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With any luck, those limber scalawags would harass Harclay for money, for favors, for more money—hell, with more luck they might even blackmail him, threaten to reveal him for the thief and liar he was. Thus beleaguered, his honor at stake, the earl might come to regret stealing the diamond, regret setting his plot in motion. Maybe—and this was a very big
maybe
—the acrobats’ harassment might convince the earl it had been a bad idea to thieve the French Blue, and to return it post haste to its rightful owner, Thomas Hope, before he was found out, his honor destroyed.

“We’re playing with fire, you know,” Moon said. “Once we tip off the acrobats, it will be difficult to control them. They could stake out Harclay’s house, follow him, find out who his friends are, and whom he loves. They could use that information as a weapon against him. What if they threaten Lady Violet’s life, or your lady friend his sister’s?”

“She is
not
my
lady
friend,” Henry ground out. “She’s not mine, period. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Moon rolled his eyes. “Of course. My mistake, sir, apologies. But the fact remains—after we tell the acrobats who their employer is, it’ll only be a matter of time before they discover his secrets. They could demand virtually anything from him if they threaten to kidnap, or harm, or even kill his sister. You said yourself that Harclay is very protective of her.”

A surge of anger rose through his chest to pool at the base of Henry’s skull. Just imagining those blackguards handling Caroline brought his baser instincts to life; his fingers tightened around his mug. The earl may be protective of his sister, but Henry would kill anyone who so much as harmed a hair on her head.

“She’s not to be involved,” Henry repeated, low, steady. “Besides. If those bastards weren’t smart enough to recognize the earl, they won’t be smart enough to use Lady Caroline against him.”

Moon nodded, though the bent of his brow suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Yes, sir.”

Henry took a long, vicious pull of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I want you to keep an eye on her, just in case.”

“Of course. I assume nights, too?”

“Especially nights. If you so much as see a cat lurking about that wasn’t there before, you’re to come to me.”

By now Moon’s eyes were wide as saucers. He nodded again.

They waited and drank, and drank some more, twilight fading to darkness as the hours passed. The Cat and Mouse filled to bursting with London’s most devotedly seedy population; in the corner behind Lake’s left elbow, a gap-toothed lightskirt plied a lucrative trade.

Still no acrobats.

It was well past midnight when Mr. Moon at last succumbed to ale and exhaustion, his head resting in the crook of his arm on the table. He snored, and not at all softly.

Henry grimly conceded to his own exhaustion. He lifted Moon up by his armpits, “There, that’s a good lad, one foot in front of the other,” and carried him toward the exit.

Weaving their way through the crush of bodies, Henry was just about to thrust Mr. Moon out the tavern door when he felt a strange rush of air at his back.

It was vaguely familiar, that rush, as was the scent that trailed in its wake: labdanum, a pungent smell, wood and smoke, a vainglorious one, so big and so potent it was said to be worn by Caesar himself. Henry knew that scent. He just couldn’t place it.

Henry wheeled about, Mr. Moon’s limp body falling from Henry’s arms to the ground with a muted thud.

He saw nothing, save the same faces he’d looked at for the past five hours: powdered faces, greasy faces, bruised ones.

The scent overwhelmed Henry once more, and then there was a voice at his ear, so quiet and whispery he wondered if he’d imagined it.

Soon
, it said.

And then it was gone.

Henry searched the room frantically, but even with the advantage of his height he could see little beyond the threshold; the lighting inside the Cat and Mouse was dim at best, nonexistent at worst.

There were shouts by the door; someone was yelling about moving the body that blocked the tavern’s entrance. Henry took one last look. No sign of sinister scalawags, spies; nothing out of the ordinary.

Henry collected Mr. Moon and stalked into the night.

Twelve

Brook Street, Hanover Square

The Next Day

“A
dinner party?” Caroline put a hand to her hip. “Really?”

William looked up from the invitation he was penning. “Yes, really. Tomorrow evening. Don’t look so surprised, I’m not
all
rotten.”

“When was the last time you hosted a
dinner party
? Do you even know how?”

William glared at her. “Of course I know how. Besides, I’ve got Avery to help, and you.”

Caroline stepped into her brother’s cigar-scented study and slid the pocket doors closed behind her. It was late afternoon; the sun burned through the shutters’ half-lidded slats with mean intensity, casting the room in burnished bronze. She held up a hand against the light and took a seat across from William.

“I know why you’re doing this,” she said.

He didn’t bother to look up from his paper. “And why is that?”

“You’re baiting Lady Violet. Admit it. You like her. Why not
just give back the diamond and seduce her the regular way? Wine, flowers, a bauble—try buying it this time—more wine.”

“Because,” William replied, “like me, Lady Violet revels in the chase, and like me, she would lose all interest if said chase ended on so unimaginative a note as that. Besides, I’m not ready to return the French Blue. It’s rather thrilling, to know a priceless diamond once worn by the kings of France is sitting at the bottom of one’s—”

“Don’t tell me.” Caroline held that hand up to her brother. “I may have my suspicions, but I’m enough of an accomplice as it is.”

“Very well.”

“But you should give it back. The diamond. Soon.”

His eyes flicked to meet hers. “All right, all right. Now are you going to help me with these blasted invitations? I haven’t a clue what to say.”

Caroline straightened her shoulders. “Under one condition.”

“Yes?” he said wearily.

“Since you seem to be keeping your enemies—or at least your victims—quite close, invite Hope, and Mr. Lake, too, to this little dinner of yours.”

“Hope, yes,” William said. He arched a brow. “But Lake? There’s something about him. I can’t explain it, not really, except I have a bad feeling about that man. He’s not who he says he is.”

“Of course he’s not. No one in London is these days.” She put a hand on the desk. “Please, William.”

He groaned. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Very well. Now come here, and tell me what to write.”

Caroline sidled over to the other end of the desk. Looking over her brother’s shoulder, she saw a piece of paper peeking out from under the one upon which he now labored. It was covered in his crooked, angry scrawl.

She could only make out the last line—
Yours, H
.

Curiosity prickled at the base of her skull. William only ever used that signature—informal, intimate—in his letters to Caroline.

Only this letter wasn’t meant for Caroline.

While William shuffled through a drawer for more ink, she discreetly lifted the top page to peek at the one beneath it.

Dearest Lady Violet—

I find myself in an insufferable position: not only have I not quite finished seducing you, but I also owe you a great deal of money. Please join me for dinner tomorrow evening at half past eight. Bring your aunt Georgiana and Lady Sophia; others of our mutual acquaintance shall join us.

I shall be serving both the brandy and the champagne that you so liberally enjoyed. Perhaps after we again indulge, we may settle our accounts?

Yours, H

“What are you looking at?” William returned to the desk.

Caroline dropped the paper. “What? Me? Nothing, it was nothing. Here, what you’ve got so far for the invitation is, um, less than ideal.”

She struggled to contain her excitement as she helped her brother pen the invitations. William liked Lady Violet.
Liked
her. Never mind the obvious problem—that the earl had stolen the French Blue from about Violet’s neck, and in so doing had jeopardized her friend, Thomas Hope, and her future—but William, infamous rakehell that he was, might actually be in love.

The Next Evening

For the second time in almost as many days, Henry Lake was reduced to using the front door.

He tried to focus on his plan to sneak off from the party and snoop about the earl’s private quarters, his dressing room especially. Over and over, he ran through the series of events in his head, when he’d make his move, what he’d say. Work had always been his distraction, and tonight he desperately needed to be distracted.

But when he’d stepped into the welcoming front hall of Harclay’s house, Caroline was there, waiting to receive Henry. He saw her color rise with pleasure, and his heart rose along
with it. Her gloved fingers slid into his palm with well-practiced ease, a current of feeling moving through him from this place where they touched. Her eyes were honey brown in the low light, warm, like velvet, a perfect foil to the pale pink of her gown. She looked happy to see him.

And all that focus, the work, the drive to distraction, dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat as Henry felt himself falling into her gaze. He didn’t want to fall, he couldn’t fall; there wasn’t time, and it was dangerous besides.

But he fell, and kept falling, until she surrounded him. Her scent—lilies, and skin—her awkward greeting, and even more awkward stumble as he escorted her to the drawing room; she filled him, body and mind, and he felt soft in all the wrong places.

Henry passed the half hour of champagne and conversation in a daze. Wherever she was, he would look up and meet eyes with her across the drawing room. She would look away, blushing, adorable and impossibly lovely, and he would have to bite the inside of his lip, and dig his fingernails into his palm, to keep from looking again.

The French Blue, he tried reminding himself. It could be here, in this very house, right under his nose; hidden in the walls, perhaps, or tucked into some corner he hadn’t had time to search.

Caroline laughed, the sound sending a rush of pleasant warmth through him. Henry tensed, and felt inexplicably, strongly jealous of Hope, who stood beside Caroline, smiling.

She wasn’t Henry’s; she owed him nothing. And yet he felt possessive of her, protective, too. If he had his way he wouldn’t share her with anyone.

Lady Violet and the earl were ensconced in a far corner, whispering naughty nothings while they all but groped one another. Violet’s cousin, Lady Sophia, a rosy-cheeked debutante with a wicked gleam in her eyes, kept trying—and failing—not to look at Hope. Hope was blushing, tugging at his mess of curls.

Henry blinked. Good God, had Cupid poisoned the well? It seemed Henry’s wasn’t the only desire that thickened the air in the room. He was at once relieved—there was a certain camaraderie in being laid low by longing—and annoyed with
himself. He should be taking advantage of the earl’s weakness, his state of distraction; instead, Henry was busy indulging his own weakness.

A weakness that went by the name of Lady Caroline Osbourne.

The dinner gong was struck, and Henry escorted Lady Violet to Harclay’s cavernous dining room. Silently he prayed he might not sit next to Caroline.

And then he prayed that he might.

Flipping back his tails, he took his seat beside Caroline (he was on her right; to his left sat Lady Sophia). In the light of the silver candelabra, Caroline’s diamond earbobs winked and flirted; Henry stared at the tender skin of her earlobe, wondering if she would like it if he took that skin between his teeth.

He winced at the familiar tightening in his breeches.

“Are you unwell? The champagne not to your liking?” she asked.

“Fine, quite fine, thank you,” he said gruffly, and finished what was left in his coupe in a single gulp.

They spoke quietly—gossip, the weather, all polite things. Henry watched the earl watching him. Caught between them, Caroline played the perfect hostess, filling awkward silences, diffusing antagonism whenever it arose.

Halfway through the third course, the earl turned to Violet; Caroline turned her gaze on Henry, pleading.

“You promised,” she said, low.

“I know,” he replied. “You look lovely, by the way. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He grinned. She blushed. “So what if I am? But you do look beautiful. That color suits you.”

Her eyes raked (hungrily, appreciatively, he’d like to think) over his evening kit. He’d paid a tailor several months’ salary to have it made up in three days’ time, in the hopes that Caroline might look at him just as she looked now. The bright, crisp white of his cravat and waistcoat; his Pomona green velvet coat; the black satin breeches; she took it all in, biting her bottom lip as she did so.