Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  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. “So
mething 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.

  Isabel laughed. “You poor thing!”

  “The way you talk to that beastie . . .” Mrs. McFadden interrupted from the stable’s large doorway. “I suppose it’s all right so long as he doesn’t answer.”

  Isabel reluctantly stepped back, her cheeks warming at being caught in an unguarded moment. “I often think he does.”

  “I meant to find you as the men are gone. I’d say it’s a good chance for a hot soak, if you wished.” The housekeeper crossed her arms against the cold. “I’ve got a lovely copper tub in the storeroom off the kitchens and it’s all ready for you.”

  “Mrs. McFadden,” Isabel said, a bit shocked at the housekeeper’s thoughtfulness. “A bath!”

  “Well, I’m not six young girls to be toting boiling water in buckets up those stairs a dozen times! The kitchen’s good enough for the moment.” Her tone was sharp but Isabel knew her well enough to recognize the tender flash of worry in her eyes.

  “It’s splendid of you, Mrs. McFadden, and very thoughtful. I’d love a bath.” She stroked Samson’s neck and left him to follow the older woman back toward the house. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. McFadden shrugged. “Well, it’s not much. But I also wanted to tell you that my niece skipped by early this morning with some butter from my sister’s and there’s been no talk in the village, madam. No word of inquiries.”

  “However did you determine that? I mean”—Isabel rephrased her question carefully—“without telling her about me?”

  “No worries! I just asked if there was news. Trust me, the village is so small, a cat can’t have kittens without causing a stir. If your—if anyone was asking for a lady such as yourself, the words would have tumbled out of her mouth before I’d taken the jar out of the basket.”

  It was a relief to know, but still . . . Isabel was certain that eventually her husband
’s agents would widen the circle and might just come across a farmer who’d seen her riding wildly across their field or a stranger who’d noted Samson’s unique size and beauty.

  The women tapped the mud off their shoes before crossing the threshold of the back door into Mrs. McFadden’s warm, tidy kitchen. The curtain across the pantry door was pulled back and Isabel sighed at the sight of steam curling up from the large copper bath.

  Mrs. McFadden took her coat and scarf. “Here, there’s a hook on the beam for your clothes and you can take your time with it.”

  Isabel dropped the curtain and set about making quick work of the transition. Even with Mrs. McFadden’s cast-iron stove blazing, it was still a chilly enough proposition before she climbed gingerly into the steaming welcome of the tub. The housekeeper had lined it with linens to add to her comfort, and Isabel gripped the sides and closed her eyes as she slowly slid down into the water.

  Pain and pleasure warred at the contact of heat against her skin, but the stiffness in her back eased and Isabel let out a long, slow breath in relief. The sound of Mrs. McFadden returning to her work in the kitchen on the other side of the makeshift curtain was reassuring. She took a few minutes to inventory what marks she could see on her upper arms and shoulders, wincing as she twisted to try to see the worst of it.

  “I forgot to set out the soap!” Mrs. McFadden said on the other side of the cloth. “Mind, I’ll step in with it if that’s all right.”

  “Y-yes, of course.” Isabel pulled her knees up for modesty.

  “Here you are.” The woman held out a bar of soap the color of dark honey. “The soap’s not as fine as you’re likely used to.”

  Isabel took it from her and sniffed the bar in curiosity. “It’s cinnamon!”

  “I make it for the professor and did not have a dainty in mind.”

  “I love the smell of cinnamon.”

  “Your back looks better, if I can say it.” Mrs. McFadden’s voice was a bit brisk as she then deliberately made a show of looking at the ceiling to give Isabel a better measure of privacy. “Still as bright as a rainbow though. However you came by it . . .”