The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  Auntie George beamed. “I did indeed, Lord Harclay.”

  “Excellent, most excellent,” Harclay replied with a smile and patted her gently on the shoulder.

  “What about the king’s feet? Shouldn’t we bind those, too?” Lake asked.

  “He’s too fat to escape, really,” Violet replied. “More than anything, binding his hands serves to scare him.”

  “Lady Violet is correct,” Harclay said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Once we have the king in our possession, we’ll have him take us to Artois. We’ll get the money and seek out Mr. Eliason, the jewel merchant, wherever the three of them have arranged to meet. And then the diamond will be ours. Hope’s, I mean. Simple enough, no?”

  The earl couldn’t keep the triumph from his voice. He was awfully proud of his plan, no use denying it. And though he would never say so aloud, he was proudest of the part of the plan where he and Lady Violet were at last together and alone.

  The room erupted into eager chatter as everyone rose to put the finishing touches on Harclay’s Palace of Pleasure. From across the room, the earl caught Violet’s eyes. She stood behind a chair, her coat glimmering in the temple-like light of gilded Persian torchères Hope had purchased for his “Emperor’s Hareem”–themed fete two years before. Her blue-gray eyes were alive, her color high. For a moment she smiled at him, the kind of smile that twisted his insides into a happy knot.

  It was all he could do not to stalk across the room and press his mouth to hers.

  Instead he grinned, a foolish, lopsided thing that bared his heart to her as plainly as a spoken declaration.

  She looked away, drawn into conversation by her aunt. Harclay cleared his throat and pulled inordinately hard at the sleeves of his jacket.

  The clock on the mantel chimed the hour: ten o’clock.

  It was time to go.

  Violet sauntered to his side—the way her hips moved in those breeches, my God!—while the others turned and looked at them expectantly.

  “Godspeed,” Mr. Hope said. “And good luck.”

  Harclay nodded his thanks.

  Not that we’ll need it, he thought smugly as he escorted Violet from the room. After all our plotting, all our hard work, what could possibly go wrong?

  Thirty-two

  Butterflies—and not the good kind—fluttered in Violet’s belly as the Earl of Harclay’s carriage drew to a stop before The Glossy, a discreet house wedged between two grossly large mansions in a shadowy square off St. James’s Street. Its staid entrance loomed in the darkness. The gas lamps on either side of the front door flickered menacingly, two beady eyes of fire staring out into the night.

  A now-familiar rush of unsavory sensation flooded her mouth, and for a moment Violet feared she would lose her dinner on the impeccably brushed carpet of William’s carriage.

  Perhaps her earlier bravado had been premature.

  The earl must have sensed her distress, for he took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

  “I will be by your side the entire evening,” he said. “You’ve nothing to fear. Remember we are in our element! A cunning deception, a trap well set, a thrilling chase. You are exceptional at this sort of thing. Keep faith in yourself, Violet. Besides, Hope assures me the madame of this establishment—they call her La Reinette, the Little Queen—is a dear friend of his.”

  “Of course she is.”

  The carriage door swung open, and Violet followed William out onto the street. Violet pulled the hat lower over her eyes, and together they made not for the front door but for a small alley that ran along the side of the house.

  As if he’d done this a hundred times, William ducked into a hedgerow at the bottom of the alley, pulling Violet in after him. After a terrifying moment of wading through the darkness, they emerged onto a well-lit courtyard at the back of The Glossy. At the far end of the courtyard, an enormous vine of wisteria hung like a hairy brow over a squat, if elegantly paneled, door.

  A handsome, impeccably groomed young man opened the door before William even raised his cane to knock.

  “Good evening, my lords,” the man said, proffering an elegant bow. “Welcome to The Glossy. We’ve been expecting you. Please, do come inside.”

  Violet followed William over the threshold. She was at once inundated by a heady mix of potent scents—cigar smoke, sweat, perfume. Tucking her chin into the shadow of her hat, she discreetly surveyed her surroundings. It was far more elegant than she had imagined such an establishment would be, even a fancy one hidden in plain sight in Mayfair. Gleaming carved panels lined the walls, and enormous crystal chandeliers glittered off polished marble floors. The quiet sanctity of a museum, or perhaps a palace, permeated the space, punctured every so often by the tinkle of female voices in a distant room. The air was cool and calm, the light low, inviting.

  Violet looked down at her jacket, her top boots, and her breeches. The butterflies suddenly disappeared, replaced by a heady excitement. Heavens, she was parading through a whorehouse, dressed as a courtesan in the guise of a man. If this wasn’t fun—well, Violet didn’t know what was.

  And because fun seemed to be in such short supply these days, she resolved herself to enjoy every minute of this frivolity, this chase, this thrilling episode. She had Lord Harclay at her side, and a white gauzy toga beneath her jacket. She would never be here, playing out this ridiculous plot, again.

  Diamond and bullet wound and bills be damned. Pushing her fear aside, Violet would be as brash and clever as she desired tonight. For now, at this moment, she had nothing and everything to lose.

  The host led them up a curving stair and paused before a door at the end of a long hallway.

  “I’ll bring him up when he arrives,” he said. “This is the king’s favorite room. Shouldn’t be too long now.”

  Harclay tucked a guinea into the man’s lapel. “Thank you.”

  The earl opened the door and ushered Violet inside the room. It was a large and well-appointed chamber, decorated in varying shades of pink and coral. There was an enormous canopied bed tucked into a dim corner, while sensually shaped chaise lounges and a trio of chairs occupied the center of the room. The light was low, inviting.

  Violet’s gaze strayed to the bed in the corner; her cheeks burned. It made her think of Harclay’s bed, the caress of the bedclothes at her back as he moved over her, ardently.

  William met her eyes, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

  A heartbeat of silence passed between them, then another, another, another still.

  At last Violet swallowed.

  “Well,” she said, glancing about the room, “we should probably make ourselves comfortable.”

  Violet walked toward an oversized chair marred by an enormous, telltale imprint of the king’s enormous royal arse.

  “This is the king’s room, all right,” William said. “It’s shocking the man hasn’t exploded by now. They say he once ate twenty-two beef pies in a single sitting.”

  Violet sank into the chair, feeling like a child at play on a forbidden sofa. “Imagine witnessing that. I don’t think I could ever eat another pie. Heavens, William, however are we going to drug a man this size? I doubt there’s enough laudanum in all the world to fell a man as fat as the king.”

  “I told Hope to measure out a lethal dose,” William said grimly, falling onto the sofa across from her chair. “Lethal for you and me; but for the king, it will likely just serve to make him a tad sleepy. Though I can’t say I’ve ever drugged a man his size before. It’s a bit of a guessing game, you see.”

  Violet cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve drugged other men?”

  “Dozens,” Harclay replied, his tone teasing. “Of course I haven’t—well, except myself. But that hardly counts. Why, my sweet, innocent darling, do you ask? Have you drugged other men?”

  “Yes.” Violet grinned. “But only two, and those
cads deserved it.”

  His arm stretched over the back of the sofa, the earl surveyed her with amused eyes. She wondered what he was thinking. Were his thoughts, like her own, a riot of excitement and fear, confusion and heat?

  Beneath his scrutiny, Violet grew warm in all the wrong places. The familiar tug of sensation between her legs; her nipples rushing to hard, eager points; a certain breathless tingle coursing through her limbs.

  As if he were aware of the desire taking captive her body, William slowly began to lean toward her, eyes never leaving hers. His arm fell from the back of the sofa and rose to caress her face. On her skin his breath felt warm; his lips hovered above hers.

  “Violet,” he said hoarsely.

  “Yes,” she replied. It was a question, a command, a plea—all those things, in a single, breathless word.

  William leaned in for the kiss, yes, yes, and just as his lips brushed hers, there was a clatter behind them.

  Pulling away from his caress, Violet leapt to her feet. She tried not to wince at the sudden, searing pain in her side.

  William rose to stand beside her. The door swung open, revealing King Louis XVIII’s horrified face.

  Leaning heavily on his cane, the king cried, “What the devil is this?”

  Harclay swept the hat from his head and bowed deeply. Violet also bowed but did not remove her hat. “Your Majesty! What an unexpected pleasure! It appears we’ve had a bit of a mix-up with our rooms. That butler, bless him, is new to The Glossy and doesn’t quite know his way around yet. He must have mistaken your private room for my own. My sincerest apologies, Majesty.”

  Violet bit back a smile. William was good—very good—at playing this game.

  The king surveyed the two of them for some moments. Beneath his feet the floor groaned ominously.

  “Are we acquainted, my lord?” the king said at last. “Your face, it is familiar.”

  William rose and smiled broadly. “Indeed, I have had the pleasure of gazing upon your royal countenance for some time now, at White’s. I joined back in ’03; I believe you’ve been with us since ’09?”

  The king’s round face brightened. It seemed even royalty was not immune to William’s handsome charm.

  “Why, yes, it was April of ’09,” Louis replied. “An astonishing memory you’ve got, good man.”

  “Indeed, I remember it well. Such an honor it has been, to count you as a fellow member,” William said and bowed again. “William Townshend, Earl of Harclay, at your service, Majesty. We’ve gambled a great deal together.”

  “Ah, yes, Lord Harclay,” the king said, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “I remember you. They say you’ve bedded half the women in England; even in France I know they speak of you. The ladies of my court are quite enthralled by your”—here the king’s eyes flicked to the front of William’s breeches—“your bravado, as they say.”

  “The ladies of your court, they are so lovely, and far too generous,” Harclay said, ignoring the evil look Violet shot him.

  A short silence filled the room. William brought his hat to his chest, as if he were making to leave.

  “Best be on our way, then,” he said. “Again, my sincerest apologies for this terrible mix-up. I will see to it that butler does not make this mistake again, Majesty.”

  He had Violet by the arm, and was about to tug her toward the door, when the king took a labored step into the room and spoke.

  “Wait,” he said, gesturing to Violet with his cane, “who are you?”

  Excitement pulsed through her at his words. William had done his part; now it was her turn, her chance to win over the king. She swallowed her fear and, raising her chin defiantly, seductively, she looked into his eyes.

  “Who, this?” William said innocently, gesturing to her. “Nothing more than a good friend, Majesty.”

  Sliding her fingers along the brim of her hat, Violet lifted it from her head and tossed it carelessly across the room. Her hair fell in dark waves about her shoulders and breast; she shimmied her head, just for good measure, and the waves of her hair trembled suggestively around her face.

  The king shut the door, quickly, with his cane. He swallowed, eyes wide as saucers.

  This, she thought, is going to be fun.

  “A good friend indeed,” he replied breathlessly. “What else can she do?”

  Violet directed her most sensual smile at him. “I can do many things, Your Majesty,” she purred, swaying her hips as she made her way toward him.

  Slowly, with great care, she removed one arm from her jacket, then the other; the garment fell with a delicious swoop to the floor. Pausing before the king, Violet began to unbutton her waistcoat, one button at a time.

  The king licked his lips, staring. “I do believe I’ll sit,” he said, holding out his hand. “Harclay, if you would be so kind.”

  William helped the king onto the chair, his enormous behind settling nicely into its own imprint on the cushion.

  “Go easy,” William hissed into Violet’s ear as he straightened, “or you’ll give the man an apoplectic attack.”

  She shrugged out of the waistcoat and, dangling it from her first finger, allowed it to fall to the floor.

  “Oh, yes,” the king said, transfixed. “Oh, yes, keep going!”

  Violet giggled and tossed her hair in his face. She listened to his sharp intake of breath with no little satisfaction.

  From the scowl on William’s face, she could tell she was playing her part as a courtesan with aplomb. Whether or not that was a good thing, she had to admit it was quite a rush to take a man wholly captive with her body alone. The king had begun to perspire, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. Violet’s smile deepened, and she tore off her cravat and shirt with a suggestive growl.

  The king’s color rose from pink to red to purple in the space of a single heartbeat.

  Violet stepped out of her breeches and stood before King Louis, her eyes never leaving his. She wore naught but a single layer of shimmery gauze, artfully draped so as to display her curves to their full advantage.

  Beside her, William swallowed, hard. Her smile deepened yet again.

  “Might I introduce,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice came out high and tight, “might I introduce Aphrodite, the goddess of love and pleasure.”

  “My God, Harclay,” the king breathed. “Wherever did you find her?”

  “Ah, Majesty, a gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

  “But!” the king sputtered. “But you must tell me! She is exquisite, positively exquisite! A beauty the likes of which I haven’t seen in ages. Is she one of La Reinette’s girls? I haven’t seen her before. Come, share your secret with me, Lord Harclay, and I promise to tell no one.”

  William sucked a breath in through his teeth. “I don’t know, Majesty. It’s nothing personal, you see—”

  “I’ll give you anything. Name your price—just tell me where I might seek out this lovely goddess at play with all her nymphs!”

  William met Violet’s eyes; his flashed with triumph, and something else—she recognized that look, a simmering gaze of pain and lust and heat.

  For she felt all those things herself.

  “Anything?” William said, turning his attention to Louis.

  “Yes, anything, anything at all,” the king said, gnawing on his bottom lip as his gaze raked the length of Violet’s body.

  “You must come with us,” Harclay replied. “To Aphrodite’s Temple of Love.”

  The king’s flabby face screwed up in confusion. “But why can’t I just have her here? The Glossy is the finest palace of pleasure in all of London.”

  Harclay threw back his head and laughed. “You think this is the finest London has to offer?”

  “What?” The king shifted uncomfortably. “Is it not?”

  “Ah, my dear, dear majesty, how
I pity you.” Harclay placed his hand on the back of Louis’s chair and leaned down, lowering his voice. “La Reinette reserves Aphrodite’s Temple of Love for only her best, her most loyal, clients. She has deemed you worthy of the honor.”

  The king’s narrowed eyes shot from Harclay to Violet and back again. Violet returned his gaze steadily, willing her wildly beating heart to be still.

  “You know precious little of our great city, Your Majesty. Allow me to show you the best London has to offer, for the best is what you deserve. There are other goddesses, lovely, like this one.” Harclay nodded at Violet. “Goddesses who are most eager to make your acquaintance at Aphrodite’s Temple.”

  Louis surveyed Violet dispassionately, the tiny curve of his frown lost in the fleshy folds of his drooping jowels.

  “Very well,” the king said at last. Then, with a wave of his shaggy brows: “I am most eager to know what pleasures there await us mere mortals. Though we must make haste, for I’ve—er—I’ve an appointment later this evening.”

  Thirty-three

  “Welcome,” Violet purred as they made their way to the front door of William’s house, “to the Palace of Pleasure, where your every desire shall be fulfilled.”

  With Harclay’s help, the king ascended the last step, panting as if His Majesty had pulled the horses, and not the other way around.

  “Ah,” the king wheezed. “I do so hope it was worth the trip.”

  Harclay stretched his back. Dear Louis was fatter, and heavier, even than he looked. “You shall not be disappointed, Majesty. We take our pleasure most seriously at Aphrodite’s Temple of Love,” the earl replied.

  Violet flashed her eyes at the king. “Very seriously.”

  Harclay gritted his teeth against the frustration that flooded his every limb. It was enough that he’d had to watch her strip nearly naked without touching her; but to have another man ogling her, swallowing her whole with his beady, doglike eyes—it had taken every ounce of self-control not to drive his fist into the king’s fat face.