Desire Wears Diamonds

by Renee Bernard

  And set the Jaded free in the process when the south wall blew out and exposed us to fresh air for the first time in months…

  “A good precaution to draw the guards away,” Michael said. “But I doubt they would have stopped them if he’d violated their goddess.”

  “The villagers didn’t ask where they stood on the matter. The road to the palace was paved with the blood and body parts of the raj’s soldiers, his servants, his wives and children.”

  Michael pushed the images away, sorting through the memories of a black chaotic night full of smoke and screams. “And the raj?”

  Sterling shrugged. “I heard a few versions of his murder but there was a consistent detail about disposing of his body in a latrine trench. Hell, I’ll bet they’re pissing on his bones as we speak.”

  “Mr. Porter,” Michael said, refolding his hands politely. “Why am I going to a ball at Bascombe’s?”

  “You mean, besides your obvious tendencies toward chivalry and a weakness where it comes to my sister?” Sterling asked. “Does it matter?”

  It mattered. But something held him in check.

  Play the game.

  “I look forward to the party.” Michael stepped down off the final riser. “Was there anything else?”

  “I’ll need your address, Rutherford. To send the invitation, naturally.” Sterling crossed his arms, smiling innocently like a scorpion.

  “I’m at the Grove on King Street.”

  “Is it a hotel?” Sterling asked in astonishment.

  “It’s a simple inn. I have no home of my own and prefer the company of strangers.” Michael lied with what he hoped was an indifferent tone. “The rent is low enough but it is a respectable address.”

  “You live in an inn?” Sterling asked again. “I would never have guessed it, Rutherford.”

  Michael smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment and be on my way—except…”

  “Except what?”

  “My hat and coat?”

  “Damn it!” Sterling stepped back to cross the hall and open a narrow closet by the door. “Footman—useless sod!”

  Michael held his ground, enjoying the small petty victory of watching Sterling Porter, the Jackal and arch nemesis of the Jaded, wrestle with his coat and retrieve his hat to personally deliver them into his guest’s hands like a common servant. Michael had never given a fig for the rules of class or the myriad of protocol that stifled an Englishman’s existence. But this! This was a moment not to be squandered.

  “Thank you, Mr. Porter. It was a very interesting evening. Please give my compliments to your sister.” He bowed and made his way into the dark night, every nerve ending on alert to an ambush or unforeseen twist. He didn’t underestimate his enemy. But now that he knew Sterling better, it was a powerful temptation to do exactly that.

  Sterling slammed the door to his study behind him and threw another small log onto the fire. The fireplace poker was cool and heavy in his hands and he gripped it until his knuckles turned white.

  He’s one of them. I’m sure of it. I was almost sure when he was in the carriage but when he walked in and ducked under the doorway… Smoke or no smoke in the fire at the Thistle, Sterling had the impression that the one in the back of that stairwell had been as big as a horse. There can’t be many men of his size…and the coincidence of his arrival and the way he’d shadowed Grace…he’s one of them. His familiarity with Bengal and the mad raj, the knowledge of Bascombe and his quest. Curse that dungeon’s darkness! I’d have had all of them and saved myself all this choking effort and mess.

  He thinks to get close and draw me out once he’s learned my weaknesses.

  But Rutherford’s the one who is about to get a lesson in weakness.

  Once I saw the way he was looking at Grace—my God, I couldn’t have planned it better. As odd as she is, she’s caught his fancy. What a miracle!

  All I need do now is let nature take its course and when the time is right, that treasure is as good as mine!

  If they have it…

  Doubt was the enemy that had relentlessly shadowed him for years. The raj was mad and if he was deluded enough to marry a rock might he not also be insane enough to call a piece of horse manure a diamond? Could I have been wrong all along? If Rutherford is part of it or has a fortune, then why live like a nomad when he could be a king?

  Sterling poured himself a generous glass of tawny port and took several slow deep breaths. “No,” he spoke aloud to the portraits and figurines that surrounded him in a silent chorus. “It’s real and almost in my hands. No more scraping together the means to threaten or blackmail those elusive and cowardly Jaded idiots. No more missteps and foolish alliances! I’ll have it before the Season is over and all of this will have been worth it!”

  All this time, praying for one single foothold and I have it.

  And I have my dear sister to thank for it.

  He tossed the amber liquid down his throat, ungenteel gulps soothing the icy knot in his stomach. “And if Grace is the price I pay, I shall count it a bargain!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Michael climbed out of the carriage behind Ashe, like a man walking to the scaffold. He’d vowed to walk through fire to achieve his goal and so he couldn’t turn back. But if Ashe had offered him the choice of a burning pit instead of crossing through the doors ahead, Michael was fairly certain he’d cheerfully opt to imitate a human torch.

  “I have clothes,” Michael repeated uselessly. “I have an evening coat.”

  “You need a better one,” Ashe said as he reached the door. He turned back and rewarded his friend with a wry grin. “Don’t deprive me of my fun. Besides, you said it yourself. If it went beyond a simple dinner, you’d let me help you.”

  “I hate Rowan for telling you that.”

  Ashe opened the door with a flourish. “No, you don’t. Come, Rutherford, face your fears.”

  Michael squared his shoulders and walked in the shop, removing his hat as he accepted his fate.

  “Welcome to Anthony’s!” The tailor was a diminutive man with a shock of dark curls on his head. He spoke with an Italian flair and he eyed his newest client with the quiet excitement of an explorer spying a vast unconquered coastline. “I see what you had alluded to, Mr. Blackwell. Mr. Rutherford, if I may be so bold as to state the obvious, you are—remarkably tall!”

  “Am I?” Michael asked, pretending shock. “I had no idea!”

  Ashe rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’d say that’s enough of that. He’s ridiculously tall. The question is, Mr. Antonelli, can we dress him so that he looks like a ridiculously tall gentleman?”

  Mr. Antonelli clapped his hands together. “Of course! So striking and so noble! Beyond his height, his coloring alone is bound to give the ladies pause, and with those strong broad shoulders, narrow waist and such nice lines--”

  Michael’s brow furrowed. He’d never given his physical appearance much thought, except for the advantages his size might give him in a bar fight or a battle. But to have a man waxing poetic about his coloring and figure was very awkward and he credited it to the shopkeeper’s desire to flatter and make a sale. Michael crossed his arms and gave Ashe a cutting look. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

  Ashe took a chair by the raised dais, cheerfully settling in for the hours ahead. “I never denied how much I was looking forward to this. But,” he took mercy on his friend and hailed the tailor, “Mr. Antonelli, Mr. Rutherford is a modest man. Please. We must not tell him how handsome he is, sir. He’s insufferable enough as it is.”

  “Right,” Michael shook his head. “This from a popinjay!”

  “Gentlemen! Peace!” Mr. Antonelli pulled out his measuring tape. “Let us see what we can do for you, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “He needs everything from the skin out. He has a social season ahead of him and he must be ready for anything. An evening coat and suit, plus something more formal for special occasions and for god’s sake, at least, two afternoon coats and a morning coat and some
thing for every day that doesn’t make him look like he’s about to commandeer a tannery.”

  Michael started to protest but held back the impulse. It was easier to give in than point out to Blackwell that he was not going to spend his time changing clothes and worrying about the color of his waistcoats. It was one ball and perhaps one or two casual meetings beyond that—and his business would be concluded.

  “Your best quality and finest cloths, sir.” Blackwell located a sample book and began flipping through the plates. “But nothing too ostentatious or garish. No decorative buttons or ornate cuffs. We’ll keep it understated and elegant. This one. This. Six of these shirts in that linen there. Clean lines. We want nothing but clean lines in the cut. Rutherford doesn’t need ruffles. Make him a falcon in a room full of overdone pigeons, Antonelli.”

  Michael shook his head. “You’re a bit imperious over there, Ashe.”

  Ashe smiled. “I forgot myself. And of course, I apologize, Mr. Antonelli. Where are my manners?”

  “A generous customer is never a rude customer.” The tailor smiled. “But Mr. Rutherford is kind to defend me.” Mr. Antonelli measured and made his notations, climbing up on a small stepladder to address Michael’s shoulders and back. “Please turn to face me, sir.”

  Michael turned to see that he and the petite tailor were almost eye-to-eye. “My father used to say that you could put silk on a donkey, but it would still be an a—“

  “Language, Rutherford!” Ashe did his best imitation of Michael’s northern accent.

  “There are no ladies present,” Michael stated flatly.

  “No, but you better break that habit now. Nothing chills a woman’s blood faster than a vulgar man.” Ashe stretched out his legs. “In my wilder days, even I knew to address every woman like a duchess…”

  “Before bedding them like whores,” Michael grumbled under his breath. “Thank God for your American!”

  “What was that?” Ashe asked, his gaze narrowing dangerously.

  “I believe I said I was glad your wilder days are behind you.” Michael shifted to address the tailor. “Please don’t ask him about his wife, Mr. Antonelli. He starts reciting dusty poetry and it is hard for a bachelor to bear.”

  “Never!” Ashe protested weakly. “I have never recited poetry.”

  Mr. Antonelli smiled. “My wife still loves poetry. But I will spare you a recitation of the classics, Mr. Rutherford, if you will but stand straight and lift your arms.”

  Michael did his best to comply, wincing a little as his ribs protested.

  “You’re wearing bandages?” Mr. Antonelli asked. “Are you injured, sir?”

  Ashe sat up straighter. “What was that?”

  “Broken ribs. I fell a couple of weeks back. It’s nothing.” Michael continued to hold still. “Nice to know that Dr. West doesn’t give every confidence away.”

  Mr. Antonelli dutifully returned to his measurements and then climbed down to begin to pull fabrics in the next room. Ashe took advantage of the opportunity for them to speak privately. “Here.” Ashe held out a folded paper.

  “What is it?”

  “Galen sent it. Lady Winters has sketched out the layout of Bascombe’s house. She was a guest there when she first arrived in London and apparently,” Ashe said as he raised one eyebrow, “she was intimate with the back corridors and secret doors in the stupid badger’s residence.”

  Michael took the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “It may come in handy. Please tell Galen to give her my thanks but to please stop involving his wife in this…business.”

  Ashe smiled. “You’d better ask the sun to stop rising while you’re at it. A wife is not part of a man’s life, Rutherford. She is his life.”

  Michael sighed. “Very well. It was a stupid thing to say so I’ll withdraw the request.”

  “When you’re a married man, you’ll learn the way of it.”

  Michael took one firm step back. “I am not marrying and I am not learning the way of it. Don’t think for one moment to paint me with that brush. The rest of you have fallen into it and I wish you nothing but happiness with your lovely wives, but do not make the mistake of trying to recruit me into the ranks.”

  “Careful. If you protest too much, the universe has a way of grinding lessons into your skull and I should know!” Ashe raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t kill the messenger, Rutherford.”

  “I won’t. It’s just…”

  “What is it?” Ashe asked.

  Heat lashed up his face and Michael hated the humiliating taste of shame and embarrassment that filled him. “I will never marry and the reasons are obvious so stop taunting me and let’s just get this over with.”

  He turned his back on Ashe, effectively ending the conversation as Mr. Antonelli returned with his arms full of fabric bolts.

  “No browns for you, Mr. Rutherford,” the tailor sighed. “Only lovely midnight blues and then the greys and blacks the evenings require. You inspire me, sir! With your height, you will soar!”

  Michael rolled his eyes. Apparently Ashe’s falcon reference had stuck in the man’s mind. “Feet on the ground, if you please.”

  Ashe circled the shop, fingering fabrics and making a few more selections while the tailor began the more precise and labor intensive measurements he would need. Rutherford’s words echoed in his head and presented a new puzzle.

  The man would never marry and the reasons were “obvious”?

  Ashe glanced over at his friend who was grimly submitting to Antonelli’s attentions and muttered comments. There was no obvious impediment to marriage that Ashe could see. The man was beyond hale and hearty. He was also, undeniably, inclined toward female company. Ashe would have thought no less of him if it were otherwise but Blackwell’s instincts told him that any man who transformed into a shy tower of awkward movement whenever a woman was present was not unaffected.

  Hell, the saying is still waters run deep…not cold.

  So if the man was attracted to women, possessed a sizable secret fortune, had all his working parts and was upright and breathing; what was the “obvious” barrier to seeking a wife?

  Ashe waited for revelations to come, but there was no flash of insight. Just a wary sense of caution that he didn’t want to be the man who pushed Michael Rutherford too far on a topic that clearly made him furious.

  I’ll ask Caroline what she thinks when I get home. She has such a unique way of looking at the world—perhaps to her the answer will be ‘obvious’.

  The introduction of his wife into his thoughts proved a complete distraction and a flood of familiar anxiety crept into his chest. He returned to the dais. “How much longer?”

  “I am nearly done, Mr. Blackwell,” Mr. Antonelli replied. “We will have the first pieces done in two or three days and can complete the order by the end of the week.”

  “Is anything amiss?” Michael asked.

  “No. Not at all.” Ashe picked a small invisible piece of lint off of Michael’s sleeve. “I wanted to make sure you were bearing up.”

  “It’s a fitting, Ashe. I’ll survive.” Michael shrugged carefully back into his coat, clenching his jaw to keep from betraying how much the movement pained him. “Although, I have my doubts about escaping unscathed for the next favor I must ask of you.”

  Ashe smiled. “I’d leap in with a quick speech about how I can’t imagine anything worse for you than this, but from the terror in your eyes, I’m curious to hear what you’re dreading asking me.”

  Michael crossed his arms slowly, a man bracing for battle. “We need to make one more stop after this and—I need you to help me. However, if you make one single sly comment,” Michael took a deep breath before continuing, “I’ll grind a very different lesson into your skull and we’ll call it even.”

  Ashe nodded solemnly, the mischief in his eyes impossible to hide. “You’re on.”

  

  Mrs. Dorsett walked into the sitting room and carelessly set a large box on the table. “
This came for you.” She turned and left the room without waiting for Grace’s reply, forcing a small sigh out of her mistress.

  What did I ever do to deserve you, Mrs. Dorsett?

  Curiosity overcame her frustration at the woman’s lack of manners and she approached the box with the anticipation of a child at Christmas. She retrieved a small, attached card from the top and read the note.

  For Miss G. Porter—

  Because.

  M. Rutherford.

  “Because? Only because?” she asked. “What an odd thing to say!”

  Grace untied the ribbon and lifted off the lid only to drop it on the floor from nerveless fingers as pure shock overtook her. It was a gown out of a dream and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, it was lying in a box with her name on it, apparently sent from a man who should know nothing of her dreams.

  But there it was—a silk ball gown the color of sky blue with delicate glass beadwork that made it shimmer as if the fabric were covered in diamonds. Her fingers trembled as she reached out to lift it free from the box, her eyes misting with unshed tears at the weight and beauty of it. Silver braid at the neckline and sleeves were the only other adornment and she gasped at the perfection of the design.

  “It must have cost a fortune!” she whispered as she carefully folded the dress to replace it.

  Sterling came into the room without preamble. “Mrs. Dorsett said you’d gotten a rather mysterious box.”

  “I did but I don’t think I can accept it. It’s from Mr. Rutherford.” She lifted the gown up for him to see. “It’s far too fine and expensive!”

  Sterling shook his head slowly. “It’s perfect. You’ll wear it to Bascombe’s.”

  “I can’t!” Grace dropped the dress again. “Mr. Rutherford is in no position to be buying me dresses and I can’t believe you don’t see that!”