by Mia Marlowe
“Touch. Must . . . be touching,” she murmured disjointedly. Her breathing seemed more steady once the silver and jet was draped across her exposed skin.
“The earbobs too.” Her voice sounded almost normal, but he insisted she lie down after he affixed a bob to each of her lobes.
The maid arrived with tea. Quinn helped Viola sit up again and held the steaming cup to her lips while she sipped.
“Lady Ashford is unwell,” he told the maid. “Pray arrange for a supper tray to be brought up to us when it’s time.”
“No,” Viola said with surprising force and took the cup from his hand. “I’ll be better by then. Truly. I’m feeling much stronger already.”
Quinn cocked a brow at her, but she seemed adamant. He rescinded his order to the maid, who bobbed a curtsy.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked Viola as soon as the door closed behind the maid’s dark skirts.
She sighed. “I don’t know. All of a sudden I was . . . overcome by nausea.” She buried her nose in her teacup again. “That was a long, bumpy carriage ride, you know.”
Quinn had never seen a carriage ride, bumpy or otherwise, result in a flash fever or pupils that would do credit to an opium fiend. But he didn’t think it would do Viola any good if he argued the point. He was satisfied when she drained the teacup and lay back down to rest. In a few moments, she drifted into a gentle sleep, her eyelids twitching, her breathing rhythmic and deep.
It’s the diamond, she’d said just before succumbing to the terrifying malady. Sanjay had always claimed the Blood of the Tiger was powerful and malevolent, that its evil could reach out and strike people down. Quinn hadn’t believed it for a moment.
He was beginning to reconsider that position.
What about her insistence on the jewelry all of a sudden? Sanjay had planted the idea of the supposed protective properties of silver and jet in her head. His friend swore by them, but Quinn dismissed his claims as Eastern superstition, the sort of hokum the British Empire felt honor bound to stamp out whenever possible.
Hokum or not, Viola’s alarming symptoms retreated when she slipped on the black stone set. She knew more than she was telling about that episode, he was certain. He’d press her for a further accounting once she was healthy enough for a row.
Quinn pulled the chair next to the bed and watched her as she slept. She’d scared him so badly with the thought of losing her, he didn’t dare look away.
Viola rested her fingertips on Quinn’s arm as he led her down to supper. He wore his dress uniform, resplendent with rows of ribbons and medals, looking dashing and dangerous at once. He was devilishly handsome, but she tried not to be distracted by him. She knew the diamond was near and needed to keep her wits about her.
They’d left their chamber with plenty of time to spare since Quinn wanted her to go slowly. She was grateful for his thoughtfulness, but she felt much stronger.
She simply wouldn’t remove the jet and silver jewelry for worlds. She even bathed with it on. A protective barrier had draped over her when she first clasped the jet to her chest. The shielding drove back the creeping darkness. She knew she violated several fashion dictums by going without gloves, but now that she wore all the silver and jet jewelry directly touching her skin, she felt almost normal.
Except for the low throb she heard from time to time on the other side of the invisible silver shield.
Baaghh kaa kkhuun was still there, still aware of her presence and still testing the strength of her defenses. The red diamond’s nearness had no discernible effect on Quinn. She could only assume her gift made her more susceptible to its power and malevolence.
On the second story, they came to a gallery lined with oil paintings. Grand dukes, princes, and kings of Hanover from generations past all looked down their regal and prodigious noses at the mere mortals visiting their summer castle in Celle. As the subject of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria, Viola wondered at the absence of any female dignitaries in the impressive hall.
She paused before a small glass-topped display case. “Finally. A woman.”
A miniature of a rather plain young lady was embedded in midnight blue velvet. Even though her face could not be accounted pretty, her smile was infectious.
And the woman’s bodice was cut so low, two pink nipples peeped above the lace.
Quinn laughed and leaned to whisper in her ear. “She has your sense of style.”
Viola swatted him with her fan for reminding her of that exceedingly naughty fantasy. “I wouldn’t actually go about with my breasts bared, you know.”
“Pity.”
She swatted him again.
“Imagine sitting for such a painting,” she said, her own nipples tightening at the prospect.
Quinn’s warm breath feathered by her ear. “I’m trying not to imagine you doing it for fear you’ll hit me again.”
She turned to him and he caught her in his arms. Even through the layers of her gown and petticoats, she felt his hard maleness pressed against her belly.
“Care to guess what I’m imagining instead?” he asked.
She smiled up at him. “Quinn, you’re terrible.”
“Ah, you’re just saying that to make me feel good.”
She rocked her hips into him slightly. “I think, sir, you’re feeling quite good enough without any help from me.”
“You’re plenty of help.” He grinned down at her. “Whether you’re aware of it or not.”
Someone cleared a throat at the far end of the hall and Viola sprang away from Quinn guiltily. Then she remembered that as far as the world knew he was her husband and she had no need to act as if they’d been caught in a compromising situation. She sidled close to him and looked down the hall. Neville was framed in the doorway.
“I see you’ve discovered the sad princess,” he said as he started toward them.
“She doesn’t seem sad to me.” Quinn gazed back down at the risqué miniature with an appreciative smile. “She looks rather . . . rosy, actually.”
Viola dug her elbow into his ribs and hissed, “Behave.”
Neville’s shiny Hessians clacked over the hardwood as he approached. “I assure you, Her Royal Highness Princess Caroline Matilda led a very tragic existence. It’s always a pity when one born high is brought so low.”
Neville tossed Viola a meaningful glance and she wondered if he slyly referred to her diminished status since her father had died. Her reduced state was the reason he’d tossed her aside, after all. Irritation raked her spine and she decided the next time Quinn wanted to throttle Neville, she might be disinclined to interfere.
“Caroline Matilda was a member of the British royal family and Queen of Denmark once she married His Royal Highness Christian VII,” Neville went on. “She was exiled here at Celle for the last years of her life—till her unexpected death at twenty-four.”
“Really?” Viola looked back down at the painting, which must have been done near the end of her short life. “She seems so lively one almost expects to hear her laugh. Why was she exiled?”
“She was an unfaithful wife. She had an affair with her husband’s doctor,” Neville said with a superior glow.
“Oh.” Viola studied the small portrait again. Caroline Matilda seemed a bit wicked, with her little nipples exposed, but not entirely evil. It wasn’t unheard of for a princess to have an affair, but it was always roundly condemned. Bloodlines were everything when it came to succession, after all. But if her husband was ill, that put an even dimmer light on the matter. “Was her husband’s illness mortal?”
“No, he was just mad,” Neville said. “Absolutely batty, they say.”
Viola shrugged. The English were accustomed to mad kings. Flighty, immoral princesses were evidently another matter.
Still, Viola couldn’t help feeling sorry for the vivacious young woman who was saddled with a doomed marriage. Any woman who posed for a portrait in that state of undress didn’t seem the type to forego pleasure because
the accident of her birth paired her with a lunatic.
“If the king was mad, I wonder that he even noticed his queen’s affair,” Quinn said.
“I’m sure someone brought it to his attention. One cannot pass over an insult to the crown, you know.” Neville gave Viola a searching look. “But if a woman has no joy of her husband, I find it impossible to condemn her if she turns to another for solace. In fact, a man would be bound to welcome such a woman in need.”
Viola felt Quinn’s whole body tense beside her at the thinly veiled invitation.
“Husbands are a bit like kings in this respect, Beauchamp. They tend not to pass over insults either if someone troubles their wife,” Quinn said pointedly.
“We’ll be late for supper if we tarry further,” Viola put in, tugging at Quinn’s arm. “I find myself famished. Mr. Beauchamp, would you please show us the way to the dining hall?”
“This way, then.” Neville strode ahead of them. “After supper, I’ve arranged for a troop of players to entertain in the castle theatre.”
Neville stayed at Viola’s side, introducing Lord and Lady Ashford to the other dignitaries in residence at Schloss Celle as they gathered in the parlor waiting for supper to be announced. Viola met an Austrian dowager duchess, a Hanoverian cousin to Prince Albert and an inebriated Frenchman who stumbled when he bowed over her hand and claimed to be the Comte de Foix.
For the first time in several hundred years, the English were uneasy allies with the French, but old animosities died hard. The count loudly told Neville he was “a silly fool of an Englishman” and if the British would only keep to their side of the Channel, the world would be a far better place.
“However, cherie,” de Foix said as he made a second attempt at an elaborate obeisance over Viola’s hand, “I have no aversion to the English sending us their women, provided they are as comely as you.”
“The French had no aversion to our men fighting alongside them in Sebastopol either,” Quinn said. He might have served in India, but he’d followed the battles in Crimea with intense interest.
“Ah! Lord Ashford, I perceive you are, like myself, a man of action. You, we will welcome.” His words slurred slightly and he seemed to have forgotten he was in the kingdom of Hanover, not France, and was therefore in no position to welcome anyone. The French count sneered at Neville who had moved on to the next clump of dignitaries. “It is only your puling politicians we resist.”
“In that, we find complete accord,” Quinn said.
“Lady Ashford.” Neville returned to them, leading a great bear of a man. “You will recall I mentioned a fellow who was recently returned from India. Lord and Lady Ashford, may I present Mr. Henry Chesterton, Esquire, lately of Peshawar, Delhi and Bombay?”
While Quinn made polite conversation with the newcomer about his time on the subcontinent, Viola’s belly turned backflips. The Mr. Chesterton she’d seen in the ruby’s vision had been slight and balding.
This man rejoiced in a full head of chestnut hair, a bit shaggy about the ears and definitely in need of a trim if he wished to affect a polished appearance. He was as tall as Quinn and easily outweighed him by two or possibly three stone.
Beneath the hum of multiple conversations and the clink of glasses, Viola heard the murmur of the diamond’s low drone. It was closer. The genuine Blood of the Tiger was somewhere in Schloss Celle, probably secreted on the person of the man before her. She was sure of it.
But the gentleman before her was not the real Mr. Chesterton.
Of that, she was also sure.
CHAPTER 23
Schloss Celle had never been used as a military stronghold, despite the highly visible presence of guards patrolling the grounds. It served as a sort of summer palace for the House of Hanover and the many generations of dukes who’d claimed the place since the tenth century.
Since there was no true host in residence, Lord Cowley stepped into that role and seated himself at the head of the long table. Neville had arranged matters so he was seated opposite Viola. She gave her crockery her complete attention most of the time. Quinn languished at the foot of the table, between the aging mother of a baron, who according to his mother was “in want of a wife” and a flighty young contessa who giggled almost constantly and spoke only Spanish.
Dining beside Viola was the stolid baron from Sussex, whose mother had led him about as if he were a prize bull calf at a fair. He winced each time he heard her extolling his virtues at the far end of the table.
“You’ll have to forgive Mother,” he said to Viola, his voice mild as milk. “I’ve tried to explain to her that a wife and family would only detract from my study of ancient Persian, but she remains undeterred.” The baron sighed. “She means incredibly well.”
“Do I hear you right, monsieur? You have no use for les femmes?” the drunken French count at Viola’s right leaned over her to ask the baron.
“No, it’s simply that my life is ordered to my liking without a wife.”
The Comte de Foix shrugged and spoke to Viola in a stage whisper that carried throughout the hall as well as the baron’s mother’s strident tones. “Vraiment, he has decided one woman telling him when to piss is enough, eh?”
Neville glared at the count. “My lord, there are ladies present. Kindly watch your tongue.”
De Foix laughed uproariously.
“I fail to see what’s so humorous,” Neville said.
“The hell, it is over frozen,” the count said. “An Englishman has presumed to tell a Frenchman what to do with his tongue when a lady is near. Believe me, the tongue is not for the watching. It has many other pleasurable uses which an Englishman obviously does not know.”
Neville looked as if he’d just swallowed a bit of herring that had turned. Viola brought her napkin to her lips to cover her smile.
Tension eased when the butler and footmen brought in the dessert course and a comely serving girl distracted the men as she ladled on the clotted cream. Viola spooned up the last of her warm apple torte, wondering when she and Quinn would be at liberty to search through Schloss Celle for the diamond. Based on the low thrum, she knew it was near. She’d be able to follow the sound to its source if she had no distractions.
And wore her protective jet and silver. Somehow, she’d have to find a reason Quinn would accept for her to wear it even as she slept. So far, he’d been too concerned for her health to tax her with questions, but as she grew stronger, she knew that would change.
The Comte de Foix interrupted her musings when he disturbed the gathering with a drunken outburst again. “You there, Monsieur Chesterton.” The count waved a lacy handkerchief toward the fellow seated beside Lord Cowley. “You have the stone for your English queen with you, non?”
All conversation stopped.
“Quelle? Do not make to give me the oh-so-shocked faces.” The count spread his hands before him in a classic Gallic gesture. “Come. We all know this man bears a fabulous gem bound for the Royal Collection of the English queen, n’est ce pas?”
“If we didn’t, we do now,” Neville said through clenched teeth.
“Alors, we all are here to wait for your Prince’s men to escort it across the Channel, non?” the Comte de Foix said. “But I am thinking, what would be the harm if Monsieur Chesterton showed it to us here in the safety of Schloss Celle?”
It occurred to Viola that the count’s speech was much less slurred than previously. His dark eyes were bright and sharply focused. He wasn’t as drunk as he seemed.
“We will never see such a famous red diamond again,” de Foix said. “Do you refuse us a small peek only?”
Mr. Chesterton glared at the Frenchman, but Lord Cowley put a hand on his forearm. “I think, sir, the burden you bear is secure in this company,” the ambassador said.
The man grumbled, but he drew a small silver snuffbox from a pocket inside his waistcoat. Viola decided it was deucedly clever of him to keep Baaghh kaa kkhuun in a snuffbox—a homely disguise for something so fabulously v
aluable. When he opened the box, the low drone grew louder, but it was still bearable. Viola was safe behind her silver and jet armor.
Mr. Chesterton pulled a square of linen from his pocket and used it to pick up the red diamond without touching it directly.
He knows, Viola thought. He understands Baaghh kaa kkhuun’s power. And respects it.
She also noticed Mr. Chesterton was wearing a pinky ring of tarnished silver set with a black stone.
He must also be sensitive to gems, she realized. She’d often wished she could speak to someone about her gift, but she’d never met another soul who shared her unusual ability. One glance at Mr. Chesterton’s hard features told her he was not the one to whom she could unburden herself.
With extreme care, Mr. Chesterton slid the handkerchief with the diamond to the Austrian duchess at his left.
“Oh, my! It is so unusual,” she said in heavily accented English as she touched the red stone. “This jewel gives me tingles right up my arm.”
The men tended to pass the diamond along without touching it, not needing a case of the tingles evidently, but each woman felt compelled to run a fingertip over the rose-cut surface. When the count slid the handkerchief with the stone in front of her, Viola fully intended to pass it directly on to the Persian-obsessed baron.
Then the stone began speaking to her.
There were no words she could discern, but it was a definite summons. There was no pain or threat in it. Only a mesmerizing pattern in the low, undulating tone. Warmth. Light. Pleasure. When she lifted her hand toward the diamond, the sound intensified.
It began to stroke her, wrapping the rumbling timbre around her like a lover’s caress. She felt the vibrations up her forearm before her fingertip reached the diamond’s surface. It washed over her skin, slipping under her gown and tweaking her nipples to aching pertness. The waves rushed downward, flooding her groin with wicked sensations.
The room faded around her.
Someone moaned. It might have been her.
