said quickly. “The king prefers to watch the courtesans pleasuring each other.”

  Violet brought a finger to her lips. “Hm,” she said. “I would’ve never guessed.”

  “It’s common enough,” William replied, “especially considering your average peer’s diet and drinking habits. Many cannot ‘do the deed’ themselves, as you say, so they prefer to watch others do it.”

  “But what has that got to do with the diamond? How will this information about the king help us?”

  Harclay leaned even closer, rubbing his hands together with glee. “I’ve got a plan. And I think you’re going to like it. We’ve got a week, maybe less, to find the French Blue.”

  Thirty-one

  The Earl of Harclay’s Residence, Brook Street

  Later that evening

  The plan—rather ingenious, in Harclay’s humble opinion—consisted of the following: assuming she was well enough, Violet and he would lure King Louis to Harclay’s townhome under the pretense it was a “Palace of Pleasure.” Once they had the king in their possession, they would make him lead them first to his brother, Artois, and then to Eliason, the shadowy jewel merchant claiming to have the French Blue.

  Harclay had yet to iron out the details—like how, exactly, they would pry the jewel from King Louis’ sausagelike fingers—but it was at the very least better than the plans offered by his fellow jewel hunters.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Mr. Hope said. “What if this Eliason character is setting us up? Why don’t we try to find him first and leave that ridiculous man who calls himself king alone?”

  “We should just torture Louis,” Caroline said calmly, stirring sugar into her tea. “It won’t be difficult. We’ll just starve him for a day or so. I guarantee he’ll tell us everything we need to know.”

  Harclay rolled his eyes and tugged a hand through his hair. “No one is torturing the King of France, Caroline. Especially not you.”

  They were seated in the earl’s drawing room, set to rights thanks to the scrupulous efforts of his staff. If it weren’t for the prospect of a very dangerous, very exciting chase ahead, Harclay would’ve engaged in fisticuffs with Mr. Hope. Had it really been necessary to ransack the earl’s house, just to prove Hope’s point?

  “I, for one, like Lord Harclay’s plan,” Violet said, glancing at him from across the room. “With King Louis at our side, and the thirty thousand Artois brings to the table, I believe we’ve got as good a chance as any.”

  Standing by the fire, Mr. Lake placed his saucer and cup on the mantel and crossed his arms over his enormous chest. “I’ll help with your plan, Harclay, if you swear you’ll hand over Hope’s diamond to us. It doesn’t belong to you. Never did. I’ll need your assurance that you won’t be pulling the wool over our eyes. I’ll be watching your every step, every movement.”

  Harclay bowed his head. “I can’t say that I blame you, Lake. You have my word as a gentleman; I’ve no interest in keeping the French Blue myself.”

  Cousin Sophia cleared her throat. “Then why are you helping us find it?”

  Harclay glanced at Violet. Sh
e was trying very hard not to blush.

  “Because I owe a very dear friend a favor,” he replied quietly.

  The stain on Violet’s cheeks flared. He couldn’t help but notice how pale she appeared. Not twenty minutes before, she’d excused herself for a lengthy bout in one of his newly installed water closets. The surgeon had privately assured Harclay that Violet’s wounds were healing nicely and that her color would return in a matter of weeks. But the earl knew better; something was amiss, something she was hiding from him.

  “Very well.” Mr. Hope clapped his hands together. “Where do we begin? I’ve a decent collection of costumes and plenty of props. Tell me, Harclay, exactly how far do you want to take this little ‘Palace of Pleasure’ ruse? I have a . . . a friend who might be of assistance.”

  • • •

  One week later

  The following evening was warm and potent, the kind that hummed with possibility. Harclay and his parade of castmates—Hope, Sophia, Mr. Lake, and Caroline, Auntie George, and even Violet’s father, Lord Rutledge—enjoyed an early dinner, then continued to transform Harclay’s house from a tastefully appointed earl’s residence to a glittering, luscious house of ill repute.

  Mr. Hope transported props by the wagonload: enormous marble statues of suggestive nudes, swaths of red satin bedclothes, costumes and jewelry, and even a fat yellow snake he brought back from the jungles of Africa.

  “You are quite the collector,” Harclay said to him earlier that day, as together they watched the wagons being unloaded. “Do you ever use this stuff?”

  Hope grinned, a small, lascivious thing. “If the occasion calls for it, yes. Lady Sophia especially prefers the bedclothes—”

  “Thank you.” Harclay clapped him on the back. “Thank you for your help, Hope. We couldn’t do this without you.”

  The banker glanced sideways at him. “After our ploy is played through, Harclay, and the diamond is once again in my possession—I’d like us to be friends again, if only for Sophia’s sake, and for Lady Violet.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Harclay replied slowly. “You know I never meant to hurt you or your business, Hope. I hold you in the highest esteem; why else do you think I keep all my accounts with you? You’ve a brilliant mind for business, and it is my sincerest wish that our relationship is a long and fruitful one.”

  Mr. Hope sighed, chewing thoughtfully on his cigar. “I know you can’t help yourself, Harclay; I saw that wildness in you the moment we met. Just do me a favor and steal other people’s diamonds from now on, would you?”

  “No more stealing for me,” Harclay replied with a laugh. “At least for the time being. After all this, I’ve discovered there’s nothing more thrilling than a night spent in the company of a clever woman and a table with strong legs.”

  Hope raised his brow. “A table, eh? That’s for beginners. Try a desk. Or before a fire, right on the floor. Add some port and a little medieval art, and you’ve got a thrill indeed.”

  Harclay didn’t know whether he should laugh or blush, or both.

  “You and Lady Sophia,” he replied at last. “Are you—”

  “No.” Hope’s expression darkened. “We are not.”

  Harclay rolled back on his heels. “Well, then. Sorry to hear that, old chap.”

  “But you and Lady Violet . . . I see you’ve fallen. Fallen quite hard, by the look of things.”

  The earl glanced back to the house; the earthy scent of Hope’s cigar was strong in his nostrils. “I’m sorry about all this, Hope,” he said after a beat. “We’ll get the diamond back, I swear it.”

  Hope rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. He brought it to his lips one last time before tossing it to the ground, stamping out the ashes with the heel of his boot.

  He turned and made for the house. Harclay followed a few steps behind.

  • • •

  Hours later, as Harclay’s valet put the finishing touches on his master’s exquisitely knotted cravat, the earl recalled Hope’s words.

  I see you’ve fallen, fallen quite hard.

  He was right. Harclay had stupidly, thoroughly, irrevocably fallen in love with Violet. And fool that he was, he’d managed to make a right bloody mess of it by stealing the diamond and leading her in circles, all for his own enjoyment. He did not blame her for twice refusing his proposal of marriage; and yet his heart ached at the realization that she would never be his.

  These dark thoughts had no place in tonight’s plan. And so the earl pushed them from his mind and instead focused on the evening ahead. At least he would have Violet at his side for one more night. After that—he would cross that proverbial bridge when the time came.

  The valet ran a stiff horsehair brush over the tailored shoulders of Harclay’s blue velvet jacket and stepped back.

  “Bang up to the knocker, you are, my lord,” he said, eyes gleaming with pride. “Must say, it pleases me you’re finally wearing one of the patterned waistcoats I selected. Fits like a second skin.”

  Harclay surveyed his reflection in the full-length mirror. He smoothed his palms over the garishly adorned waistcoat—a thousand embroidered sheep were mewling merrily across his belly—and smiled. It was just the sort of thing a dandy might don to visit his favorite paramour.

  “Thank you, Knox,” he said. “It’s perfect. Shall you require any further instruction on the role you’re to play tonight? I know it is a most unusual request.”

  Mr. Knox clicked his heels together and straightened his back. “I shall take my role as chambermaid quite seriously, my lord, you have my word.”

  “Remember, you must wait for my signal before you bind the king’s hands.”

  “Of course,” he replied and, in a rare show of emotion, clapped his hands and nearly leapt into the air. “Oh, my lord, the staff and I are so honored to be a part of your deception. Such excitement is a rare treat indeed, seeing as things are usually so very quiet around the house.”

  Harclay’s smile tightened. He swallowed, looking away so that Mr. Knox might not see the regret flashing in his eyes. He knew what the valet was getting at: a house full of family, of children and grandparents and women, was a far happier place to live than one occupied by a debauched bachelor. For the first time in his life, the earl agreed with Mr. Knox’s sentiment.

  But it was too late for Harclay, too late, and they had a whorehouse to build besides.

  “Let us enjoy it, then, while the excitement lasts,” Harclay said.

  With one last glance in the mirror, he turned and nearly knocked headfirst into Violet.

  “Good God, woman, since when have you learned to step so softly?” he said.

  And when his eyes raked hungrily over the length of her, he said again: “Good God!”

  Violet fastened the last button on her jacket and straightened, greeting his incredulous gaze with a wide smile. “Don’t you just love it? I wish I could wear breeches every evening! So comfortable, though I’m afraid they are not cut to flatter the feminine figure.”

  She whirled in a little circle before him, the long tails of her jacket rustling against his legs. She was dressed in the garb of a gentleman, complete with top hat and cane. Harclay swallowed, his eyes lingering on the shapely lines of her legs, clearly visible through the tight-fitting material of her breeches. Her long hair was tucked carefully into the hat, which was a smidge too large and sat low on her forehead. Good thing, for hers was far too pretty a face to ever be mistaken for a man’s.

  He gritted his teeth against the familiar rush of heat in his groin.

  “Take it off,” he growled. “I’ll have Caroline accompany me to The Glossy.”

  “Take it off?” she said, smile falling. “But it’s perfect! And don’t think for a moment I’d let you have all the fun. I’m going to this rather glamorous-sounding house of ill repute, whether you escort me or not.”

&nb
sp; Harclay ran his finger along the edge of her sleeve, eliciting from her a small gasp of pleasure. Ah, he thought. So neither of us is immune to the desire that simmers between us still.

  “It’s too . . .” He gestured with his hands. “It’s too much.”

  “Too much?” she replied. “Mr. Hope said there’s no such thing. And for once, I agree with him.”

  Digging a hand through his hair, Harclay sighed in defeat. “All right. But we’d better pray every dandy in that ‘house of ill repute,’ as you so endearingly call it, is dumb with drink. Despite your costume, I doubt anyone in their right mind would mistake you for a man.”

  Violet glanced in the mirror, turning this way and that. “That’s a compliment, I suppose. But it doesn’t serve our current purpose very well.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Harclay replied sharply. Each time she turned, his eyes seemed to land on her perfectly pert bottom, the breeches accentuating the delicate curve of each cheek.

  Without willing it, a groan escaped his lips.

  “Are you unwell?” Violet said, turning to him with wide, innocent eyes.

  He swiveled on his heel so that she might not be witness to his embarrassing condition. “Er, as well as can be expected. Come, let’s go over the plan with our cast one last time.”

  • • •

  The drawing room—now transformed into Aphrodite’s Temple of Love—crackled with excitement as Harclay detailed the intricate steps of the plan from his perch before the fire.

  “And when Lady Violet and I return from The Glossy with the king in tow, that’s your cue, Lord Rutledge, to lead him into this room. Sophia, you’ll offer Louis some refreshment from a tray—make sure he chooses the cognac laced with laudanum; I’ve marked it clearly—and Hope will then appear, weaving a tale of Greek goddesses and the like.”

  “And then I come in!” Caroline exclaimed, clapping her hands. “That’s right, isn’t it? Violet and I come to the temple steps—”

  “Yes,” Harclay interrupted, before Caroline made everyone choke on their wine, “you and Violet come to the steps. You’ll dance, twirl your togas, and the like. When the laudanum starts to take effect, Mr. Lake, Mr. Knox, and Avery will discreetly bind his hands. Together we’ll haul him to the carriage. Oh, Lady Georgiana, you remembered your wheelchair, did you not?”