The Gentleman Jewel Thief (19 page)

I
t all happened so quickly, Violet could hardly piece together the events that led her to this moment: disheveled and shouting obscenities in the back of a foul-smelling hack.

She’d felt a tap at her shoulder just as she was making to curtsy before Lord Harclay. She turned and met eyes with a smallish man, bad teeth and all that, whom she recognized straightaway as one of the acrobats hired to help the earl steal Mr. Hope’s diamond. Her eyes went wide with surprise—she remembered wondering how he’d snuck into Almack’s, what with the formidable Mr. Willis guarding the door—and then four pairs of small, callused hands closed around her limbs.

Violet could hardly think, much less protest, as they pulled her through the crowd, raucous from dance, to a hidden side door. No one so much as glanced her way; she was just another body, jostling for air in a crowded ballroom.

The acrobats pushed her roughly down a dark, narrow set of steps. By now she realized she was in trouble and started to yell, to scream. One of the men pressed his palm to her mouth and twisted her hands behind her back.

White-hot panic seared through her as they tossed her into the hired hackney.

And now here she was, being bound and gagged with lengths of greasy flax linen. She tried kicking the men, biting them, flailing her arms about; but they merely held her against the seat until both her legs and arms were tied.

“Right, then, missy,” one of them said, his smile rotten. “What shall we do with ye?”

The hack began to move. Violet screamed with all her strength, tears springing to her eyes, but the sound was muffled by the gag they’d tied around her head.

Shouts sounded outside the carriage. Violet thought she recognized one voice and turned her head to look out the back window.

Her heart went to her throat as she watched Lord Harclay gunning after the carriage, arms thrusting at his sides as he ran toward her. His face was a mask of intensity, his eyes black with rage.

Despite his enormous stride, the hack managed to pull away from him. It veered dangerously into the street before breaking into an all-out jostle.

Violet caught one last glimpse of Lord Harclay before he was lost to the night. He’d been gritting his teeth against the pain of his exertion when he threw up his hands and shouted her name. She could hardly hear it over the pounding of the horses’ hooves, and of her own heart, but she could see his lips form the word, a strangled cry that promised vengeance.

Now she understood—Harclay’s strange behavior, his men at her house. She understood why he would not answer her questions, though that did not make her want to strangle him any less.

Someone had betrayed him to the acrobats, told them it had been the Earl of Harclay who’d hired them to create a scene at Hope’s ball. The acrobats, being greedy, scavenging scalawags, went after him for the money he owed them. Believing Violet to be his paramour—which, she thought indignantly, she most certainly was
not
—they must have threatened to kidnap her if he did not pay.

Here she paused. But why
didn’t
Harclay pay them? Seventy-five pounds was a great deal of money to her, but to the earl it was akin to spare change. She knew he would never intentionally put her in harm’s way. All he had to do was go to the bank—

The bank
.

Of course!

Mr. Hope must have frozen Lord Harclay’s accounts. The earl wouldn’t be able to touch a penny until Mr. Hope allowed him to do so.

She imagined Harclay’s rage when Hope delivered the blow. He must’ve felt helpless and embarrassed and terrifyingly, thrillingly, angry.

Violet wasn’t sure if it was satisfaction that now bloomed in her chest—satisfaction that Hope had at last espoused her theory of Harclay’s guilt—or fear. Fear for Harclay, fear for herself.

Turning back to the carriage, she surveyed her assailants. It was obvious they were anxious, though they appeared to relax the farther they drove from Almack’s. She did not allow herself to ponder what, exactly, they had in store for her; rather, she kept her thoughts trained on Harclay and the valiant rescue he was sure to orchestrate if these bastards didn’t slit her throat first.

The ride seemed to last an eternity. She watched through the hack windows as the elegant, well-kept streets of St. James’s became the poorly lit alleys of Cheapside. She could hear the entreaties of lightskirts, calling out from doorways and taverns to passing men; the stench was beyond words.

At last one of the acrobats pounded the roof of the hackney, signaling a stop. Violet swallowed, hard, and steeled herself against whatever was to come next.

“We’ll take this off ya,” one of the acrobats said, unwinding the lengths of cloth that bound her mouth and limbs, “but if ye so much as squeak, it’s goin’ back on, ye hear me?”

Violet sniffed her reply; she worried if she spoke, her voice would wobble pitifully with fear, with rage.

The coach door opened and the four little men leapt out into the street. They glanced over their shoulders and, content that no one was about, pulled Violet down to join them.

A raucous roar sounded from across the lane. The hack pulled away, revealing a low, squat tavern, its rough wooden door virtually surrounded by prostitutes of every shape and size. Above their heads swung a barely legible sign:
THE CAT AND MOUSE
.

Violet bit her lip against the revulsion that rose in her throat.

The roar grew more raucous as the acrobats tugged Violet toward the tavern’s entrance. Even from here she could smell the gin, hear the fistfights, see the leers of unwashed men.

She hesitated at the threshold, and the women there pounced on her at once.

“Ah, fancy lady ye got here, lads! She’ll fetch a nice price inside!”

“It’s a lady!” one of them drawled. “Yer high and mighty ways won’t do ye much good here.”

Another approached and took hold of Violet’s earbob. “I say, is them real pearls?”

With a rather savage tug, the woman plucked both bobs from Violet’s ears and cackled with glee.

“Leave her be, eh?” one of the acrobats snapped as he pushed Violet over the threshold into the tavern.

“I would appreciate it,
sir
,” she growled, “if you didn’t handle me so roughly. I know how to walk.”

She followed their leader to the back of the tavern. A scarred oak table emerged from the dark of the corner. There, burying his face in a woman’s rather enormous breasts, sat a dull-faced drunkard.

The acrobats shooed them away and motioned for Violet to sit in the drunkard’s vacated chair, her back to the wall.

Again panic spread its wings in her chest. She was all but invisible in that chair, even from the tavern’s entrance. These men could do anything they wanted to her and no one the wiser.

“Well, then,” the acrobat said, nodding at the chair, “I’ll make ye sit if ye won’t do it on yer own.”

With a huff of indignation, Violet did as she was bid. The chair was hard and uncomfortably warm from its previous occupants.

The four acrobats sat, forming a protective barrier between Violet and the tavern. At once a barmaid appeared with mugs of steaming cider, which she placed before each man with a wink.

Violet cleared her throat. What could better quell her panic than a draft of strong cider? Besides, she reasoned, it would buy her time to think, and perhaps devise a plan of escape.

“I would like a drink,” she said in the most officious tone she could manage. “A strong one.”

The barmaid cocked a brow and looked to the men at the table, who in turn looked at one another in bewilderment, as if she’d requested not a drink but a go with one of the ladies outside.

“Ye got the money to pay fer that?” one of them said at last.

Violet sniffed. “Add it to Lord Harclay’s tab. I hardly think one mug of cider much matters, given the sum he owes you.”

“That’s just the thing,” he replied, leaning over the table. “The lord ain’t paid us yet.”

“Well,” Violet said, trying another tack, “you have my life as security. Surely I am worth at least one little mug of cider.”

Despite himself, the acrobat returned her suggestive smile. Only when one of his fellow thieves nudged him in the ribs did the smile fade.

“Right, then,” he said, “a mug of cider for the lady. But only one! And make it quick, would ye?”

Violet batted her eyes at the man in gratitude, and though it was dark she could see him blush.

Excellent.
These men, like most, were dimwits and lechers, and drunks besides; after a few mugs they would be well in their cups and more interested in the company of loose females than Violet.

That would be her opportunity for escape. She only had to wait an hour, maybe two, and then she could slowly edge away from the table and dart out of the tavern when they weren’t looking. And then—

And then what? She didn’t know her way around Cheapside; hell, she didn’t know where she was to begin with. God knew what dangers awaited her in the street outside.

That was if she even
made
it outside. What if someone—an acrobat or one of his cronies—detained her before she could make her escape? Would they hurt her, touch her,
kill
her even?

Her cider arrived, and the acrobats watched as Violet took a long, desperate pull.

“Easy there, lass,” one of them murmured. “Didn’t know the ladies drank cider, and like
that
.”

Violet shook the anxious thoughts from her head. Tonight of all nights she could not,
would
not, break. She’d made it through twenty-two years without so much as a crack; and she would make it through another twenty-two, no matter the intentions of these bastards.

She let out a rather long, theatrical sigh of satisfaction as she brought the mug down on the table with a
clap
.

“I daresay, sir,” she replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “there’s quite a bit about me that might surprise you. By chance, do any of you carry a deck of cards? I’m in the mood to play.”

“U
nhitch the horses,” Harclay barked, tugging at the reins that held his pair of perfectly matched Andalusians.

“But my lord!” Avery said, mouth agape. “We haven’t a saddle! How are you to ride?”

“To hell with the saddle,” Harclay replied, turning to his groomsmen. “Come on now, lads, put your back into it! We haven’t the time!”

“Shall I retrieve your pistol, my lord?” Avery asked, nodding toward the Harclay town coach.

The earl flashed open his jacket in response, revealing two pistols tucked into the waistband of his breeches.

They were drawn up before Almack’s, surrounded by Harclay’s squad of gunmen and armed footmen. Avery was overseeing the entire production; through the haze of his fury, Harclay recognized the butler showed great grace, all things considered. Who else would remember to stock the family town coach with an extra bottle of brandy
and
a handful of pistols?

At last the horses were let free. Harclay waved away the assistance of the grooms and swung up onto the horse’s bare back. It was more uncomfortable than he could have ever imagined; but the image of Lady Violet, eyes wide with shock and terror as she watched him run after her, was powerful enough to make him forget himself entirely.

“Give my apologies to the Ladies Georgiana and Sophia. Tell them I shall return Violet, unharmed, by morning,” Harclay said, looking down at Avery. “Otherwise, tell no one what has occurred here. God forbid this gets to the papers and harms Hope any further.”

“Very well, my lord,” the butler replied. “Godspeed, sir, and good luck.”

Harclay took off, urging the horse faster and faster through the lamp-lit streets. At last his investment in horseflesh paid off: the Andalusian was indeed so swift and sure that Harclay was forced to hang on to the horse’s mane for dear life.

When he reached his town house, he swung off the horse and shouted for a stable hand to saddle him. As fast as Harclay’s legs would take him, he bounded into the house and up the stairs, giving quite a fright to a young handmaid on the way.

He tore into his bedchamber, pristine from his staff’s ministrations, and flung open the door to the dressing room. In the darkness he reached for the sock drawer—by now he’d memorized its location by heart—and pulled it open.

He dug about a bit before he fingered the French Blue’s distinctive shape. Pulling it from its nest of silk stockings, he held it up to the light of the fire in his bedchamber.

It was lovely, casting a rainbow of glittering confetti about the room. In this light it appeared a shade past blue, with hints of gray. The color, exactly, of Lady Violet’s eyes.

Pain pulsed black and heavy in his chest. How close she’d come earlier that day to finding the diamond; really, how did she know to look in his sock drawer?

He shook his head, a smile rising unbidden to his lips. She was brash and bold, wily and clever. Though he’d assured Lady Violet he would never marry—and he never would, he assured himself, not
ever—
he wouldn’t mind spending the remainder of his days in the company of a woman like her.

But tonight the earl didn’t have time for such thoughts. He had nothing short of a herculean task before him. Without sufficient cash, Harclay was going to have to bargain for Lady Violet’s life with Hope’s diamond.

It was magnificent enough to catch the acrobats’ attention, more magnificent than a horse or some silver flatware from the Harclay family vault. He didn’t have time for any of that besides; already, too many minutes had passed since Violet had disappeared down King Street. Rage flooded his veins at the thought of her bound and gagged, being taunted and tortured in some filthy, dismal corner of the city.

He tucked the diamond into his jacket pocket and ran.

 • • • 

T
hough she’d been unceremoniously abducted and dragged to this filthy, dismal corner of the city, Violet had to admit she thoroughly enjoyed taunting and torturing her captors by besting them in round after round of cards.

For nigh on two hours now they’d been at it: games of casino, vingt-et-un, and faro, among others the acrobats called by less savory names. And time and time again, Violet managed to win, amassing a small pile of coppers from which the acrobats would steal when their luck ran out.

With each round of cards came also a fresh round of cider. Violet quietly ignored hers while her captors drank more greedily the longer their losing streak continued. They were sloppy players to begin with; when drunk, they were dismal.

It was, really, far too great a temptation for Violet to resist. Cheating had never been so easy, and besides, her winning seemed to distract the acrobats from the fact that they had
kidnapped
her and she was theirs to do with as they pleased.

Around them, the sounds of the tavern intensified as the night grew darker; Violet supposed it was well past midnight by now. For a fleeting moment she thought of Harclay, and inside her chest her heart skipped a beat. She wondered if he would come for her—how could he negotiate with her kidnappers without access to any of his funds? Surely these men had no interest in anything other than cash.

One of the acrobats made a strange, slurring sound, and suddenly his head hit the table with a low, dull
thwack.
Violet jumped back in surprise.

“Get up, ye fool,” said another and soundly slapped the man’s forehead. But it appeared the man was out cold. The acrobats exchanged glances across the table, but after a beat returned to their cards. One of them cursed; another emptied his mug and shouted a jumble of gibberish that Violet assumed was a call for another round.

Now was Violet’s chance. If she could just get past their table and into the press of bodies that now crowded the tavern, she would be free. The acrobats could never catch her, not in this crush.

Slowly she began edging her chair away from the table, careful that it did not so much as squeak as she moved. She turned ever so slightly, her legs together on one side of the chair, and faced the tavern. Placing her feet on the floor, she gritted her teeth and willed her limbs to move.

Pulse pounding—what would they do to her, if she were caught?—she rose to her feet and leapt into the crowd.

That single moment felt like an eternity; the anticipation was nothing short of awful. Violet landed not on her feet but on a bear of a man about to take his first sip from a full mug of cider. The cider went flying through the air, spattering everyone, while the man cursed and took a blind swing with an ax-sized fist.

Violet watched in horror as his fist hurtled toward her face. She couldn’t move, nary an inch with so many bodies surrounding her; and so she scrunched tight her eyes and waited for the inevitable explosion of pain.

But that explosion never came. She felt herself suddenly jerked backward, rough hands on her shoulders and arms and waist. Her eyes flew open to land on the three remaining acrobats, faces swollen with drink and ire.

“Tie the bitch back up!” one of them shouted.

Violet’s belly turned over at the violent edge in the acrobat’s voice, the malice in his eyes. Oh God, she’d misjudged them: fools they were, certainly, but dangerous fools, drunk fools, and now they were angry. It was akin to swatting a bees’ nest, and she had a feeling she would come to regret cheating these men.

They pushed her back into her chair and she let out a cry of pain as they pulled her arms roughly behind her. One of the men bound her hands so tightly she could feel the linen rubbing a burn into her skin. Another leered into her face, his foul breath roiling her insides. She recognized the gleam in his eye: desire, the drunk, violent kind.

“I like ye better tied up, now, lass,” he murmured and moved closer, as if to kiss her.

Violet swallowed the panic that rose in her throat. She gathered every ounce of courage she could muster and, drawing back, she spit right into the man’s eye.

“Bloody hell!” he cried and fell backward.

The other two acrobats turned to her, disbelief mingling with rage on their faces. Violet’s triumphant grin was short-lived, for one of them lifted his hand and unceremoniously brought it down, hard, on her cheek.

She felt the blow with her entire being. For a moment the world around her went black, and she tasted blood—her lip, likely; her ears were ringing, an ominous, high-pitched sound.

Don’t swoon,
she warned, gritting her teeth.
You never swoon, remember?

Though if there ever was a time to do such a thing, now would be it.

The world slowly came back to her, hazy and smelly and terrible. The pain was rivaled only by her fear. Whatever was going to happen next, she wasn’t going to like it.

The acrobat—the same one in whose eye she’d spat—was still looking at her, his face close; and in the dimness, she could tell he was unbuttoning his breeches, while a second man was getting to work at her skirts.

She closed her eyes against the prick of tears swallowing the terror that tightened her throat.

There was a tremendous noise, a clap of thunder that Violet felt in her bones. Something sticky and hot splattered across her exposed skin; she heard the acrobat cry out, a gurgling, sinking sound.

Her eyes flew open.

For there in the middle of the tavern stood the Earl of Harclay, a smoking pistol in his outstretched hand. Even in the shadowy dimness, Violet could make out his face, handsome and dark with rage.

At her feet lay the slain acrobat, the hole in his chest pulsing plum-colored blood all over her slippers.

Harclay met her eyes across the room. His flashed with focus, with fury. For a moment they slipped to her bleeding lip, and she could see them flare dangerously. She sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of his pistol.

Violet hadn’t realized the tavern had grown as silent as a tomb until Lord Harclay spoke.

“Untie her,” he growled at the two conscious acrobats beside her. “Do as I say and perhaps I won’t put a bullet between your eyes.”

But the men would not be cowed. They drew weapons from their jackets and pointed them steadily at the earl.

“We want what ye owe us,” one acrobat replied, and he moved his arm so that his gun pointed not at Harclay but at Violet. “And perhaps I won’t put a bullet between
her
eyes.”

Harclay did not hesitate. He dropped the gun and held his hands up in surrender. As he lifted his arms, Violet saw the gleam of a second pistol tucked into his breeches. She widened her eyes at him in warning, and at once he lowered his arms. The pistol remained hidden beneath his waistcoat.

“I don’t have the money,” Harclay said, “but if you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you something even better.”

The acrobat wrinkled his nose. “What’s better than money?”

Slowly, his gaze never leaving the armed men, Harclay dug two fingers into the pocket of his jacket and produced a small, shining object that appeared inky dark in the light of the tavern.

Violet’s breath left her body.
The French Blue
.

The French Blue!

And Harclay was about to trade it for her life.

“Diamonds,” Harclay replied. “This is the largest diamond yet discovered on earth, gentlemen. It belonged to the kings of France.”

The acrobat held out his hand. “How can I be sure it’s real?”

Harclay handed over the diamond. “Touch it and you’ll see.”

Violet watched as the acrobat held Hope’s diamond up to the light. Lust, pure and potent, slowly widened in his eyes, as if the jewel were casting a spell upon him.

She felt it, too: the diamond’s strange pull, her desire for it pounding against her rib cage. If the diamond ended up with these drunken acrobats, it would be lost forever; pawned, sold overseas, buried. Hope would be ruined; her own inheritance, gone.

No. Violet could not—
would
not—allow these bastards the pleasure.

She met eyes with Harclay. He nodded imperceptibly, reading her thoughts.

“I assure you, the diamond is genuine. All fifty carats,” Violet said and struggled against the chair. “Now untie me!”

The acrobats exchanged grunts; while the one continued to survey the diamond, the other lowered his gun and loosened Violet’s hands.

Taking advantage of the diamond’s spell, Violet quick as lightning jerked her knee against the acrobat’s nose. He fell to the floor and she made a grab for his gun, but his partner was too quick. He took her by the hair and wheeled her to face Harclay, holding his pistol to her head.

“Don’t come any closer,” he warned, “or I’m liable to shoot that bullet we been talkin’ of.”

Still holding one hand up in surrender, Harclay slowly extended his right arm, as if to reach for Violet.

The acrobat tugged her closer against him, giving her hair a good, hard tug. Violet gritted her teeth at the sudden sharp pain. Bastard would pay for that, she swore silently, and pay dearly.

“Easy, there,” Harclay said, reaching farther. “You’ve got the diamond—should fetch you much more than seventy-five pounds, surely. Now give me the girl. That was our deal, remember?”