The Gentleman Jewel Thief (29 page)

The king’s flabby face screwed up in confusion. “But why can’t I just have her here? The Glossy is the finest palace of pleasure in all of London.”

Harclay threw back his head and laughed. “You think
this
is the finest London has to offer?”

“What?” The king shifted uncomfortably. “Is it not?”

“Ah, my dear,
dear
majesty, how I pity you.” Harclay placed his hand on the back of Louis’s chair and leaned down, lowering his voice. “
La Reinette
reserves Aphrodite’s Temple of Love for only her best, her most loyal, clients. She has deemed you worthy of the honor.”

The king’s narrowed eyes shot from Harclay to Violet and back again. Violet returned his gaze steadily, willing her wildly beating heart to be still.

“You know precious little of our great city, Your Majesty. Allow me to show you the best London has to offer, for the best is what you deserve. There are other goddesses, lovely, like this one.” Harclay nodded at Violet. “Goddesses who are most eager to make your acquaintance at Aphrodite’s Temple.”

Louis surveyed Violet dispassionately, the tiny curve of his frown lost in the fleshy folds of his drooping jowels.

“Very well,” the king said at last. Then, with a wave of his shaggy brows: “I am most eager to know what pleasures there await us mere mortals. Though we must make haste, for I’ve—er—I’ve an appointment later this evening.”

“W
elcome,” Violet purred as they made their way to the front door of William’s house, “to the Palace of Pleasure, where your every desire shall be fulfilled.”

With Harclay’s help, the king ascended the last step, panting as if His Majesty had pulled the horses, and not the other way around.

“Ah,” the king wheezed. “I do so hope it was worth the trip.”

Harclay stretched his back. Dear Louis was fatter, and heavier, even than he looked. “You shall not be disappointed, Majesty. We take our pleasure most seriously at Aphrodite’s Temple of Love,” the earl replied.

Violet flashed her eyes at the king. “
Very
seriously.”

Harclay gritted his teeth against the frustration that flooded his every limb. It was enough that he’d had to watch her strip nearly naked without touching her; but to have another man ogling her, swallowing her whole with his beady, doglike eyes—it had taken every ounce of self-control not to drive his fist into the king’s fat face.

Violet played the part of a courtesan well—
too
well, in Harclay’s opinion. Not that he’d been surprised by her brash display. She had a lovely shape, and lovelier face, and she knew how to use both to her advantage. That she was clever and confident made her all the more alluring. She made a wonderful partner in crime, and if he weren’t so consumed by his desire for her, he’d be enjoying himself quite thoroughly.

But the idea that she was not
his
, that he could never put his hands on her again, drove him absolutely, positively wild.

The near-transparent toga that peeked through the collar of her jacket did nothing to help matters, either.

She rapped twice on the door. As they waited, the king craned his neck to look inside the windows. Though the view was partially obscured by Hope’s swaths of red satin, the seductive twinkling of the Persian torches was visible.

The king licked his lips and, turning back to the earl, waved his eyebrows suggestively.

It was all Harclay could do not to roll his eyes.

A moment later, the door cracked open and Lord Rutledge’s face appeared. With a barely contained grin, he eagerly swung open the door and ushered them inside.

“Good evening!” he said in a baritone so deep and so loud it made Harclay jump.

Violet placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Yes, good evening, Mr. Smith,” she said in a quiet voice. “I have as guests the Earl of Harclay and a special friend of his, visiting the Palace of Pleasure for the very first time. We must see to his every comfort, ears included.”

True to form, her father ignored the hint and continued to speak in his circuslike baritone.

“Please, gentlemen, follow me. I shall show you to Aphrodite’s Temple of Love.”

By now, King Louis was panting with excitement. Harclay followed him down the hall—nearly unrecognizable, what with the strange wallpaper and clay pots Mr. Hope had installed—before they came to a halt before the double doors of the drawing room.

With her back to the doors, Violet bowed low. The jacket slipped from her shoulder, pulling the sleeve of her toga with it; Harclay reached out and set the gauze to rights. For half a heartbeat, his fingers grazed the pale skin of her rounded shoulder. She looked up at him, blue eyes wide and naked; between them the air crackled with want.

But just as quickly as she disappeared, the peerless courtesan returned. She ducked out of Harclay’s grasp and directed a burning smile at the king.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “welcome to my temple. Tonight you shall be treated as kings of all the gods.”

Harclay’s gaze slid to her bosom. Both of her breasts appeared eager to escape the confines of her toga at any moment. And if Harclay was staring in the hope that such an escape would indeed occur, so was the king.

Balling his fists at his sides—it wouldn’t do to bloody the King of France, not with Hope’s diamond, and Violet’s future, at stake—Harclay swallowed his rage and managed a small, tight smile.

“That’s quite enough, Aphrodite.” He nodded toward the doors. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Very well, my lord,” she replied tartly, and with a dramatic flourish she ushered the men into her temple.

Harclay very nearly laughed aloud when his eyes fell upon the drawing room. Hope had completely transformed the place into something out of an opera. Swags of red velvet, red satin, and red gauze covered the ceiling and walls. The carpets were strewn with sweet-smelling rose petals, and a virtual forest of candles and Persian torches winked from every available surface.

A stage of sorts occupied the center of the room. It was built to resemble a Greek temple, complete with carved Doric columns and wooden blocks painted to look like marble. At the wings of the stage, a handful of Harclay’s handmaids strummed fake lyres and leapt awkwardly about, bearing their pale legs through white cotton togas. A harpist plucked a rather vile tune from some unseen corner.

If there was ever a time Harclay needed a drink, this would be it.

“Please, gentlemen, do sit,” Violet said. They followed her to a pair of overstuffed chairs upholstered in—what else?—red satin. Harclay grimly noted that the king’s chair was three times the size of his own.

With a smile and a suggestive twirl of her toga, Violet excused herself and disappeared behind the stage. On cue, Lady Sophia then emerged in toga and sandals, her long brown hair loose about her shoulders.

Harclay blinked, and blinked again, not believing his eyes. It was as if he were seeing Violet’s cousin for the first time. Gone were the missish ringlets, the frightened, lost expression; in their place bloomed a beautiful, glowing goddess, tall and proud and captivating.

The king, too, gawked, and only remembered to close his mouth when she leaned over him and placed a snifter of brandy in his hand, another in Harclay’s.

“For your refreshment,” she murmured.

The king swallowed audibly. “Thank you,” he replied, still staring.

Sophia drew a single finger across the length of the king’s pudgy chest and waited for him to start draining his brandy. When he did not, she settled on his lap and laced her arm about his shoulders.

“Might I offer you anything else?”

The king blinked, as if emerging from a spell. “I should like to see you dance. With the other ladies.”

Sophia met Harclay’s gaze over the king’s head. She smiled slyly at him, a knowing, self-satisfied thing; and before he could stop her, Sophia drew back her hand and slapped the king soundly across the face.

The king’s face froze into a mask of utter shock. Harclay would’ve burst into laughter had Sophia not just seriously jeopardized their
entire
plan. What the devil was the girl doing?

Grasping the king’s jowls in her hand, Sophia turned his face toward her. “I am no lady, sir, but a
goddess
of love and beauty. You shall address me as such.”

And, apparently for good measure, she slapped him again.

For several long, excruciating moments, the king sat in stunned silence. Harclay hardly dared to look at the man; he waited for Louis to start shouting obscenities, to cry for help, to pour his laudanum-infused brandy down Sophia’s toga.

Harclay took a healthy swig of his own. It burned its way down his throat; at once he felt it melt into his veins. He wondered which of his brandies Mr. Hope had selected for tonight. It was good. Very good.

Taking a deep breath, Harclay looked to the king. To the earl’s very great relief, Louis’ face broke into a sinister smile as he crooked a finger beneath Sophia’s chin.

“As you wish,
goddess
,” he mewled.

“That’s more like it,” Sophia purred. “Now drink up, gentlemen. We’ve quite the heavenly show for you tonight.”

As she stood, the king returned the favor and swatted her bottom. Harclay swallowed the impulse to swat the king, and none too gently.

He took another long, glorious pull of brandy and leaned over to watch Louis do the same.

“Enjoying yourself so far, Majesty?”

The king nodded vigorously. “Why have I not heard of this Palace of Pleasure before? The women—goddesses, I mean!—are beautiful and lively; the brandy is very good. Well worth the trip, good man, thank you.”

“The Palace of Pleasure is a well-kept secret among
La Reinette
and a very select group of gentlemen like myself,” Harclay replied. “You must understand that we do not like to share our women.”

“Of course! With girls who look like
that
, I hardly blame you.”

The earl’s smile deepened as he watched the king down the last of his brandy.

Now all they had to do was wait for the laudanum to take effect.

The harp swirled to a rather hair-raising crescendo, and Mr. Hope burst onto the stage. Harclay choked on his brandy and was forced to spit it back into his glass. Hope was dressed as a triumphantly muscular Achilles, a brass breastplate (complete with erect, etched nipples) hanging from the leather straps at his shoulders; a toga was slung artfully over his right arm.

He banged on his shield once, twice, and stared down at his audience of two in stony silence.

“In the ancient times,” he began gravely, waving his shield at the room, “goddesses of great power lived at the top of Mount Olympus. They were beautiful, nubile, and wise. But to mortal men, they were a danger, a temptation that could not be resisted!”

Harclay couldn’t help it; he let out a giggle, which he tried to disguise as a hiccup. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Hope’s speech wasn’t even all that funny; but he couldn’t control the laughter that bubbled to his lips.

He managed a glance at the king. As he spun his head the room rolled ominously onto its side before righting itself again. He blinked, dizzy.

He wondered vaguely what in
hell
was
that
; but at that moment Violet appeared, her gauzy toga glittering in the stage lights.

Harclay’s mouth went dry. She was beautiful. So beautiful it brought tears to his eyes, which he wiped sloppily away with his sleeve.

He hadn’t realized he’d said the words aloud—“Dear God, save me”—until the king leaned over and patted him on the arm.

“All in good time, Lord Harclay,” he said. “And tonight there is no God. Only god
dess
.”

The earl blinked, trying to focus on the stage. Caroline had joined Violet on Mount Olympus and was leaping about the stage about as elegantly as he’d expected she would.

At first, Violet focused her gaze solely on King Louis, her lips curled into an alluring grin. She was an accomplished dancer, with hips that moved in time to the music. With a flood of longing he remembered their waltz together in Hope’s ballroom and how light she’d felt in his arms.

He felt suddenly light himself, as if he were floating on a cloud. The sensation made him at once giddy and nauseated. And when Violet at last directed her gaze at him, he thought he might explode with desire and gratitude and brandy.

What in the world
was
that stuff? He looked down at his near-empty glass, only to discover that he could no longer
see
anything.

Panic spread its wings in his chest. He blinked furiously, to no avail; his thoughts had gone oddly mute, and the sensation of falling—down the stairs, off a cliff, from a ladder—overwhelmed him.

He tried to open his mouth but no sound came out. His chest felt tight, and it became difficult to breathe. Blindly he groped the glass in his hand, his fingers sliding over its cool surface until they came to rest on the telltale jagged chip at its base.

Oh, God,
he thought,
my God, I’ve just drunk the king’s laudanum, haven’t I?

And then the falling became too much for him to bear, and he closed his eyes.