“I swore to keep you abreast of my progress and if I’m dead tomorrow night, you’d have enough to go on to get Grace out of the Grove.”
“Get her out now and let’s come up with a better plan together, all of us.”
Michael shook his head. “None of the others trust me and they have good cause. I’ve married our arch enemy’s sister and…I cannot make any more promises.”
“Give us the diamond. Tell him you don’t have it anymore.”
A bitter laugh escaped Michael’s lips. “And prolong the agony of his endless quest? Infuriate him past reason so that the next assault isn’t even remotely defensible? Expect mercy from a petty-minded devil that has the conscience of a stone?”
“Rutherford—“
“I’m giving him the diamond in exchange for marrying Grace.” Michael’s tongue tasted bitter for the deception but there was no avoiding the lies. Sterling’s inconsistent cruelties meant he couldn’t rely on the Jackal making another misstep. He had to assume that the worst was not only possible but probable; that Sterling would make good on his threat and have Michael out of the way so that he could do as he wished to the others until they yielded the treasure into his hands.
The Jaded would have to accept betrayal.
“Ashe was right,” Rowan whispered in horror. “He was sure you’d turned your back on us for…her.”
“Grace never asked it of me. She doesn’t know, Rowan.” Michael kept his gaze steady. “It was love at first sight and it was the bargain I struck with Sterling to achieve her.”
“And what of the prophecy?”
Michael closed his eyes. “There is nothing I’m not willing to give up to see to her safety.”
“The retribution of the believers in that prophecy—“
“Will hopefully land on the ones who will have the diamond wrongfully. And if I have the chance, I’ll make it clear that I alone betrayed you and gave up the treasure to the East India Trading Company’s dogs. I can’t think about that now.”
“Because you love her.”
“I love her.”
“Then God help you, Michael, because the Jaded won’t.”
Rowan left without another word and Michael sat down on a wooden bench by the brick wall, poured a bucket of cold water over his head to clean off the sweat and let the rivulets of water trailing down his face hide his silent tears.
His hair was still damp as he walked back at dusk through the backstreets of London. His height and physical prowess gave him an untouchable air and he preferred to take the most direct, if not the wisest, paths through the city in his current mood. Michael pushed cold wet black and white curls back, cursing them for their refusal to stay out of his eyes. I should ask Grace to cut my hair and be done with it.
He pushed the notion off a bit, avoiding the dark idea that it would be like asking her for a trim before his burial. Not that he didn’t have a slim hope of surviving but his odds were murky. Up until now, Sterling’s every action had been edged in pettiness and small-minded villainy that Michael had laid his strategies against. He’d let his Sterling gloat and dance about with the “upper hand”, then taunted, pushed and prodded whenever he could to make sure that Sterling’s attention hadn’t wavered and that the man’s personal pride meant he wished to finish things alone. But if their upcoming grand finale had inspired him to bring in more muscle or heaven forbid, hire another thinker; Michael would be forced to improvise.
One thing was certain. Rowan’s visit was the last. The Jaded would stay clear and spend tomorrow night cursing his name in the brownstone’s study or holding Ashe down to keep him from hurting the furniture or himself in his rage.
There’s a picture. Four men sitting on Ashe trussed up like a silk covered log while—
It was a combination of a single missed step and the sound of metal quietly kissing metal as a single blade was pulled from its sheath that alerted him. Instinct dictated that he jump out of the way or dart forward, but Michael knew that that would be a fatal error. So instead, he dropped and turned, shifting toward his attacker to eliminate the distance between them and spoil whatever form or fighting pattern they might have locked into their minds.
It was a solitary assailant wearing a workman’s rough clothes but something in the smooth lines of the man’s face belied the disguise. Broad shoulders and lean proportions gave away an athlete’s strength and against anyone else, his killer would have possessed the greater size.
The knife was a curved blade but Michael absorbed its beauty only peripherally. His attacker hissed in surprise as his first strike was uselessly wide, cutting into Michael’s coat. Before he could reset for another attempt, Michael decided he would risk that the weapon the man was holding was his only weapon.
Michael rolled into man’s body, blocking the hand with the knife but failed to achieve an easy end to the fight. This was no common street thug. He moved with catlike grace and anticipated Michael’s lunge intending to let him charge into the brick building’s exterior.
But Michael was no mindless bull and surged against the wall with a purpose, using the firm surface to launch into a roll backward aiming at the man’s shins. It was unconventional and far from graceful but Michael guessed that in a fight against gravity, it was better to imitate a badger than aim for something lofty like a jungle cat.
The man stumbled backward and this time, Michael caught the wrist of his knife hand in an iron hold as he tackled him to the alley’s cobbled pavers. There wasn’t time for finesse and he applied the only advantages he had—his height, size and brute strength.
The dry crunch of bones giving way made Michael wince but he didn’t relent until the man’s wrist flopped uselessly and the knife fell from his fingertips. A Hindustani curse about betrayers and demons was whispered into his ear and Michael froze. He lifted his head to get a better look and stared down into dark brown eyes as the entire attack took on a new light. Michael caught his breath and spoke as calmly as he could manage. “Tomorrow. After midnight. St. Martin’s at Ludgate.”
Michael hesitated. Once he let go and began to pull back, it was highly possible that the man would gift him with a different blade between his ribs but Michael trusted the icy look of comprehension reflecting back at him.
He doesn’t like it but he’ll be there.
He climbed off him slowly, giving himself the chance to change course if he needed to but his attacker didn’t move.
“Don’t come early,” Michael added and held out a hand to help the man up.
The man’s gaze narrowed but he finally nodded. Slowly, with his uninjured hand, he reached up and took the aid to find his feet.
“I’ll come, Rutherford.” His accent was flawless with traces of an Oxford education that reminded him of Darius. “What is the saying? Death keeps his appointments.”
Michael bowed, without a trace of mockery in his expression. It was a strange gesture but something inside of him yielded to the impulse. He kept his eyes on his new “friend” and then retrieved the dagger from the filthy ground to hold it out, handle first.
The man’s eyes widened but a look of respect replaced his shock. He took the knife slowly and sheathed it inside an ornate metal holder that hung at his side.
Michael looked down at the ruin of his coat and clothes from the muddy ground and began to brush off the worst of it. “My friend is a very good doctor if you’d like to…” his words trailed off as he realized he was now addressing thin air.
His “friend” was gone without a sound or sign of departure.
Michael smiled. It was his own favorite trick and he had to admire the other man’s style. But his humor faded quickly as his fingers found the sharp rent in his coat and felt the small sting on the underside of his arm where he’d apparently been cut slightly.
“Damn it! That’s a jacket, a coat, and a shirt ruined!” Michael frowned. The coat’s tear he might have lied away but the ruin of his clothes and the bloodstains—his brow furrowed in displeasure and he looked up again for
his assailant.
“Hey, Death!” he called out into the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow night but you’d better compose a damn good apology for upsetting my wife, you bastard!”
Michael shook off the worst of the filth and hurried back onto his course home. As diverting as his encounter with “Death” had been, he knew he was running out of time.
Tomorrow night was the night of the deadline, and apparently all sides of the game now knew it. Every piece was in place and only the clock was moving inexorably forward to finish the game that Fate had started centuries ago. Michael wondered if whatever priest had scribbled down his fevered prophecy had ever imagined that it would all come down to the strange twists of a London night and the love of a woman.
He stepped out onto a wider lane, his steps quickening.
It was a full moon and Grace was waiting.
One last time.
Chapter
Twenty-seven
Grace awoke to a handwritten note from her husband propped up on his pillow. She pressed the folded paper to her cheeks with a blush recalling the night of passion they had shared. Her husband’s tender pursuit of her pleasure had left her breathless and satiated. Her boldness in their love play shocked and delighted her as she discovered that he admired her every guise from shy to wanton.
Of all the lessons in her newly married bed, her husband’s acceptance of her lustful impulses and shameless joy in his every touch was even now a miraculous surprise.
She rolled over onto her stomach and closed her eyes as the very thought of him awakened an inconvenient craving inside of her. This is ridiculous! Grace winced as a new warmth and familiar wetness spread out from between her thighs. Even the smell of his body on the bedding added to her dilemma and Grace sat up with an impatient sigh.
“This is ridiculous!”
She forced herself to climb out of the bed as efficiently as she could, doing her best to ignore the clamor of her imagination and her nethers. She was determined to dress and decided the unopened note would be her reward for demonstrating a touch of ladylike discipline.
Grace opened the wardrobe to whimsically retrieve his coat, frowning as she discovered the tear under one of the arms. Michael had made some offhand comment about cutting himself at his sports club during a fencing exercise but… Did men fight in their street clothes? It seemed impractical but then so much of the masculine world looked excessively impractical in her opinion.
Grace chose a dress that she knew Michael favored her in and made quick work of it. She wished to be presentable just in case the note was an invitation to go out or more possibly, if Mrs. Clay was about to come by at any moment with a tray.
She unfolded the paper and smiled at the familiar hand.
Grace—
Business calls me away for a day.
I will return tomorrow, my love.
No more secrets.
M.
Grace’s brow furrowed as some of her contentment faded. “Not until tomorrow?” The tantalizing promise about secrets was mildly comforting but she felt like an orphaned child before Christmas. Patience was not one of her favorite virtues. She dressed to face the day and then decided to escape the silence of the room to head downstairs to the kitchens to find Mrs. Clay.
She used the back hallway to skirt the dining room and made her way toward the hypnotic smell of roasting venison and vegetables. Grace carefully peeked through the doorway before entering. Mrs. Clay clapped her hands as Maggie pulled out a tray of potato cakes from the oven.
“Perfect! Oh, my little bird, what a gift you have in the kitchen! And such a quick learner!” Mrs. Clay wiped her hands on her apron. “There, now…test the edges.”
Grace began to retreat, unwilling to interrupt Margaret’s well-earned praise but Mrs. Clay stopped her with a gentle hail. “Mrs. Rutherford! What fun!”
“I apologize for halting the lesson,” she said and took a step back. “The cakes look delicious, Miss Beecham.”
“Maggie,” Mrs. Clay interjected, “I’ll leave you to it and check back in a few minutes, dearest.” She turned to Grace. “I want to indulge in a bit of conversation with my favorite new guest!”
Grace blushed, but found herself well in hand as Mrs. Clay directed her down a long hallway to an apartment she had never seen. It was Mrs. Clay’s private rooms and residence tucked onto the back of the ground floor. The sitting room was a delightful clutter and every level space was covered with framed tintypes of what could only be Mr. Clay and Mrs. Clay in happier times along with their extended family. The most ornate frame sat atop her mantle and held the tintype of a very small golden hair boy with eyes so full of fright and hope that it made Grace’s heart ache to see him.
Tally. Probably not long after she’d first taken him in.
“What a lovely room!” she exclaimed politely before taking the seat she was offered.
“It’s a lovely apartment! I have my own sitting room and what Mr. Clay always called his study, though he did more smoking and napping in it than paperwork, I can assure you! Then there are four bedrooms! Four! There’s two through there and two above via a darling spiral staircase from the study. Can you imagine it?” She sighed happily as she took a seat on a worn velvet upholstered chair embroidered with butterflies. “It juts out a bit and gobbled up some of the garden when Mr. Clay built it but we had plans for a large family when we first wed and there was no talking the man out of it!”
Grace bit her lower lip. “You didn’t …have a large family?”
Mrs. Clay shook her head. “No. We weren’t fortunate to be blessed with babies of our own, but,” she gestured around the room to all the pictures, “as you can see, I have no shortage of family! The Grove blessed me with children, with friends and guests and most of the staff have been with me forever! And I have my son, Tally, and fond hopes for his future.”
“He is so clever, Mrs. Clay, and such a kind boy.”
“And what of you?” Mrs. Clay asked.
“Pardon?”
“It’s not my place to poke about someone else’s business but—have you family, Mrs. Rutherford? Beyond that scoundrel who came in and caused such a ruckus, I mean?”
“Oh,” Grace sat up a little straighter. “I have…That is to say, my father owns a milling concern in a village in the north. I’m afraid he’s long been disinterested in me and I suspected it was more thrilling for him to watch Sterling from afar after he’d flown the nest. I’m told I was a very disappointing child since my arrival heralded the loss of my poor mother.” Grace took note of the horrified look of pity on her landlady’s face and decided that a more cheerful tone was required. “But true happiness has found him, at last! He is remarried to a very elegant woman who plays the pianoforte. She was far too accomplished to need…me…so I came to London to run my brother’s house.”
“How old were you, lamb?”
“Seventeen,” Grace said. “I learned a great deal from the experience, of course, and—Sterling is…well, you’ve met my brother.” Grace sighed. “Have I fallen in your estimation, Mrs. Clay?”
Mrs. Clay stood abruptly and shocked Grace into mirroring the gesture. She’s throwing me out! A miller’s daughter probably isn’t what she had in mind for her beloved giant and—
For the second time, Mrs. Clay clutched her in a hug that robbed her of all thought. This. This was a woman who loved without reserve.
“Poor lamb!” Mrs. Clay sobbed. “Just wanted a mother’s love, all those years! Dried up old disinterested prune! I hope that new wife gives him dyspepsia and they both suffer boils!” Mrs. Clay released her with a shocked gasp. “Not that I generally curse the worst of them but, well, I speak what I think!”
Grace struggled not to giggle and failed. “I do love you, Mrs. Clay, and if I may speak candidly, I can’t see how a mother could have given me more than you already have. You’ve been so…warm.”
“Shows what you know!” Mrs. Clay retrieved a handkerchief and dabbed
at her eyes. “Well, let’s sit then. What a mess I’ve made of it already!”
“A mess of what?” Grace asked.
Mrs. Clay took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I know it’s still the honeymoon and I’ve no right to press! But I’m worried that if I wait too long, the chance will go. And my Mr. Clay, God rest his soul, always said that it was better to jump early than forget to jump at all!”
“Where are we jumping?”
Mrs. Clay folded her hands and straightened her shoulders. “Here’s the way of it, Mrs. Rutherford. I’m surprised not to have seen a few friendly faces coming to call on you, what with Mr. Rutherford’s circle of friends being so formidable. I’ve not met all the wives but the ones I know well, I know to expect their calls of welcome and naturally, their compliments and best wishes on your match.”
Grace nodded. “It was a sudden match and Michael has said nothing of introductions.”
“Yes! It is still the honeymoon, after all! But don’t let him be selfish for too long, Mrs. Rutherford. You deserve to have lovely friends and I’m happy to help with any tea parties or gatherings you care to host!”
Grace’s confidence faltered. Michael had many friends. She’d picked up on that much and on their married status. In the flurry of locked doors and fighting Sterling followed by the ecstasy of her marriage, she’d missed the step of social introductions. But there’d not been one note or letter expressing well wishes or congratulations addressed to him, much less to her.
Not one.
Perhaps they disapprove of his choice?
“Ah, I’ve worried you!” Mrs. Clay interrupted her thoughts. “And that wasn’t where I meant to land at all!”
“Please go on, Mrs. Clay.” Grace focused her attention back on the visit. “We were jumping?”
“You see, I know that when your friends, old and new, come to call they might question that you’re…living in an inn.”
“Oh! Will they?”
“Yes! And I know a young lady likes to be the mistress of her own house and…I respect that! I don’t have a say, do I?” Mrs. Clay’s cheeks reddened and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “But we love our Mr. Rutherford, you see. And Tally—he looks up to him like a father, if the truth be told! So let me say it in a rush and then I’ll have spoken my piece!”
Desire Wears Diamonds Page 26
