Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  “My goodness.” Helen set down her fork. “We haven’t even had time to come up with a test for our first theory about one of the stones being dyed or colored in some way. How in the world do you test a stone for its magical properties? Are you going to seek out some mystic textbook on the subject?”

  “Rowan is the nearest thing we have to a scientist. I’ll send a letter to Dr. West and delegate the task.” Darius smiled. “I only wish I could be there to see his face when he reads it.”

  “You miss your friends.” It wasn’t a question but the care reflected in her eyes made him ache inside.

  What would it be like to have a woman look at you like that, all the time? To fuss over each setback or smile at every glimmer of progress?

  Damn it, why do I keep torturing myself by even asking such things?

  “I do. They are family to me.” He studied her for a moment. “Do you miss anyone?”

  She shook her head. “No, which makes me sad. All those friends and acquaintances of my first two social Seasons vanished like so many ghosts, and I cannot say if anyone ever bothered to correspond after the wedding. Perhaps they did, but my husband never allowed me letters. As for my parents, all I can think of is the relief on my father’s face and my mother’s indifference once I’d made my debut.”

  “Well”—he tried to lighten the mood—“if you wish to aspire to being a hermit, I warn you, it has its drawbacks.”

  “Really?”

  “For one, the conversations you have with yourself can be very one-sided.” He took a sip from his cup, savoring the bitter warmth before setting it down.

  “Ah, but I would win every argument,” she countered mischievously.

  “Helen,” he said, pushing aside his plate. “I should apologize for yesterday. It was the worst betrayal of your trust. You are a married woman and I never—”

  “Wait! I was the one who . . . I did nothing to protest what happened in the library. I encouraged you, Mr. Thorne. You cannot take all the blame.”

  “P-perhaps but I don’t think that holds true for that second kiss in your bedroom doorway.” He sighed.

  “Then we are even,” she said, surprising him at the defiant tilt of her chin. “I’m not—apologizing for my part. I won’t.”

  Darius was stunned into silence. “I wouldn’t have expected you to apologize. I thought it was generally the gentleman who took responsibility for any—”

  “No.” Helen stood from the table and stamped one of her slippered feet in frustration.

  Darius had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the unexpected little flash of temper in her eyes as he also rose from his chair. “No?”

  “I’m tired of moving blindly from one square to another or allowing someone else to decide my fate, Mr. Thorne. I—I wanted you to kiss me. I am . . .” She took a deep breath. “I am not helpless.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” Darius forced himself to regain a bit of perspective. No matter how appealing, it was up to him to draw the line—for her own protection. “But it was wrong of me to touch you. I promised you a haven and a sanctuary, Helen. I have no right to . . . trespass and will strive not to do so again. We must be practical.”

  “I’m grateful for the walls of Troy.” Her bravado faded, the flutter of her eyelashes shielding her eyes from his. “Practical. I don’t feel practical.”

  “It isn’t a feeling, Helen. It’s a dictate of reason.”

  She looked back up at him directly. “Can you do that? Separate the two so easily?”

  “I’ve had to for a long time.” Darius did his best not to flinch under her steady gaze. “I’ve tried to live my life with logic and intellect as my guides.”

  She shook her head, stepping back from the table. “You cannot have intellect without heart. The most perfect mind without emotion is devoid of compassion and capable only of conceiving cruelty and pain. Genius doesn’t protect you from heartache. It isn’t a refuge.”

  “I don’t strive to live without feelings. I simply cannot let them rule me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t trust them, Helen. When has passion served to improve man’s circumstances? Or bettered humankind’s existence?”

  “It serves every day. Not all our emotions are basely driven. The heart can be a noble thing, Darius.”

  He shook his head. “I am in awe of you, Helen. To say such things after . . .”

  “Don’t be too quick to admire me, Darius. My knees are shaking.”

  “Why?” he asked, a twist of concern wrenching through him.

  She smiled. “I’ve disagreed with you. I was a bit of a shrew just then and—” She broke off suddenly with a laugh that surprised them both. “I am still standing, Mr. Thorne. I am holding my own.”

  All hail the White Queen! Darius found he was grinning like a fool. “You’ve done more than hold your own. You’ve won the argument, if that’s what it was. I did . . . enjoy the foot stomping.”

  She gasped and threw a cloth napkin at him, then laughed again at her own daring. “A lady does not stomp, Mr. Thorne!”

  His laughter joined hers and he pressed the napkin to his mouth to try to stifle it. “As you say!”

  “Well, here’s a merry morning!” Mrs. McFadden chimed in from the doorway. She brought in a tray with a folded newspaper and a small bowl of apples. “My niece just stopped by from the village and brought these from the post, Mr. Thorne. I knew you’d asked for them.” She set down the bowl and handed off the paper to Darius, who immediately opened it to study the front page. “Good morning, madam. You look a bit peaked! Should I make a spot of warm bread pudding for—”

  “Damn it!” He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose to try to ward off a headache, then looked up to apologize at the distressed expression in Helen’s eyes and at Mrs. McFadden’s gasp of disapproval. “I’m sorry to curse. It’s just . . . this paper is over a week old and . . . The meeting is set for four days from now.” He threw it down on the table in frustration.

  “The meeting?” Helen asked, her brow furrowing with confusion.

  “The Jaded are set to meet with that mysterious figure we dubbed the Jackal. I can understand their impatience to move forward and confront whoever it is and get some answers but . . .” Darius let out a long, slow breath of frustration. “Mrs. McFadden, I’ll need to pack for a trip to London. Can you see that I have the right clothes laid out and ask Hamish to get the carriage ready to take me to hire a carriage to the nearest inn for the post chaise? Although I might consider the trains. . . .”

  “London? Good heavens! You just got back from Edinburgh last night!” she exclaimed but withdrew in a bustle to make preparations, apparently determined that this time he not leave behind the essentials in his haste to go.

  “It’s a week to London, isn’t it?” Helen asked softly.

  Darius turned back to Helen, shaking his head. “A week if you travel comfortably and make good time, but if I leave today, forfeit comfort, I might make it in time to stop them if I don’t stop except to change horses or catch a train. The carefully crafted letter outlining our new conclusions that I was planning is useless if they make this meeting with the Jackal.”

  “You’re certain? You trust Mr. Masters so completely?” she asked. “I mean, I know that you do, but it does seem odd to think in terms of curses and prophecies. After all, it’s 1860 for goodness’ sake! It is a modern world, is it not?”

  He bit his lip. “Not entirely. And it doesn’t matter how we view the world or this mythology. Prophecies have power when people believe them, and if the Jaded are in this one’s path, then logic isn’t the tool to apply. It’s chess, Helen. They’ve developed a strategy and arranged for this confrontation, but they don’t have a view of the entire board or all the pieces. It’s an ambush!”

  “You said yourself they don’t have anything to give to this Jackal.”

  “True. But does the person behind this”—he held up the n
ote from the gem dealer—“do they know that it’s just a first meeting? That we have no intention of turning over anything after the threat to our lives?”

  “I see what you’re saying.”

  “Helen.” He took her hands into his. “I don’t want to leave you here. There’s so much . . . Yesterday was . . .” He let out a long, slow breath of frustration. “I need you to trust me. I have to go to London and stop this meeting if I can.”

  Her eyes took on the sheen of unshed tears. “I know it.”

  “If someone could please explain to me why I am constantly rushing out of doors. . . .”

  She managed a shaky smile. “For a scholar, you do appear to lead a very exciting life, Mr. Thorne.”

  “I would take you with me if I could, but I have to travel with speed, and if I’m worrying about your comfort or your safety—”

  “No, I understand. You have to go, Darius.”

  “Helen, please. Don’t look so stricken or I’m not sure I’ll manage this with any dignity.”

  He watched her in a careful, compassionate study as she rallied, the fire in her pale blue eyes undampened. At last, she smiled. “Go.”

  Damn it. His own voice failed him and he turned on his heels to make his hurried preparations for the journey, despising the notion of abandoning her just when she’d begun to recover her spirits and regain her strength.

  And just when I’ve discovered how much I’ve come to care for her.

  ***

  Within the hour, he was standing in the entry hall and they were making their final farewells. Darius took her hands into his, pressing something small into the palm of her hands before folding her fingers around it. “Here, I want you to carry it in your pocket while I’m gone—to remind you.”

  She took it, gripping it possessively. “I want to be brave and not cry, but . . . I’m afraid I’m already failing.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  “Mrs. McFadden will take good care of you, and Hamish will guard you like a lion in my absence.”

  “I know.” Isabel felt small and slight but squared her shoulders. “I’ll sleep with the skillet next to my bed.”

  “You’re as strong a woman as any I’ve known, Helen. It’s just for two weeks at most and I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” He hesitated. “Will you promise to be here when I return?”

  She nodded, unable to speak through the miserable lump in her throat. She’d have promised him anything in that moment, but a wounded part of her curled around the strange hurt of his departure and pointed out the obvious.

  I have nowhere else to go.

  Isabel knew her next impulse was out of the question. But it didn’t stop her.

  “Kiss me good-bye, Darius.”

  He hesitated.

  She did her best to smile. “Please?”

  He dropped his bags and she was swept up into his arms and kissed so thoroughly she lost track of her toes. She cradled his face in her hands and entwined her fingers into his hair, savoring the glorious fire of his touch. A very unladylike groan of hunger escaped her lips and it heralded the end of their embrace.

  He released her in an awkward move, stepping back to pick up his bags, and turned to go without a single glance backward. He ducked his head as he jogged down the stairs like a man running out of a burning building, and Isabel smiled. She instinctively knew that he’d meant no insult by it.

  If he’d kissed me for one more moment, I’d have asked him to carry me upstairs.

  It was only when the sound of the carriage and horses’ hooves had faded down the lane that she opened her hand to see what he’d given her.

  The white queen lay across her palm, her painted gaze as calm and unyielding as the stone she was carved from. Isabel pressed the chess piece to her heart, sat on the bottom stair, and gave in to her emotions to weep.

  Chapter

  11

  Darius was forced to take a combination of a post chaise carriage and then a train to London. It was faster than struggling with carriages alone, and the issue with fresh change of horses at inns and posts along the way was solved with the train. He’d deliberately left Hamish and his own carriage for the women should they need them. He’d charged Hamish with keeping them safe in his absence and stressed again how important it was to hide Helen from prying eyes.

  There was almost no sleep to be had on the long four-day journey in the jostled confines of the chaise and the requirement to change trains several times. Scotland’s system wasn’t as developed as England’s, but neither had yet achieved the modern industrial miracle that allowed for the speed that Darius’s fears requested. He rode first-class when seating was available, but during the last leg, only the second-class compartments had room and Darius was forced to sit atop a cushionless wooden seat crushed between other passengers. The weather turned foul on the trip, and the biting cold and snow stripped him of the last of his optimism.

  By the time he’d reached London, he was exhausted, half frozen, and frustrated at the late hour. He’d had the good sense early in the journey to write notes to the Jaded redirecting them to stay away from the Thistle, so as soon as his boots landed on the street, he hired runners to get the word out to all of his friends. But Michael’s note he kept in his hands. Darius decided he would deliver it in person.

  If anyone would know what to do next, it was Rutherford. He’d been a trained soldier in the army in India, and there was no one better at tactics in their circle. Darius secured a hackney to take him to the Grove, only to fight a numbing exhaustion that began to creep up his limbs.

  Come on, Thorne. You cannot let them down. Not now!

  He’d been to the Grove Inn only once or twice before, as Michael was not one for entertaining friends in his rented rooms. So when he limped up the stairs, his memory faltered as he looked at the two unmarked doors off the parlor.

  That one.

  He pounded on the door, unceremoniously, and was rewarded when the door finally opened after a crash inside. But it was a young woman who answered and Darius had to struggle to apologize. “I’m looking for Rutherford. It is most urgent.”

  “His door is the next there.” She firmly directed him toward Michael’s apartment, and because of her youth, it took Darius a moment to reconcile the steely tone of a governess with the pert beauty tapping her toes impatiently in front of him.

  God, I’m too tired for this. It was all he could do to mumble awkward explanations and deflect her questions.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked, and Darius had to force himself to try to see the scene from her vantage point. He was a half-frozen madman pounding on Rutherford’s door in frustration, and if he wasn’t careful, she’d not only call for the landlady, she’d start screaming for the watch.

  “I’m a friend of Rutherford’s. My name is Darius Thorne and . . . again, I apologize for the disturbance. It’s nothing to concern you, miss.”

  But when she introduced herself and then spoke of the Jaded and their meeting at the Thistle, Darius took note.

  Eleanor Beckett. I can’t see Michael sharing with his neighbor or . . .

  “Is there any danger?” she pressed, openly fearful.

  “No.” She was a total stranger but it was clear that she had knowledge of the Jaded’s business, and while he wanted to find out how this was possible, the urgency of the moment overrode his curiosity. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, Miss Beckett.” He checked his watch and saw that the time for the meeting with the Jackal was over an hour off. Rutherford would be there alone, waiting, since Darius had sent notes to everyone else heading them off. . . .

  Stupid idea to catch Michael myself. I should have sent a runner but I wanted to be sure he knew about the new threat. Damn it!

  He realized in shock that Miss Beckett was saying something else and he’d missed part of the exchange. “Everyone is safe and diverted. I’m confident I know where to find Mr. Rutherford since he’s not here.” He bowed and tipped his hat. “It was a unique ex
perience meeting you, Miss Beckett.”

  He was too exhausted to argue and he couldn’t think of what polite niceties were required in life-and-death situations when confronted by prim and feisty redheads and turned to leave without another word to race from the Grove.

  I swear we are becoming the least-secret secret club in London’s history at this rate.

  Damn.

  His legs were rubber as he stumbled out into the street, fear pushing him to ignore the protests of his body at the punishing pace. “To the Thistle!” he called up to the driver and fell into the carriage. “All speed!”

  Any relief he might have felt in seeing the gambling hall was extinguished when the bar man directed him to the staircase and the second-floor meeting room.

  More stairs? Am I the brunt of some great cosmic jest?

  By the time he’d located Michael and, by surprise, Josiah in a room at the top of the building, Darius was nearly done in. But there wasn’t time to complain. “It’s off!”

  “Off?” Michael was on his feet in a flash, his height and size no hindrance to speed.

  Josiah Hastings was slower to stand. “Why would the Jackal call it off after all this effort to—”

  “Not the Jackal,” Darius began to explain, all the while waving his arms wildly toward the door. This wasn’t the time for a sit-down lecture on ancient prophecies and why the Jaded’s use of the public papers wasn’t the wisest course of action, in Darius’s humble opinion. He needed to get his friends out of the Thistle for safety’s sake; the debates could happen later in the safety of Rowan’s study. “I’ll explain it in the carriage to West’s, but we have a new problem to—”

  He’d nearly gotten them to the door. Nearly. Screams and a commotion below stairs froze them all in place. “Fire!”

  Darius’s mouth fell open in shock and he very nearly said aloud, If this is the curse that goes along with handing sacred treasures over, we are doomed, gentlemen.