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What were they going to do without the diamond?

Henry appeared at her side. “What? What is it?”

“The French Blue,” she replied. “Someone took it. It was here, not a few days ago . . .”

“Wait,” Henry said. “William kept the French Blue here, in his sock drawer? A priceless, fifty-carat diamond? In his
sock drawer
?”

“It’s a long story.”

His eye reflected the taper’s flame in a single pinprick of light, a tiny star floating in the darkness of his pupil.

“May I?” he asked.

Caroline nodded. He passed her the taper and stepped toward the drawer. His face was a study of hard planes as Henry tore at the drawer’s remaining contents, a flush of anger creeping up his neck to his chin, his cheeks.

“It’s not here,” he said at last, resting his elbows on the
open drawer. He pressed his thumbs to the place where his eyebrows met, and closed his eye.

“You think that man, the one on the horse—”

“Maybe. Could your brother have moved it elsewhere? To a safe, perhaps”—he scanned the mahogany cabinets lining the drawing room walls—“or another drawer?”

“No.” Caroline slumped against the cabinets. “William would keep the French Blue here, in that drawer, or nowhere at all. It’s gone.”

“I apologize for the language I am about to use. But shit. This puts us back to where we began.” He took a deep breath. “Just
shit
.”

Caroline swallowed, silently cursing herself for not taking the diamond when she had the chance. “Henry, I’m so sorry.”

He turned his head and opened his eye. “It’s not your fault. Stop apologizing. We’ll hunt it down, the diamond, though I may be forced to cut off your brother’s fingers this time around.”

“Fine by me.” Caroline sighed. “That scalawag deserves it.”

And then, after a beat: “You won’t really, though, will you? Cut off his fingers?”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “No, I won’t really.”

“Good,” she said with a sigh of relief. “We can still do it, you know—put our plot in play without the diamond. Tell Woodstock you’ve agreed to hand me over—”

“No,” Henry said, savagely. “I won’t go near that man without the French Blue in pocket. If something goes wrong—and knowing our luck, it will—we’ll need the diamond as protection against any threat Woodstock might make to your life.”

Henry rose and dug a hand into his hair, gathering the golden strands between his fingers. She watched, transfixed. Even in his shimmering anger he was handsome.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “In the meantime, I won’t have you feeling guilty about this. Promise me you won’t?”

She met his eye. “Let me come with you.”

“No.”

The vehemence of his reply startled her.

“But why—?”

“Stay here, Caroline. Let me sort this out. If I find anything, I shall come to you, straightaway.” He paused. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

*   *   *

C
aroline was reaching for the knob when the kitchen door swung open, sending her flying—where else?—into Henry’s arms.

Avery stumbled into the hall, hair and costume askew. “Oh, oh, my lady, I am terribly sorry! Are you all right?”

Caroline remained plastered to Henry’s chest. The bones in her shoulders vibrated in time to his heartbeat. She inhaled, deeply, the spicy scent of his skin filling her head.

He set her on her feet. He touched her as if she were a stranger; efficiently, tepidly. It made her stomach hurt.

“Yes,” she said. Her gaze swept over his person. “What about you?”

Avery opened the door the rest of the way. At once half a dozen men swarmed around him, each one dressed in Harclay livery. A tendril of panic unfurled in her chest.

The butler’s eyes flicked over Caroline’s head, to Henry.

“Tell me,” she said. “Is it William?”

Avery met her gaze. “It’s Lady Violet. She’s been kidnapped. The acrobats, the ones at Mr. Hope’s ball—they kidnapped her.”

She heard Henry draw a breath behind her.

“The acrobats?” Henry asked. His tone was carefully neutral.

“Yes,” Avery snapped. “Took her right in the middle of a dance at Almack’s. Gone, just like that.”

Twenty-six

H
enry’s heart fell to the floor between his legs with a
squish
.

Oh God,
he thought, this is all my fault, this isn’t how things are supposed to happen
.
He hadn’t seen it coming.

Moon had; Moon had warned Henry that this could happen, that tipping off the acrobats—telling them the bearded man who owed them money was the wildly wealthy Earl of Harclay—could endanger Caroline, or Violet, or both. That the acrobats could use the women as blackmail against Harclay, threaten their lives, kidnap them.

Henry offered a prayer of thanks that it hadn’t been Caroline. And then he cursed himself, silently, fluidly, for being so stupid as to put her in harm’s way with Woodstock. Just the
thought
of her being harmed, taken—it would be his fault, all of it—made his vision blur with rage.

He was thirty-two years old, for God’s sake, and had been playing at this espionage business a solid decade or more. He should know better. He should better protect the woman he loved. Had he learned nothing, being forced to leave her as he did? Had he not learned to take more care?

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Do we know where they took her?”

“No,” Avery replied. “The earl is in pursuit. Didn’t even have time to saddle his horse.”

“What do they want, the acrobats?”

Again the butler looked to Caroline. She gave him a small nod.
Go on
.

“Not entirely sure, sir. No doubt a sizable sum of money.”

Henry blinked. It all came together in a sudden, startling flash of clarity.
Of course
. The rider in the alley. The missing diamond, and the kidnapping.

Yesterday, Hope told Henry he’d frozen the earl’s accounts at the bank until his lordship produced the French Blue. It meant the earl had little, if any, access to the money their friends the acrobats were demanding.

The earl did, however, have the diamond. If he were as enamored of Lady Violet as Caroline seemed to think he was, he would trade his bollocks to get her back; he would trade a gem worth upwards of twenty thousand pounds.

What was that line the earl had used with Violet? Oh yes.

It’s only money
.

The rider who had nearly mauled Henry and Caroline in the alley was none other than the earl himself. After the kidnapping, he’d no doubt made a mad dash from Almack’s back to his house in Hanover Square, where he dug the diamond out of his drawer; when Henry and Caroline had seen him tearing down the lane, William was heading away from the house, after Violet, the diamond tucked into his coat pocket.

Henry guessed the acrobats were hiding out in Cheapside. The Cat and Mouse, most likely.

He had to get there before Harclay traded away the diamond. If the acrobats got hold of the French Blue, it would be lost forever; pawned, sold. Caroline would die, and so would his men.

He turned to the butler. “You’ll stay here, and guard the lady. Lock the doors. No one comes in or out. Keep her away from the windows—an interior room would be best.”

He turned to Caroline. She appeared as if she might burst into tears at the slightest provocation. His stomach clenched. If he made it out of this alive, he would never, ever forgive himself.

He took her elbows in his hands. She was shaking.

“Please,” he said, giving her arms a gentle squeeze. “Stay here. I’m going to help your brother find Violet. If there is any news, I shall see that you receive it straightaway. But you must stay here; the streets are not safe.”

“All—right, all right,” she stammered.

Henry made for the door. At the last moment Caroline lunged for him, giving his sleeve a gentle tug. “Take care, Henry,” she said.

“I will,” he said.

And he meant it.

Two Hours Later

Horse nickering with exhaustion beneath him, Henry watched from the shadows as Lord Harclay helped Violet up the front steps of her family’s crumbling Grosvenor Square manse.

She looked worse for the wear, gown spattered in blood, hair askew, but she was home, and in one (disheveled) piece. Harclay had successfully negotiated with the acrobats for her release. What drunk idiot wouldn’t forfeit a girl, even a pretty one, for a blue diamond that was practically the size of a plum?

By the time Henry arrived at the Cat and Mouse in Cheapside, it was too late. The air was acrid with singed gunpowder, an acrobat lay bleeding on the tavern floor, the deal was struck. Violet was in William’s arms, and the French Blue clenched in an acrobat’s greedy fingers.

It was too dangerous to go in after the diamond. Even with a man down, there were still three acrobats with which to contend, and while they were short of stature, they were strong, and quite drunk, and far more limber than Henry ever hoped to be.

He’d begged. He’d pleaded and threatened. This wasn’t how the plot was to go. He hadn’t had time to call in more men, to bring something—anything—with which to negotiate.

It was a losing fight.

It disappeared, the French Blue, two decades ago, in the beginning tumult of the Revolution. Now, if Henry didn’t act quickly, it would disappear again.

He’d have Moon canvass London’s shadiest pawnbrokers in the morning, its more discreet jewelers; beyond that, there wasn’t much Henry could do. He didn’t want to notify his superiors, or the agents working for him; the more people who knew, the sooner the French would discover the jewel had slipped from his grasp, and look elsewhere for their negotiations.

Henry had come to London to find the diamond; he’d planned to exchange it for the lives of British soldiers on the Continent.

But now his plan had changed. There was too much at stake to give up now; in one fell swoop he could spare Caroline’s life, and leave her to her hard-won widowhood.

He could not give up now.

Even though he hadn’t a clue what to do next.

He closed his eyes and drew a long, slow breath. Hope would be furious, his stock would continue to slide, and Lady Violet’s fortunes would fall. So many lives and livelihoods depended on this bloody diamond.

All weighty concerns, surely. He should be thinking upon them, devising schemes and deceptions to win back the stone, and right these wrongs.

He was thinking of Caroline instead.

He hoped she’d heeded his request and stayed at home.

From Violet’s front door came delirious cries of relief, muffled sobs; Henry stood watch, lest there be any undue fainting or palpitating of elderly hearts.

When the cries died down and the sobs became giggles, Henry urged his horse into motion.

Mayfair was all but deserted at this hour; the gas lamps were his only company, casting his flickering shadow out before him in sinister enormity. His leg was killing him.

He was exhausted, and hungry, and in pain.

Still. There would be no sleep for him tonight.

He led his horse down the familiar alley. In the dark Hanover Square was eerie, and strange. Windowpanes, blank with drawn drapes, stared down at him with unreadable intent.

All but one windowpane, that is. A single window was open to the cool night air, lit from within by a lamp whose light was reflected in a mirrored vanity.

Wincing, Henry dismounted and tied his horse to the iron
rails of the back gate. Despite the stiffness of his leg, he climbed the gate without disturbing so much as a pebble; he did, however, bite back an enthusiastic expletive when he landed on his bad leg.

He stood beneath the window, craning his neck as he waited for Caroline to pass by, or draw the drapes, or settle on the sill and quote a bit of Shakespeare.

(If only she’d whisper those lovelorn lines: “Henry, O Henry, wherefore art thou Henry?”; he’d be scaling the wall and in her bed in half a heartbeat.)

He heard Caroline move inside the room, heard Nicks’s muffled admonitions to go to bed, and get some sleep.

Even as his heart began to pound at the memory of Caroline’s mouth pressed to his, Henry felt limp with relief. She was here. She was safe.

He leaned his back against the cold brick, crossed his ankles and his arms, and closed his eyes. He listened. Caroline was in bed now; the maid was leaving the room.

He could smell her perfume. Inside his chest, his heart hiccupped.

She was safe.

For now.

And heavens, she smelled good.

“Caroline,” he whispered.

Twenty-seven