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Twelve years ago, she thought, he left her, and in so doing confessed his indifference for her. He never loved her, had used her to get what he wanted and then tossed her aside. Everything he ever said to her was a lie.
He never loved her
.

Why then, that
look
in his eye, the softness that made her belly turn inside out? The heat in his gaze made Caroline feel, for a moment, anyway, that she was the only woman on earth. That she was seventeen again, and beautiful, because the way he looked at her made her feel that way.

“Allow me to confess a secret, my lady,” he said, pulling her closer. His breath felt warm on her ear. “I didn’t want to leave. Not you, not Oxfordshire, not my family. I left because . . . well, because I was forced to.”

His confession knocked the wind from Caroline’s lungs. The world whirled around her in a dizzying rush of light; a strangely metallic taste thickened inside her mouth. She was shocked. Her anger flared to new heights.

Henry was lying. It was the only explanation. He’d lied to her before, and he was lying now, perhaps with the sinister intent of tricking her once more.

What a fool she’d been all this time, to let him close again.

Caroline pulled him, hard, off the path to a halt beside her. The Serpentine lapped at their feet. “But what . . . why . . . ?” She threw up her hands. “Bah, what the devil does it matter now?”

“Please, my lady, I cannot tell you more—”

“Of course you can’t. You haven’t changed, Mr. Lake, not one bit.”

“Somehow I don’t think you mean that as a compliment.”

“I don’t.”

He held his hands out before him. “I want to tell you, I’ve always wanted to tell you. Caroline—”

She turned on him, the warning not to call her that on her lips. But she tripped on her dress and careened backward, arms circling over her head as the sickening feeling of inevitable disaster descended upon her.

“Caroline!” Henry leapt forward, attempting to restore her balance.

But Caroline, quite suddenly, didn’t want her balance restored.

She wanted to fall, and she wanted to pull Henry down with her. It was only what that blackguard deserved, making her feel worthy when he’d destroyed whatever worthiness she felt a decade ago, making her believe he felt anything but indifference for her.

And so Caroline’s arm darted out, clasping Henry by the elbow. They were falling, falling, the momentum of her body pulling them down.

Together they cartwheeled with a monumental
splash
into the Serpentine. The water was a shade colder than freezing; the shock of it paralyzed Caroline as the weight of her skirts dragged her down.

A tendril of panic unfurled in her chest. Perhaps falling into the Serpentine hadn’t been the best idea. Her skirts felt as if they were weighed down with rocks; she kicked furiously, pulling herself toward the surface with her arms, but to no avail.

She was drowning.

To think she would die just when Henry confessed
I didn’t want to leave you
. She would never know what in hell he’d meant by that; she would never know what happened after their wedding night some twelve years ago.

Not that she had the courage to ask any of these questions, not that knowing the answers would ease her grief.

Still.

Caroline kicked harder. She pulled. Still she went down.

Her lungs burned. She struggled against the impulse to inhale.

And then something was wrapped around her chest and squeezing, tugging her upward.

Her head broke the surface of the water and she gasped for air. Water dripped into her eyes. Her back was pressed against a familiar front.

Henry’s front.

His arm was slung about her torso between her breasts, and he was pulling her toward the shore. With one last tug he laid her out upon the muddy bank, his hand sliding to grasp her waist. She tried to slap it away but she kept missing.

People were staring, drawing close but not
too
close. (God forfend they should actually help.) William appeared at her side; apparently he’d also gone for a dip, because his wet curls hung over his brow.

“All right,” Henry panted. “I deserved that.”

“Deserved what?” William snapped.

“It’s nothing,” Caroline said. “Help me up.”

Together William and Henry lifted Caroline to her feet. The water that streamed down her person was very cold, but her skin felt hot; the combination made her shiver.

“Caroline,” Henry said.

William stepped between them. “You aren’t to call her that. She is a countess.”

“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m fine, William, really.”

After a beat, William turned back to Lady Violet. Henry turned to Caroline.

She tried very hard not to look at the way his clothes clung to his body. Really, she did, but like every other red-blooded woman gathered in their small circle of spectators, Caroline couldn’t resist reveling in the view.

She could see every muscle, every slope, the pucker of his nipples.

Her eyes slid down the length of his body and then made their way back up. His hair hung in loose abandon about his face, its golden strands trailing over his shoulders. Water dripped from his brows down his cheeks; his one eye was burning.

And it was on her.

Henry’s mouth was drawn into a grim line. A muscle in his jaw roped against the smooth skin there. “Are you all right?” he ground out.

“Oh, don’t worry about your secret, Mr. Lake,” she hissed, rolling her eyes. “I swear to you, I shan’t tell a soul, nary a soul!”

By now Caroline was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

He reached for her. “You’re freezing.”

“What do you care?” She stepped aside, making a beeline for William, who, annoyingly, was sharing a jolly laugh with Lady Violet over the indecent condition of his breeches.

“Caroline—my lady—wait,” Henry called after Caroline.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Whatever your ‘business’ with Hope and his diamond and Lady Violet, leave me out of it. It’s better for both of us that way.”

*   *   *

B
ut the world, it seemed, was conspiring against Caroline getting her way this afternoon.

For it appeared Henry Lake wasn’t the only man in her life with secrets.

She and William were ensconced in the quiet, velvet-lined safety of his carriage, swinging in time to the vehicle’s jolts and lurches as they made their way home from Hyde Park. Caroline sat across from William, the coachman’s coat spread out on the squabs beneath her so that her soaking skirts might not ruin the upholstery.

“Lady Violet accused me of stealing Hope’s diamond,” William said.

Caroline blinked, her gaze shifting from the window to her brother. “Pardon?”

“Lady Violet thinks I was the thief. She told me so on our stroll.”

Caroline scoffed. “Girl’s got a sense of humor. You
would
make a dashing criminal.”

She said it playfully, sarcastically, but William did not share in her humor.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I did it.”

A pause. A very
stunned
pause.

And then: “What?” She bolted upright. “Wait. You—”

“Well, that’s part of the reason why I did it. I was bored, if you want to know the truth, and what with all of Hope’s bragging about the jewel, and that ridiculous ball of his . . . well, I couldn’t very well resist.”

For a moment Caroline stared at William. She recalled, in startling detail, Henry’s words.

I’m unforgiving when it comes to my enemies. We’ll give that scalawag what he deserves
.

Of course her brother should prove to be that scalawag—the one who stole Mr. Thomas Hope’s priceless diamond in the midst of the season’s most well-attended ball.

Caroline reached across the carriage and slapped William’s head. “You idiot.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry, I plan to give it back.”

“Like that makes it any better!”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

William furrowed his brow. “Not that I planned on telling you any of this, Caroline. But I wasn’t expecting such prudish wrath from you.”

Caroline was so furious, it took all her powers of self restraint not to box his ears once more.

“Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’re in, William? You’ve just kicked the biggest damned hornet’s nest in all of England!”

“Of course I know!” He grinned, a smug thing that set Caroline’s teeth on edge. “Why d’you think I did it?”

Caroline fell back on the squabs with an exasperated sigh. So much for living out the days of her widowhood in contented, unmolested peace. It was only a matter of time—hours, minutes—before Henry Lake would climb through the window of William’s house and demand answers about Hope’s missing jewel.

Answers that, when her brother refused to share them, Henry would look to Caroline to provide.

She reached out and slapped William once more for good measure. Crossing her arms about her chest, Caroline turned to the window. A puzzling tightness in her chest made it difficult to breathe, suddenly, at the thought of seeing Henry again; a tightness that was either anxiety or excitement, she couldn’t quite tell.

Nine

A
gentleman jewel thief.

Lake would’ve laughed at the absurdity of such a notion if it didn’t make perfect sense.

He took a healthy swig of watery Scotch instead, cursing his brother for not leaving better stuff behind.

Lady Violet was the one to put the pieces together into a glaringly obvious, in retrospect, whole. She’d fingered the earl as the thief, had even accused him of the crime to his face. Henry had to give her more credit; she was made of solid, smart stuff.

He stood in his bedchamber before the open window. The setting sun cast a blush-colored shadow over a wide, unblemished sky; the air was warm and still. In the street below, well-appointed vehicles jostled London’s finest to the evening’s first entertainments. He could hear the tinkling of laughter, the creak and slam of doors. He drained his teacup, willing the impossible knot of his thoughts to loosen, but the Scotch, or whatever it was, wasn’t nearly strong enough.

He’d had an inkling William, the Earl of Harclay, was involved in the theft from the moment Henry watched it
happen across the ballroom. The earl had singled out Lady Violet earlier that night, and never left her side; he was with her when she was attacked by the acrobats.

Acrobats William doubtless hired to create a distraction while he swiped the diamond, discreetly, from Violet’s neck himself.

It was genius, really—to play at fighting off Violet’s attackers when the earl had hired them to do just that: attack her, distract her, so that she wouldn’t see her fawning paramour steal the jewel slung about her breast.

It was a brave move, a cocky move, one that Lake would’ve applauded if it didn’t place him in a damnably impossible bind.

Twice he’d sworn to leave Caroline be, and twice he would break his oath, just as he’d done a decade ago.

He had to stay away from her. He
should
stay away from her. His was a bloody business; he’d learned, the hard way, the danger his profession posed to those close to him.

But now that her brother the earl was their primary suspect in the theft of the French Blue, she would play a part in Henry’s hunt, whether he willed it or not. It was imperative Henry reclaim the diamond so that England might use it to bargain with France; with a dash of diplomatic savvy, he might negotiate for the lives of thousands of British soldiers, the surrender of a Spanish city, perhaps even peace. There was no telling what that potbellied pig Napoleon might forfeit in his quest to reassemble to French crown jewels.

Nothing—and no one—would stand in the way of Henry’s hunt for the French Blue. Especially not Lady Caroline Osbourne, Dowager Countess of Berry.

He knew better than to believe she would prove helpful in condemning her brother as the thief, even less so in seeking out the diamond. If pulling him down into a freezing lake, quite viciously, was any indication, she
really
didn’t want anything to do with Henry.

“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

He set his cup down on the bureau and turned to face Mr. Moon.

Lake cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, crossing his arms and ankles and leaning against the casement.

“That woman who was here the other night. Harclay’s sister. The one you’re in love with.”

“Pffssh,” Henry scoffed. “I’m not—how did you—what?”

Mr. Moon rolled his eyes, and turned back to the mirror as he attempted to shrug into a wig of long auburn curls. “Whatever you say, sir. If I may be so bold as to offer some advice—”

“You may not.”

“Tread more softly this time. I mean this as a compliment, really, I do, but you’re something of a bully. Women don’t like that.”

“You would know.”

“Yes.” Mr. Moon straightened, tossing his curls over his shoulder. “I would. Go slowly with her. Be kind. Handle her with a light touch. What’s the old saying? Oh yes: ‘Honey attracts more bees than a blow to the gut.’ No, no, that’s not it.” Moon furrowed his brow, lips puckered. At last he waved away the thought. “Anyway. From what I overheard last night, she might appreciate that.”