The Devil's Thief (18 page)

“Here
now!” the stranger exclaimed. “Watch yourself, sir.” He was an older gentleman
and he frowned at Alasdair over his shoulder as he thumped his walking stick on
the ground and stalked off.

Alasdair
was mortified. He pointed at the gentleman with a shaking finger. “Did you see that?”
he asked Roger. “Do you see what she has done to me? I am a shell of my former
self. If I do not get that pearl back, Roger, the Alasdair Sharp you have known
will cease to exist. This”—he waved a hand wildly up and down in front of
his person— “this madman will take his place permanently.”

“ ‘Alas
poor Romeo!’ ” Roger quoted dramatically. “ ‘He is already dead; stabbed with a
white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love-song; the very pin of
his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft.’ ” He took a crackling
bite of apple and watched Alasdair, his eyes twinkling and his eyebrows wagging.

 
“What is that supposed to mean?”

Roger
swallowed audibly. “It means,” he said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping
his fingers clean, “that it is not the lost treasure you seek, but the
unexpected treasure you have found that has you acting like a madman, my
friend.”

“You
speak nonsense, just as Mercutio did to Romeo,” Alasdair scoffed, while
breaking out into a cold sweat.

“Wasn’t
there something in that scene about hiding your bauble in a hole?” Roger mused
aloud.

“Would
you stop quoting that bloody play?” Alasdair said between clenched teeth.

Roger
grinned mischievously. “I did not give you the alias Romeo,” he said smugly.
“Nor did I name your lady love Juliet.”

“Her
name is Julianna,” Alasdair said with a heavy heart, remembering that he had no
right to call her that now.

“And
you believe your own dear Julianna has been entertaining Paris behind your
back?”

Alasdair
nodded, then stopped, confused. “Wait. Which one was Paris?”

Roger
laughed. “Her betrothed, who she betrayed when she married and screwed that
little bugger Romeo
.”

“Did
he die, too?” Alasdair asked. “I had too damn much to drink last night for an
examination on Shakespeare today.”

“Um-hmm,”
Roger hummed, “killed by a grief-stricken Romeo at Juliet’s tomb.”

“Good
God,” Alasdair muttered. “I had no idea what melodrama I toyed with that
night.” He jerked upright. “Hold on! Are you saying I have to kill this other
lover of hers?”

“What?”
Roger exclaimed. He pounded his palm against his forehead. “You idiot,” he
moaned, shaking his head. “Do you honestly believe that
your
Juliet has another lover? You truly are mad if you think
that.”

“Don’t
you dare disparage her again, Roger, I mean it,” Alasdair warned with a glare.
“You just don’t know how . . .” He stopped, not wanting to discuss her as if
she were some common doxy. “She could have anyone. A dozen lovers.” He stared
at the door of the cloth merchant’s shop. “A hundred. Or perhaps just one whom
she loves and who now possesses my pearl.”

Roger
sighed. “I’m not saying she couldn’t, I’m saying she wouldn’t.”

Just
then Julianna emerged from the shop, looking around for them expectantly.

Roger
stood up and waved across the street. “Hello! Miss Harte!” he called. He tucked
his handkerchief away. “We’re coming!”

She
smiled and waved and Alasdair grimly returned her smile, following Roger across
the street.

Chapter Eleven

The
patisserie was Mr. Templeton’s idea. Julianna had been planning on visiting the
shop at some point over the next few days. She wanted to bring the children another
treat to celebrate their good fortune. Mr. Templeton’s motives were much
simpler—he was hungry.

The
patisserie was owned by the de Tournays, a French family that
had been forced to flee France during the recent troubles
. It was
rumored that several members of the family had died under the guillotine’s
blade. Julianna shivered each time she thought of it.

“Mademoiselle
et
messieurs!”
Chloé de Tournay called out to them. She was the niece of old Monsieur de
Tournay, who owned the shop. Julianna liked her very much. She was very pretty
and vivacious, with curly brown hair and a wide smile. If not for her family’s
misfortune she might have married a wealthy nobleman in France. Instead she
greeted patrons and sold pastries. Life was certainly unexpected and so very,
very short, Julianna mused morosely. In the larger scheme of things, what was a
little pearl anyway?

“Ah,
mademoiselle,” Mr. Templeton said appreciatively as he bent over Chloé’s hand.
“You are brighter than the summer sun, a quenching drink of beauty to a thirsty
man.”

Miss
de Tournay laughed gaily. She extricated her hand from his with an admonishing
look. “And what does that say of your companion, Miss Harte?” she asked
mischievously.

Mr.
Templeton was struck dumb with horror at his thoughtless faux pas, but Julianna
just laughed with Miss de Tournay. “It says that she is pretty enough to
satisfy his hunger for good conversation,” Julianna said drily.

She
saw Alasdair’s lips quirk on one side in a reluctant smile before he said,
“What it clearly states is that Mr. Templeton should refrain from speech in
polite company.”

Mr.
Templeton was blushing furiously, and Julianna noted dispassionately that
nearly every female eye in the patisserie was on him. All those eyes were quite
hungry, too, and not for pastries. Idly she wondered why she wasn’t
particularly attracted to him. Other than his drunken behavior last night, he’d
been a perfect gentleman. Today he had shown himself to be clever,
self-deprecating, witty, and otherwise unexceptional.
He was
devastatingly handsome
,
it was true
. She had
perfect vision and could clearly see that.
And yet . . . nothing.
When he kissed her hand, offered her his arm, smiled at her with those
disarming dimples . . . nothing. Yet when Alasdair glared at her, she nearly
melted into a puddle of all-consuming lust. She shook her head with a sigh. It
was unfair, really it was, that she should desire the cad in this way.

Miss
de Tournay turned to her with a smile. “Shall we box some pastries, mademoiselle,
for
les bébés
?”

Julianna
sucked in too much air and swallowed convulsively, nearly choking. She coughed
and sputtered uncontrollably, and Alasdair took her arm to support her as Tessa
began to pound her on the back. Alasdair brushed her maid away.

“Are
you all right, Miss Harte?” he asked, and if she hadn’t known better she would
have believed his concern was genuine.
He’s
probably afraid I’m going to die without revealing the whereabouts of his
precious pearl,
she thought caustically as her eyes started to water. She
nodded and yanked her arm away from him. He let her go with a frown.

Miss
de Tournay clucked her tongue in that distinctly French way. “Come, mademoiselle,
sit.” The patisserie was styled after the Parisian fashion, with a long serving
bar lining one wall and several intimate tables scattered throughout the room.
She guided Julianna to an empty table. “I will get you some lemonade,
non
?”

“Yes,
please,”
Alasdair
answered for her as he sat in the
chair next to her and watched her, that frown still prominent on his face. He
took out his handkerchief and handed it to her and she wiped her streaming
eyes.

Mr.
Templeton sat down at the small table with them. “I feared for your life,” he
said nonchalantly. “I am relieved you appear to be breathing again. I say
,
we got a good table out of it.” Alasdair glared at him,
but his jovial cheer earned a smile from Julianna. Mr. Templeton smiled back.
“There now, all better, hmm? I sent your maid over to the front”—he
pointed—“and told her to get herself a treat while she waits for you. I
hope you don’t mind?”

Julianna
shook her head with a weak smile just as Miss de Tournay returned with an
assistant who put a glass down on the table. “Thank you,” Julianna murmured
roughly, and gratefully took a sip.

“So,
patisseries for
les bébés
?” Miss de
Tournay asked again with a smile.

Julianna
set the cup down with a loud
clink
on
the table and nodded quickly. She did not risk speaking, afraid of another
coughing fit. She was astounded that Miss de Tournay remembered the rare times
in the past year when she had purchased treats for the children.

“And
some for yourselves,
oui
?” she asked
the three of them. She wagged her finger at Mr. Templeton. “I think you are a
man who likes sweets, eh, monsieur?”

He
smiled wickedly back. “You are a quite correct, mademoiselle,” he said with a
chuckle. “I am inordinately fond of all things sweet.”

Julianna
hid a grin behind her lemonade glass.

“Have
you fresh strawberry tarts?” Alasdair asked hopefully.

Miss
de Tournay spread her hands and laughed. “Is it not June? It cannot be June
without strawberry tarts,
non
?”

 
“Then I should like one, if you please,”
he said with a grin. “Or I will think it is December.”

Julianna
was enchanted by this glimpse of the man she’d met that first night, a man who
enjoyed life, who was fun and teased and laughed. She wanted him back, very
much. But when he turned to her, his grin faded and was replaced by a
mysterious look she couldn’t decipher. She heard Mr. Templeton say something,
but the words did not register because Alasdair did not look away. If anything,
his gaze intensified until she felt weighed down by it, held in place by her
own desire and the heat of his stare.

“Mademoiselle
Harte? Mademoiselle?” Miss de Tournay repeated her name, and Julianna jerked as
if waking from a trance. She tore her gaze from Alasdair’s and blushed when she
realized that the Frenchwoman must have been trying to get her attention for
some time. Alasdair’s stare was still burning a hole in her bonnet.

“Do
you have cheesecakes today, Miss de Tournay?” Julianna asked. She had planned
on eating nothing, but she was suddenly famished.

“For
you, mademoiselle, we always have the cheesecakes. With strawberries?”

Julianna
nodded and smiled in anticipation, and when she looked back at Alasdair his
cheeks were flushed. He quickly looked away, and she felt a flash of
disappointment. That sensation gave way to surprise when a familiar voice spoke
from behind her.

“May
I join you, Miss Harte, gentlemen?” Sir Hilary tipped his hat at her and
indicated an empty chair. “And I should like some of Miss Harte’s cheesecake,
please.”

“With
fresh strawberries, monsieur?” Miss de Tournay asked, her voice suddenly
sultry.

He
glanced at her in feigned surprise. “Is it not June?”

They
all laughed, and Miss de Tournay waved her assistant off toward the back. “It
is good to see you again, Sir Hilary,” she said flirtatiously. He didn’t even seem
to notice her behavior.

“It
is good to be seen,” he said with a cool smile, and Miss de Tournay sighed and
smiled at them before wandering off. She gave Sir Hilary a coy glance over her
shoulder, but he was talking to Julianna and didn’t seem to notice.

“I
was wondering what
les bébés
are fond
of pastries from the patisserie,” Sir Hilary inquired with a friendly smile. “I
couldn’t help but overhear.”

Julianna
blinked rapidly. “The cook’s cat,” she said without thinking,
then
could have kicked herself. She darted a glance at
Alasdair, who was frowning ferociously again.

“You
feed a cat pastry?” Roger asked suspiciously. “It must be a very fat cat, Miss
Harte”

Julianna
opened her mouth, but she could think of nothing to say.

“Cat
got your tongue?” Alasdair quipped quietly.

 
“No, but it generally gets my pastries,”
she replied weakly, hating the lie and everything it was concealing. And she
wasn’t sure why she had felt the need to lie. She’d already told Alasdair about
her charitable work. It was quite possible he wouldn’t make a connection between
the foundling home and the pearl at all. But the chance, no matter how small,
that he might? That was why she’d lied.

Their
refreshments were delivered to the table and they all ate with relish, but
Julianna and Alasdair were quiet, leaving Mr. Templeton and Sir Hilary to bear
the brunt of the light conversation. During a lull in their desultory
observations on the weather Alasdair indicated the brooch on Julianna’s lapel.

“You
have a great fondness for pearls, I see.” His tone was light, his expression anything
but.

Julianna
took a sip of lemonade, shaken by the comment and all that it implied. When she
regained her composure, she glanced down at one of her favorite pieces of
jewelry. It was a gold crescent moon with a small, winged fairy standing on the
inside tip feeding the moon pearls from a barrel with a delicate shovel. “My
father gave this to me when I was young. It was my first piece of jewelry. I
loved the fanciful nature of it, as if the pearls were caviar for a hungry
man-in-the-moon.” She nervously smoothed her fingers over the brooch. “I always
wear it.”