Thief of Hearts
Thief of Hearts
By Ruby Moone
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2018 Ruby Moone
ISBN 9781634866866
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Thief of Hearts
By Ruby Moone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Chapter 1
David Lambert swirled finest claret around his crystal glass, watching its ruby perfection as it moved before raising it to his lips. He didn’t actually drink it, just wet his lips and lowered it. He needed a clear head. He looked out at the gathered party, ensuring every last vestige of disdain he felt for them was buried, and nothing showed on his face but fashionable boredom. Lies were fascinating things. All it took to be believed was absolute confidence in its execution. And, in this particular instance, the visual accoutrements of wealth and status which proclaimed him to be of the set who drank such fine wine. It had taken a long time, but his patience had paid off, and finally he was receiving invitations to some of the more exclusive events. His attendance at Sir Granville Fallows’ house party was testament to it. He almost smiled.
He slid the gold watch from the pocket on his waistcoat, flipped it open, glanced at the hands which had not moved in many a year, then dropped it back into place. He knew the dark green of his embroidered waistcoat and the emerald nestled in the perfect whiteness of his cravat highlighted the green in his eyes. He also knew that if he wore blue his eyes would take on a bluish hue. Muddy grey eyes and hair of an indeterminate shade of brown coupled with average height were a definite asset when one had no wish to be remembered. He made an infinitesimal adjustment to his cravat, raised the glass to his lips again, and watched his vibrant companions carefully. It was an interesting gathering. No blushing maidens and hopeful mamas here. The guests were…seasoned. David raised his glass to his lips to hide his smile. It certainly promised to be profitable.
The dinner gong sounded. Jewels glittered in the candlelight as the guests moved to dine. Ladies took the arms of gentlemen and the ancient dance began. Large double doors opened silently as if by magic as the guests approached, and the hundreds of invisible servants on whose shoulders such a magnificent event rested, slid into place with well-oiled precision.
The February air was chill, despite numerous fires, candles, and heavy brocade drapery at the windows. David shuddered. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or if someone had stepped over his grave. He placed his glass on the tray of a passing servant with a nod and turned to the Dowager Countess of Westborough who had appeared beside his arm. They had been introduced earlier in the evening. A handsome woman, probably at least twenty years older than his nine and twenty. She was still attractive but knew it. Somehow, that made her less so.
He bowed courteously. “My lady, you do me an inestimable honour.” He placed her hand on his arm and joined the stately procession past wood panelled walls adorned with enormous, serious paintings of what he presumed to be his host’s family. She glanced up at him and applied her fan, sending a waft of deeply unpleasant perfume his way. There was no doubt some hidden meaning to the way she waved it, but the Lord alone knew what. He didn’t much care, but he ventured a guess and allowed a slow, slightly flirtatious smile to spread over his lips, and slanted her a lazy glance.
She smiled in return and slid the fan onto her wrist beside her reticule. “Mr. Lambert. I don’t think I’ve seen you at Sir Granville’s parties before.”
“Indeed, you haven’t, my lady. This is the first time I have attended one.” He allowed his smile to deepen as her fingers tightened a little on his arm.
“Do you know many people?”
“A few.”
“Then I shall be delighted to introduce you about.”
“You are too kind.”
She looked up at him with a sparkle in her hazel eyes. “Although I feel incumbent upon me to mention that if you are looking for a bed partner for the weekend, you would be well served to look elsewhere.”
David swallowed his surprise and managed to summon a smile he hoped conveyed shock at her forthright statement, tinged with disappointment. “Duly noted,” he said, and was apparently successful because she preened. He was most certainly looking for a bed partner. He was always on the lookout. Sir Granville’s weekend parties had a certain reputation, but it would be a bed partner of a very different sort to the countess. He could only hope that she meant what she said, and he wasn’t expected to set up a flirtation.
She nodded graciously to the footman who held open the door for them. “I find it is always best to establish the parameters of a relationship on such a weekend as this.”
David smiled again and flicked a glance in the direction of the footman holding the door, staring straight ahead. His heart did an odd flutter in his chest. Beneath the customary powdered wig, he found a pair of large, dark, lash fringed eyes of a colour, that if pressed, he would have described as violet blue set in a sharply sculpted pale face graced with plump, red lips. It was a truly, truly exquisite face. David’s heart beat faster as he manoeuvred so he could glance again, but he was caught looking by the footman himself. The young man met his gaze. Those violet blue eyes widened for a second and a gentle flush appeared like rouge on porcelain-pale cheeks. He blinked a couple of times and looked away, swallowing as he did so. Judging by the dark eyebrows and lashes, David surmised the footman had dark hair. He was astonished to discover he was hot all over. Dismissing the feeling, he escorted his companion to her chair and took his seat beside her. He settled in and allowed himself to be consumed by the convivial company of outrageously wealthy men and women. The entire table, nay room, sparkled with jewels and gold in the soft candlelight, and echoed with the soft murmur of genteel conversation.
His eyes paused for a moment on Viscount Charnley, who sat at the other end of the table, thankfully. A familiar sense of anger knotted his insid
es, and he dragged his eyes away lest he be caught staring as the utter disdain he felt for him wasn’t quite so easy to disguise.
His gaze travelled further and fell on the Earl of Standish and again, he looked away quickly. He didn’t have many rules in his life, but not paying return visits to a gentleman’s chamber was one of them. Standish had been uncomfortably persistent since an encounter during the previous year. He held onto the notion that Standish was now recovered from whatever maggot he had taken into his head, but in reality, he knew it to be a faint hope.
Footmen filed in soundlessly with soup tureens and proceeded to serve a fragrant consommé. He moved slightly to accommodate the arm that slid beside him holding a dish and glanced up. It was the violet-eyed young man. He was close enough for David to catch the faintest scent of him. Unadorned by the unguents and pomades favoured by the gentlemen of the Ton, it was the warm essence of man and David’s heart fluttered again, this time quite badly. When the footmen retired to stand behind the chairs of the guests, Violet Eyes stood behind his and David’s neck prickled. He ignored the sensation and concentrated on the soup and the conversation around the table.
The food which followed was plentiful, and of the highest calibre. Sir Granville was, he recalled, noted for the skill of his chef. He then recalled he was also noted for his handsome footmen. David cast a glance at the young men standing behind the guests opposite and had to conclude that the assertion was correct. The food was indeed delightful, and the footmen…delectable. He moved his head slightly to dispel the sensation of being watched.
When the meal was finished, and the last spoon of syllabub consumed, Violet Eyes reached around him to take his dessert bowl and he noted slender, bony wrists with long, elegant fingers and clean nails. David glanced up and unexpectedly met his gaze. Those violet eyes widened, and pale cheeks flushed pink again. David held the contact longer than he should and read a shy interest before he departed with his dessert dish. David took a sip of his wine and resumed his conversation with the dowager countess whilst firmly reminding himself of his other rule, which was, never bed the staff. He glanced about the table, weighing up the possibilities, and was uninspired. A fair haired military man, Kingston if he recalled correctly, resplendent in red, caught his eye momentarily and as David was surveying him he looked down the table at him. David smiled. The man stared at his mouth for a moment and nodded tersely. David took another sip of wine and looked away.
Once the meal was finished, the ladies repaired to the drawing room with their hostess, leaving the gentlemen to their cigars and port. His host, Sir Granville Fallows, was a bluff, genial man who enjoyed displaying his wealth, so he had no doubt they would both be of excellent quality. David raised his glass to his lips but didn’t drink. He hated the feeling of being in his cups. Hated feeling out of control. He watched and noted carefully those who had no such qualms.
* * * *
Jeremy Naylor hurried down the long corridor to the kitchens clutching a huge pile of serving platters. His heart was thumping and his ears burning. He tried not to think of the man with grey green eyes which seemed to see right through him and discern every one of his wicked thoughts. He’d met a lot of handsome men working for Sir Granville, and the man wasn’t the most striking, but he was certainly the most memorable. It felt as if he had, in one glance, discerned the very heart of him and not only that, understood. Which was utterly, utterly ridiculous.
He turned the corner and ran down the staircase on legs that felt oddly unsteady, balancing his load, and the household shifted from grandeur and formal elegance to stark functionality. The kitchens were immense at the Park, and as he drew closer the din became louder. He turned the corner and went past the scullery maids, elbow deep in steaming, greasy water, scrubbing at the dirty dishes whilst the chef yelled at everyone and clipped anybody who got too close or who answered back. The steam and heat were welcome given the chill in the corridors, but the smells of cooking food made Jeremy’s stomach groan uncomfortably. He sidestepped the kitchen maids, who were gathering all the pots up and scraping the leftovers for the pigs and plonked his pile of dirty dishes on the side with all the others.
More than anything, he wanted to take off his wig and uniform. The white wigs he had to wear as a footman were heavy, smelly, and unbearably itchy. He hated it. His feet were killing him, and his back ached from lugging all the heavy plates and serving platters miles to the dining room. On top of that, having to stand straight and silent as a statue for the entire evening, was nigh on torture. He scratched at his chest where his shirt was rough against his skin, and then slid one finger beneath the wig and scratched again. He was unspeakably grateful to his brother for securing him such a respectable job with a high-ranking family, so tried not to think about it too much.
The rest of the footmen followed him in, and he yelped when Donald Andrews pinched his arse as he went past. Jeremy’s heart thumped a little harder. Andrews was getting more and more familiar, and it was a worry. Andrews was taller and definitely more muscled that his own tall, but willowy and slender figure. He’d been overly familiar for a few weeks now, ever since Jeremy had joined the family, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to fend him off properly. He only hoped he could do it without drawing attention to himself. Most of the footmen were more interested in the maids, but it seemed Andrews shared something of his peculiarity. Not all of it, mind, but enough to be an annoyance.
The chef was barking instructions and the kitchen maids were lining up china cups and saucers with plates of sweet, mouth-watering pastries. There was a dreadful crash, followed by a moment’s silence, and then hell erupted. Everyone shouting at once, the maid who had dropped a plate of pastries received a vicious smack about the head and started crying loudly. It was hideous. He helped pick up the fallen treats, patted the girl on the shoulder, but wanted to run and hide somewhere quiet where he could take off the damned wig and wear something soft and comfortable. Somewhere he could simply be quiet. The butler grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into line, handing him a tray, and they sent off in train back to the parlour. The pastries smelled lovely. He’d snaffled the corner of a broken one earlier in the evening so knew they were divine. He sighed as he started the long trek back.
* * * *
Jeremy delivered the pastries safely and pulled closed the doors to the drawing room to head back to the kitchens, but the butler grabbed him by the arm again.
“Come with me, Naylor.”
The butler, Mr. Fisher, was a stickler in every sense of the word. Hard, unrelenting, and eyes everywhere. He had seemingly taken Jeremy in dislike and was now towing him in the direction of the dining room fast enough to make him stumble.
“Wait here. The gentlemen are about to repair to the drawing room with the ladies, and I need you to be on hand should anything be required. He parked him by the door where three other footmen stood waiting in anticipation should any of the guests require anything.
“But…sir…?” Jeremy blurted. He was so tired and hungry he felt sick.
Fisher glared at him.
“I’m due to…”
Fisher cut him off with a wave of the hand. “You’ll have to wait,” he snapped and stomped off down the corridor, twitching at ornaments and cushions as he went to make sure everything was up to standard. It seemed he knew exactly where every ornament in the house should be. Jeremy knew that some of the maids took delight in moving things slightly just to watch him put them back. He watched him go and resisted the urge to lean back against the wall. His feet were in agony. Soft satin slippers for footmen so they could move silently were all well and good, but he’d stood on a discarded chop bone in the kitchen earlier and his left foot throbbed steadily.
All four of them stood waiting in complete silence. Not daring to speak to each other or lean against the wall. Jeremy closed his eyes for a moment and jerked awake at a noise from inside the room.
Tim Wilks stood at the other side of the door, and he nodde
d to Jeremy as the sounds from inside the room changed. Chairs moved, voices were louder. They waited, listening, nodding to each other as the voices approached the door, arms poised by the doorknobs, then together moved to open the doors in one smooth movement. The timing was perfect. Sir Granville exited with some crony on his arm, closely followed by the rest of the party. The man with the grey green eyes was at the back. Jeremy looked determinedly forward as he passed, but couldn’t resist a tiny glance, just a flick of his eyes, but it coincided with the man looking at him. Jeremy blushed again, his skin prickled from head to toe, and his mouth went dry.
The footmen followed the gentlemen to the drawing room, silent and upright. Ready and waiting should anything be required. Once inside the room they arranged themselves around the perimeter and waited to be summoned. Jeremy stared into the distance, not watching anyone but trying to remain alert to any request.
After yet another hour of standing unmoving, Jeremy was exhausted. He could feel sweat prickle over his skin. It felt uncommonly warm given it was February. He surreptitiously scratched beneath his wig for what felt like the umpteenth time as his whole head now itched abominably. Fortunately, there was enough noise in the room to cover his stomach as it rumbled. It was hours since he had eaten anything other than bits of stolen pastry, and come to think of it, it was a long time since he’d had anything to drink. He watched the occupants of the room sip tea and brandy and nibble delicious looking sweetmeats and longed to be laid on his bed with his shoes off, a cup of tea, and one of those pastries. Someone laughed and made him jump. It made his head swim. He blinked a few times to clear his vision which had gone blurry. The way the guests were chatting, flirting, and laughing meant the evening could go on for hours. He wondered if Fisher might send some of the others up to relieve them and felt faintly panicked at the thought that he might not.
The prickle of sweat was getting worse. It was running down his back now, and his temples. He wondered if it was politer to wipe it away or ignore it. His head was itching so badly he wanted to tear the damned wig off and pull at his hair. It was, however, becoming increasingly hard to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach and the thought that he might cast his accounts at any moment made him sweat even more. He swallowed. Vomiting in the drawing room would most likely get him turned off without a reference. What would he tell his brother if that happened? His legs set up with a fine tremor which really made him worry. He was going to have to escape. He was trying desperately to work out how best to slip out unnoticed, when the man with the grey green eyes stood and, bowing to his companion, walked in his direction. All he could do was look at those eyes. Oh, those eyes. He came and stood before him and spoke, but Jeremy had no idea what he said. His ears appeared to have set up the most appalling buzzing.