The Gentleman Jewel Thief (17 page)

T
he welcome Harclay received at Hope & Co. was markedly cooler than that which he’d enjoyed just a few weeks before. Bank employees turned from him, not as if he were a triumphant Caesar but rather a Medusa come to turn them all to stone, snakes roiling from his head.

Harclay brushed past them, his mood grim. He didn’t have time for the usual Hope & Co. theatrics; he needed seventy-five pounds, and quick, lest those conniving acrobats get their hands on Violet.

His pace quickened at the thought. The rage he felt toward those cads, toward himself, was nothing short of murderous. He could not bear the fact that it was his own carelessness, his lust-fueled stupidity, that put Violet directly in harm’s way.

He would not see her hurt. No matter the consequences, the blood that would be spilt; the earl would see her safe and happy, her life, her family, her fortune secure.

Harclay prayed Hope would allow him this one last withdrawal; he prayed his accounts were not yet frozen. The earl had contemplated returning Hope’s diamond—for that would solve everything, wouldn’t it?—but the banker was a wily fellow, and a consummate businessman besides. Even if Harclay did return the jewel to him, Hope was just as liable to have him arrested as he was to shower him with thanks. After all, returning the diamond was tantamount to an admission of guilt.

No, it was too much of a risk; if he was arrested, thrown in jail, who would protect Violet from the acrobats? They would come after her, whether or not the earl returned the French Blue to its rightful owner. Besides, he had bigger plans for Hope’s gem, plans that involved Violet, his favorite carriage, and a very good bottle of Scotch.

He was about to mount the stairs, railing clasped firmly in his hand, when a hugely tall man stepped in his path.

“Excuse me, my lord,” the man said. “Mr. Hope is not accepting calls this afternoon. If you would but leave your card, I shall—”

Harclay shoved the man unceremoniously to the side, and continued up the stairs. “Hope will see me,” he growled.

“My lord!” the man called out, racing up the steps after him. “My lord, you musn’t!”

But he was no match for Harclay, who barged through the closed doors of Mr. Hope’s office just as his man, breathless with exertion, reached the top step.

Mr. Hope stood behind his desk in naught but his waistcoat, leaning on his hands above an enormous stack of newspapers. He raised his head, surprise flashing in his dark eyes as they fell upon the earl.

“I need to make a withdrawal,” Harclay said without ceremony. “And quickly.”

Mr. Hope rose to his full height, surveying Harclay from across the room. The earl could tell he hadn’t slept in days; heavy, dark circles ringed his eyes, and though his face was carefully composed into a mask of indifference, Harclay saw strain in the furrow of his brow.

“I assume you’ve seen the papers?” Hope asked.

“I don’t have time for this,” Harclay replied. “I don’t mean to be rude, Hope, but time is of the essence—”

“Eight days,” Hope interrupted. “I’ve been in the headlines for eight days straight. Each headline worse than the last; by now all of London must think me a brainless buffoon. Never mind the success of my business before the French Blue incident. Now I am being judged on one bloody night of theatrics; a drop in the proverbial bucket, as they say. And my business—it has suffered greatly, Harclay. Greatly indeed.”

Harclay bit back his impatience. “I understand your frustration, Hope.”

Hope shook his head, his voice even, deadly calm. “I don’t think you do. You see, when Lady Violet came to me with her little theory about you being the thief, I very nearly dismissed her out of hand. Why would Lord Harclay do such a thing, I thought, and to me of all people? I’ve guarded his investment, shown him generous returns.

“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.

 • • • 

A
rm 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.