Obsession Wears Opals (4 page)

“I’m sure she wasn’t that bad,” Darius said. He laid his own ivory pieces in the box in orderly lines, enjoying the brush with a gentle nostalgia that held no judgments or dark nightmares. So much of his recent past wasn’t anything he wanted to recall, so an afternoon with an old colleague seemed a welcome balm to his nerves. “As I remember it, she was very . . . enthusiastic.”

“What a diplomat you’d have made, Thorne! My darling Hattie is many things, but gifted with the ability to sing a single clear note, she is not.” Professor Warren closed the box and slid it across the table toward Darius. “I’d missed our regular games.”

“You were a good teacher.”

“Apparently so, if my student has learned to play better than his mentor ever had.” The older man lifted his warm pewter mug filled with mulled wine to ward off the chill of a Scottish winter’s day. “I’m glad I ran into you in Edinburgh. But so far from Oxford! I’d have expected you to have won a permanent position at Trinity College and been mentoring young minds of your own by now.”

Darius shook his head. “My life has taken a few unexpected turns, Professor. But with all due respect, I’m still determined to win a place despite my lack of pedigree. If not at Oxford, then—there’s time yet for my studies to garner some notice and secure me a position somewhere.”

“Well, if it’s the University of Edinburgh you’ve set your sights on, then say so. I have a few contacts and could—”

“On my own merits, Professor Warren. I’ll list you as a reference and request a letter if the opportunity arises, but I want my own work to open the door. I’m here to eventually look at the archives of the historical society and glean what I can for a few theories I possess. But for now, I have personal business in Edinburgh and in London that takes up most of my time, so any serious academic pursuits will have to wait.”

“You’ve not abandoned your original thesis on ancient civilizations and their architecture, have you?”

“No,” Darius conceded, reaching for his mug of spiced tea. “I’m too stubborn to quit.”

“What few notes and drawings you’ve shared from your travels to Asia and India have been most impressive. You’ll publish, of course!”

Darius smiled at the older man’s confidence. “Of course. Even if it’s a dozen copies at my own expense, I shall be sure to send you one for your library.”

“You’re too humble.”

“And you’re too kind, Professor.” The words rang with a genuine sincerity that ended the friendly debate. Warren had been like a father to him, encouraging a young Darius to see beyond the limiting spheres of his origins and family. Somehow he’d seen something worthwhile in Darius, who had suffered a crippling shyness in his youth. The professor had determined that his quiet charge had a keen intellect and an open and curious nature that had outshone his peers. Professor Warren had nurtured him without any signs of judgment and unofficially fostered him as his own. Even Mrs. Warren had never objected to Darius’s presence at her table or the long hours he had, for all intents and purposes, taken over their library for his studies and kidnapped her husband for endless debates into the night.

“So long as you’re working, Darius.” Professor Warren drained his cup. “These are difficult times, and if you need anything while you finish your thesis, I hope you’ll remember that Mrs. Warren insists on keeping a room ready for you.”

Darius had to swallow the lump that formed in his throat. He couldn’t remember any of her off-key tunes, but he recalled every instance where she’d found him at his studies and brought him a warm bit of tea or gently reminded him to eat. “I’ve been remiss in my correspondence, Professor. Please tell her—I will make a point of visiting as soon as I can. If only for some of her wonderful marmalade cakes.”

Professor Warren pretended to wince. “She’s making me fat, Darius! Her baking’s gotten more and more enticing over the years, and I warn you, if I tell her your message, you’ll be swimming in cakes before the summer.”

Darius laughed. “And where is the threat in that? You’ll be spared gaining another stone and I’ll be the envy of every bachelor I know.”

Warren smiled but then the sound of freezing rain striking the windowpanes interrupted their merriment. “It’s been an afternoon well spent but I should go before this delightful Scottish weather improves and makes the roads impassable.”

“So should I. My housekeeper will be standing watch by now.”
Not to mention my own need to look in on my houseguest and reassure myself that she’s still safe.
Darius stood to help his friend to his feet and handed him his rosewood-handled cane. “Shall we meet again for a rematch?”

Warren shook his head. “I’m to return home in the morning. I’m presenting my latest theorem on the correlations of education and prosperity next week, that is, if the dean of the college doesn’t hang me first.”

“He wouldn’t dare. You’re too beloved a revolutionary, sir.”

“I’m a pain in his backside, but let us hope you’re right. Besides, I’ve gotten craftier in my old age. It’s all hypotheticals and carefully hidden metaphors so he can’t openly accuse me of championing the Irish or spitting on our beloved aristocrats’ toes.”

Darius helped him with his wool coat, before shrugging into his own. “Who knew that a doctorate in economics could be so politically treacherous?”

“True. You were wise to avoid following in my unsteady footsteps too closely, Thorne.” Warren took his arm as they headed down the narrow staircase. “But if I can offer one last bit of advice—for old times’ sake . . .”

“Of course,” Darius said. “I value any advice you care to share.”

“Don’t wait too long, young man.”

“Don’t wait?”

Warren sighed as they reached the doorway of the shop. “Don’t wait for positions or your fortunes to improve or the completion of studies or any of the endless excuses a man can make to materialize before pursuing your own happiness. You isolate yourself too much. You always have, Darius. Marry while you’re young and seize the chance to live among your fellow human beings and experience all that life has to offer.”

“I’m not isolated.” Darius saw the look in the professor’s eyes and amended his claim. “I’m not
as
isolated as I once was, Professor Warren. I have good friends to ensure I am exposed to more experiences than I ever thought possible, and my fortunes have vastly improved. India was . . . life changing.” It was an understatement, but even speaking to Warren, he didn’t think he could find the words to explain what it was like to be in the circle of the Jaded.

Over a year in the black of a dungeon in Bengal had forged a brotherhood without equal and redefined each man’s character in unexpected ways. The name of their club had been a jest at first, but it had held. Darius doubted the name was appropriate, considering that for half their number, cynicism had given way to a woman’s gentle influence. He, Josiah Hastings, and Michael Rutherford were the last bachelors standing. It was easy to imagine Hastings, the sensitive artist, succumbing to romance, or even Rutherford, the surly giant, losing a battle to love—but he had no such hopes for himself.

Even when fate throws a beautiful woman in my path, she is definitely out of reach, which is probably Providence being kind. Better to enjoy my friends’ happiness from a safe distance. Better for all.

The words sounded hollow in his head and plaintive, and he hated it. A lifetime of self-discipline redirected his thoughts away from the painful edges of his loneliness and back to Professor Warren and the conversation at hand.

Darius forced a smile. “I’m not waiting, sir. I shall make the most of my opportunities.”

“You do seem more confident than I remember. And more strikingly fit! Where did that skinny, frightened boy go?” Warren teased as he pulled on his gloves. “You have the build of a prizefighter rather than a professor, sir.”

“My friend, Rutherford, was a soldier, and I admit, he’s been a strong influence in ensuring that I can hold my own.” Darius searched his pockets for his own leather gloves. “Not that I’m planning on any physical contests.”

“No man does, but a wise man is prepared for anything,” Warren said. “I like Mr. Rutherford already for it. You must bring him by when next you are at Oxford and we shall engage him in a rousing debate on the stratagems of war.”

Darius hid a smile at the impossible image of the massive Michael Rutherford uncomfortably perched on one of Mrs. Warren’s chintz chairs enduring a “rousing debate” on any subject. The man loathed conversation for conversation’s sake, and Darius knew Michael wouldn’t thank him for the invitation. But then again, the chance to see Rutherford trying to evade the Warrens’ hospitality might be worth the price.

At last, both men were armed with layers of outerwear for the weather and farewells were made. Darius saw his mentor safely up inside his carriage and then made his own way to his brougham and signaled his driver, who’d been waiting under the cover of the stables.

“Sorry to head out in this, Hamish.”

“What, this? A wee bit of wet?” The Scotsman dismissed the freezing rain with a wave of his hand. “I enjoy a brisk drive, sir!”

Darius shook his head. The weather was bone-crushingly cold and the damp served to give it sharper teeth, as far as he could perceive. But the locals appeared to take pleasure in pretending to enjoy it and poking fun at the misery of unprepared visitors. He was getting used to the elements after weeks in Edinburgh, but there was no possibility of him describing it as “a wee bit of wet.”

“Let’s get home, then.” Darius climbed up inside the carriage and firmly shut the door. The brougham pulled away from the inn almost immediately, and Darius leaned back and tried to reorder his thoughts for the two hours or more it would take to reach his house.

He’d told Warren that his life had taken a few unexpected turns, but the woman was a twist he’d never seen coming. He’d deliberately said nothing of her to Warren. Every fiber of his being felt protective of her, unwilling to think too far ahead of his improvised plan to simply provide her a haven until she’d recovered and a better solution could be found. Darius lost time staring out of the windows at the icy landscape and imagining what his friends would make of his “rescue.” Her pale beauty was distracting and unsettled him. He was determined to keep his appointments and make no outward changes in his household for her safety, but already he could sense that his mental landscape had suffered a vast shift.

I could anonymously set her up somewhere but—where? How far is far enough to guarantee her safety? I can just hear Ashe now. He’d say something witty about the geographical reach of marital discord and offer a—

The brougham lurched as one of the wheels caught in the mud, but Hamish’s skilled driving kept them upright and moving. Darius wedged his foot up against the sidewall of the upholstered compartment and tried to steady himself against the jostling. He closed his eyes and gave in to the distractions of all the tangled mysteries in his life. Between sacred treasures, hidden enemies of the Jaded, and damsels in distress, Darius was fairly sure he’d a plateful. Darius began picturing all the events and pieces of the Jaded’s puzzle until he’d created a vast map of tenuous threads and unique symbols that oscillated and danced on a wall of mirrors inside his head.

It was an old trick and a skill he’d honed to a razor’s edge in the dark of that dungeon. As Darius indulged in the escape his interior world provided, the long drive home evaporated.

“Ye’re home, Mr. Thorne.” Hamish’s voice was the first sign he had that the carriage had stopped and he’d arrived at his house.

“Oh yes, thank you, Hamish.” Darius put his hat on before climbing out to make the short run under the eaves of the front door, where he could scrape the mud from his boots before entering. It was a lovely two-story stone home with a thatched roof and walled garden that had long since gone to seed. It was Darius’s idea to find a place convenient to Edinburgh for the city’s famed gem traders and to benefit all the Jaded, since their windfall from India had consisted in jewels. He’d secured the house after returning to England without even seeing it because the real estate agent had mentioned that it came with a library of abandoned texts. “Floor to ceiling, all leather-bound nonsense from what I can discern,” the man had confessed. “Man died without much family except a distant nephew who cares nothing for it and says you’re free to burn the lot for kindling if you wish.”

The previous owner had been an eccentric and a reclusive scholar who’d spent whatever money he had on books, and Darius had experienced an instant kinship with the spirit of the man. If there was any solace or joy to be found in life, Darius was sure it was inside books. He’d bought the house without asking a single question about the state of its foundation—and been extremely lucky to end up owning a home with a sound roof and spacious rooms to go with the books in his new library.

The collection had turned out to be very valuable, and a delightful mix of classical reference books in Latin and Greek, French and German history texts, and even a few Russian books on horse breeding and training. The subjects were a mash of science and art, with a few bits of rare poetry and practical home guides tossed in. Whatever cataloging system the deceased collector had used was a mystery, and so even now, Darius took delight in making discoveries on an upper shelf or uncovering a first-edition collection of John Donne tucked into a pile of penny novels.

The door opened and Mrs. McFadden stood in the archway, her thin face pinched in concern. “You’re late! It’s nearly dark and I was sure Hamish had overturned that carriage and killed you both!”

“He’s as safe as a church mouse,” Hamish protested before climbing back up into the driver’s seat. “And mind you’re the one jawing away and keeping him in the cold! You’ll freeze your precious Englishman to death complaining about my driving, witch.”

Darius ignored them both, tucking his gloves back into his pockets as he kicked the worst of the mud off his boots. Their bickering was all flash and no substance, and he’d come to appreciate the subtle affections between the pair. His widowed housekeeper preferred to openly despise his driver, but he knew better. Hamish MacQueen never went hungry, had his clothes repaired, his socks darned, and his laundry fresh and folded—all without a single word. And Mrs. McFadden never had to lift anything heavier than a pot of stew, had fresh flowers for her table, was chauffeured on all her shopping trips, and was never without a certain Scotsman nearby to allow her to fuss to her heart’s content. They were a match.