An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  It did not take much reflection to know the cause of her good mood. Oliver—the stuffy, reliable, responsible Lord Stewkesbury—had kissed her. But, no, that was far too tame a word for it. What had happened between them could hardly be described as a mere kiss. It had been far too startling, too amazing, too combustible, to use the same word one might for a simple buss on the cheek. When his lips had fastened on hers, Vivian had felt the shock all through her, down to her very toes. Who could have imagined that Oliver could feel such passion? Or, even more astonishing, that he had felt that sort of passion for her!

  She was far too much of a realist to imagine that it meant anything lasting or deep. It had been a spur-of-the-moment act, one doubtless engendered by a roiling mix of fury and resentment as much as by any feeling of passion. By the time Stewkesbury had reached home, Vivian felt sure, Oliver would have been appalled and thoroughly regretting the impulse that had brought him to kiss her. Nothing would ever come of it. She would not even wish for anything to come of it. The thought of her and Oliver together was absurd. Laughable. Impossible. No doubt the earl would soon apologize to her, stiff and proper, and assure her that it would never happen again. He would have recovered his customary calm, and after that, things would return to normal between them.

  Still, for the moment—for the brief, bizarre, amazing thrill of the moment—it had been nothing short of exhilarating. Vivian believed in enjoying the moment.

  Vivian dressed with her usual eye to fashion. She did not believe in leaving the house looking anything but her best, even if she was going only to the jeweler’s. Today she wore a deep blue wool round gown and over it a matching pelisse in a military cut with black frogged fastenings marching down the front and black braid around the cuffs and collar. Her hat was a cunning little black one she had bought last summer, shaped like an upside-down boat, coming to a point on her forehead. Black kid gloves and half boots completed the ensemble.

  Just as she stepped out of her house and started down the steps toward her carriage, she spied Lord Stewkesbury crossing the street toward her. He pulled up short at the sight of her, then continued, his face set in a look of iron determination. Vivian had to smother a smile; clearly Oliver was steeling himself to face her with an apology.

  “Lord Stewkesbury,” she said pleasantly, not giving him a chance to get started. “How fortunate I met you; I was just about to leave.”

  “My lady.” He bowed somewhat woodenly. “Please, do not let me detain you. I shall call on you another time.”

  “Nonsense.” Vivian’s amusement increased at the clear sound of relief in his voice. “I am going to the jeweler’s. It can wait for a moment.”

  “What?” He scowled. “Why? The devil. Don’t tell me you are snooping about. I told you—”

  “Yes, no doubt you did. But I have something to pick up at the jeweler’s. Why don’t you escort me, and we can talk on the way?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then said somewhat sourly, “My pleasure.”

  Vivian ignored his tone, smiling at him sunnily and accepting his hand to step up into the carriage.

  “Here we are again,” she said. “Odd, isn’t it, two days in a row when it has been months since we have seen each other?”

  He ignored her attempt at light conversation, settling into the seat across from her and straightening his shoulders with the air of one facing a firing squad.

  “I came today to apologize, my lady, for the way I behaved last night. I deeply regret my actions.”

  Vivian raised her brows. “You regret kissing me? I must say, Stewkesbury, that’s rather an ungentlemanly thing to say. Was it so terrible?”

  “What?” He stared at her. “No, of course not. It wasn’t terrible at all.”

  “I am relieved to hear that.” A smile hovered at the corners of Vivian’s mouth. “I found it quite pleasant myself.”

  “Vivian!” He closed his eyes.

  “What? Would you rather I had found it unpleasant?”

  “No! Of course not. Oh, the devil! It is more than a man’s life is worth trying to talk to you. I came to apologize!”

  “So you said. What I can’t understand is why you should want to, since it seems that both of us enjoyed the experience.” Vivian’s eyes twinkled.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have,” Oliver retorted crossly. “Or, at least, you should pretend that you didn’t.”

  “Really, Oliver—I feel I may call you by your given name, don’t you, now that we are, well, better acquainted?” He stifled a groan, and Vivian paused, one eyebrow raised, then went on, “I cannot understand why I should pretend something I don’t feel and which surely would not make you feel any better.”

  “I did not behave like a gentleman,” he replied, goaded. “And you should not be so blithe about the whole matter. You should be shocked. Upset.”

  Vivian laughed. “I am twenty-eight years old, Oliver, and, though I know you will think me vain, I am aware that I am pleasing to look at. I have been kissed before. It seems absurd for me to be upset.”

  He scowled. “You routinely go about letting fellows kiss you?”

  “No, not routinely. Truthfully, there have not been many men I wanted to kiss me. And some I have even slapped because they were quite presumptuous. But I could see that you wanted to kiss me, and I did not discourage you.” She looked down, casting her eyes back up at him flirtatiously. “So you see, I can hardly fault your behavior, now, can I?”

  Oliver simply stared at her as though stunned. He pulled his eyes away, shifting a little in his seat. “Good Lord, Vivian, it’s no wonder that men kiss you if you go about talking in that manner.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t speak to most men that way. But with you, it’s entirely different. We have known each other this age. Why, you are practically like a cousin to me.”

  “A cousin! I trust you don’t go about kissing your cousins so!”

  Another merry trill of laughter burst from her. “Goodness, no. My cousins are generally horrid. And I never had a tendre for any of them when I was a schoolgirl.”

  She had apparently rendered him speechless again. A line of red crept along the ridge of his cheekbone, and he turned his head abruptly away, gazing out the carriage window.

  “There, I have embarrassed you. I shall say I’m sorry, too, and we’ll call the account settled. Let us speak of something else.” Taking his silence for assent, Vivian went on, “Would you like to hear why I’m going to see Mr. Brookman?”

  “Who?” He turned back to her, apparently willing to drop the matter of their kiss the night before. “I thought you were going to Rundell and Bridge.”

  “Oh, no. Papa always used them, of course, but several years ago I saw a magnificent brooch on Lady Sedgefield, and she told me that she purchased it at Brookman and Son. So I visited his shop, and I’ve gone back ever since. The man is a genius at design and just as splendid at resetting old pieces. A number of the things I buy are old, you see, and magnificent as they are, I can’t wear them. They are much too ornate for today’s fashion. Some are too wonderful to break up, of course, and those I simply put in my collection, but, well, what’s the point of buying jewels if one cannot wear them? So Brookman resets most of them in simpler pieces. That is what he’s done with the Scots Green, which I’m picking up today.”

  “The what? An emerald?”

  “No, a green diamond. They are one of the rarest of diamonds, you know; only red ones are rarer. And ones the size of the Scots Green are most unusual. They’re difficult to cut because the color can be splotchy or only on the surface.”

  Stewkesbury’s brows lifted in surprise. “You seem to know a great deal about this.”

  She nodded. “I’ve always loved jewels, you know. Papa was wont to give them to me.”

  Vivian’s mother had died not long after Vivian was born, and her father, freed of an unhappy marriage, had spent most of his time in London during Vivian’s youth, leaving her to the care of nurses and governesses. Interm
ittently touched by guilt, he would send her gifts or bring them home with him when he returned for one of his infrequent visits.

  “His gifts, of course, were largely unsuitable for a child,” Vivian went on lightly. “Little glass figures or a pigeon’s blood ruby set in a filigreed brooch. My governess would cluck over the thought of sending such breakables to a child and set them up high out of my reach. It will come as no surprise to you that I climbed up to take them down and examine them. I loved the gems—the glitter, the deep, rich tones, the glow of the gold settings.” She shrugged. “So when I was older, I started buying them myself. There’s something fascinating about them—not just the beauty, but the stories behind the gems.”

  She glanced over at Oliver and found him watching her intently. She felt suddenly self-conscious. “Why are you staring at me so?”

  “Was I? I’ve never heard you speak so . . . seriously about something.”

  “I’m not entirely frivolous. Though I suppose some would say that jewelry is a frivolous matter to begin with.”

  “Mm. I think to many, it’s been a matter of life and death.”

  This time, Vivian raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Precisely. The diamond that I am going to pick up today once belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots. No one knows exactly how it left her possession. She had an extensive number of jewels, many of them ones she brought back with her from France. And when she fled Scotland, she had to leave much of her collection behind. Others she gave as bribes, they say, to her captors. She sent Queen Elizabeth a diamond brooch, hoping, no doubt, to keep her from sending Mary to the block. She gave some to her supporters to keep for her or to use to free her. The Scots Green was one that disappeared. It was originally part of a brooch, along with a number of smaller, colorless diamonds, but fifty years later, when it turned up again, it was set as a pendant in a necklace belonging to the Countess of Berkhamstead.”

  “And how did it get there?”

  Vivian shrugged. “You see? That is what is so fascinating about jewels. No one knows how it came into Lady Berkhamstead’s hands. But it was clearly the Scots Green; there was no mistaking it. After a few more generations, it disappeared again. This summer Mr. Brookman sent me a note saying that it had turned up in Antwerp. The necklace had been broken up, and the Scots Green was for sale. So I told him yes; I cannot resist either green gems or a tragic history. He has reset it in a necklace, but this is the first chance I have had to see it.”

  “And you are eagerly anticipating it.” Oliver smiled as he watched her.

  “You will come in and see it, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” he replied, and was rewarded by a dazzling smile.

  The carriage pulled up in front of the narrow shop on Sackville Street, not far from the more famous Gray’s. By the time Oliver handed Vivian down from the carriage, a clerk had opened the door of the shop. Mr. Brookman himself met them just inside the door. A slight man with thinning blond hair and pale blue eyes, he had a grave air and a stoop-shouldered posture that made him appear years older than he was. In fact, he was no older than Stewkesbury, having come into ownership of the store at the death of his grandfather. He glanced with some surprise at Stewkesbury, but he quickly recovered, bowing, and whisked them through the outer shop and into the privacy of his office.

  Vivian introduced Lord Stewkesbury to the jeweler, and Brookman offered them tea, as he always did whenever Vivian came into the store. The social ritual was part of the impeccable service that Brookman & Son offered, but from the way his grave manner lightened as they sipped their tea from delicate china cups and conversed about the weather and their health, Vivian suspected that Mr. Brookman enjoyed the convention as much as he considered it good business.

  Today, however, they did not linger long over their tea, for both of them were eager to get to the Scots Green. With a touch of dramatic flair, the jeweler laid out a pad covered in rich black velvet, then took the necklace from his safe and laid it out gently on the pad.

  “Oh, my . . .” Vivian breathed out a sigh of admiration. “Mr. Brookman, I believe you have outdone yourself.”

  Elegant links of gold formed the necklace, separated every few links by a cluster of small diamonds surrounding a small green diamond, and in the very center of the piece was a grander cluster of white diamonds around a large green diamond. It was clear and light green, not the deep green of emeralds, but a delicate, pale color of great depth and clarity. The short necklace was designed to lie at the base of Vivian’s throat, the center nestling at the delicate hollow. The goldwork was beautifully done, but subtle, almost muted, the design drawing the eye to the centerpiece of the large green diamond.

  “I am glad your ladyship approves,” Brookman murmured, and though Vivian knew that he tried to restrain his smile, pride shone in his eyes.

  She leaned closer to examine the green diamond, and the jeweler quickly offered her his loupe. The jeweler’s eyepiece was, she knew, one of his most prized possessions, adorned with a thin silver band on which were engraved his initials, GDB. He seemed to take great pleasure in handing it to her to use. Quiet though he was, a streak of artistic pride ran through him.

  Putting the loupe to her eye, she bent over the jewel. “It’s beautiful. So large to have so few inclusions.”

  “It’s a stunning gem. And rare. It was a very lucky find.”

  “Your design is the perfect setting for it.” She glanced up and found Oliver watching her. Her heart did an odd little lurch in her chest, and she turned quickly back. “I must try it on.”

  Brookman started to rise from his seat behind the desk, but Vivian was already turning to Oliver, holding out the necklace. He took it from her and came around behind her, lowering it over her head so that it settled on her throat. His fingers brushed against her nape as he fastened the clasp, and his touch sent a shiver of sensation down through her. She looked down, feeling suddenly a trifle breathless, even flustered.

  “How does it look?” she asked, standing up and turning.

  “Beautiful.” Oliver was looking at her, and something was in his gray eyes, something dark and heated, that both warmed her and disturbed her composure even more.

  For a moment his eyes held hers, then Vivian turned away, going to the small mirror on the opposite wall of the office. She gazed at her image, studying the necklace long enough to let the faint flush subside from her cheeks.

  “I love it,” she said, looking back with a smile at Brookman. “You have outdone yourself.”

  “Her ladyship is too kind.” He inclined his head toward her in a courtly nod.

  Vivian paused, then added lightly, “I am almost afraid to wear it, however. There have been so many thefts.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stewkesbury stiffen, but she kept her gaze turned determinedly away from him as she walked back to her chair.

  The jeweler’s mouth tightened, and he frowned. “I have heard. It’s outrageous.”

  “Then you and other jewelers have talked about it?”

  “Perhaps Mr. Brookman would prefer not to discuss the matter,” Oliver began, but the jeweler was already speaking.

  “It is most alarming, my lady. We cannot help but worry.”

  “What I wonder is what they do with the jewels they steal,” Vivian went on. Oliver was staring holes through her, but she ignored him. “Do they bring them to jewelers to sell?”

  Such was, she knew, a common practice among the aristocracy who’d found themselves too deeply in debt. The discreet sale of a bauble or two to one’s jeweler had carried more than one of her peers through a tight spot.

  “Pawn them, I suppose,” Brookman replied, looking troubled. “The odd thing is—no one I have spoken with has bought jewels from anyone who seemed suspicious.”

  “No one?” Oliver blurted out, his curiosity apparently overcoming even his control.

  The other man shook his head. “Not anyone I know. All the people who have brought them jewelry to sell have been, if not known
to the jeweler, at least someone who seems to be the sort of person who would have jewelry to sell.”

  “I see.” Vivian nodded, her eyes lighting with interest. “That would indicate that the thief is a gentleman.”

  Chapter 4

  “Or someone who appears to be a gentleman,” Oliver added.

  Brookman gravely nodded to the earl. “Yes, of course you are right. Indeed, ’tis no doubt more likely that it is a man who merely pretends to be of higher station.”

  “I don’t know,” Vivian put in lightly. “I’ve known a few gentlemen who I would not be surprised to learn were thieves.” She smiled as she reached up to unclasp her necklace. “But that is quite enough of such lowering thoughts.” She carefully laid the necklace back in its case. “I suggest we look to something more pleasant—would you care to show me some of your newer stock, Mr. Brookman? It has been some time since I have been here.”

  “Yes, indeed, my lady.” The jeweler seized on the change of subject and rose to show Vivian out the door of his office.

  Stewkesbury trailed after them as they went back into the sales area of the shop. While they had been talking, the clerk had obviously closed the store to customers, for the room was empty of everyone now except for the clerk, who stood unobtrusively behind the farthest counter.

  The shop was small but elegantly furnished, with fine mahogany and glass cases in which pieces of jewelry rested, as well as elegantly carved mahogany chairs placed strategically here and there for customers who wished to rest or contemplate the pieces at greater length. Like most jewelry stores, Brookman & Son sold gold and silver plate, as well, and these were displayed in a pair of tall, glass-fronted cabinets.