Obsession Wears Opals (9 page)

Chapter

6

The dining room was set for a party downstairs, the long gilt mirrors glittering with the reflection of dozens of candles. She knew it even though she was standing in a dark closet. She could hear the muffled sounds of the guests’ conversations and laughter through the door. Somewhere music was playing and she wondered if there would be dancing.

The earl was having a house party.

His wife would not be attending.

He’d told everyone she was ill, and they had sighed in sympathy, pouting at the young lady’s misfortune. They’d hoped to meet the new mistress and catch a glimpse of her famed beauty, but poor Richard had apparently married a sickly thing, for she was never seen in public since the wedding.

“What a shame!” The words echoed and echoed and Isabel struggled not to cry.

She could hear Richard’s voice downstairs and she was glad. That meant he wasn’t nearby. That he might enjoy his party and drink too much and forget where he’d put her for—

“Punishment,” he whispered behind her, and in the logic of dreams, it made terrifying sense that he was there. That she could hear him laughing in the dining room but feel his hot breath at the back of her neck.

Even in a dream, she knew not to fight him.

She wasn’t allowed to attend the party because she’d angered him that morning at the breakfast table. She couldn’t remember what she’d done or said, but he’d struck her hard across the face.

Richard almost never hit her where the mark would show to a casual observer.

But his rage had been so great that he’d forgotten his own rule.

And so it was her fault.

To have angered him so and spoiled her looks before his grand party.

She’d earned another punishment and he’d locked her in the upstairs hall closet until he’d decided what it should be.

And the demon in the dark began to touch her and Isabel screamed.

She awoke to the sound of her own distress, already on her hands and knees in twisted bedding as if she’d meant to crawl her way out of the nightmare. Isabel’s skin was damp with sweat and she shivered at the lingering memory of Richard’s hands around her throat.

And then Darius was in her doorway, his handsome face illuminated by the candle he was carrying. He was still dressed for dinner, but his shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was mussed as if from sleep. “Helen?” he asked. “Are you unwell?”

She shook her head, her voice thick with shame as she pulled the lace of the nightgown up to cover her throat. “It was—just a dream. I’m fine.”

“Here, let’s get you resettled. Mrs. McFadden isn’t awake but I think we can manage things without disturbing her.” He stepped forward and set his lit candle down on the table next to the bed. “I shall avert my eyes and allow you to get back under the covers, if that helps. It’s almost five in the morning, but there’s time yet to rest.”

She smiled. The man was a marvel to worry about her modesty at such an hour, but her feet felt like ice and she was grateful for the kindness. She climbed back under but sat up against the pillows. “I’m back where I belong, Mr. Thorne.”

He didn’t turn right away and she almost repeated herself in case he’d misheard her, but then Darius shifted back around to make quick work of readjusting the feather comforter, his movements brisk and efficient. “Let’s get something for your shoulders.”

He located the knitted wrap that Mrs. McFadden had left at the end of the bed and brought it over to her. “Here we are.”

“You’d make a remarkable ladies’ maid, Mr. Thorne.”

It was his turn to smile. “I will make a note of it, and if my next work fails publication, I’ll make inquiries.” His smile faded and he reached out to touch her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You’re soaking wet and icy to the touch.”

“I . . . The night terrors are . . .”

“You’ll catch your death if the chill takes hold,” he said. “Damn, the fire’s gone out.”

“I’m fine!”

He didn’t bother to argue. He stood from the bed and immediately began to reset the little fireplace with kindling and wood and started a blaze. Within just a few minutes, a cheerful warmth began to radiate from the hearth and he’d rearranged the screens to direct its heat toward her.

“Mr. Thorne,” she said.

He stood, his back to her. “There. That’s better.”

“Mr. Thorne,” she repeated, making a firmer bid for his attention.

He turned and her breath caught in her throat.

There it is again. That flutter in my stomach when he looks at me. That same sensation as when he took my hand . . .
She could see the bare skin of his throat and a few tantalizing inches of skin across his chest to reveal the dark brown swirl of hair there. He emanated an attractive masculine power that confused and excited her. On the heels of her nightmares, instead of being frightened by his strength, Isabel was drawn to it.

“You’re still wearing your clothes, Mr. Thorne. Did you never go to bed?” she asked.

He reached up to touch his jacket collar, as if just discovering his state of dress. “I fell asleep in the library again. Another terrible habit.”

Isabel pulled the soft shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “It doesn’t seem like such a horrible flaw. There are worse sins.”

He drew closer, standing to one side at the foot of the great bed. “There are.” Darius’s fingers traced the scrollwork on the carved bed’s columns. “After . . . India, when we’d returned to England, I had nightmares every night. I think I deliberately got into a habit of working late to the point of exhaustion to try to outpace them, but it only made them worse.”

“Do you still have them?”

“No.” He tipped his head to one side, shy at the topic. “Because I finally confessed about them to Ashe. I told him about the dreams and—it helped. I’m not sure why, but when I named my fears, they lost their power over me. And if”—he looked back at her before going on—“you ever wanted to talk about what happened or describe your nightmares, I’m a good listener.”

“You truly are, I think.” Isabel took a deep breath, wondering if she could be that courageous and speak the unspeakable. Shame and embarrassment threatened to drown out reason, but looking at him, Isabel could remember only how sweet he’d been and how he’d not once pressed her for answers or spoken out against her impulsive escape from her commitments. “I don’t believe I could bear it if you thought less of me, Mr. Thorne.”

“My opinion of you could never lessen, Helen, no matter what you say.” He sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, a respectable distance from her but still within reach. “Unless you’re about to tell me that you value Roman philosophies over the Greek schools of thought—a man must draw the line somewhere.”

The jest surprised her and made the moment more real.

“Marcus Aurelius’s writings are unparalleled for their common sense, are they not?” she challenged him quietly. It was truthfully the only Roman philosopher she could summon to mind as his nearness worked against her wits.

“Marcus Aurelius?” He pretended shock. “But where is the elegance? He dictates the answers when Socrates would seek to ask questions.” He sighed. “You’re a master of redirection.”

“As are you,” she said. Isabel took a few moments to study her hands on top of the coverlet and gather her courage. But it eluded her. “It’s all so . . . vile and . . . demeaning. I can’t speak of it. Please don’t ask me.”

He said nothing and she risked a glance to see if he might be frowning in disappointment. But his expression was kind, his concern apparent. “Another time perhaps.”

She nodded, but Isabel wasn’t sure if she ever wished to give voice to any of it. If she even knew how to describe the horrors that marriage had brought her—or admit to her worst fear, her fear that she had somehow earned her punishments by some great inherent failing of her own. Richard had made it clear that she was a disgrace, not good enough to be a proper wife. He’d said that she’d forced him to treat her harshly so that it was all he could do to make an effort to salvage happiness from his disappointment.

On their “best” days, he’d looked almost sweet expressing his regret that their marriage was so tumultuous and that she was so dispassionate. He would buy her a gift or allow her to go for a ride on Samson to coax her into hoping that the worst was behind her.

She’d seen so many other women positively glowing with the pleasure of a good match and marriage. Richard blamed her, and after hearing it a thousand times a day, Isabel wasn’t sure that he wasn’t right.

Perhaps all of it was my fault.

Which would make my escape even more groundless and stupid.

Or my complaints of any of it sound like the whining of a child.

Darius shifted off the bed and added one more piece of wood to the fireplace. “There, that should keep until dawn and Mrs. McFadden comes up to check on you. I’ll be gone at first light on business, but I expect to be back in time for dinner and our chess game.”

“You’re going?” she asked, a stab of distress at the news choking her.

“Just into the city for a few hours. I’ll hurry the matter, Helen, no need to fear.” He retreated to the door with an awkward bow, leaving the candle behind with her. “But for now, I should get to my own room and get some sleep. I’m at the end of the hall, and if you’re in any distress, I’ll return right away.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thorne.”

He ducked his head with a smile and left, and Isabel lowered herself to settle under the covers. The ghost of her husband was held at bay as she watched the fire dance and considered the changes in her fortune.

And finally fell asleep just as the first tendrils of light touched her window.

Chapter

7

“You’ve come again!” Mr. Errol Craig greeted Darius as he entered the shop, the silver bell above the door jangling to herald his arrival. “You are welcome, naturally, Mr. Thorne, and I’ll admit I always look forward to your visits.”

Craig & Cavendish were one of the most reputable gem dealers in Edinburgh and famous for the skill of their cutters. They’d been a reliable contact for him as he’d begun the discreet business of trade for his friends far away from the gossip of Town. Also, the Scottish dealers were a good source of information since the bulk of treasure coming into the country passed through their hands. Darius wrestled with the meaning of
sacred treasures
and where an Englishman would look for such a thing.

London would have been the obvious choice to start to look for exotic treasures, but if the East India Trading Company was part of the equation, it made no sense that they’d not have found it already if it were in the capital under their noses.

Their unknown enemy had accused the Jaded of possessing a sacred object that they wanted back at any price. But whatever it was, they hadn’t openly asked for it. Instead it had been a ridiculous game of cat and mouse with threats made and cryptic notes. Darius had dismissed it as troublesome but it was
troublesome
only until someone had tried to poison Ashe Blackwell and nearly killed his beloved bride.

Now there was no time to lose.

His friends were relying on him to use his contacts in Edinburgh and his knack for puzzles to help them solve the mystery and rid themselves of their nemesis. Unfortunately, his progress was slow and Ashe’s last letter from London had indicated that he wasn’t willing to wait any longer. The Jaded would be making a move soon. Ashe had asked him to consider returning to London and forgoing his inquiries. Blackwell clearly didn’t care what their enemies wanted anymore. Ashe just wanted revenge against whoever had poisoned his wife.

The game is changing fast.

But it’s still chess, and how do we effectively plan a strategy when we can’t see the whole board?

“You are too kind, Mr. Craig.” Darius removed his hat as he approached the counter. “I trust business is good these days.”

“I cannot complain, Mr. Thorne.” The dealer pulled aside the black velvet covering the glass-enclosed display just in case his customer was in a buying mood. “Was there something in particular you wished to find, sir?”

Darius surveyed the offerings, newly impressed with Mr. Cavendish’s goldsmith skills. The fashion of the day was ribboned chokers and embellished pendants that called for a creative and steady hand at the jeweler’s bench. He was about to politely defer when an elaborate piece caught his eye. It was from India, by the look of it, layer upon layer of worked gold with empty settings held aloft by the eyes of burnished peacock feathers recreated in the metal. It was as if nature had been reshaped and even improved by the goldsmith’s hands, and Darius wondered if there weren’t a cheat in it.

Did he just dip the feathers into some sort of molten gold? The detail’s too fine to be handmade, isn’t it?
Hell, you can see each fiber in those feathery eyes. . . .

There were no stones in the open settings. Instead the necklace awaited the tastes of its buyer.

My God! Helen would be glorious in that with white opals to match her eyes.

“You have a good eye, Mr. Thorne.” Mr. Craig lifted the necklace from the case and set it atop the now folded black velvet. “And I know better than to try to sell you any stones for it.”

Darius smiled. He’d sold a few of the Jaded’s stones in Edinburgh and made good trades with the dealers whenever his friends needed funds. The jewelers welcomed him for it and were always eager to see if he had anything else to sell. He lifted it up, expecting it to be as light as the feathers it portrayed, but the cool weight of the metal made him gasp. “Where did you get it?”

“A foreign gentleman, sir. Gambling debts, I fear, have led him to shed a few of his family’s heirlooms. But more than that, I cannot say.”

“Not even to tell me what stones were originally in the piece?” Darius asked.

Mr. Craig smiled and shrugged. “Stupid bits of glass, if you can imagine it! I took them out, Mr. Thorne. I cannot have things below my standard in the shop, and as a gem cutter, my reputation is at risk if anyone mistakenly thought I was passing them off as if they had value.”

“You are an honorable man.”

“And a sentimental one! A smarter man would have melted this necklace down for the gold, but I couldn’t do it. Even Mr. Cavendish said he couldn’t recreate it if he’d cared to try. . . .” Mr. Craig sighed. “But it does not sell.”

“No interest?” Darius asked, a bit surprised.

“Too garish I think for the region, sir, and buyers are wary of the cost of setting it, I’d say.” Mr. Craig stopped and gave him a hopeful look. “Takes a bit of imagination, does it not?”

Darius laughed. He was in no position to be buying jewelry, and while the pleasant notion of being able to shower women with expensive gifts had its appeal—there was only one woman in his thoughts today. Last night, he’d felt like a clumsy fool trying to do anything in his power to comfort her without actually touching her. He’d fussed with the fireplace and rattled on about drafts because his palms had burned to caress her cheeks and smooth out the look of terror that still clouded her eyes. He’d been dreaming about her when she’d awoken him, and the tenor of his dreams had nothing to do with polite reserve and gentlemanly etiquette.

She was like quicksilver in his arms, all silken heat and yielding—unafraid and bold, like the White Queen should be when she took her full measure in victory.

So he’d ended up bumbling about and then standing against the wall outside her room, waiting for his composure to return and for his blood to cool, embarrassed at how easily a man could forget his place and dream of touching a woman he couldn’t have.

“—wouldn’t it?” Mr. Craig said.

“Pardon, I was . . . distracted for a moment.” Darius gave himself a quick mental shake, impatient at his own lapse. “What were you saying?”

“The necklace. It complements your interests, doesn’t it?”

“It might. The foreign gentleman. It was a family piece, you say? Can you tell me what region of India they resided in?” Darius turned the necklace over in his hands, looking for a maker’s mark or symbol, but there was nothing.

Mr. Craig shook his head. “I didn’t ask. He offered that it was charmed, of course, but as you and I have spoken often, what piece from that part of the world isn’t, according to the seller?”

“Charmed?” Darius looked up from the necklace. “How?”

“It’s to do with vanity.” Errol folded his hands behind his back, warming to the topic. “The claim, which we at Craig and Cavendish do not guarantee, was that a lady with a sweet spirit may wear it and her outer appearance will reflect the loveliness of her heart. But if a vain, worthless woman makes a try at it, she’ll look a fool and the world will see the ugliness of her heart.”

“And it hasn’t sold?” Darius teased him dryly.

It was Errol’s turn to laugh. “Cowards! I can’t see why. . . .”

Darius reluctantly set the piece aside. He was far too aware of the social rules prohibiting the act of purchasing necklaces for married women. “I know a very worthy lady but perhaps another day, Mr. Craig. I shall think about it.”

“Anything else, then?”

Darius nodded. “My quest continues. Have you heard anything new about the item we discussed?”

Errol shook his head. “Not without knowing more. There is always a buyer for unique and exotic treasures although”—Mr. Craig paused to place the gold peacock necklace back into its tray—“not as quickly as one would hope.”

“Everything I know of sacred treasures makes me think it would be a figurine of some kind.” Darius eyed the necklace. “Something wearable and easily transported. My fear is that not all shop owners are as sentimental as you, Mr. Craig. If they melted it down . . .”

“Then it’s an ingot in some rich man’s vault, sir, or already reworked into a hundred brooches and rings. There’s not a jeweler worth his salt that leaves aught to waste.” Errol’s brow furrowed then smoothed out as his innate optimism reasserted itself. “But I know of no mention of
sacred
, and as far as I know, you’re the only one who comes to ask for such things. I’ve a note to my staff to keep an ear out for anything special or if someone’s come to inquire so that we might discreetly alert you, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Craig.”

“Can I talk you into parting with another stone, then? That last.” Errol sighed, his expression that of a man in love. “Ah, what a joy! I’d thought I’d seen good stone, but that opal made even the hard-hearted Mr. Cavendish cry it was so full of fire—and the size! A robin’s egg of rainbows! It sold within three days after my partner set it in a pendant, and if you don’t mind me saying it, eased my worries of old age.”

Darius had been careful not to overuse any one dealer when selling stones for his friends. As a result, Mr. Craig knew him for opals while other dealers sought him for other gems. But all of them were quizzed almost weekly to see if anyone had approached them searching for a
sacred treasure
from India.

It was a weak and remote chance.

But it was a chance.

“I’m glad to hear of it. Let me bring you something next time and see if we cannot improve your retirement.” Darius stepped back from the counter. “But I should warn you, Mr. Craig.”

“A warning?” Errol straightened.

“My supply of smaller opals, such as you purchased, is limited.” Darius bowed. “But I will do my best.”

He turned on his heel, deliberately leaving a happily sputtering and giddy Errol Craig in his wake. Darius left the shop and found Hamish waiting by the carriage.

“Any luck today?” Hamish asked as he opened the door.

“Not yet.” Darius climbed up to take his seat next to the packages of sundries and ready-made pieces they’d collected for Helen that morning. “Blackwell may be right and I may be wasting my time.”

“Whatever it is, not my business of course, but my mother always said the patient and persistent angler eats, and the ones that stomp about and complain go hungry.” Hamish touched the brim of his hat and closed the door, leaving Darius to stew with the proverb.

All well and good if I’m fishing but—

Darius sat up straight as if he’d been goosed. “Stomp about and complain . . . go hungry. Damn that’s brilliant!”
If the villain who’s been pressing us for the prize could be characterized as anything, I’d say he’s more prone to stomping about. Hell, it’s been his impatience that’s caused us more headaches than anything else! If he were a coolheaded tactician, this would probably be over by now.

Which means he’s not looking for it here!

The traders would have conveyed it to me if he had—no subtlety in the matter. He’s the kind of person who would just strong-arm it if he needed to, and the only ones he’s strong-armed are the Jaded.

Which means he’s not looking for it anywhere but in our pockets. And we’re the only ones who keep looking elsewhere since we’re not convinced we have anything of a sacred nature.

How could I have missed that?

“All I need to do is figure out what it is and I can stop wasting my energy looking for him on the markets,” Darius said aloud.

“What was that?” Hamish drew back the small wooden window between them. “Off to the next as usual?”

“No. Thanks to your mother’s wisdom, we’re done, Mr. MacQueen.” Darius leaned back against the cushions, a more contented man. “Let’s go home!”

***

Samson pressed his soft muzzle against her cheek, mussing her hair. Isabel closed her eyes and sighed, inhaling the comforting sensation and warmth of the stallion’s gesture. She’d slipped from the house in the afternoon to come see him, disliking the emptiness and silence. Isabel had tried reading in the library but found herself missing Mr. Thorne’s presence and was distracted by chess pieces and the sight of his makeshift bed against the wall. A velvet cushion still bore the imprint of his head, and Isabel had fled the room before a wave of restless heat overtook her thoughts. It was unseemly the way her body had begun to betray her as if some strange part of her clung to secret dreams her waking mind didn’t understand.

Why? Why does the thought of him sleeping there make my chest ache with the desire to see him—and more shockingly—to touch him?

Darius had made every effort to act as a gentleman toward her.

She was simply frustrated at how much more effort it was taking her these days to play the lady.

I’m off the leash for the first time in months—perhaps in my whole life. I think running away and being at my own liberty is starting to play tricks on my better judgment.

Samson whinnied as if impatient that her thoughts focused on any other male.

He’d been a gift on her sixteenth birthday from her father. She’d taken one look at him and known several truths. First, that he was not the usual staid pony one gifted to a daughter, and the disapproving glare on her mother’s face proved it. Secondly, that the reason her father had made such a purchase had everything to do with his love of horses, racing, and gambling and almost nothing to do with his remote pleasure at a daughter’s birth. But the last truth trumped all.

Samson was hers. She was already horse-mad as most girls her age, but from the first ride, it was true love. She’d sung in his ears and cried on his neck with happiness, and Samson had absorbed every ounce of her adoration only to return it in his own fashion. He’d tolerated no other rider and made such a nuisance of himself that her father had counted him a loss and yielded him over completely to the wasted role of a lady’s steed.

“There’s my brave beauty,” she crooned. “Did I thank you, dearest? For getting me away? Did I omit it, my darling?”

Samson snorted and nodded his head, as if eager to encourage her to praise his heroics.