Divine Fire

by Melanie Jackson

  As it was, in the aftermath of her tragedy, all those bits of fertile flotsam that was Byron’s life settled by the banks of the stream where her subconscious flowed, and there it had taken root. It remained, blossoming and bearing fruit, waiting to be harvested by the starving woman stranded in an emotional winterland where she had no other meat or drink.

  Byron had saved her—if not her life, then her sanity.

  Brice brought the letter to her nose and inhaled slowly, drawing in the scent that clung to the fine paper. There was something about the smell of Damien Ruthven’s stationery—it called to her in an odd way, whispering blandishments that only certain people would be aware of. Or respond to. It sounded crazy, but she had learned to listen when intuition or other senses spoke to her. A biographer who wrote about the long dead was as much a detective and psychic as anything else, and one learned to trust one’s inner guidance systems when questing for the truth. Right now it was saying that she should go to New York.

  On the other hand…

  Brice looked over at the newspaper. It was open to the book section where, in a weird coincidence and against her better judgment, she had been reading one of Damien Ruthven’s more scathing reviews with breakfast.

  I am old-fashioned. Like most people, I’ve always thought that a book should be about something—if not a plot, then characters or an idea. I’ve even been known to settle for coherent sentences that conveyed emotion in some form or other.

  But, once again, Torrance P. Broccoli has set out to prove that a book doesn’t have to be about anything. Since it isn’t about anything, I can’t give you a plot summation, and since it has no characters, I can’t acquaint you with their names. As it conveys no ideas—well, you catch the drift. Read tea leaves—it will be more rewarding.

  Broccoli Stew is part of the small print run, experimental book series being put out by Back Bench Press and therefore is hard to find. Unfortunately, this manuscript found me, and it proves my long-held conviction that Broccoli is great with cheese, but bad with books.

  He was an opinionated bastard. Funny, accessible to his readers, but ruthless when he disliked a book—which was often. Rumor had it that he used to do lots of male Hemingway-type activities—mountain climbing, spelunking, sky-diving. Dangerous, stupid things that Brice didn’t like even thinking about. And he was a book critic who could attack writers with reviews that served as blunt instruments, bludgeoning them nearly to death with their published missteps. That he was even more brutal with editors’ and publishers’ errors was beside the point. The writer always got blamed in the end. This wasn’t someone she would normally want to know.

  She held up the stationery and inhaled again. It still smelled like destiny.

  “Damn.”

  She pushed back from her desk. Normally, she didn’t do impulsive things. Not anymore. She had a routine. It made life predictable and controllable, and that was what she liked. Nothing bad could happen if you planned carefully and listened to the voice of common sense. That made what she was thinking of doing doubly insane—unwise, unproductive as well, since she had a deadline to finish this biography of Ninon de Lenclos. But she was going to New York anyway, as soon as she could get a flight. This weird erotic tingling in her brain said she must do it, and right that very minute. She was going to meet with Damien Ruthven, chat with him face-to-face. She wanted to see his expression, to look into his eyes when she asked about the missing memoirs. Only then would she know if he lied about having them.

  And what would she do if he did?

  “One bridge at a time,” she muttered.

  Brice reached for the phone and dialed her friend and travel agent. As she waited, she pulled the band from her braid and started unraveling her hair. She needed to get it cut, she really did, but there was never any time. Maybe whoever came to plane the door and rip out the doorbell could saw off her hair at the same time.

  “You’re nuts,” she whispered as she combed out her mane and waited for Susan to pick up.

  Of course she was nuts; she was a writer. And therefore it didn’t matter if she was insane and pushy—if she got what she wanted. And she wanted. Oh, how she wanted! The longing was almost like an itch, a poison ivy of the brain. She wanted those memoirs.

  Brice laughed silently. She had always been more than a little in love with George Gordon, Lord Byron, poet, humanist and hero. He had entertained her when she was young and romantic, and then had saved her reason at a time when grief threatened to drown her and her only anodyne was work. She would do anything for him—for his memory and his words. She’d even face down the world’s fiercest critic.

  Yes, if this Damien Ruthven knew something more about the great man she had loved all her life, Brice was going to get it out of him or die trying.

  Karen stuck her head back in her employer’s door and said in a voice of suffering: “Well, you’ve done it now. I don’t know what you wrote to that woman, but Brice Ashton is coming to see you. This afternoon! She didn’t even give me a chance to say yes or no, just announced her imminent arrival and hung up.”

  The secretary had been annoyed and intrigued that Damien had insisted on writing that particular letter himself. He usually avoided his computer, claiming the machine didn’t like him—which it undoubtedly didn’t since it broke down on him so often. But if Karen had been curious before, now that the Ashton woman had replied she was doubly so.

  “Is she?” Damien leaned back in his chair. He smiled slightly. “Well, how wonderfully prompt of her. I thought she might put me off until after the holidays.”

  Karen pointed a finger at him. “I’m telling you now, if there’s blood spilled, you’re cleaning it up. I may be old-fashioned enough to fetch coffee, but I don’t do windows or bloodbaths.”

  “My dear Karen! How you do go on. Miss Ashton isn’t coming to spill my blood. I think you will find that she is a delightfully polite if rather inquisitive person. Besides, she wants something from me. My hide is sacrosanct at least until then.”

  “You think?” Karen looked skeptical. “So you weren’t planning on going out of town suddenly and leaving me to deal with her?”

  “Of course not.” Then Damien added, “However, it might be best if you considered taking the day off if you’re nervous. I can manage on my own.”

  Karen snorted.

  “Truly. Go home for the holidays.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she said frankly. “Anyway, how will I be able to blackmail you if I don’t see where you put the body? Or where she puts yours. Hiding a corpse in Manhattan in winter isn’t as easy as it used to be, but I bet you are both resourceful enough to manage.”

  Damien shook his head, eyes laughing. “Go on and persevere in your lack of faith in my ability to charm scholarly spinsters. But it would perhaps be nice if you arranged for some flowers while you’re busy doubting me.”

  “Flowers?” Karen said the word like she had never heard it before. “You want flowers?”

  “Yes, irises, I think. Or orchids. See what they have in rust and gold—it will go well in this room. And make reservations for this evening at Di Serrano’s. They’re elegant but not too obviously opulent. Make it for seven, please.”

  “Seven people?”

  “No, for two people at seven o’clock. She’ll probably prefer to eat early.”

  “You’re taking the author to dinner? Alone? But you don’t like authors.” Karen stared at him like he’d grown an extra head.

  Her boss was a connoisseur of all the best things in life, from exotic tea and vintage wines to the exquisite clothes that adorned his fine physique. He was not a conspicuous consumer, but a steady one who did not stint on himself. Karen had always found it amazing that he did not strive for excellence in women. His infrequent dates were stunning enough by all physical measures of beauty, but he never allowed himself romantic liaisons with anyone who stirred his interest or emotions. He remained determinedly aloof from anyone who evoked menta
l attraction—including his secretary. And they were never invited to his favorite haunts, like Di Serrano’s.

  Until today.

  “Absolutely. I want flowers, and I want to take her to dinner,” he assured Karen. “This lady deserves a fine meal after coming so far to see me.”

  “Is she pretty?” Karen asked, forgetting for the moment to remain professionally distant. “I mean, insanely beautiful?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Damien answered. Then he added with a slight smile: “But wouldn’t it be brilliant if she were?”

  “I’ve been with you for five years,” Karen said, feeling slightly stunned and unable to let the matter go. “Five long years. You’ve never done anything like this. Are you feeling okay? You haven’t slipped into an early midlife crisis, have you? I mean, for the cost of dinner at Di Serrano’s you could probably buy a used Ferrari.”

  “I haven’t done anything like this before, have I? It’s probably high time I did,” Damien answered absently. He pulled Brice’s manuscript back toward him. “Listen to this! ‘The Guiccioli girl is better—and will get well with prudence—our amatory business goes on well and daily. Her doctors insist that she may be cured, if she likes. Will she like? I doubt of her liking anything for very long, except one thing, and I presume that she will soon arrive at varying even that.’ ”

  He dropped the papers. “Where does this woman get her information? I must know. It’s like she was sitting in the wardrobe of the bedroom taking notes while it happened. She understands it all—the cause of the affair, and also the spiritual claustrophobia that drove him to seek solace in women’s arms.”

  “Ah. The light dawns,” Karen said, coming to sit on the edge of Damien’s desk. Her eyes were a little wide. “She’s a sort of mystery to you, then—a puzzle that must be solved at any cost.”

  “She’s certainly a detective. This kind of research borders on true mania! Writers with obsessions interest me.”

  “And she’s ferreted out information about Byron that you didn’t know.”

  “No—not exactly. But she’s ferreted out things that no other scholar has. This next bit is from one of Teresa’s own journals. She was with Byron when he wrote Don Juan,” he added, in case Karen didn’t know. His secretary admired Byron’s poetry, though she liked Shelley’s more—but she’d never been much interested in any of the poets’ personal lives, in spite of her employer’s obsession with the literary giants of that era.

  “Listen. ‘His pen moved so rapidly over the page that one day I said to him, “One would almost believe that someone is dictating to you!” “Yes,” he replied, “a mischievous spirit who sometimes even makes me write what I am not thinking. There now, for instance—I have just been writing something about love!” “Why don’t you erase it then?” I asked. “It is written,” he replied, smiling. “The stanza would be spoiled.” And the stanza remained.’ ”

  “Miss Ashton makes it all come alive, doesn’t she? By using letters and journals in the subject’s own words instead of paraphrasing,” Karen said, watching her employer’s face. His expression was rapt. She quashed the tiny tendril of jealousy that dared to reach for her heart. She was genuinely fond of Damien Ruthven, and she nobly hoped that he had finally had enough of intellectually and emotionally lopsided romance. Perhaps he was ready to try something different: an affair with someone who would be his equal, who might love him in spite of his quirks—and whom he might be able to love in return. “Usually history is bone dry,” she said at random, wondering just how old Brice Ashton was. Could she be under fifty? Karen hoped so.

  “Yes.”

  “And the biographies even worse. But this sounds special. Unique even. Something that could even be…popular.”

  There was a slightly asthmatic wheeze from under his desk, and Damien reached down for a moment.

  “Yes,” he said again, not looking up from the papers in front of him. “Except for Byron’s own memoirs, there has been nothing like it.”

  “I’ll go make those reservations,” Karen said. She rose decisively. “Hopefully, the florist can scare up gold irises. They’ve been kind of heavy on the poinsettias the last few weeks.”

  “No poinsettias,” her employer ordered. “They’re so common. And please cancel my reservations for this weekend. Skiing can wait until after Miss Ashton’s visit.”

  “Shall I order up a Christmas tree while I’m at it?” Karen asked. She’d wanted to do one in the office for the longest time, but Damien had no interest in the holidays. “It would be a homey touch.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do homey. But order some holly if you like. Or ivy. You can put it on your desk—or wear it on your head, if you prefer.” Damien took a good-natured swipe at Karen’s devotion to the holiday.

  “Don’t be nasty. What about mistletoe? I think you need some of that too. It’s traditional,” she added. “It might help you get lucky with your spinster.”

  “Don’t be absurd. And go away,” he grumbled. “I’m reading, and Mace is trying to sleep.”

  There came a second asthmatic wheeze from under the desk, which Karen understood to be agreement. “You males always stick together,” she muttered.

  “It’s for the preservation of our gender identity in the face of feminine wiles,” Damien replied.

  Karen sniffed but didn’t argue.

  “I was meaning to ask if you would mind if I left a little early tonight.”

  “Not at all. Shop to your heart’s content.”

  “It isn’t that.” Karen hesitated, and after a moment Damien looked up. He raised a brow.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Probably nothing. I think maybe I’ve acquired an admirer. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but…” She trailed off, unable to explain her uneasiness. “Anyhow, I’d like to leave before dark.”

  “And so you shall. But I’m sending you home in the car.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “Of course it is,” Damien answered, returning his attention to his manuscript.

  Chapter Three

  It is all very well to keep food for another day, but pleasure should be taken as it comes.

  —Ninon de Lenclos

  But Words are things,

  And a small drop of ink,

  Falling like dew upon a thought,

  Produces that which makes thousands,

  Perhaps millions, think.

  —Byron, Don Juan, canto III

  You should have a softer pillow than my heart.

  —Byron’s supposed words to his wife on their wedding night

  Brice Ashton climbed out of the cab, taking her small suitcase with her. The snow felt like soft laughter and made her smile in spite of her annoyance at being late for her appointment—if appointment it could be called. She had simply announced her pending arrival to Damien Ruthven’s secretary and then hung up the airport pay phone.

  And she was very tardy, possibly unforgivably so, but she stood for a moment, in spite of the hour and the snow covering her in a damp mantilla, to look at the New York building where Damien Ruthven lived. Ruthven Tower was not the tallest skyscraper in the area—not by a long shot—but it had certainly captured the neo-Gothic feel of several of its larger brothers, which was to say that it was very gray and vertical and loaded with fanciful man-reptiles that leered down at passing pedestrians with their forked tongues and hooked ears. It also had what looked like an unrailed stair circling the middle floors in a dizzying spiral that would have tempted the choreographer, Busby Berkeley—had he been able to get insurance for such a dance number, which seemed unlikely.

  Somehow, that seemed fitting. The current owner of this building was a literary showman who spent a lot of time sneering down at the authors whose books he reviewed, any number of whom had probably passed beneath him on these very streets.

  There were three stories at the base of the building and thirteen stories above, though Brice knew from a quick bit of online research that the top three s
tories were actually all one open area where Damien Ruthven lived. Not that the real estate stopped there. His great-uncle had also cleverly manipulated the zoning law so that he and his heirs owned the airspace above the building and the airspace above the two buildings on either side. The next block might grow upward, but there would be no nearby skyscrapers obstructing the view.

  She wasn’t sure if she thought this foresight was admirable or grasping. Maybe it was both.

  Jostled by a harassed Christmas shopper with her many packages, a cell phone and a cooling latte, wisely fleeing the snow that weathermen were predicting would worsen, Brice took up her suitcase and headed for the tower lobby.

  The interior was about what she expected: lots of dark marble that made it look a bit like a tomb, though it was almost certainly supposed to be patterned after Napoleon’s impressive palace at Compiègne. It probably did an equally effective job of intimidating anyone who didn’t have a good and sufficient purpose to be visiting.

  A security guard looked hard at her snow-covered suitcase as she approached, making Brice wish that she had taken the time to check in at her hotel, or at least to have invested in some less frivolous luggage. Hot pink and purple herringbone seemed to displease a lot of people. The guard’s snooty stare set her teeth on edge, but she kept both her voice and expression polite as she asked after Damien Ruthven. The guard blinked. After a moment, he had her sign a logbook, then handed her a magnetic card which he got out of an envelope that had her name on it, written in an elegant hand with which she was now familiar. He directed her to a pair of elevators, where he told her to take the one on the right.