The Gentleman Jewel Thief (14 page)

Violet watched him through her lashes; though his features were carefully arranged into an inscrutable whole, his eyes were wet and dancing. She could feel him,
him
, even through the thick blanket, prodding against her legs.

“Life must prove most uncomfortable, what with that—that
thing
in your pants.”

Laughter rumbled through his chest. “You’ve no idea, Lady Violet. Though I pride myself on my ability to control such urges while in public, it seems I am unable to resist you, especially in private.”

There came a knock on the door. Harclay quickly tucked Violet behind him, and she peeked over his shoulder to see Avery and several footmen bearing great, steaming pots into the room. Two at a time they emptied the pots into the tub. At once the scents of lavender and rosemary filled the chamber.

“And the candles, don’t forget those,” Harclay said.

Avery bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

Several more footmen entered the chamber, carrying what appeared to be every available candle in the house. They placed the candles about the tub, creating a forest of flickering flames that cast a glow on the steam rising from the scalding hot bathwater.

Violet’s skin prickled in anticipation; if Harclay didn’t throw her on the bed and have his way with her first, this bath was going to feel lovely indeed.

The footmen disappeared, shutting the door quietly behind them. Silence settled heavy and expectant between Violet and the earl.

At last he cleared his throat.

“A book to read, perhaps, while you bathe?” Harclay said.

Violet blinked. “Yes,” she replied. “Please.”

Harclay turned and disappeared into the darkness; she heard a door open, a door shut quietly. Violet stood beside the tub, breathing in the lavender scent of the water in an attempt to calm her nerves. Surely it was better to bring a book into the bath rather than the earl himself.

Several moments passed without any sign of Harclay’s return. The water beckoned, cooling by the moment.

“My lord?” Violet called out into the room, unable to see beyond the steam that rose from the tub.

No answer. She waited a beat. Silence.

Where the devil did he go? She looked at the water, hot, inviting, and fragrant, and shrugged her shoulders. For the hundredth time that day, she damned Harclay to hell and slipped out of the blanket. She sucked in her breath, the chill night air raising goose bumps on her skin, and slipped into the tub, careful not to douse the candles with splashes of water.

She nearly moaned as the heat of the water enveloped her limbs and loosened her muscles, and she was half-asleep with pleasure when a sudden squeak, a chair leg sliding across the wooden floor, jarred her to life. Her eyes flew open to rest on Harclay staring down at her.

“I beg your pardon!” she cried. She crossed her arms about her torso, covering what she could. By the gleam in his dark eyes she could tell she was failing, and quite miserably at that.

She grew still in the tub, paralyzed by the pleasant sensation of her blood quickening pace inside her skin. Heat bloomed in her chest, rushing the tips of her breasts to solid points that broke the surface of the water. She was embarrassed by her body’s blatant invitation, but despite herself she thrust her breasts higher, exposing both orbs of wet, slippery pale skin to the chill air.

Harclay dropped the book to the floor and approached slowly, accepting the invitation with his eyes. He circled the tub once, twice, three times, the sound of his shoes against the floor mimicking the riot of her heart. She recognized the look on his face—the intensity of his eyes, the forbidding tightness of his lips—it was the struggle to control himself revealed. Above the steam that danced on the surface of the water she could tell he burned, as did she, though she dared not bat an eyelash, afraid to scare him away. Tonight she could not blame her desire on the heat of excitement that followed a lucky hand; tonight there was not a thrilling crime to fault for her lack of self-restraint. Tonight it was just the two of them, and she wanted him badly, more than she had wanted him under the spell of that night’s revelry.

He skimmed the water with his fingers, releasing a curling waft of lavender into the air. She shivered as he shrugged out of his coat and lowered himself onto his knees beside the tub. His fingers reached deeper into the water, dancing on the skin of her thigh, and he glanced at her from under his eyelashes. She blinked, parted her lips.

Yes.

The ends of his mouth turned upward in a small grin, confidence restored, and his fingers continued to dance higher, higher, and she jumped when he touched her. They both laughed and he leaned forward, his chest and belly flush against her own, and he crushed his lips against her throat. His deep, thunderous kisses sent her flying; she held fast to either side of the copper tub, her desire igniting her body so quickly she feared she might burst skyward in a flash of flame.

She sat upright and pulled his head toward her own. She pressed her lips against his, using her teeth to pry open his mouth. The force of the kiss knocked her backward and she fell into the steaming water. Still their lips tugged and pulled and caressed. She placed a hand on either side of his face and pulled him underwater with her, and for several seconds she reveled in the weightlessness of their embrace.

“Well, well, my dear,” Harclay panted when he came up for air. “It seems your strength has been restored.”

“Perhaps,” she replied. It was impossible to take her eyes from his lips; below the water, his fingers worked to open her, caress her, and she felt her control slipping away.

His strokes were gentle and confident, brushing again and again that part of her that was most sensitive. She thought she might cry out from the pleasure of it, a building pressure that screamed for release.

“Please, oh, please let me go,” she whispered as her head fell back with a
thump
on the ledge of the tub.

Harclay smiled. “Not yet, Violet, but soon,” he murmured and brought his lips back down on hers.

Just when her desire reached fever pitch, Harclay withdrew his dancing fingers.

“What?” she panted. “No, please, don’t stop . . .”

Harclay lifted her from the tub, one arm beneath her shoulder, the other supporting her knees. As small rivers of bathwater ran down her limbs, she shivered and looped her arms around his neck, never breaking the kiss.

He set Violet gently down upon his bed. The linens felt warm and inviting against her naked back. She pulled him down with her and for a moment they lay against each other, breathing hard. The weight of him on top of her left her breathless; she liked the feel of him, the reminder of his enormity, the enormity of his desire for her.

He grasped the back of her head and pulled her toward him, running his tongue along her jaw. She cried out; he moaned. As he moved over her the feather mattress tickled the backs of her arms; the warmth of the sheets quickly dried her skin.

His hands moved over the clean smoothness of her body, stopping to linger at her breasts and then between her legs.

And then his head dipped lower, lower, his lips trailing over her skin as he went, biting here, savoring there. She dug her hands into his hair, fingering its silken strands, and watched, heart pounding, as his mouth moved over one hip, then the other.

With one hand he cupped the back of her thigh, just below her buttocks, and pulled her legs apart. She opened her mouth to protest, but watching him settle between her thighs, her hands tangled in the dark gleaming mass of his hair, sent her desire soaring.

What comes next
? she thought wildly.
What can possibly come next?

Harclay rolled Violet’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, teasing it to a hard, tight point; his other hand moved from her thigh to her belly, splayed palm down to hold her in place.

Violet lifted her head. The earl grinned—a wicked thing—and his head disappeared between her legs.

At the first stroke of his tongue on her sex, Violet’s eyes flew wide; she tugged at his hair, her pleasure growing with each caress, each kiss, each knowing, lingering touch.

He kissed her, again and again, over and over, his tongue moving quietly, expertly, over the tip of her womanhood—the center of all this lovely, breathless sensation. She should be embarrassed; she could feel herself grow wet, very wet, see her slickness on his lips when he half smiled over the mound of her sex. But oh,
oh
, there wasn’t room inside her for embarrassment. Not when she felt like
this
, wanton and needful and captivated. Captivated by him, by the way he made her feel.

Violet’s hips rolled against him, begging for more, for less. She watched as his head dipped, rose, dipped again, his hands working in time to his lips, his tongue. She watched him cup her breast, her flesh hardening beneath his callused palm. His other hand moved from her belly to her groin, holding her just where her leg met her sex; his thumb held back her folds as he moved over and in her with his tongue.

He pinched her nipple, hard, between his fingers; a bolt of searing pleasure shot through her.

“Please,” she moaned. “Please, Harclay, don’t stop.”

She was arching over the bed now, her fingers tearing at Harclay’s hair as if she might float away. Need and pleasure fought to take captive her body; she furrowed her brow in an attempt to calm the surge of sensation in her belly.

Again that bolt of pleasure, this time stronger, harder.

Violet saw stars as her climax pounded against every sense, every limb, every thought. She bit her lip but the cry came anyway. Seeing Harclay nestled in the cradle of her legs only made the sensation pulse brighter, pulse again, and again, and again.

Her heart felt as if it might explode from her chest as the spasms of insistent, heady pleasure between her legs slowly subsided.

Harclay wasn’t kidding when he said he enjoyed
pleasuring.

He rose from between her legs, pressing wet kisses onto her belly, beneath each of her breasts.

When at last he collapsed on the bed beside her, a satisfied smile on his lips, he kissed her mouth. She tasted herself on his lips, the salty tang of her desire. She drew back, embarrassed.

“Oh no,” he said, and pulled her back to him. “You taste so sweet, Violet. So very sweet.”

He was still clothed, though she could feel the heat of his skin seeping into her own through his wet shirt. He made no move to deepen their embrace, nor to push her any further down this dangerous and delicious path.

Her heart sank.

“No more,” Violet said, her words more question than command.

Harclay shook his head and smiled. “No more.” His lips feathered across her forehead. “Quite enough excitement for one night, wouldn’t you say? Besides, if I don’t stop now I’m afraid I shall ravage you, and quite soundly. And you know how I feel about ravaging.”

He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her to him. Resting her head against his chest, she felt his cock straining against her legs.

“What about you?” she asked.

Rubbing his eyes, he gritted his teeth and let out a long, low breath. “I beg you, Lady Violet, do not tempt me.”

His usual slick irony was gone. Violet could tell he was in pain, the kind of sweet, terrible pain she’d experienced just before—well, just before she lost all sense of place and time and self.

Violet sighed, fingering the fine linen of Harclay’s shirt. “I suppose you win this time.”

Again the rumble of laughter in his chest. “Yes, I suppose I do. No small feat, considering my opponent,” he replied and pressed a lingering kiss onto her lips.

A
very gaped at Harclay as the earl strode into the breakfast room at quarter to eleven.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, hurrying to help his master into his chair, “but we were worried you’d died in your sleep! I’ve managed to keep the kippers warm, sir, but I’m afraid we’ll have to make you a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Thank you, Avery. I’m going to need it this morning.” He groaned as he settled rather uncomfortably into his customary spot. His nether regions still ached from the previous night’s encounter with Lady Violet. Good thing he’d taken her home hours before; at this rate, his desire for her would’ve eventually killed him. Just thinking of her sent spasms of pleasure, and of grief, through his groin; he still tasted her on his lips. He hadn’t felt such poignantly unfulfilled lust in—why, as long as he could remember. The Earl of Harclay, a Casanova of no little renown throughout Great Britain and the Continent, never denied himself when it came to women. So why the
hell
had he held back when Violet was warm and willing in his arms?

He kept telling himself that he was merely tired, that he hadn’t wanted to deal with the mess that came with deflowering a virgin. For a virgin she certainly was, though her words, and her confidence, would lead one to think otherwise.

But, God save him, he knew in his little black heart none of that was true. Some small twinge, not altogether unpleasant, in the very center of his being hinted that such reasons had nothing to do with his strange behavior. Nothing at all.

Harclay pushed these thoughts from his mind and focused on the cup of steaming, fragrant coffee Avery set before him. Surely coffee would heal him of the night’s desire; and if not coffee, then brandy would do the trick. He’d try anything to chase away the image of Lady Violet’s face as she looked up at him in the kitchen galley; and then there was that moment, that heady, wild moment, when he was nestled between her legs, and she arched against his mouth . . .

“The paper, sir,” Avery was saying.

Harclay nearly jumped as the butler placed the news before him.

Avery continued speaking as he busied himself at the sideboard. “Thought you might be interested in that story there on the front page. Looks like the papers finally caught wind of our little adventure.”

Harclay grew very, very still. Coffee in hand, he glanced down at the paper. Sure enough, the headline screamed
RARE JEWEL SNATCHED AT B
ANKING SCION’S BALL
.

Despite the dire news—would Hope do something so drastic as to freeze Harclay’s accounts until he confessed?—the earl found himself grinning.

“And so the plot thickens,” he murmured and finished his coffee.

 • • • 

A
t exactly eight o’clock that evening, Harclay and his sister, Caroline, slipped into their supper box. The first show, a bawdy comedy, was just beginning. Harclay let out a low whistle of appreciation at the view. He’d rented this same box at Vauxhall Gardens for nigh on seven years now; not only did it afford the viewer a panorama of the stage, and of the lovely spring evening in the distance, but one could also take in the far more interesting sights of the other supper boxes. There was the prince regent’s just off to the right, always bustling with the dregs of the
ton
. To the left stood one of the larger boxes, where the Dowager Baroness Blankenship entertained a steady stream of nubile young men. And a bit farther than that was Mr. Hope’s box, in true Hope fashion decorated with strange-looking statues brought all the way from India.

Just as Harclay hoped, the banker’s box was full of familiar faces. There was Lady Sophia, already tipsy on Vauxhall’s infamous arrack punch; Lady Georgiana, her wounded forehead hidden behind an enormous headdress; and Mr. Hope, of course, smiling beatifically as if to convince the world that nothing, not even the theft of his prize jewel, could ruin his mood.

And then Harclay’s heart dropped to his knees when his gaze fell at last on Lady Violet Rutledge. Jealousy flared hot and unbidden in his belly as he watched her laugh at something Mr. Lake was saying. She looked especially beautiful in a gown of light blue gauze, the low neckline trimmed alluringly with French lace; though there was a weariness about her eyes that Harclay found worrisome.

“Might I call up Mr. Lake?” Caroline said, interrupting his reverie. “I see him over there, in Hope’s box. Perhaps our two parties might join together.”

Harclay cleared his throat and took a long, deep draft of his arrack punch. Damn if the stuff couldn’t fell a steer; it eased the pounding of his heart ever so slightly, just enough for him to regain control of his faculties.

“Let’s wait until after we eat,” Harclay replied. “I’ve ordered up the ham, your favorite.”

Caroline leaned back from the table and grinned. “You and Violet playing your games again?”

Harclay arched a brow. “Games?”

“Oh, heavens, William, no use feigning ignorance. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?”

But before he could ask to whom she referred, exactly, when she said “we,” a phalanx of waiters arrived bearing trays of fragrant food.

They ate in relative silence, the sounds of the players, and of the crowd, floating into their box on a warm breeze that hinted at summer. Though the comedy was a lewd one, Harclay was hard-pressed to participate in the laughter of the crowd. It was impossible to tear his eyes from Hope’s box.

What was Lady Violet eating? With whom was she speaking? What was she thinking—could she be thinking of him, of the near-violent passion that had sparked between them the night before? Or was she thinking of Hope, and her inheritance, wondering how she could press the earl to give up the diamond?

As soon as the first entertainment was ended, Harclay stood abruptly and handed his empty punch glass to a waiter. “Come, Caroline, let’s us be the visitors for a change, shall we?”

Quick as lightning, Caroline was on her feet. She took his arm and tore him from their box. Harclay would’ve wondered at her enthusiasm were he not consumed by his own.

Heart drumming in his chest—even for him it seemed a bit cheeky to show himself, the chief suspect, in Hope’s box—he held open the red velvet drapes for his sister to walk through. The tinkling of crystal and the exuberant laughter of those well on their way to getting good and foxed filled his ears as he stepped into Mr. Thomas Hope’s lair.

All eyes turned to Harclay and the laughter died down, replaced by an uncomfortable silence the earl tried his best to ignore. Across the box he met eyes with Lady Violet. Color appeared on her cheeks as he nodded his greeting. Her eyes were a stormy shade of gray in the light of Vauxhall’s hanging lanterns.

She looked angry . . . and interested . . . and aroused. A combination that, on anyone else, would appear frightful but on Violet—it was lovely, so much so that he felt his mouth grow dry, his groin tightening ominously.

“Lord Harclay,” Hope said, standing. “Welcome. Please, do take a seat.”

He motioned to an overstuffed chair wedged between his and Lake’s. Though Violet was sequestered on the other side of the box with the ladies, she could doubtless hear whatever passed between the men. With one last longing glance in her direction, Harclay sat and accepted a glass of punch from a hovering waiter.

“I saw the news this morning, Hope,” the earl began, clearing his throat. “It goes without saying that I still offer my unconditional cooperation in recovering the diamond, should you require it.”

Hope raised a brow. Harclay could tell the man was weighing his words. It was obvious he wasn’t entirely convinced the earl had stolen the French Blue, but his eyes gleamed with suspicion nonetheless.

“Thank you, my lord,” Hope said. “We are managing the search quite well on our own. Mr. Lake here is chasing some interesting leads, and I have no doubt we shall hunt down this scoundrel, and find the diamond, in no time at all.”

“Scoundrel indeed,” Harclay replied, smacking his lips as he sipped the punch. “Speaking of, Mr. Lake, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t look at my sister as if you wanted to eat her.”

Both Mr. Lake and Caroline looked up from staring into each other’s eyes. Mr. Lake opened his mouth and appeared ready to apologize when Caroline interrupted him.

“And here’s the pot calling the kettle black!” she nearly cried, leaping to her feet. “You look at Lady Violet in much the same way. Though I must confess, at moments like these I wonder she does not turn up her nose at the beastly brute you can be. Mr. Lake may look at me however he likes, William, and I’ll not have you opining on the subject in public.”

“It is a compliment, Harclay, for I find your sister most lovely,” Mr. Lake growled. He tugged gently on her hand in a futile attempt to coax her back into her seat.

“Lord Harclay,” Violet said loudly from across the box. “Would you join me? It appears the second show is about to begin.”

She stood and gestured to the front of the box, where a high balustrade bordered the edge of the stage. The invitation seemed to fulfill its intended purpose: Caroline and Mr. Lake quietly settled into their chairs, while Mr. Hope turned to Lady Sophia with a smile.

With a sigh of resignation—Caroline was ungainly, yes, and the eldest child, but she
was
his sister, damn it, and that meant he had an obligation to protect her from men and their sinister machinations—the earl rose and offered his arm to Violet.

“How foolish of you to make a scene, tonight of all nights,” Violet murmured when they reached the balustrade. “Surely you know we cannot afford to have further scandal attached to Mr. Hope and his friends. Not after today’s news.”

“Give it a few days,” Harclay replied. “In a week no one will remember that headline. What with the war in Spain and Prinny’s follies—”

Lady Violet glared at him. “You insult me with such nonsense, my lord. Just today, dozens of Hope’s clients closed their accounts or moved the bulk of their money elsewhere. His losses number in the tens of thousands of pounds.”

“My accounts at Hope and Company should more than make up for that,” Harclay replied. “And I swear to you, my money isn’t going anywhere.”

“Except that two thousand, of course. That belongs in
my
account.”

“Of course.” Harclay grinned. “Though I’m afraid I shall require you to collect your winnings at my home. At your earliest convenience, if you please; I’m afraid your stockings and pelisse look rather out of place in my wardrobe.”

Color rose to Violet’s cheeks, but the dear girl would not be thwarted. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, my lord, but Mr. Hope is enraged. He may be an eccentric, but above all else he is a brilliant businessman. He will have his vengeance.”

Harclay swallowed, hard, and gave his cravat a small but decidedly vicious tug. What he would give for a stiff pour of that arrack punch . . .

Truth be told, he hadn’t given the consequences of the theft much thought when he’d snatched the French Blue from Violet’s breast. It was merely a game, a game the earl played rather well; a game that kept him occupied, his senses sharp. He never meant to hurt anyone. He’d always planned on returning the jewel besides—in, of course, as ingenious a way as he’d thieved it in the first place.

Still. That did nothing to soothe the tightness in his throat.
Remorse
. Violet, her hundred shares of Hope & Co. stock, her family . . .

Harclay tugged at this cravat again. He’d just have to devise a new plot to return the diamond, and then all would be well. Yes, a plot; a plot that perhaps gave Violet the vindication that she was seeking, that assured the safety of her family’s wealth. A plot that proved to the world she was the clever, determined, wholly irresistible woman he knew her to be.

“Yes, well.” Harclay cleared his throat. “Only time will tell.”

“And how much time do you think you’ll serve at Newgate, Lord Harclay, once I prove your guilt?”

Harclay patted Violet’s shoulder. “It’s going to be much more difficult to pay you the two thousand I owe you from jail, Violet.”

Violet squared her shoulders; he could tell she bit back a smile. “I think you’ll find a way, my lord.”

Looking down at her face, alive with mischief and not a little of that dreadful arrack punch, Harclay sensed his heart quicken. Without thinking he drew her close, very close, so that he loomed over her. His body pulsed with desire. Her smile faded and she parted her lips, her protest no more than a short, hot breath.

“Might I expect the pleasure of your company again tonight, Lady Violet? You’ve still the house to search, after all. May take you days, weeks even. Might as well get a head start.”

“Best watch your back,” she said, motioning over Harclay’s shoulder. “For our old friends the acrobats are looking at you, and they’ve murder in their eyes. Perhaps they’ve pinned you as the cunning thief you are. Don’t you owe them money?”

Harclay suddenly turned, his heart skipping a beat as his eyes fell on the stage. For there stood
the
acrobats, the very same ones he’d hired to create all that ruckus at Hope’s ball. Though they waved at the crowd, their gold-trimmed costumes glimmering in the stage lights, they directed their dark gazes at the earl. The hair at the back of his neck bristled as he returned the favor.