Touch of a Thief (16 page)

Qu
inn had never felt less like dancing, but he was obligated to circulate throughout the embassy ballroom. He collected the partner he’d been assigned to before the upbow for each new piece of music. He shuffled each lady around the floor in the prescribed pattern of steps, then thanked her politely and took his leave before she could initiate conversation.

How could he make small talk with strangers when the only woman he wanted to talk to wouldn’t hear him?

He’d tried to engage Viola in another discussion about his proposal after Sanjay had left them yesterday, but she’d deflected him at every turn.

And rejected him utterly when the time came to seek their bed. She complained the violent headache she’d suffered was threatening to return. He offered only to hold her till the weakness passed, but she said she couldn’t bear to disturb him in the night with her restlessness.

So he scrunched himself into a pretzel shape and bivouacked on the diminutive sofa in their suite.

He’d slept on rocky ground with the breath of the Himalayas sweeping over him with more cheer.

It was one thing for Viola to reject his suit. It was another for her to be so changed toward him. After a night of earth-shattering passion, he had no idea what he’d done to deserve this . . . shunning.

His gaze followed her about the dance floor. Nimble and light, she was like a faery queen gliding among mere mortals. Spellbinding and unobtainable.

A new adornment sparkled on her wrist. Sanjay had brought her a silver and jet bracelet and connected ring just before they left for the ball. The delicate fancy draped over the back of her upraised right hand, a net of black stars descending from the base of her middle finger and expanding around her hand.

“It belongs to my favorite wife,” Sanjay had confided. “She sent it with me because jet and silver have protective properties. Since you will shortly handle Baaghh kaa kkhuun, you are in more need of its shield than I. I beg you to wear it this evening, Lady Viola.”

As she slid it on over her long opera gloves, she’d smiled at Sanjay. “Somehow, I don’t think it would have fit your finger.”

He grinned wickedly back at her. “No indeed. Fatima wanted me to drape it over another part of my body to protect me while I sleep. Alas it will not fit there, either.”

They’d shared a laugh and Quinn found himself on the outside of their little circle of two, a street urchin pressing his nose against a bakery windowpane. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to fall so far from her good graces. Why did Viola favor Sanjay with her smiles and hold herself so guarded with him?

“My dear boy, you forgot to collect me for this gavotte.” Lady Wimbly’s warbling tone interrupted his thoughts. She swatted his shoulder with her closed fan. “Mooning about after one’s own wife is not at all the done thing, you know.”

“My apologies, Lady Wimbly. In my defense, we have not been married long.”

She chuckled indulgently. “Maintain the same level of attentiveness to your bride after you have been married long and you shall show true quality, young Ashford.”

“Excellent advice. We’ve only missed a few bars.” He held out his arms. “Shall we?”

“No, my bunions are simply beastly this night. Let us sit this one out and you can keep an old woman company. It’ll be amusing to keep count of how many times my Wimbly steps on your young wife’s toes.”

Without giving him an opportunity to decline, she took his arm and led him from the dance floor.

Viola watched Quinn from the corner of her eye. Why did he have to be so damnably handsome? Her chest ached at the sight of him. She missed a step and nearly stumbled.

“Careful, madam.” Lord Wimbly held her up with a tight grip. The old gentleman was a pleasant dancer. Viola much preferred him to some of the other gentlemen who couldn’t keep from staring at her décolletage as they twirled her about the floor.

She was also pleased to discover he was an amiable fellow when his wife wasn’t about to monopolize the conversation. And without Lady Wimbly around, his hearing seemed to improve. It occurred to her that as lord of the neighboring estate, he would have known Quinn from a young age. Perhaps he could shed light on Quinn’s brother’s accident.

“You’ve known my husband for a long time, I collect,” she said as they dipped in a bow and answering curtsy.

“All his life. Many’s the time I chased the young scallywag out of my orchard. Him and his brother both.”

“So you knew Reginald, too?”

“Oh, yes. A good boy, that one. A gentle boy, you understand. One got the sense that he was sickly often, him being smaller than his younger brother, you know.” He narrowed his eyes and Viola suspected he gazed into the past. “Why, Greydon topped him by almost a head that last summer even though he was a couple years the younger.”

Viola’s heart sank to her toes. Quinn’s brother was smaller than he. Weaker. Vulnerable. It made what she’d seen even more hideous somehow.

“Their father, Lord Kilmaine, often said those two were born out of order. Greydon ought to have been the elder by rights. He was always the stronger and the one in the lead. Leastwise, he was when they pilfered my garden.” Lord Wimbly laughed good-naturedly. “Poor Reggie was a bitter disappointment to Kilmaine. I suppose if Reginald had been a second son, he might have been more acceptable. He’d have made a good scholar or a vicar, perhaps.”

“And then he died.”

“Ah, yes, sad business that.” Wimbly led her through the gavotte steps without conscious effort. He was evidently used to squeezing his gossip into his dancing time. “And sad for your husband most of all, for he was there, you understand.”

“Quinn is not one to dwell on the past.”

“Oh, yes. Quite sensible, what?”

He seemed to think she’d given him a signal to stop talking about the topic, so she gave him a gentle nudge. “I’d rather not bring up such a painful subject with my husband. Would you tell me what happened?”

“All my information is secondhand, but it came straight from Lord Kilmaine, so you may rely upon it. Seems Greydon had been teaching Reggie how to swim. He was always very protective of his brother, you know. Lord Kilmaine could be . . . harsh. Never seemed to bother Greydon though. Stoic as a Swede, that one. But Reggie took it very much to heart.”

Lord Wimbly turned his lips inward for a moment as if he’d said too much. “Well, a man has to be firm with sons, doesn’t he? Spare the rod and spoil the child and all that. Can’t mollycoddle one’s heir, can one?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Of course not. At any rate, Greydon left his brother at the lakeside and went to fetch their father, so Lord Kilmaine could see how well Reggie was progressing. When they arrived back at the dock, Reggie was in the water by himself and going down for the third time.”

“Quinn’s father was there?” She hadn’t seen an adult in her vision at all. Only Quinn running along the dock as fast as his young legs could carry him.

“Told me himself, poor man. Beastly business.”

If Reggie hadn’t seen his father, that would explain why Viola hadn’t. The vision was unlike the other visions she’d received from gemstones. Usually, she watched a scene from a detached, almost godlike space. This Sending had pulled her into the frantic mind of a dying child. She was bound to have missed a few details.

But wouldn’t Reggie have noticed his father’s presence? Especially since it seemed he was desperate for Lord Kilmaine’s approval.

“Quinn jumped in and pulled his brother out,” Lord Wimbly said.

That wasn’t true. At least not according to what she’d Seen. Quinn had leaned over from the safety of the dock and reached for his brother.

“But by then, it was too late.”

A hand had closed over Reggie’s crown and held him down till he spewed the last of his hoarded breath. Viola’s belly churned afresh.

The last strains of the gavotte faded. She dipped a low curtsy while Lord Wimbly sketched a florid bow that belonged to the previous century.

“And now give me your hand, my dear—Gracious me! You’re pale as a sheet! We shall rescue your husband from the clutches of my wife and find a place for you to sit. I see she has him cornered near the punchbowl.” Lord Wimbly led Viola off the dance floor as the string quartet set aside their instruments for a quarter hour break. “She means well, but honestly, my Euphegenia could talk the ears off a donkey.”

“There you are, my love.” Quinn bussed his lips over her temple as she drew near. He frowned at her with concern. “You look rather blown. Would you like some fresh air?”

It was the signal they’d agreed upon and her pallor at least made his statement plausible. The embassy ballroom was on the topmost floor of the building. A few rooms on the second story had balconies open to the night. It would provide the perfect excuse to venture down the long staircase.

The ambassador’s office happened to be on that level as well.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Viola took Quinn’s offered arm and excused herself from the Wimblys. Once clear of the ballroom, she dropped his arm and picked up the pace. The fabric of her gown swished with each step. Oh, how she wished she was wearing her male attire. It was ever so much more conducive to speed and stealth.

“Steady on,” Quinn said, grasping her elbow as she reached a broad landing on the marble staircase. “We aren’t in a race. Are you all right?”

“I’ll do”—she tried to shake off the lingering memories of her vision of the lake—“but we need to move with purpose.”

“Not necessarily. If we’re noticed wandering about, we need to appear casual, not driven.”

“But if we are quick, we have less chance of being noticed at all,” she whispered furiously. “I don’t know how long the lock will take. The more time we waste in the hall, the less time I’ll have to work the tumbler.”

When they neared the second floor, Quinn brought a finger to his lips and slowed their descent. He glanced around the corner, checking the hallway for guards.

He took her hand and led her down the dim corridor. Only one in three of the gas wall sconces were burning to discourage unwelcome visitors. When they rounded a corner, Viola caught a whiff of tobacco.

A guard.

Quinn grabbed her and pressed her against the wall.

“What are—”

“Kiss me,” he ordered and his mouth descended to cover hers.

Viola expected the knowledge that he had done murder to alter her perception of Quinn, but he tasted the same. When his tongue demanded entrance, her lips parted for him. He groaned into her mouth. Wet suction bound them together in a kiss tinged with desperation.

She wrapped her arms around him, stroking his back. His grip on her waist tightened and his body pressed against hers, his hardness making her soften even more.

This is so wrong.

Her body shouldn’t be responding to him. Not after what she’d Seen.

But that didn’t stop the low drumbeat from starting between her legs. The ache roared to life, empty and insistent. She arched into him. If he lifted her skirt and tried to take her right there, she hadn’t the will to stop him.

“Who goes there?” A voice came from the far end of the corridor.

When Quinn pulled back, Viola peered over his shoulder and saw an embassy guard approaching them.

“Sorry to have bothered you, old chap,” Quinn said with a sheepish grin. “My wife and I were looking for a bit of privacy. We haven’t been married long, you see.”

The guard swept a quick gaze over Viola and winked at Quinn. “I quite understand, sir. Might I suggest the blue room at the far end of this hall? There’s a balcony there.”

“Much obliged,” Quinn took Viola’s hand and turned to go. “Oh! You might want to form up a detail to assist Lady Wimbly from the ballroom. She was fair done in when we left her. I don’t think she’ll be able to make the stairs. Her husband and the ambassador went to school together, you know. They’re great friends to this day, aren’t they, dear?”

“Utterly devoted friends,” Viola agreed.

“I see,” the guard said, quick to grasp an opportunity to ingratiate himself with his employer by providing a thoughtful service for his bosom friend. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see to it immediately.”

Quinn and Viola continued toward the blue room till the click of the guard’s heels faded up the stairwell. Then they turned and dashed back down the long hall toward the unguarded ambassador’s office.

And its unguarded safe.

“How’s
it coming?” Quinn whispered from his post at the crack in the ambassador’s door.

“The same as when you asked half a minute ago. For pity’s sake, Quinn, shut it. I can’t think.”

Viola stood with her ear to the tumbler, her left glove stripped off, the better to turn the rotating part with precision. Eyes closed, body tense, breasts rising and falling with carefully measured breaths, she was the picture of concentration.

And the picture of swiveable femininity.

Quinn’s cock still hadn’t settled after that kiss in the hallway. She’d kissed him back! She’d melted against him. He even thought he scented the sweet whiff of her arousal.

But was she only acting? Had she kissed him so soundly merely to throw off the guard?

Viola was a contradiction with feet. Cold or hot, vulnerable or strong-willed, he never knew which side she’d present to him. She was as many faceted as the gem they sought.

How many Violas were there?

Once they had the diamond, he vowed to take the time to find out.

A loud click broke the room’s silence.

“There,” she said softly. She turned the handle and opened the wall vault.

Quinn left his post as lookout and hurried to her side. There were several tall stacks of various types of bundled currency—pounds, francs, and lira. If they’d been after cash, it would have been a burglar’s motherlode. Files in sealed folders were stacked on the bottom shelf, the state secrets of a dozen potentates, no doubt. If blackmail was their game, the vault contained a treasure trove of embarrassing possibilities.

So many paths to wealth, so little time.

But fast ill-gotten wealth wasn’t Quinn’s aim. His gaze fell on a leather bag. A diplomatic pouch.

He lifted it from the safe and opened it. There was only a small box inside. He started to reach in for it, but Viola stopped him.

“Wait. If Sanjay is right and the diamond is dangerous, I’m the one wearing the protection.”

He didn’t believe all that Eastern mumbo-jumbo for an instant, but the earnest expression on her face told him she did. If it would make her happy, he’d humor her. He nodded, but watched her with the intensity of a hawk on a vole. If she was going to pocket the stone or make a switch, now was when she’d try to do it.

She drew out the jewel box and opened it for them to see. A red gem sparkled in the gas light. Quinn smiled, but Viola answered him with a frown.

“This isn’t the right gem.”

“It’s red. It’s the right size. Are you telling me it’s paste?”

“No, it’s a precious stone, but I don’t think it’s a diamond.” She picked it up with her gloved hand, the one bedecked with Sanjay’s silver and jet, and cocked her head as if listening intently. “The resonance is off.”

“What?” Could she somehow
hear
the jewel? In the silence that followed, he heard nothing but their soft breathing and the blood rushing through his ears.

Viola shook her head and transferred the stone to the palm of her bare hand. Her whole body suddenly stiffened.

“Here you are, Mr. Penobscot,” a round man with a fierce set of muttonchop whiskers said to the courier. “Bear this ruby to London using the Paris route. Guard it well. You will have a security detail traveling with you at all times. The more convincing you are about its supposed nature, the safer the real diamond will be.”

Viola watched the scene unfold beneath her as if she were a spider on the ceiling. She recognized the stone being handed to Mr. Penobscot. It was the same one she now held in her palm.

“And you, Mr. Chesterton,” said Mutton-Chops, “your papers show you to be a returning man of business and not a very prosperous one at that. Your security will be in the appearance of poverty.”

Chesterton was a small man, not much taller than Viola herself, with a balding spot on the top of his head no amount of creative combing would cover.

“Your route is through Hanover, Mr. Chesterton. Prince Albert’s people will be expecting you. Wait there until an armed contingent arrives to escort you the rest of the way. The closer you come to the queen’s collection, the more vulnerable you will be.”

Another stone changed hands.

A presence unrelated to the men below her crowded Viola’s mind. It was a dark, creeping malevolence, accompanied by a single low tone, so deep it made her chest vibrate. An invisible claw dragged across her spine. Menace emanated from the stone itself, but none of the men seemed aware of it. Panic flooded Viola’s mind when she glimpsed the jewel glittering like a bloody eye in Mr. Chesterton’s gloved palm.

Could the stone feel her watching it?

Was it watching her?

As if in answer, it turned its evil energy toward her and all the breath exploded from her lungs.