Now she understood why every instinct had leaped to alert the first time he’d sauntered into the parlor. No wonder his touch had always felt familiar. It wasn’t some mystical affinity. He’d held her close when he’d disarmed her.
Last night she’d stormed back through the dark woods, determined to denounce Mr. Evans. How she loathed a thief. Her father had spent the last ten years stealing her work without an ounce of compunction. Now the first man to kiss her turned out to be a thief too.
Yet however much the double-dealing devil’s betrayal smarted, bewilderment outweighed anger. While she might call him a thief, so far he’d stolen nothing except her peace of mind and a few kisses. For the life of her, she couldn’t discern his motives for leaving empty-handed and then infiltrating the vicarage.
What did he want? Would she be better to discover his purposes before she exposed him? Even if she accused him, what proof did she have? How could she confess that she’d been close enough to Mr. Evans to recognize his scent?
Did he want the Harmsworth Jewel? It was the only thing here worth stealing. But so few people knew she had the artifact. Dr. Partridge at the Ashmolean Museum, who considered her article for publication. Her father was so focused on his princes that she wasn’t sure he remembered Lady Bellfield’s bequest.
Sir Richard Harmsworth…
Was Mr. Evans’s arrival part of a campaign to retrieve the jewel? With a nasty start, she remembered Mr. Evans offering to buy the jewel. Did he want it for himself or for Sir Richard?
If Mr. Evans worked for Sir Richard, why hadn’t he pocketed the jewel when he broke in? He must have noticed it. After these last days, she was convinced that his deceptively lazy gaze missed little. Even if he’d overlooked it that night, she, gullible idiot she was, had placed it in his hand yesterday.
And how on earth did Sedgemoor fit into the puzzle? He’d introduced Mr. Evans to the district as an old friend. Was the duke part of the plot? If so, why?
She sighed with frustration and impatiently shoved aside the half-written page lying on the blotter. So many questions. And no answers that made a jot of sense.
From now on, she’d carry the jewel on her. And one thing above all—no more kisses. Ever.
However necessary that decision was, it made her want to howl. Because the secret she’d take to the grave was that she’d loved Mr. Evans’s kisses. However much she might want to skin him with the butter knife now, she’d never felt so alive as she had in that sneaking liar’s arms.
“Ah, here you are. Your father is asking for you.”
She was so focused on the duplicitous Mr. Evans, she needed a moment to realize that the man in the doorway was Neville Fairbrother.
“My lord.” She was surprised to see him. He’d never ventured upstairs before. “You didn’t need to fetch me.”
Despite the lukewarm welcome, he approached. “I’ve always wondered where you disappeared each day.”
Genevieve couldn’t help contrasting his graceless trudge to Mr. Evans’s tigerish prowl. Mr. Evans’s every move proclaimed him a rake. So what did Lord Neville’s gait say? That he asserted rights over everything and everyone in the vicarage?
As if to confirm that unpleasant thought, Lord Neville lifted the Harmsworth Jewel from the desk. She stifled the urge to snatch it back. Lord Neville’s acquisitive streak was well known to her. Her father, taking advantage of Genevieve’s expertise, had sourced many objets d’art for his collection.
“Good God, what is this?” Lord Neville twirled the jewel, setting the dragon’s ruby eyes sparkling in the light flooding through the windows. “Is it twelfth century?”
She had even less desire to confide in Lord Neville than in Mr. Evans. Odd, when Lord Neville was her family’s benefactor, and Mr. Evans was here under false pretenses.
“It’s the Harmsworth Jewel.” To her educated eye, the relic’s design belonged to an earlier period, but she’d long ago learned that Lord Neville pretended more expertise than he possessed. “The family legend is that Alfred the Great presented it to an ancestor.”
Lord Neville’s hand fisted. Genevieve bit back a demand to take care. “Ninth century, then. What on earth is it doing here? And why hasn’t your father offered it to me?”
Because I knew you’d want it the moment you saw it.
“It’s mine,” she said stiffly. “I inherited it from a friend.”
“The Harmsworths have become lamentably rackety. The current baronet is reputedly a stablehand’s bastard.”
“I didn’t know you followed gossip, Lord Neville.”
He shrugged, not shifting his attention from the jewel. Her fingers curled against the leather blotter. She burned to lunge across the desk and pry the artifact from his grip. “I don’t, of course. I focus on higher things. But the scandal has been the talk of the town for years.”
Lord Neville’s sneering tone made her range herself on Sir Richard’s side, whatever his schemes. How horrible to have everyone sniggering over something he couldn’t help.
“Can I please have the jewel back?” She rose behind her desk. “I’m sketching it.”
He rotated the artifact. “How much do you want for it?”