The Gentleman Jewel Thief (31 page)

Violet’s heart rose to her throat. What the devil were they to do now? Artois was right. If the diamond merchant—never mind the guardsmen—heard the shot, they would be done for, all they’d come for lost.

William, however, appeared to harbor no such reservations. In the space of a single heartbeat, William swung round his outstretched arm, aiming the pistol at the lock. Unlatching the safety, he gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.

Violet had just enough time to cover her ears with her hands. She fell back from the tremendous sound of the report and the bullet tearing its way through the lock. Both the king and his brother jumped, eyes and mouths agape; William caught Louis just before he fell over the edge and into the water.

The lock buckled; the door swung open.

“Now,” William panted, nodding at the door, “take us to Eliason.”

This time, the royals did not protest.

Artois led them down an ominously rickety stair onto a wide quay. Triple-masted ships bobbed on either side of the dock; in the shadows they appeared enormous and sinister, alive with the motion of the Thames.

“Stay close,” Artois murmured, holding up the lantern. “No doubt every thief and murderer in this godforsaken place heard that racket you made.”

In the darkness, Violet saw William smile. “My intention exactly,” he said. “Now they know to leave us the hell alone.”

He took her hand and held her back a pace or two, allowing Artois and the king to walk ahead of them.

“What is it?” Violet whispered. “Are you all right?”

His hand felt clammy, cold; his palm was covered in sweat.

“Yes,” he said. Her heart shot to her throat; the strain in his voice implied otherwise. “I can see it in your eyes: you’re afraid. But we will do this. Stay by me, and follow my lead.”

Yes,
she replied silently,
I’m afraid for
you.

But she merely nodded, looping his arm through hers for support. At first he did not lean on her; but the farther they walked, the more he leaned on her, until she was supporting almost all his weight. Her side ached; pain stabbed through her with each step.

Luckily enough, Artois and his brother the king set a very slow pace—really, it was a miracle their bellies hadn’t swallowed whole their legs yet—and Violet was able to keep up.

“A few more steps,” Violet whispered to William. “Just a few more, one foot in front of the other.”

He was breathing in hard, short wheezes. Violet pulled and pulled, her legs burning with the effort. For once she wished Harclay weren’t so tall nor so broad; it felt as if he weighed as much as a horse.

Just when Violet thought she might collapse, the Comte d’Artois suddenly stopped and held up the lantern to a low, sleek vessel. On its wide bow, the ship’s name was scribbled in slanting, elegant script:
Diamond in the Rough
.

Violet would have laughed if she weren’t on the verge of tears. After all this—kidnapping a king, the costumes and the Palace of Pleasure and the poison—she could have found the shadowy Mr. Eliason herself.

“Stand up if you can,” Violet whispered to William. “It won’t do for these men to see you like this.”

William did as he was told. In the yellowy light of the ship’s lanterns, Violet saw the color drain from his face. He was in pain. A lot of it.

Silently she took the gun from his hand and tucked it into the waist of his breeches.

Artois motioned for them to follow him around the ship’s stern. Violet stayed close to William, her heart pounding as they rounded the darkened corner.

“Vous êtes en retard,”
a voice, gravelly and low, sounded from the blackness. You are late.

The king sniffed.
“Mieux vaut tard que jamais.”
Better late than never.

Artois held high his lantern, and the man to whom the voice belonged suddenly appeared.

Together Violet and William drew back. The man was quite literally a giant, nearly seven feet tall and as wide as a horse.

As if he weren’t enough to scare one witless, a second, identically giant man emerged from the darkness at the first man’s side.

Violet nearly choked.

Giants.
Twin
giants.

And they were staring her down with a wicked gleam in four identical eyes.

“No funny business,” the second giant said in heavily accented English. “Give me your weapons, yes?”

When no one made so much as a move, the first man stepped forward. Without ceremony he reached into William’s coat and pulled out the pistol. Violet’s heart dropped.

“Fool, we heard the shot,” the giant continued. “Do you have any others?”

William stood very still and held up his hands. “No, no other guns. Just the one.”

The giants searched him for good measure; they searched the king and Artois, too. When they turned to Violet, William stepped in front of her.

“Lay a hand on her,” he growled, “and I’ll kill you both with my bare hands,
comprenez-vous
?”

For a moment the giants looked at William, amused by his bravado.

“All right,” the first one said. “Come. Mr. Eliason waits for you.”

Violet followed the giants’ enormous shadows, each a night unto itself, up a narrow gangplank. With each step her ribs pulsed, white-hot pain.

They clambered onto the deck, the king and Artois leaning against the ship’s balustrade to catch their breath. The
Diamond in the Rough
was an old but well-kept vessel, the deck was scrubbed clean, and the ship just barely bobbed beneath their feet in time to the wavelets on the river. At the bow was an open space, occupied by coils of thick rope and several barrels. A cabin occupied the stern, accessed by a squat, rickety door. Its glass windows blinked with candlelight from inside.

“Remember,” the giant said as he led them toward the door, “no funny business, or this.”

He made a twisting motion with both hands, followed by a violent crack over his knee.

The giant gently knocked on the door.

“Come in!” a voice called.

The giant opened the door and stepped aside.

King Louis was the first to enter the room, followed by Artois, then William and Violet.

Violet ducked as she crossed the threshold. It was a small, low-ceilinged room that stank of tobacco and salt water. A large table, covered with boxes of all shapes and sizes, occupied most of the space; several tiny, unmatched chairs took up the rest.

Behind the desk, a spritely man with a shock of orange hair leapt to his feet and bowed before the king.

“Ah, yes,” the man said, a wide smile on his wide lips, “Majesty, what a pleasure to see you again. I see you brought with you some friends?”

“Eliason,” the king replied, voice edged with disdain. “A pleasure, as always. Those goons you employ, they were rather rough with us.”

“Ah, yes,” Eliason repeated. He gestured to the boxes on the table. “A necessary precaution, I’m afraid, what with all my precious cargo.”

The king sighed, rubbing his eyes. “As for my friends—it’s a bit of a story, one I do not have time for. So let us get to business. Show me the diamond. The French Blue—you know the one.”

Eliason rubbed his tiny, square hands together. “Ah, yes,” he said. “But first the money.”

The king and Artois turned to William. Pulling the note from his waistcoat pocket, he wedged between the royals’ rotund bellies to place it on the table before Eliason.

“And you are?” Eliason said, eyes raking William from head to toe.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” William replied steadily. “We’ve given you the money. Hand over the diamond.”

The jewel merchant pursed his lips, his eyes never leaving William. “I procured the French Blue for the King of France, and the King of France alone. My clientele, you see, is quite a select group.”

William placed his hands on either edge of the table and leaned forward.

“I won’t ask again, Mr. Eliason,” he growled. “You have your money. Thirty thousand, good as gold. Now
show us the diamond
.”

His pale eyes dancing, Eliason grinned, a slimy, sour grin that lent him the look of a snake.

Fear shot through Violet. She didn’t like this man, not one bit; whatever William was doing, it irked Eliason. And Eliason, despite his size and strange hair, seemed the kind of man one did
not
desire to irk.

A beat of silence. Then another.

“Very well,” the jewel merchant said.

Tugging open a drawer, Eliason pulled out a small, empty tray lined in red leather. He placed it on the desk. He turned to the wall behind the desk where a shabby, if graphic, painting of a mermaid hung in a gilt frame. Eliason carefully lifted the painting off the wall, revealing a small black square—a safe-box!—that glimmered in the light of the candles. A clever contraption surely; but not quite as cleverly concealed.

She watched with bated breath as Eliason removed his watch from his pocket. A tiny gold key dangled from the watch chain; Eliason inserted it into the safe-box keyhole. He turned the key, slowly, and the safe-box door swung open.

Violet strained to see inside the safe, but the merchant’s cloud of carrot-colored hair blocked her view.

Closing the door and locking it back up with the key, he turned to face his audience.

His grin had deepened to a sinister smile. In his hands he clutched a velvet pouch. He slowly, very slowly, opened it with his short, squat fingers, his eyes all the while never leaving William’s.

Beneath the desk, Violet touched her foot to his. The creases of tension along Harclay’s mouth and eyes receded; her pulse slowed its frantic pace;
perhaps,
she thought,
perhaps we will make it through this alive after all.

She felt the pull of the French Blue before she saw it, that strange, magnetic energy that caused the hairs at the back of her neck to prickle; though it did little to lessen the shock of seeing the jewel, actually
seeing
it, when Eliason pulled it from its pouch and laid it carefully on the tray before him.

Hope’s diamond glinted and flashed in the low light of the room. It appeared inky blue, a shiny dark blot upon the red leather; a stain that lured each of them to rise to their toes, draw closer.

For a breathless moment, everyone stared in stupefied wonder. It was a jewel worthy of a king, an emperor;

It sparkled, sending shards of such brilliant light across the cabin. The stone glittered green, then violet, then blue and green again; for a moment it even flashed red, transforming into a succulent, seductive clot of bloodred flame.

The diamond, it was casting a spell on them; Violet sensed it in every fiber of her being: a certain chill tingle at the base of her neck.

Artois licked his lips; the king let out a low moan; but William—he was smiling, color rising to his cheeks.

She saw the light return to his eyes, the vital intelligence so essential to his being at last restored.

The William, Earl of Harclay, she knew and loved was back. His blood ran hot; his hands itched for action; his thoughts turned in a whirlwind of plots, plans, deceits.

But Violet hardly had half a heartbeat to revel in his return.

For at that moment there was a tremendous shatter that shook the ship whole.

The door crashed open. Avery tore into the room in a cloud of smoke and ash.

“It’s done,” he panted. “Everyone off the ship—she’s burning!”

William turned to Violet, who was mute with shock, and grinned.

“I told you Avery’s got a strong back.”

T
he poison was having its way with him, but Harclay’s heart leapt nonetheless at the sight of Avery crashing through Eliason’s door.

Quick as lightning Harclay turned for Eliason, who appeared as if he’d just had his head lopped off; his face was frozen, a mask of terrified surprise.

Mustering what little strength was left in his limbs, Harclay gritted his teeth and leapt for the French Blue. His muscles screamed with pain, blood thundering through his veins, and still he pushed, and pushed some more.

He landed hard against the desk, sending everything on its surface flying—including the French Blue. It darted across the desk and into the dark puddle of the floor.

“You bloody fools!” Eliason shouted. He fell to his hands and knees and desperately scavenged about the ground, growling curses all the while.

Harclay followed suit, launching himself onto the floor. He ran his hands over the floorboards, invisible in the dim light of the cabin; nothing, nothing, save crumbs, dirt, and the boxes that fell from the table.

Above him, Harclay saw the Comte d’Artois make a dash for the thirty-thousand-pound note—it, too, had fallen to the floor—only to tip over onto his belly. With a little cry he began rolling about along with the ship’s undulations.

Harclay would’ve laughed if he’d had the breath to do so. Instead he turned back to the ground and began his search anew for the diamond.

His heart was pounding a steady beat inside his chest, and then—then it hiccuped, and took a moment to begin beating again. Harclay closed his eyes; the laudanum was having its way with him.

He opened his eyes and glanced about the cabin for Violet. She was cowering in a corner, hands grasping the wall behind her for support. He knew that look: she was about to be sick again.

“Violet,” he called out, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “Violet, darling, please—”

Before he could finish, Eliason’s giants trampled through the door behind Avery. The butler put up a good fight, but the giants pushed him aside as if he weighed no more than a feather, and then they bore down on Harclay, twin pairs of eyes blazing with dark intent.

He tried to scurry away, tried to stand. But again his heart hiccuped and his breath fell short, and he landed heavily on the ground.

This was bad. Very,
very
bad.

The giants reached for him. Their fists felt as heavy and sharp as battle-axes as they pummeled him, jabbing, pulling, tearing at his flesh. They lifted him from the ground and tossed him across the cabin.

He landed hard against the wall. The pain was so overwhelming that for a moment his vision dimmed. When he came to, he tasted blood in his mouth and felt it dripping down his face.

“Kill them!” Eliason was shouting. “Kill them all! Then help me find that blasted diamond before we’re all burned alive!”

An enormous, ominous groan shuddered through the ship. There was a great cracking sound, and a blast of heat shot through the open door. The
Diamond in the Rough
listed sharply to the side; everything, and everyone, slid across the floor.

Avery had done a thorough job of torching the ship—perhaps a bit
too
thorough, as it seemed they had only mere minutes before she sank with the lot of them—and the French Blue—on board. With the munitions supplied by Mr. Lake—Lord knew how the man had managed to scrounge up such heavy cannon—it came as no surprise.

Still, that meant Harclay would have to act quickly. No matter the twin giants or his hiccuping heart or the missing diamond, he had a handful of minutes, no more, to grab Hope’s gem and escape safely with Violet and Avery in tow.

Again the ship lurched violently to the side. Smoke billowed through the door into the cabin. Harclay choked, the air suddenly dense, pungent, and opaque. The king screamed, a high-pitched thing; Artois rolled on his belly, grasping fruitlessly at the air; Violet—his pulse quickened—where was she?—he couldn’t see her.

Behind him, the giants managed to scramble to their feet. He felt a violent tug at his back, and they resumed their attack on him. One of them pulled him upright and held him steady while the other delivered a ringing blow to his belly, and another and another and another.

The giant holding him suddenly cried out, releasing his grip. The other giant’s eyes went wide.

As if on cue, Violet appeared at Harclay’s side. In her hand she held his silver flask and was wielding it as one would a sword. With a force he would not have thought her capable of, she brought down the butt of the flask on one giant’s head, then whirled around to slam it into the other’s cheek.

Both giants fell back, weakened from the smoke, and clutched their heads. Violet did not stop. She pounded them again and again, the flask a metallic whirl in her hand as she bloodied Eliason’s men.

At last, Violet managed to beat the giants through the door and out onto the burning deck. Satisfied, she turned back to Harclay and cradled his face in her hands.

“You look terrible,” she said to him, eyes wet with tears. “Come, let me help you. We’ve got to get off this ship—”

Harclay held fast—well, as fast as his wobbly legs allowed. “No,” he replied softly, wrapping his hands around her elbows. She was shaking, but hot to the touch and alive with exertion.

“No, Violet, I’m not leaving without Hope’s diamond. We’ve come too far—it’s too important to you, your family—I owe this to you—”

“We’ve got to go,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Remember what you said to me:
none of this matters, has any meaning whatsoever to me, if you are gone
.”

Harclay smiled; even through the pain and the blood, he smiled. “You’ve got a good memory, Violet.”

“Even one so callous as I,” Violet replied, grinning, “could never forget so good a line. Come, we’ve got to go!”

He shook his head. “
You
must go, Violet, you must go now. I’ll be right behind you, I swear it. I’ve just got to find the diamond.”

But before Violet could reply, Eliason emerged from the haze and dashed by her, grazing her with his elbow. With all her strength, Violet pushed against him, throwing him against the wall.

In the midst of the smoke and the fire, Harclay caught a peculiar dark sparkle emerge from Eliason’s hands and soar through the air. Whatever it was, it soared through the air and landed somewhere very close to the earl’s feet.

His heart leapt, then sputtered.

The diamond.

It was the French Blue.
At his feet
.

He heard a fleshy
clap
and turned to see Eliason grabbing at Violet, pummeling her face and arms with his tiny hands. She cried out, trying to fight back, but for so little a man he was strong, and he was fast.

Wrath, rage, fury like he’d never known before rushed through Harclay and took captive his body. His limbs snapped into action as if guided by an unseen force;
one, two, three
, his fists found purchase in Eliason’s cheek, jaw, temple.

One, two, three
: belly, chest, shoulder.

When it was over, and Eliason slid to the ground a bloody, blubbering mess, Harclay turned to Violet and pulled her against him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, smearing her face with blood as he ran his thumb across her cheek. “My God, Violet, I’ll kill him—”

“Don’t,” she said. Her voice shook as she spoke, but she straightened, squaring her shoulders. “William, let’s
go
.”

A great, gurgling rush of water roared through the door. It pooled around his feet and sopped the hem of Violet’s dress.

By now the smoke was so thick Harclay was unable to see much at all. Somewhere in the haze he heard Eliason moaning and the king and Artois choking as they rolled about the floor. Harclay’s own lungs felt as if they were stuffed with cotton; his eyes and nose and mouth burned and blood trickled down the back of his throat.

He had a handful of minutes, maybe less, before the smoke finished him off.

Nothing like waiting until the last minute,
he thought wryly.

“Go,” he said, holding Violet very close so that he might look into her eyes. “Go now.”

“I won’t leave you—”

“Go!” he said. Without waiting for a reply, he gently pushed her to the door. The water was now up to his knees. “Can you swim?”

“Not really,” she replied, pausing.

He cursed under his breath. “If you go now, Violet, you’ll be able to jump from the ship onto the dock. Go, do it now!”

And he pushed her again, this time out the door. The smoke clouded the distance between them.

And then she was gone.

With her went his strength. The pain returned with a searing vengeance. His eyes watered and burned and he could barely see. The water against his legs was cold and foul smelling.

He didn’t have much time.

Gritting his teeth, he turned back to the cabin. All but the very back was underwater. Somehow the king and Artois had risen to their feet and were now clasping each other by the elbows, moaning and cursing as they splashed toward the door.

Through the smoke, the king glared at Harclay, his fat fingers scrambling to save what was left of the wig on his head.

“You scum! You bastard!” he cried, waving the wig at the earl. “Look, my favorite wig is
ruined
!”

“Never mind your bloody wig,” Artois grumbled. “What about my life? The note for thirty thousand, it’s gone! Poof! Just like that. What if it floats down the river and some fisherman picks it up? The Italians, they will have my head!”

He turned to Harclay, eyes blazing with hate. “We ought to beat him, brother, right here, right now, for what he’s done to us.”

The king slapped the wig back onto his bald head and turned on Harclay. Together the royals tottered toward Harclay, waving their polished canes menacingly.

Harclay would’ve laughed if it weren’t for the weak numbness spreading through his limbs. Any other day he could outrun and outsmart these egg-shaped idiots without breaking a sweat. But today he was afraid.

The earl fell to his hands and knees, the water seeping into his breeches and coat. Frantically he felt about the floor for the diamond. Eliason had dropped it
right here
—or was it over there, by the table?—it was impossible to tell . . .

King Louis and Artois were very close now. Artois reached out and with his cane swatted Harclay on the arm.

He scooted away from them, running his palms over the submerged floorboards. Nothing; he couldn’t see or feel anything, save the slowing beat of his heart.

He looked up and through the fog saw Eliason’s giants rising behind the king and Artois. Panic flooded his every sense. How in hell had they survived Violet’s attack? With a bit of luck he could outwit the royals; but together with the giants—it was too much.

Pain radiated up his right arm; it gave out.

Harclay’s left arm managed to hold him aloft for half a heartbeat before it, too, gave out.

He fell with an unceremonious splash into the water, face-first.

The water was so cold that Harclay almost didn’t feel his nose pound against something sharp and hard.

Again he tasted blood. But something else, too: something akin to excitement, relief, a thrill that shot up the length of his spine.

With what little strength he had left, he grabbed for his nose but found instead a small, hard object with razor-fine edges.

He knew without looking that it was the French Blue.

The diamond.

Hope’s diamond.

Harclay fell back on his haunches and pulled the jewel from the water. Even in the haze, it glittered seductively, flashing blue, red, purple. For a moment he stared at it in disbelief.

The diamond felt heavy in his hand, and cold. As if under a spell, he was hard-pressed to stop staring. There were few things in this world more beautiful, more alluring, than this jewel.

Very few things.

In fact, the only one more beautiful was Lady Violet Rutledge.

Harclay blinked, one last pulse of strength rushing through him at the thought of her. He had to get out of here, and quick, so that he might yet salvage her family, her future, her fortune.

He tucked Hope’s diamond into his jacket. With no little effort he managed to rise to his feet. As soon as he was upright, however, he came face-to-face with King Louis and Artois; at his back, he sensed the giants approaching. They grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back.

Helpless against the onslaught, Harclay bit his lip against the ringing blows the royals delivered to his person. Bastards were stronger than they looked; their canes felt as if they were made of steel.

As if four against one weren’t enough, Eliason suddenly emerged from the smoke. His eyes were bloodshot and crazed.

Pushing aside the royals, he shouted, “Where is the bloody diamond, you scum, where is it?”

When Harclay did not reply, Eliason drew back his fist and flung it into Harclay’s cheek.

He saw stars, and then he was falling, falling, and landed hard on his knees. Even then he struggled to remain upright, but at last he twisted and fell on his back into the water.