The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  Violet played the part of a courtesan well—too well, in Harclay’s opinion. Not that he’d been surprised by her brash display. She had a lovely shape, and lovelier face, and she knew how to use both to her advantage. That she was clever and confident made her all the more alluring. She made a wonderful partner in crime, and if he weren’t so consumed by his desire for her, he’d be enjoying himself quite thoroughly.

  But the idea that she was not his, that he could never put his hands on her again, drove him absolutely, positively wild.

  The near-transparent toga that peeked through the collar of her jacket did nothing to help matters, either.

  She rapped twice on the door. As they waited, the king craned his neck to look inside the windows. Though the view was partially obscured by Hope’s swaths of red satin, the seductive twinkling of the Persian torches was visible.

  The king licked his lips and, turning back to the earl, waved his eyebrows suggestively.

  It was all Harclay could do not to roll his eyes.

  A moment later, the door cracked open and Lord Rutledge’s face appeared. With a barely contained grin, he eagerly swung open the door and ushered them inside.

  “Good evening!” he said in a baritone so deep and so loud it made Harclay jump.

  Violet placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Yes, good evening, Mr. Smith,” she said in a quiet voice. “I have as guests the Earl of Harclay and a special friend of his, visiting the Palace of Pleasure for the very first time. We must see to his every comfort, ears included.”

  True to form, her father ignored the hint and continued to speak in his circuslike baritone.

  “Please, gentlemen, follow me. I shall show you to Aphrodite’s Temple of Love.”

  By now, King Louis was panting with excitement. Harclay followed him down the hall—nearly unrecognizable, what with the strange wallpaper and clay pots Mr. Hope had installed—before they came to a halt before the double doors of the drawing room.

  With her back to the doors, Violet bowed low. The jacket slipped from her shoulder, pulling the sleeve of her toga with it; Harclay reached out and set the gauze to rights. For half a heartbeat, his fingers grazed the pale skin of her rounded shoulder. She looked up at him, blue eyes wide and naked; between them the air crackled with want.

  But just as quickly as she disappeared, the peerless courtesan returned. She ducked out of Harclay’s grasp and directed a burning smile at the king.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “welcome to my temple. Tonight you shall be treated as kings of all the gods.”

  Harclay’s gaze slid to her bosom. Both of her breasts appeared eager to escape the confines of her toga at any moment. And if Harclay was staring in the hope that such an escape would indeed occur, so was the king.

  Balling his fists at his sides—it wouldn’t do to bloody the King of France, not with Hope’s diamond, and Violet’s future, at stake—Harclay swallowed his rage and managed a small, tight smile.

  “That’s quite enough, Aphrodite.” He nodded toward the doors. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Very well, my lord,” she replied tartly, and with a dramatic flourish she ushered the men into her temple.

  Harclay very nearly laughed aloud when his eyes fell upon the drawing room. Hope had completely transformed the place into something out of an opera. Swags of red velvet, red satin, and red gauze covered the ceiling and walls. The carpets were strewn with sweet-smelling rose petals, and a virtual forest of candles and Persian torches winked from every available surface.

  A stage of sorts occupied the center of the room. It was built to resemble a Greek temple, complete with carved Doric columns and wooden blocks painted to look like marble. At the wings of the stage, a handful of Harclay’s handmaids strummed fake lyres and leapt awkwardly about, bearing their pale legs through white cotton togas. A harpist plucked a rather vile tune from some unseen corner.

  If there was ever a time Harclay needed a drink, this would be it.

  “Please, gentlemen, do sit,” Violet said. They followed her to a pair of overstuffed chairs upholstered in—what else?—red satin. Harclay grimly noted that the king’s chair was three times the size of his own.

  With a smile and a suggestive twirl of her toga, Violet excused herself and disappeared behind the stage. On cue, Lady Sophia then emerged in toga and sandals, her long brown hair loose about her shoulders.

  Harclay blinked, and blinked again, not believing his eyes. It was as if he were seeing Violet’s cousin for the first time. Gone were the missish ringlets, the frightened, lost expression; in their place bloomed a beautiful, glowing goddess, tall and proud and captivating.

  The king, too, gawked, and only remembered to close his mouth when she leaned over him and placed a snifter of brandy in his hand, another in Harclay’s.

  “For your refreshment,” she murmured.

  The king swallowed audibly. “Thank you,” he replied, still staring.

  Sophia drew a single finger across the length of the king’s pudgy chest and waited for him to start draining his brandy. When he did not, she settled on his lap and laced her arm about his shoulders.

  “Might I offer you anything else?”

  The king blinked, as if emerging from a spell. “I should like to see you dance. With the other ladies.”

  Sophia met Harclay’s gaze over the king’s head. She smiled slyly at him, a knowing, self-satisfied thing; and before he could stop her, Sophia drew back her hand and slapped the king soundly across the face.

  The king’s face froze into a mask of utter shock. Harclay would’ve burst into laughter had Sophia not just seriously jeopardized their entire plan. What the devil was the girl doing?

  Grasping the king’s jowls in her hand, Sophia turned his face toward her. “I am no lady, sir, but a goddess of love and beauty. You shall address me as such.”

  And, apparently for good measure, she slapped him again.

  For several long, excruciating moments, the king sat in stunned silence. Harclay hardly dared to look at the man; he waited for Louis to start shouting obscenities, to cry for help, to pour his laudanum-infused brandy down Sophia’s toga.

  Harclay took a healthy swig of his own. It burned its way down his throat; at once he felt it melt into his veins. He wondered which of his brandies Mr. Hope had selected for tonight. It was good. Very good.

  Taking a deep breath, Harclay looked to the king. To the earl’s very great relief, Louis’ face broke into a sinister smile as he crooked a finger beneath Sophia’s chin.

  “As you wish, goddess,” he mewled.

  “That’s more like it,” Sophia purred. “Now drink up, gentlemen. We’ve quite the heavenly show for you tonight.”

  As she stood, the king returned the favor and swatted her bottom. Harclay swallowed the impulse to swat the king, and none too gently.

  He took another long, glorious pull of brandy and leaned over to watch Louis do the same.

  “Enjoying yourself so far, Majesty?”

  The king nodded vigorously. “Why have I not heard of this Palace of Pleasure before? The women—goddesses, I mean!—are beautiful and lively; the brandy is very good. Well worth the trip, good man, thank you.”

  “The Palace of Pleasure is a well-kept secret among La Reinette and a very select group of gentlemen like myself,” Harclay replied. “You must understand that we do not like to share our women.”

  “Of course! With girls who look like that, I hardly blame you.”

  The earl’s smile deepened as he watched the king down the last of his brandy.

  Now all they had to do was wait for the laudanum to take effect.

  The harp swirled to a rather hair-raising crescendo, and Mr. Hope burst onto the stage. Harclay choked on his brandy and was forced to spit it back into his glass. Hope was dressed as a triumphantly muscular Achilles, a brass breastplate
(complete with erect, etched nipples) hanging from the leather straps at his shoulders; a toga was slung artfully over his right arm.

  He banged on his shield once, twice, and stared down at his audience of two in stony silence.

  “In the ancient times,” he began gravely, waving his shield at the room, “goddesses of great power lived at the top of Mount Olympus. They were beautiful, nubile, and wise. But to mortal men, they were a danger, a temptation that could not be resisted!”

  Harclay couldn’t help it; he let out a giggle, which he tried to disguise as a hiccup. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Hope’s speech wasn’t even all that funny; but he couldn’t control the laughter that bubbled to his lips.

  He managed a glance at the king. As he spun his head the room rolled ominously onto its side before righting itself again. He blinked, dizzy.

  He wondered vaguely what in hell was that; but at that moment Violet appeared, her gauzy toga glittering in the stage lights.

  Harclay’s mouth went dry. She was beautiful. So beautiful it brought tears to his eyes, which he wiped sloppily away with his sleeve.

  He hadn’t realized he’d said the words aloud—“Dear God, save me”—until the king leaned over and patted him on the arm.

  “All in good time, Lord Harclay,” he said. “And tonight there is no God. Only goddess.”

  The earl blinked, trying to focus on the stage. Caroline had joined Violet on Mount Olympus and was leaping about the stage about as elegantly as he’d expected she would.

  At first, Violet focused her gaze solely on King Louis, her lips curled into an alluring grin. She was an accomplished dancer, with hips that moved in time to the music. With a flood of longing he remembered their waltz together in Hope’s ballroom and how light she’d felt in his arms.

  He felt suddenly light himself, as if he were floating on a cloud. The sensation made him at once giddy and nauseated. And when Violet at last directed her gaze at him, he thought he might explode with desire and gratitude and brandy.

  What in the world was that stuff? He looked down at his near-empty glass, only to discover that he could no longer see anything.

  Panic spread its wings in his chest. He blinked furiously, to no avail; his thoughts had gone oddly mute, and the sensation of falling—down the stairs, off a cliff, from a ladder—overwhelmed him.

  He tried to open his mouth but no sound came out. His chest felt tight, and it became difficult to breathe. Blindly he groped the glass in his hand, his fingers sliding over its cool surface until they came to rest on the telltale jagged chip at its base.

  Oh, God, he thought, my God, I’ve just drunk the king’s laudanum, haven’t I?

  And then the falling became too much for him to bear, and he closed his eyes.

  Thirty-four

  Violet noticed something was amiss the moment she pranced onto the stage. First William laughed, trying (and failing) to pass it off as a hiccup; then she caught him staring at her with tears in his eyes.

  Though she had brought the poor man to tears more times than she cared to count, Violet knew the Earl of Harclay was a proud man. He was not one to weep easily; certainly not in Aphrodite’s Temple of Love, of all places.

  He began mumbling to himself, and even the king reached over to calm him. When at last she met his eyes, they were clouded with confusion. By the time she noticed his panic, it was too late. Eyes fluttering shut, his chin fell to his chest and he tumbled forward off the chair.

  “William!” Violet leapt from the stage. She caught him just in time, before he fell face-first to the ground. Her ribs throbbed with white-hot pain as she righted him, calling out his name.

  He was out cold. His face had taken on a bluish pallor; he was hardly breathing, a small wheezing sound escaping his pale lips every few seconds.

  Mr. Lake, Avery, and Mr. Hope appeared at her side.

  “What’s happened?” Hope said. “Good God, is he dead?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Violet replied through gritted teeth. “Help me lay him out.”

  Together Lake and Hope lifted the earl from his chair and laid him flat on the floor; Avery tucked a red satin pillow beneath his head. As he did so, he very nearly stepped on Harclay’s empty snifter.

  “My God,” Avery whispered, holding the snifter up to the light, “we’ve poisoned him!” His voice rose in horror. “He drank the king’s brandy!”

  “My brandy?” the king said, holding up his own drink. “But I’ve got mine right here.”

  Violet snatched the snifter out of his hand. She felt its base for the telltale chip. That was how cousin Sophia was supposed to tell the king’s drugged brandy apart from Harclay’s: a small chip on the base of the snifter signified its lethal contents.

  And there it was, a small chip in the glass, same as the one on the bottom of Harclay’s snifter. Sophia had accidentally given William the brandy dosed with laudanum.

  Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, Violet turned to Avery. He was as white as a sheet.

  “A doctor,” she managed. “We need a doctor!”

  “Wait,” Mr. Lake commanded, falling to his knees beside Violet. “He won’t live long enough to see a doctor. We need to purge his body, and quickly. Avery, bring water, salt, and whatever mustard you have in the house—ground seeds will work—and hopefully we can keep him awake long enough to swallow it.”

  Avery broke into a run and disappeared from the room; Violet began to shake William, willing her panic to remain at bay. Fear, hot and wild, pulsed through her; tears blurred her vision as her hands worked feverishly to bring him back to life.

  King Louis leaned over in his chair. “Excuse me, goddess, I hate to interrupt, but what about the dancing—”

  “Shut your mouth, you silly man,” Violet snapped. “Would someone tie him up already? Gag him, too, if you please.”

  The king drew back. “Now, the tying up I wouldn’t mind, but the gagging—”

  For a moment Violet looked up at him, daggers in her eyes. “You, Majesty, are just as birdbrained as they said you’d be. You’re being kidnapped, you fool! And you’re going to lead us to the French Blue, so that we might take back what belongs to us.”

  “The French Blue?” he barked, his face growing red. “It belongs to me, salope, to my family!—”

  Before he could finish, Mr. Hope calmly stuffed a sock into his mouth and, together with the valet, Mr. Knox, went to work at the king’s hands with a piece of twine.

  Satisfied, Violet turned back to William. She tapped the palms of her hands softly against his cheeks. His skin felt cold and wet.

  “William,” she called, more forcefully, “William, please, open your eyes, William.”

  Mr. Lake rubbed his hands, his arms. “He’s still alive,” he said. “Barely.”

  As they worked, Violet prayed for him. Prayed that he would make it out of this alive, that he would keep breathing long enough for them to help him, that he’d be able to swallow the water, that she would not have to say good-bye to him.

  Not tonight, not ever.

  “Damn you,” she whispered, caressing his face in her hands. “Damn you, William, how many times have we almost lost each other? We are alive, aren’t we? What’s one more time? One more time?”

  His eyes flew open, round and wide, as if she’d startled him from sleep.

  “William?” she cried.

  Avery appeared at her side then, a glass of murky liquid in his hand. He looked to Mr. Lake.

  “What you asked for—salt, mustard seed, and water. Are you sure this will work?”

  “Sometimes it works,” Lake replied. “Sometimes it doesn’t. Here, pass it to me.”

  “No,” Violet interrupted, taking the glass from Avery’s outstretched hand. “I’ll do it.”

  She turned to William, imploring him with her eyes. “You’ve got to
drink this, William, do you hear me? Drink it all, and quickly.”

  He blinked, once. Violet took it as a reply of affirmation. Guiding his head into her lap, Violet brought the cup to his lips and tilted it back.

  He drank slowly at first; he sputtered. When he’d drunk half the glass, his head grew heavy against her legs and his eyes fluttered shut.

  “William!” Violet said, shaking him. “Wake up; there’s still more to go—”

  Sophia, who up until this moment had stood over them, elbowed Mr. Hope aside and came to crouch beside Violet.

  “Allow me,” she said. Drawing back, she delivered a ringing slap to the side of his face.

  William’s eyes flew open again and landed on Sophia. Before he lost consciousness, Violet tipped the glass to his lips. He managed to finish most of the emetic.

  “William,” Violet said, “can you hear me?”

  He turned his gaze to her. She was surprised to see a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  And then, without ceremony, he turned his head and vomited on her lap.

  Though she nearly vomited herself at the sight, Violet bent down and kissed William’s sweaty forehead, heart thrumming with joy.

  “I’m sorry for ruining your toga,” he said, blinking. His dark eyes appeared lucid, wide, like a child’s.

  “That’s all right,” Violet replied. “I lost my dinner on your shoes at Hope’s ball, remember? I suppose the score is settled—for now.”

  “Of course I remember,” he said quietly. “You looked so beautiful.”

  Mr. Lake bent over him and held two fingers to his neck. “How do you feel? I’m afraid we mixed up the brandy glasses and ended up poisoning you instead of le roi.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” Sophia said feelingly. “I don’t know how it happened—”

  Pushing himself upright, William waved away her words. “Think nothing of it, Sophia. Just promise me you’ll never again raise your hand to another man—you seem to enjoy it a tad too much. Bloody hurt, too.”