Grimly, Devlyn swung around, placing his body between India and the wolf, wishing desperately for a weapon of some sort. Even a walking stick would be better than his bare fists against those teeth.
“Down, Luna. It’s quite all right, he is a friend.”
Luna? Devlyn heard a last low growl give way to a whine. Good God, was this wild creature her pet?
India looked up and smiled. “It is terribly selfish of me, I know, but I couldn’t leave her behind. I found her nearly dead in Brussels when I was — when I was traveling about.”
Traveling about.
Dev understood instantly. When she had been looking for him. What sights she must have seen in those nightmare weeks following Waterloo. And how like her to be concerned with a helpless creature even when she had so much trouble of her own.
Thorne’s fingers tightened unconsciously. He felt a burning urge to pull her close and kiss her fiercely.
Except that the great beast would probably bite off both his legs, Devlyn thought darkly.
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Why do you say that?”
“Because the way you’re holding me is going to leave bruises tomorrow.”
Instantly Thorne relaxed his fingers, cursing slightly.
But India’s gaze was thoughtful. Before Devlyn could say a word, she looked away. “Go ahead, Luna,” she ordered softly.
As the great silver-haired wolf turned and loped up the staircase, Thorne followed, struck by the feeling that he had stepped into a bizarre dream. “How old is she?” he asked, watching the magnificent creature move over the priceless Persian carpet.
“A little over two years, I think.” India frowned. “I couldn’t bear to leave her behind in Norfolk, but it has been rather an ordeal for her here in London. I hooked her to a leash and took her to Hampstead Heath one afternoon for a run, but she ended up scaring away all the sheep. Then two despicable old men had the arrogance to try to shoot her. I couldn’t allow that, of course.”
“Of course,” Dev said, managing to keep his voice calm. “You shot them instead, I take it?”
“I would have if I’d had my pistol. Instead I simply stirred up the sheep a little bit.” A dimple appeared at India’s cheek. “Well, perhaps more than a little. When I was done, the great bleating creatures had charged everywhere. They knocked down those two beastly men before they could do any harm to Luna, so all was well in the end.”
Two hundred sheep sent hammering off in terror over Hampstead Heath? No doubt their owner would not see things quite the way India did.
Dev cleared his throat to avoid laughing aloud at the thought of the ensuing chaos. He began to wish they had had someone of her utter resoluteness with them at Waterloo. No doubt she would have sent Napoleon screaming back to Paris in terror before a single shot was fired.
India frowned at him. “I’m sorry that you think us comical.”
“But I don’t. Unusual. Adventurous. Resolute. But never comical.”
“Oh.” A long pause. “But really, there’s no reason to carry me. I would—” Her face flushed. “I would prefer to walk.”
“And make that wound bleed again? Out of the question.”
Devlyn moved past a marble alcove decorated with life-sized Greek statues, Hindu deities, and thirty-foot Italian Renaissance tapestries. “Where now?”
India pointed down a corridor filled with landscape paintings. At the far end stood a mahogany chest covered with polished chunks of Baltic amber, an exquisite miniature of an old Spanish galleon, and a collection of snakeskins.
Devlyn shook his head. “I feel as if I’ve walked into the British Museum. Is there anything your family doesn’t collect?”
India’s face was pale. He realized she was fighting exhaustion and pain.
“We collect whatever intrigues us,” she said firmly. “The materials or costs are irrelevant. All that matters is their honesty. Honesty carries its own beauty.”
Devlyn frowned a little at her words, knowing they were a question he could not answer. Not until he’d found Napoleon’s cursed diamonds.
He stopped at an open door.
“This is it,” India said. “You can put me down.”
Thorne did nothing of the sort. Instead he stood studying the large room. One glance would have told him this had to be hers. Upon one long lacquer table lay an array of precious Pacific coral. Nearby a line of seashells circled a working astrolabe from a Spanish galleon and a beautifully illuminated medieval book of days in jewel-tone colors. A miniature hot air balloon, rendered in stiffened silk and fine slivers of bamboo, sat on a table under the window. Beside the model lay a notebook covered with sketches of various basket structures and rigging types.
Thorne stared down at the woman in his arms. “The sketches are yours?”
“Of course,” India said. “Ian and I have been working on some modifications.”
Devlyn cursed softly. “Don’t tell me you’ve been up in one of those things?”
India’s brow rose. “They are entirely safe, as long as one has calculated the proper amount of ballast. Of course, if you allow too much, you will crash. And if you allow too little—”
Devlyn shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it. Balloon ascensions,” he muttered. “Next you will tell me you’re thinking about jumping out of one of the things with a pair of silken wings to see if you can fly.”
India shook her head seriously. “Oh no, not wings. But there is a new device designed by a man in France. It has a curving canopy and dangling strings. He calls it a parachute and I’ve been trying to persuade Ian to—”
“I don’t want to hear! If nothing else, your family ought to find you a husband just to keep you from afflicting damage on yourself and everyone within three counties.”
India stiffened. “I see. That, I suppose, is your notion of why a woman should take a husband.”
“It appears to be better than most of the reasons women choose for marriage,” Devlyn said grimly.
“As you seem to have forgotten, I have a husband, and I find your manner loathsome. Put me down this instant.”
“Gladly.” Devlyn deposited her in a heap on top of a pile of pillows. “Hot air balloons,” he muttered furiously.
But his exit was cut off by the arrival of the Duchess of Cranford, looking more fragile than usual, her tiny body half concealed beneath a heavy shawl. “What exactly do the two of you think you’re doing?” She closed the door behind her, mindful of curious servants below on the stairs. “It is nearly one o’clock in the morning.”
Devlyn thrust his hands into his pockets. “Well, she tried to—”
India cut in. “He positively doesn’t know the first thing about—”
“Be quiet, the both of you.” The duchess glared at the two of them. Her eyes narrowed at the small bloodstain on the side of India’s gown. “Obviously you have no more sense than a caged baboon, India. I’ll tend to that wound of yours in a moment. Meanwhile, you will stay in that bed and not move a muscle, is that understood?”
India opened her mouth, then closed it. Sighing, she nodded, knowing that any attempts to argue with her grandmother would ultimately be useless.
Next the frail old woman glared at Thorne. “And as for you, my lord, I shall expect to see you cooling your heels downstairs in my study precisely on the first stroke of eight o’clock. Is that understood?”
“I shall try to fit it into my schedule,” Thorne said tightly. “Has anyone ever told you that you are perfectly Machiavellian, Your Grace?”
The duchess smoothed her shawl. “More times than you might imagine, young man.” Her eyes focused on the distance for a moment. “William Pitt once told me that had I been born a man the course of Europe might have been changed.” She laughed softly. “As for your Machiavelli, I continue to read him once every year just to keep myself in good form.”
Devlyn looked impressed. “In the original Italian, of course?”
The duchess’s brow rose. “But of co
urse. Doesn’t everyone?” Then she made a shooing motion. “Now be gone with you. My granddaughter and I have work to do.” With that curt order, she turned to India.
Devlyn left, feeling like an ungainly chicken sent clucking from its master’s path. On his way down the stairs he passed four avidly curious footmen, the cook, who froze at the sight of him, and a silent butler. Behind him, he heard the creak of Albert’s wicker basket being pulled into place.
Thorne wasn’t sure if he had gone mad or this whole household had.
CHAPTER 13
Dawn had barely broken over the murky swells of the Thames when twelve grim men assembled at the residence of the hero of Waterloo. Even now, months after the battle, the Duke of Wellington was every inch the commanding general, and the men gathered soberly in the quiet drawing room recognized him as such.
The tall, hook-nosed officer began without preamble. “You are all aware of the unsettled situation in Europe. Even now there are many who wish their emperor” — Wellington said the word scornfully — “to be returned to his former glory. It is our job, gentlemen, to see that that does not happen.” His sharp eyes bored into the grim faces. “You may recall that on the night of 15 September, 1792, the French treasury was ransacked. Over the course of several evenings a band of thieves went back and forth along the roofs and by the time the theft was discovered, the Garde-Meubles National on the Place de la Concorde was nearly empty. Of eight thousand diamonds that had been in the treasury, not a single diamond was left. Only fifteen hundred have ever been recovered. It is said by many that those jewels were stolen by the order of Napoleon himself. Some he arranged to be “rediscovered,” and come legitimately into his public use, but we have reason to believe that the greater part of the remaining stones entered Napoleon’s private coffers. On several occasions these gems were seen to be loaded into an iron-bound chest that accompanied him everywhere on campaign — along with his beloved Cologne water,” Wellington said with a sniff.
“Though we made every inquiry, this chest was never found, neither before Waterloo, nor in the months following. I do not need to remind you that there are many who support Napoleon even in England. Reports lead us to suspect that the jewels have been shipped here to our shores, where they will be used to raise political support for freeing Napoleon from St. Helena. Even Lord Holland has mentioned his dislike of the treatment of Napoleon and now there are wild stories that the British governor of St. Helena has attempted to poison the Corsican. Absurd, of course, but public opinion has already been swayed. Should this clever campaign continue, Napoleon’s supporters may be able to negotiate his freedom. And who are these men? They are a shadowy group who call themselves l’Aurore, or ‘the dawn.’ No doubt, they compare their general’s release to the dawning of a new age. Those of us at Waterloo know it would be not a dawn but a harsh and blood-red sunset. But they are clever and capable, these men, and with those diamonds to finance them they might well succeed in their plot.”
There was a rush of shocked breaths as Wellington continued. “We must not let that happen, gentlemen. We will not let it happen. Too many lives have already been lost to this tyrant. That case of jewels must be found. Meanwhile, no one beyond this room is to know of our task, no one at all. There are too many details that have escaped already.”
The duke moved to the large table at the end of the room and pulled open a parchment map, which sported three large arrows. “These are the areas where the jewels are most likely to be brought in, conveyed by the usual smugglers and malcontents.” Wellington looked at one of the men. “Torrington, you will take this area. Report to me as soon as you have news. But for God’s sake, do it discreetly and give no one reason to suspect what it is you’re looking for. Otherwise, we’ll be besieged by a hundred false reports of lost French diamonds.”
Wellington moved to the other side of the map and continued briskly. “Wilmot, you’ll take this area. And utter discretion, I remind you. Delamere?” he said to the quiet man at the far end of the table.
The tall officer with the broad shoulders waited expectantly.
Wellington tapped the third arrow. “You’ll take this area in Norfolk. Home terrain should be easier for you. Don’t overlook any clue, even if it means dealing with the most unsavory types. As a matter of fact, they are the most likely to have news of these wretched jewels.”
Ian Delamere nodded. The sleepy look had left his gray eyes.
Wellington snapped the map together and used it to tap the table forcefully. “Everything depends on us, gentlemen. We must find those jewels, or we will face more bloodshed and chaos. That is something I pray we may avoid. Notify me of your progress.”
The duke turned to the window, his back toward the room, as the men filed out silently. Even after the last had left, he did not turn, his eyes locked on the street.
Then a door on the far wall opened. A man in a caped greatcoat entered, his head hidden by a chapeau bras. He did not speak, but his light step brought Wellington about.
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Who the devil are you? What do you—” Abruptly, his mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile. “I should have known. But that hat is quite repellent, Thorne.” He took a step forward. “It is you, is it not?”
At these words, Wellington’s visitor pulled off his hat and stripped away his cloak. His face was angular and bronze, full of extraordinary power. It was a face that would have neared classical perfection had it not been for the scar atop his jaw and the lines of tension carved into his brow.
“Indeed.” Wellington shook his head. “You do enjoy taking risks, Thorne.”
“But of course,” the man with the shrewd silver eyes said, easing back the black eye patch that had concealed a good deal of his face. “After all, it wouldn’t do for me to be seen frequenting your residence.”
Wellington laughed grimly. “That’s true enough. Your memory is gone, I believe, and you’ve left soldiering behind.” He poured a glass of port, which he offered to his guest.
Their eyes met, grim and determined.
“What news brings you?”
Devlyn Carlisle, frowning, turned the fine crystal tumbler. “There is talk along the docks about a cache of amazing jewels that will soon enter England via the Thames. And not just any jewels, Your Grace. Of course, they will never be put up for public auction. Their sale will be handled in secrecy, and only select men will be invited to offer a bid.”
Wellington frowned. “By that, you mean only those who know not to ask any questions.”
“Just so.”
“It’s a damnable business! Of course they must be the lost French Crown diamonds!” Wellington began to pace the room. “But where, Thorne? And when?”
“I cannot say. Whoever is behind this has been devilishly closemouthed. But any cargo coming in or out of London via the Thames falls within my domain and I’ll hear of them sooner or later. You’ve put men on the other possible areas?”
Wellington nodded. “You don’t believe they will come in from Norfolk or the Isle of Wight, then?”
“It would be more difficult to move them overland in secrecy, but not impossible. Still, some intuition tells me they will come by water. Remember, these men called l’Aurore are pressed for time and the public is fickle. Should they wait too long, their cause will no longer be fashionable.”
“If that madman raises money for another army, France will be thrown into chaos. We might soon be looking at another Waterloo.”
Thorne’s eyes hardened as he finished his port, then set the crystal sharply onto the table. “Not if I can help it. I’ve died once. I don’t intend to die again. I have affairs of my own that I must attend to. Carlisle Hall is nearly derelict, and—” He bit back his words. “I know how important this is to England, but I don’t relish seeing my ancestral home in Norfolk fall to ruin in the process.”
“Two more weeks, Thornwood, that’s all I ask.” Wellington looked at his visitor. “I must return to the Continent, and by then it
may well be too late for any of our clever schemes.”
“Very well. Two weeks to succeed or fail.” The earl held up his glass. “A toast to our success, then, and to the confusion of our enemies.”
The tumblers met with a clink and both men drank deeply. In that moment their eyes were hard with memories of gunpowder and blood and the mud churned up by a hundred thousand marching feet.
Thornwood was the first to clear his voice. “May I offer my felicitations on your impressive appearance at Lady Jersey’s recent ball?”
Wellington’s brows rose in a frown. “What do you know of that?”
Thorne bowed low, a gesture filled with a hint of self-mockery. “Do you not recall the graceless old dowager seated next to you at the end of the evening? You spoke of poultry farming in Sussex, I believe, and the difficulties of provisioning troops on the march.”
“Good heavens, man, do you mean that was you?”
“None other. It was most amusing. Even Ian Delamere didn’t recognize me.” Thorne’s mouth curved in a grin. “I suppose the veil helped.”
“You go beyond the line, Thorne. What if you had been discovered?” Wellington shook his head. “You would have destroyed all our work.”
“Ah, but I wasn’t discovered, and I made it my business to acquire a great deal of useful gossip that night. I now know exactly who is in the market for singular jewels — and whose sentiments toward the French might be more than warm.”
“You found that out in one night? I wish I might know your methods.”
“Nothing simpler. Just by listening, Your Grace. It is amazing how much people will say to an old woman whom they think slightly deaf and more than a little senile.”
“And you still refuse to tell me where you are staying now that Herrington has moved into Thornwood House?”
Thorne’s eyes darkened. “You wouldn’t wish to know, Your Grace. Let us just say that I am … not what I appear.”
Wellington sniffed, half in disapproval, half in admiration. “You always were a man who went his own way. You worked alone in Spain, as I recall. Damned good with disguises, too.”
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