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Careful not to drip wax onto the stockings, Caroling began nudging her hand between the soft stacks. Her fingers probed and poked, feeling between each sock carefully, patiently—for she knew she could never rearrange these garments as neatly as had William’s valet.

She found a few trinkets, old love letters that had very little to do with love. Nothing exciting. Not at all what she was looking for.

Taking the taper in the opposite hand, she began her search anew. She dug deeper, the stockings gliding between her fingers softly. It made her think of Henry, and the glide of his silken hair in her hands.

Her knuckles brushed something hard, irregularly shaped. Her pulse jumped. She chased it to the corner of the drawer, where she was able to grasp it with her fingers and coax it to the stockings’ silken surface.

Caroline rolled it to the center of her palm. It felt cold, and heavier than she imagined it would. Dead weight.

The French Blue winked and flashed seductively in the taper’s yellow light. Caroline stared at it, transfixed, her heart in her throat as her eyes raked hungrily over the diamond. It was
enormous
.

The jewel appeared black from this angle, like the mummified heart of a child (how morbid, she thought); she turned her hand, and the diamond winked white, purple, translucently cerulean, a shade lighter than the sea.

A strange kind of desire prickled inside her chest; her eyes watered because she hadn’t blinked, not once; she was caught in the diamond’s seductive pull, in the tide of her longing to possess it.

It was unimaginably thrilling, to think the kings of France once kept this jewel in their own secret drawers; that they once wore it in the halls of Versailles as a complement to their dazzling costumes. It had seduced kings, this diamond, and had doubtless aided those kings in seducing women, wives, mistresses, favors. The French Blue had been witness to a world, and a way of living, that no longer existed. There was something terribly romantic about that. A world long gone, the regret and anger at its passing—Caroline knew these things well.

She held the stone for several minutes, its underside warming to her palm. Her eyes, still swollen from her encounter with Woodstock, began to sting once more.

It was all too much. The things she felt, the events that occurred. The threat the Marquess of Woodstock made against their lives.

He
was too much. Henry Beaton Lake.

In her palm, Caroline held the power to put an end to his troubles, hers, too. The diamond could change everything. It
could buy the lives of a thousand of Henry’s men. Or it could buy her life, a return to her peaceful, if dull, widowhood.

But it could not buy all those things. She knew, no matter how much she pleaded with him, no matter what she said, Henry would trade the diamond to Woodstock.

There was no right choice, but Caroline knew that out of all the options available to her, this was the wrong one.

She couldn’t let him do it.

Which meant she couldn’t give him the French Blue. Not yet. Not until she could either convince him to take the jewel to the French, or hatch a plan of her own to outwit Woodstock.

She could take the stone to Thomas Hope. As far as she could tell, he was its rightful owner—for the time being, at least. But Thomas and Henry were old friends; if she gave the diamond to Hope, chances were it would end up with Henry.

And then he’d make the trade with Woodstock, and they would all have blood on their hands.

He broke her heart once. She would not let him do it again by choosing her life over the lives of his men.

Caroline’s fingers curled around the diamond. She had time; a few days, at least, to convince Henry to trade the diamond to the French, or to beat Woodstock on her own.

She hadn’t a clue how she would do either of those things. She couldn’t offer herself to Woodstock, confront him; Henry would know of it before she took two steps out the door. She could not go to the French with the diamond; she was not acquainted with any traitorous spies, as far as she knew, anyway.

But she would try.

She would be strategic in her choices. When to reveal the diamond’s location, who to tell.

Caroline brought her fist back up to the drawer. She uncurled her fingers. The diamond stared at her, innocuously, from the center of her palm.

She buried it between the third and fourth stacks of William’s stockings.

Her head snapped up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs in the hall. Quickly she smoothed the mess she’d made and darted from William’s rooms. She ducked behind that sinister chair in the hall just in time to see William pass by, a soaked—and shivering—Lady Violet in his arms.

He used his foot to shut his bedroom door behind them.

Well, then. At least someone’s lust would be slaked tonight.

Caroline collapsed against the chair and let out a long, low breath. The skin on her throat burned with the memory of Woodstock’s hardened grip.

Her lips sang with the memory of Henry’s kiss.

Her head spun. Days ago she’d been a simple widow, dedicated to the simple pleasures of her simple life. Now there was a price on her head, a sinister Marquess on the hunt, and an ex-lover whom she kept kissing, despite the risk to her sanity, her safety.

Now there was no untangling herself from the things she felt for Henry. His confession, the sacrifices he’d made on her behalf—they should have brought her peace.

They brought her pain instead.

Eighteen

H
enry hadn’t even landed on his feet after launching through the window when Mr. Moon’s voice sounded from across the chamber.

“That was a rather long interlude. If you don’t mind my saying, sir, good for you.”

Henry met his eyes.

And told him everything. About Woodstock’s sudden appearance, his traitorous past, his threat to Caroline.

The moral of this tale of woe, as the marquess so eloquently put it, was that they—he and Moon—needed to redouble their efforts to coax the jewel from Harclay’s grasp.

When Henry was finished, Moon blinked and let out a long, low whistle. “That’s bad news, sir. Very bad.”

“I was an idiot,” Henry panted. “I knew from the moment I stepped foot in London that I was being followed. I was so careless—so careless to be seen with her—after all this time, the care I took to keep her safe, away from who I am—”

“What’s done is done,” Moon said. “Besides, we might outwit that bastard Woodstock before he has the chance to make his move. Why don’t we do it the old fashioned way? Grab him at night, a little laudanum, a blow or two to the head. And once
we have him in our possession, I’ve a . . . a friend, you see, he’s a gaoler down at Newgate. An imaginative one, too—he owes me a favor.”

“A favor?” Henry arched a brow.

“A favor. I don’t think he’d mind doing a bit of—er, work on the marquess, if you catch my meaning.”

Henry shook his head. “If only it were that easy. Woodstock is watching us; he’s a trained agent, dangerous. Smart, too. There’s no way we could take him on our own; he’d see us coming from a mile away. Besides, if we made an attempt on his life, and we failed, he’d go after Caroline.”

“Right.” Moon’s face was grim. “Our plot with the acrobats, then—it’s more important than ever that we coax the jewel from Harclay’s grasp. Lucky for you, I’ve made contact with them.”

Winded—wait, why was he still winded, launching through windows was his
craft
, damn it!—Henry bent over, hands on his knees.

“With the acrobats?” he said hopefully, looking up.

Moon nodded. “They’ll be performing at Vauxhall tomorrow evening.”

A rush of poignant relief flooded through Henry. It was still a long shot, but having the acrobats persuade the earl to hand over the diamond meant Henry didn’t have to; it meant he did not have to involve Harclay in Woodstock’s scheme; he would soon, with a little luck, be in possession of the jewel.

Which meant he could trade it to Woodstock in exchange for Caroline’s life.

It also meant Henry might at last end, however unsatisfactorily, this business with the French Blue in a matter of days, and be back in Paris by the end of the week.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Especially after the difficult truths he’d revealed to her.

He prayed Woodstock had not bruised her neck.

“Excellent. We’ll corner them before the show starts, let them know Harclay’s their man.” Henry stood and ran a hand along his jaw. “Better yet, I do believe Harclay keeps a box at Vauxhall. We can point him out to his minions, so that they can put a face to a name. It’s better if the acrobats know who they’re looking for. I’ll make sure the earl is in his box.”

Moon arched a brow. “And his sister?”

Henry turned to the mirror and began untangling the disheveled knot of his cravat. “Good night, Mr. Moon.”

He could feel the heat of Moon’s glare on the back of his head.

He was glad for the low light in the room; for Henry’s face burned. Moon wasn’t a fool; he knew that Lake knew that Moon knew about his growing attachment to Caroline. Or something like that.

But Moon was nothing if not professional, and so he dropped the wool stockings he’d been folding into a drawer and exited the chamber, quietly, leaving Henry alone with the violent tangle of his thoughts, with the achingly sweet memory of Caroline’s kiss on his lips.

The Next Day

While Mr. Moon saw to the acrobats backstage at Vauxhall Gardens, Henry waited outside the wrought iron gates of Harclay’s Hanover Square mansion.

Luckily Caroline’s maid had forgotten to close the windows in her bedchamber, and Henry was able to catch the last stages of her toilet. He let out a sigh of relief.

She was safe. She was whole. Woodstock had kept his word, for now at least.

It was more than a little strange, watching her like this, and perhaps even a bit disturbing. But Henry couldn’t help himself; looking away would be akin to seeking shadow on a chilly day rather than turning one’s face up to the sun.

Caroline sat at her vanity as a round-bosomed maid saw to her hair. Henry watched as Caroline held her fingers to her ear, hooking a pearl earbob into the lobe. He imagined what the skin there would feel like between his thumb and forefinger: soft, silken, like a lamb’s ear.

He watched her smile at something the maid said. He felt himself smiling, too. He watched her turn down the lamp on her bureau; moments later, he watched her alight the house’s front steps on the arm of her brother.

The breath left Henry’s lungs. He felt as if he’d been socked square in the gut.

Heavens, but she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made his heart swell.

Caroline wore a gown of pale pink satin that shimmered in the waning twilight. It matched the color of her cheeks, a shade lighter than the peonies they’d planted together in the garden. His excitement dimmed, for a moment, when he noticed the gown’s high neck; Woodstock had left his mark on her.

Henry would have his revenge. He just had to be patient.

Henry was so distracted that he forgot, for a moment, that he was supposed to be hiding in the shadows. As Harclay helped Caroline into the waiting carriage, he glanced over his shoulder; Henry ducked just in time, heart jolting to sudden life.

He was never sloppy in his work. And his breeches had never felt quite so tight.

What the devil was wrong with him?

Shaking the haze of desire from his head, Henry stole through the streets after the carriage, following its progress toward the Thames. He breathed another sigh of relief as Harclay’s lacquered vehicle crossed to the south bank, toward Vauxhall.

Good, Harclay had received Hope’s invitation. He would be in his box.

Caroline would be there, too.

Despite its swollen size, Henry’s heart leapt inside his chest. He would have to tread lightly. He’d put her through hell these past days, but at least he would see her, could ask after her nerves, her throat, her head.

Besides. Tonight might be the last time he saw her. If all went to plan, the diamond would be his. And what happened after that had nothing—and everything—to do with Lady Caroline Osbourne.

After a quick meet with Moon—“it’s done, sir, our hairy friends are in play”—Henry went up to Thomas Hope’s box, where he found his host ensconced in what appeared to be awkward conversation with Lady Violet’s very pretty, very
young
cousin, Sophia.

They were both blushing like debutantes—Sophia had an excuse, as she
was
a debutante, but Henry had never seen Hope quite so pink—but before Henry could ask any questions, the earl and Caroline arrived.

They stood between the open curtains of heavy red velvet
that marked the entrance to the box, Caroline’s eyes wide with uncertainty as they moved over the crowd. At last they landed on Henry; she blinked, lips parting. And then she looked away.

Henry drew his brows together. There was something in her eyes—fear, it looked very much like fear—that unsettled him.

“My lady.” He bowed over her hand. Her fingers felt cold, even through the fine kidskin of her glove.