Seducing Eden

by Allison Lane

  “That’s why the earlier case concerns me. Sir Harold wanted only the staff. He took the other items to keep Christine from guessing his intent.”

  “How could you know that? John said nothing of it.”

  She grimaced at his tone, but continued. “Christine’s maid served me for a time after my marriage, eventually revealing more than she’d told you. Christine did not grab items at random. Sir Harold chose them after quizzing her about the collection, convincing her that each was priceless. He turned down dozens before she mentioned the staff.”

  “That doesn’t make the staff his primary focus.”

  “Of course it does. The other items could be purchased for a few pounds from any London antiquities dealer. But a believer in legend would expect to tap the staff’s power.”

  “Rubbish. Only a madman thinks a chunk of wood has magical properties,” he scoffed.

  “I agree – not that it matters.” She glared. “Too many men do believe it. John feared that some of them were trying to reassemble the power of Sarsos – you must recall that the world was a dangerous place ten years ago. Napoleon controlled the Continent from Poland to Spain. He was poised to crush Portugal and invade England. Many people feared that French revolutionary ideas could incite rebellion here even without an invasion. The Sarsos power was attractive, for it could restore the natural order – whatever that was presumed to be. So in English hands, it would vanquish Napoleon, while in French hands, it could sweep away old governments, making Napoleon emperor of us all.”

  “Why would a believer try to save the world or empower the Corsican Monster? Surely he would set himself up to rule.”

  “Anyone interested in Sarsos knows that claiming personal power is disastrous.” She set her cup aside. “One of the first antiquities John bought was a fragment of the Sarsos scroll. He shared the translation with other collectors, so its contents are well known. It warns that using the power in anger or greed will destroy the user and all he holds dear. It can protect those who deserve it, and it can rectify injustice, but no more.”

  Alex shrugged. Bits of the scroll had been around for centuries, the remnants of what had probably been an ancient hoax – or maybe the world’s first novel. It was time to concentrate on reality. “How did John die?”

  “Before we discuss that, Mr. Portland, you have to understand the Sarsos legend. Whether it is truth or myth doesn’t matter, for it drove John to his death.”

  “Did he believe it, then?”

  “It would be more accurate to say he feared that it might be real. I know—” She cut off another protest. “I tried to talk him into being sensible, but he was terrified that the power could fall into unscrupulous hands, so he instructed his agent to track down Sarsos relics, particularly the other objects of power.”

  Alex frowned. “As I recall the legend, the sorcerer Sarsos took over an island, named it for himself, then used his power to build a peaceful society in which everyone remained happy, healthy, wealthy, and wise.” He couldn’t keep sarcasm from his voice.

  Mrs. Marlow nodded. “It sounds silly when phrased like that, but that is the premise. The sorcerer did not make the mistake of eliminating all ills, nor did he try to defeat death, but Sarsos was a congenial land lacking epidemics, strife, and poverty. To protect his people once he was gone, he locked his power into four ceremonial objects – chalice, spoon, staff, and stone – then set down detailed instructions for their use. To prevent their misuse, he added spells that would curse anyone who employed his power for personal gain or to harm others. That led to Sarsos’s downfall, of course, for when outsiders discovered its wealth, they attacked. The island had no defenses, and when the high priest tried to kill the invaders, the power turned back on Sarsos, destroying the people and sinking the island into the sea.”

  “Where it remains conveniently gone, like Atlantis and Lyonesse and other fabled islands. The tales likely have a common source – same perfect society, same watery grave. Wishful thinking added elements of magic, creating the fairy tale we have today.”

  “You missed the point. Sarsos did exist – at least, a city of that name did. Sarsosian trade goods can be found in many places, as can items possibly taken during a sack – including the objects of power. You saw the staff for yourself.”

  “I saw a sketch of a primitive scepter. I have no doubt that it was ancient. I have grave doubts that is had any connection to Sarsos. Not that it matters. The staff sank along with Sir Harold’s ship.”

  “My apologies.” She drew in a deep breath, then doggedly continued. “John started searching for Sarsos relics a year after the staff disappeared.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “A trail of blood.”

  Chapter Three

  Alex jerked to attention. Greed was something he understood, as was a lust for power. Such goals had driven the men he’d hunted. It didn’t matter that Sarsos sorcery was a myth. The gullible would believe anything, even that a chunk of wood could make them rich. If someone was killing people in a misguided pursuit of the Sarsos relics, he had to act.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The upheaval following the French revolution ignited interest in Sarsos. Rumors flooded the antiquities shops about its customs, its tragic end, and especially its treasure. Some of them were clearly spurious, but others seemed genuine. John collected the most reasonable, then sent his agent to Italy, where a cup matching the description of the Sarsos chalice had been used for centuries by a monastery – it sat on the altar full of sacramental wine that banished melancholy when sipped.”

  “Sarsos happiness, I suppose,” he scoffed.

  “Christian charity in this case. The monks believed it was the chalice Christ drank from during the marriage feast at Cana. Anyone who made a suitable offering to the monastery could have a sip – until twenty years ago, when a shoemaker stole the chalice. He’d been blue-deviled since his wife and son had perished in the fire that destroyed his business. The trek to the monastery was lengthy, so he wanted to have the chalice nearby.”

  “Poor devil.”

  “His ill luck continued,” she said, pouring more tea. “Barely a mile from the monastery, he stumbled into a lake and drowned. The chalice was never recovered.” She shook her head when he started to speak. “Nineteen years ago, a French mob dragged a count and his family to the guillotine after ransacking his estate. The plunder included the odd bronze spoon used for administering tonics to the household. The spoon was credited with the family’s remarkable health and longevity. The peddler who took it drowned when his cart overturned into a river as he was leaving the estate. The spoon disappeared.”

  Alex couldn’t quite control a shiver.

  “The staff you know about. Sir George bought it from a Moorish sailor while on his Grand Tour. Ten years ago, Christine stole it. Sir Harold killed her, dumping her body in a water-filled ditch.”

  “Are you saying that he also had the chalice and spoon?”

  “No. His heirs would have found them. John believed that Sir Harold was one of several men seeking the treasure. The thefts are connected by the scroll. One of its protective spells curses thieves of the sacred relics to death by inundation. John suspected that each of the thieves was working for a collector who carried out the curse once the item had been voluntarily handed over, thus preventing the curse from attaching to him.”

  Alex had had enough of magic and curses. “What about the stone?”

  “Rumors of the stone turned up two years ago when the army returned from Spain. John’s agent traced it to a convent in the Pyrenees. It was an isolated place, virtually forgotten until Wellington chased the French through the area. But it survived the battle relatively unscathed. The nuns credited their holy stone.”

  “John bought it?” he asked, hoping this wouldn’t be another tale of plunder.

  “Yes. By then, his quest had turned to obsession. But he was too aware of the curse to behave dishonorably.”

  “How did he kno
w those tales were true? Someone might have spread lies to discourage competition,” he suggested. “Identifying a handy body as the thief could divert suspicion.”

  “In which case I have an even larger complaint. John was too obsessed to think rationally by then.” She rose to pace, her voice hardening. “When the nuns refused to sell, John raised the price again and again, until they finally agreed. He bankrupted his estate, thinking it would be easy to recoup his finances once he had the stone. Unfortunately, he died before he could do so.” She rounded the table, her fury still hot. “He kept his purchase secret, even refusing to display the stone with the rest of his collection. But someone realized he’d found it.”

  “Hard to keep it secret after searching so diligently.” He frowned.

  Sighing, she dropped back into her chair. “The culprit caught up with him ten days ago.” Pain flickered in her eyes. “When I arrived in the study for our usual after-dinner coffee, John was bolting through the French window shouting, Stop, thief! The safe stood open, and I later discovered the collection room in shambles. I roused the staff, but they lost the trail in the woods. When hours passed with no sign of him, I set out for Marwood Hill to seek Richard’s help – their father died some years ago, so he is now the magistrate. Three miles from Ridley, I found Richard bent over two bodies.”

  “John?”

  She nodded, drawing a deep breath before continuing. “He lay on his back, his head against a rock. The second body was a roughly dressed stranger who had been found on his stomach, the hand beneath him still gripping a pistol. It had discharged, putting a hole in his chest.”

  “Highwayman?”

  “That’s what Richard believes. Based on hoofprints in the road, he swears that a highwayman leaped out, spooking John’s horse, which reared, throwing John against a rock and knocking the highwayman off balance. His gun discharged when he fell.”

  “You don’t believe that.” It wasn’t a question. Her voice dripped sarcasm.

  “No, I don’t. Richard is lazy, stupid, and stubborn. Not only does he eagerly grasp the most obvious explanation for any problem, but he never changes his mind and never admits fault. He also believes that females are incapable of logic. Especially me – he never approved of John’s second marriage. If I hadn’t been in shock—” Her voice broke.

  He silently handed her his handkerchief, then massaged the back of her neck. But touching her proved to be so disorienting that he removed his hands the moment she regained her composure. Lust he understood, but this wave of protectiveness…

  “Thank you,” she said at last. “I try not to dwell on it, but it’s hard. As I was saying, Richard is stubborn. I made the mistake of questioning his conclusions. The moment I opened my mouth, he dug in his heels and closed his mind to the evidence lying before his eyes. After all these years, I should know better.” She rubbed her temples.

  “Was he the only man at the scene?”

  “No, not that it helps. The farm worker who found the bodies was there. And the local constable, who’s sixty if he’s a day and has trouble remembering what he’s doing half the time. Neither would dare contradict a baronet.”

  True. Sir Richard Marlow was the highest-ranking landowner for miles. If he swore that pigs could fly, few would counter him. “Describe the scene.”

  “Before they rolled the highwayman over, he’d been slumped across John.”

  “Odd. If the horse threw John, then knocked the other man down, they should have fallen in different directions.”

  “So I thought. And John’s body was stiff, yet the other man’s was not.”

  He raised his brows. “How did you discover that?”

  “When they rolled John onto his side to examine the back of his head, his arms stuck up at an odd angle and could not be lowered.” She demonstrated, raising her arms over her head. “His face was cold. I didn’t touch the other man, but his arms flopped loosely, like the neck of a freshly killed chicken.” Her voice caught.

  Alex nodded. He’d seen death often enough to understand her observations. “Was the stranger lying in the sun?”

  “Yes, which is why Richard dismissed my observation. But it was barely six in the morning, and the sun had broken through the fog only minutes before I arrived.”

  The men must have died several hours apart. “What else?”

  “Several things. Blood had run onto John’s face, though he lay on his back. The farm worker swore he hadn’t moved him, as did the constable, so why was there blood above the wound? Then there was the horse. It was from our stable, but it’s used only with the housekeeper’s gig. No one rides it. Nor would John saddle a horse himself. Even if he decided to ride out in the middle of the night, he would have awakened a groom.”

  “Unless he was in a tearing hurry. You last saw him chasing a thief.”

  “If he was that rushed, he would never have chosen that horse. It’s a plodder. And it wasn’t John’s nature to do anything a servant could do for him.”

  Alex frowned, but her observations fit the man he’d known ten years ago.

  Mrs. Marlow blinked away tears. “The highwayman also seemed wrong. Despite shabby clothing, his hands were well-tended and his hair fashionably cut. His pistol reminded me of the Manton dueling pistols John owns – an ornate weapon of the sort only a gentleman can afford. It might have been stolen, of course, but John’s both remain in the gun cabinet.”

  “You’ve a good eye for detail.” John had probably died shortly after leaving the house. For some reason, the culprit had risked exposure by stealing a horse to move the body. “Are you absolutely certain John wouldn’t have sought his brother’s help? If he thought he’d been robbed, Sir Richard was the magistrate.”

  “There is no question that he’d been robbed. The collection room was in shambles, and the stone was missing from the study safe. I’m amazed no one heard the thief, for he must have made quite a racket.”

  “All the more reason for John to hightail it to Marwood Hill.”

  “No.” A raised hand stopped further questioning. “Richard despises John’s collection. He blames his father’s collection for draining the family fortune and fears that John’s interest in antiquities will corrupt his sons and grandsons. He was furious when John offered for several pieces after their father died. Richard threw him out, then sold the pieces at auction. John bought them through an agent – not his usual one. When Richard found out, he banished John from the family. He’s sold nothing since – at least not openly. He considers the collection a curse. If John owned it, it would still threaten the family.”

  “He doesn’t sound quite sane.”

  “When it comes to antiquities, he’s not.”

  “So John would not have been riding to Marwood Hill.”

  Mrs. Marlow frowned. “The only reason he might was if Richard was the thief.”

  “What? But you just said—”

  “Richard may dislike antiquities, but he abhors Sarsos. He becomes completely irrational at any mention of the staff. If he knew that John had purchased the stone…” She shook her head. “In support of that, a stranger would have to be insane to enter a gentleman’s stables, for a groom is always nearby. But Richard could explain his presence. Also, the farm worker who fetched Richard at five in the morning found him fully clothed with mud on his boots. He is not an early riser.”

  “Then perhaps he was not yet abed. There may have been an emergency.”

  “But—” She cut off her words, then tried again. “He claims he was going shooting. But nothing is in season.”

  “We will keep him in mind, but if he was the thief, how do you explain the second corpse?”

  “Perhaps he was a traveler who happened along while Richard was moving the body – no one knows him. If Richard killed him, then set the scene to resemble an accident, it would explain why he was so adamant that it was an accident.”

  “That’s too much of a coincidence. Don’t make this more difficult than it is.”

  �
�The scene had to have been staged by someone,” she insisted, undeterred by his set-down – or his scars, which made even men back away when he scowled. “That horse is very docile. I can’t imagine it shoving a man even if he jumped out unexpectedly. And why would anyone hold a cocked pistol while moving a corpse? The only explanation is that the second man was also murdered, with the gun placed near his hand afterward. A partner fits the pattern of the other thefts. And it explains why the dead man carried no papers and had no camp nearby.”

  Her logic was unusually sound for a female. “What does the stone look like?”

  “Bluish gray. About the size of my fist. It seems crystalline, yet it isn’t crystal.” She frowned. “I can’t quite find the words to describe it. It doesn’t look like much, to tell the truth. I’d expected a giant jewel or a fancy carving, but it’s more like something you would pull out of a river than anything else. Yet it feels surprisingly warm, as if it’s been sitting in the sun for several hours, even when it’s been locked in a safe.”

  The hairs stood up on Alex’s neck, though he knew it wasn’t magic. He’d read of a substance called sunstone that always felt warm to the touch. To the superstitious, it would seem magical and probably accounted for half the legends of sacred stones.

  “So you want me to identify the thief’s partner,” he said calmly. He was amenable. Faced with a challenge involving action and puzzle-solving, he had to admit that life had become dull. Besides, he owed John a favor. Investigating his death was the only favor left.

  She nodded. “Or his employer – he was more likely hired to steal. Another possible suspect is Christine’s nephew. Then there are the other collectors who sought the stone, some with almost frightening determination. Any of them could have hired a London thief.”

  “It isn’t that easy, you know,” he said chidingly.

  She scowled. “Perhaps not. But I must recover the stone. John spent everything on it, and then some. Unless I can sell it to a museum, I will lose the estate.”