Diamond in the Rough

by Jane Goodger

  “I shall have to thank him,” she said softly.

  Next to her, Mr. Emory was silent, a heavy sort of quiet that caused her to look up at him. “Mr. Smee died in January. I dealt with his son. I am sorry, Miss Anderson. I know you’d hoped to meet him one day.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she quickly dashed them away, embarrassed. “So silly of me. I didn’t even know the man.” And yet, reading his book, she felt she had come to know him as an old friend who was imparting his horticultural wisdom. How sad his wife must be to look out and see what her husband had done, knowing she would never watch him toil in his garden again. “I thought perhaps I might invite him to see our garden, or at the very least write to tell him about it, how he inspired it.”

  “These are still things he grew, that were part of what he planted.”

  Clara nodded. “Yes, and so we must honor them and not allow them to die,” she said fiercely, giving Mr. Emory a challenging look.

  “I shall do my best to make certain all of these plants and the ones to come will be cared for to the best of my abilities.”

  “That, Mr. Emory, is what I fear most,” she said, teasing him.

  He laughed, a warm, melodic sound that did odd things to her insides. “I shall have to borrow my book back, then, so I may learn from Mr. Smee’s great gardening wisdom.”

  “I am happy to return it to you once I am done with it. Who could have known I would find such reading so riveting? He wrote that he hadn’t much success with his plums because of the soil. Perhaps the St. Ives climate and soil will be better.” She touched a plum, its rich purple skin smooth beneath the pad of her index finger. It seemed miraculous to her that she was looking at plants grown by Mr. Smee himself; there was only one way this could have transpired. “You wrote to him.”

  “Yes. I hadn’t any idea how to go about procuring plants.” He gave her a sheepish grin, for a gardener should certainly know something as basic as that. “His son was apparently moved by your passion and your interest in Mr. Smee’s garden and writings. These were his gifts to you. I think it gave him great pleasure to know that something of his father is growing so far away from Beddington.”

  “I shall have to write and thank him. Profusely.” She let out a small laugh. “It’s odd, isn’t it, that I have had gifts far more valuable than this, and yet I think this is my favorite gift of all. Thank you, Mr. Emory.”

  He shook his head, and she could tell her words had embarrassed him. “I did nothing but write a letter of inquiry. The younger Mr. Smee is the man you need to thank.”

  Clara bent and inhaled the lovely scent of a lavender plant. “I am going to design a plan straight away,” she said, feeling more excited than she had before her first ball. She turned to run inside to gather up her sketch book and pencil, then stopped. “You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Emory? If I create the plan?”

  “I am certain whatever plan you devise will be far and above better than mine.”

  Clara smiled at him, her heart full, her entire being filled with excitement. For her garden. Not, certainly, for her gardener.

  Nathaniel worked six days a week, with Sundays off. The entire staff and the family, when they were at home, attended church in the mornings and then most went off to visit their own families. If it were up to him, Nathaniel would have continued to work the seventh day, but it would have drawn undue attention. Every time the spade slipped into the earth, every time he bent down hoping to find the diamond and came up holding a bit of Cornish rock, his gut tightened. But there was something worse happening of late. Much worse.

  He found himself forgetting, for long stretches of time as he toiled in the garden, what he was there for in the first place. He found himself, much to his surprise, falling in love with creating a place of beauty. Each plant tucked into the earth and watered gave him a strange sense of satisfaction, as if he were honoring Mr. Smee, carrying on his mission, creating a monument to a man he’d never met. Miss Anderson gave him the book each evening, and each evening he found himself immersed in the writing, recognizing plants and ideas and strategies. Understanding.

  Miss Anderson’s plan was simple, yet elegant, and clearly influenced by Mr. Smee. The meandering path that led to the pond would be lined with a variety of shrubbery and flowers, with a tree and bench here and there, so that one might rest or simply gaze upon the flora. Small, hidden paths would eventually lead to an unexpected feature, a cluster of lavender, a flowering tree, or a patch of berries. As he toiled, Miss Anderson was there, talking or working, a constant presence that he was coming to look forward to. When she was not there, when she was off with her parents husband hunting, the garden was a lonely place. Even though her absence meant he could concentrate on his search, instead he found himself working on new parts of the garden to please her. While it was easier then to remember why he was in St. Ives, what the ultimate goal was, he still found himself missing her. At night, after a long day, he would think about Lion’s Gate and hope his manager was handling his duties in his absence. He wrote to his manager weekly, letters posted by Mr. Standard so as not to elicit curiosity from the staff. He longed to return, to set thing to rights, to let his tenants know that he had not abandoned them. Not entirely. At night, when he wasn’t torturing himself with images of Miss Anderson, he was torturing himself thinking of all that needed to be done to restore his estate, his title, to something he could be proud of.

  Lately, it was far easier to push thoughts of Lion’s Gate away than thoughts of Miss Anderson. Clara. It was what he called her in his head, it was how he thought of her when he let his thoughts drift where they shouldn’t. When he touched himself and imagined it was her hand. He burned for her in a way he had never burned for a woman before. Those few times when her eyes had gotten drowsy and her lips parted slightly, when she looked at him like a woman who wants to be kissed… Good God, there was a special place in heaven for chaps like him who resisted beautiful women like Clara.

  How could he ignore the sweet curve of her breasts, the fullness of the bottom lip that begged to be kissed, the gently rounded derrière that he’d found himself imagining naked beneath his palm? Beneath his lips. He’d never gone so long without the comforts of a willing female and his body was shouting for him to ease his need. Shouting? It was more like screaming. Even though she’d looked at him more than once, desire clear in her gaze, he would not act for more reasons than he could count. Knowing he could not touch her did not make not touching her any easier.

  His mind returned to that day in the garden, when he’d been raking and she’d been dead heading. He’d stood there, inhaling her intoxicating scent, woman and sunshine, and thought he might die if he didn’t touch her, if only to gently move her out of the way. And then she’d looked at him, and he’d known. It hit him, fierce and hard, like a blow to the head, that she wanted him too. Damn girl was so innocent, she probably didn’t even realize what was happening between them. But he knew.

  It didn’t matter how many times he told himself to stay away, to drive her away if need be. He couldn’t. He missed her when she was gone. The loneliness of this place was nearly suffocating. Though he’d taken to having a pint or two at a local pub, Nathaniel couldn’t shake the knowledge that if he were to disappear or die, no one on earth would even take note. When God had taken his grandfather, He had taken the only person who loved him.

  Thanks to his father’s misdeeds, young men had been directed not to befriend him lest they be associated with one of the most notorious wastrels in the ton, and it was almost amusing how quickly a mama could move when she saw her daughter speaking with him. “Bad blood,” he’d heard more than once. His lack of fortune likely played an even greater role in his lack of female interest.

  Two days after the wagon of plants arrived at the Anderson house, Nathaniel found himself sitting in the White Hart Tavern looking at a fetching barmaid who had the sort of curves a man dreamed of. She was
either new to the place or hadn’t been working the nights he’d attended in the past; he would have noticed her.

  “She’s my daughter.” A low growl near his ear.

  “A lovely girl,” Nathaniel said, looking up into the face of the massive barkeep. He had blacksmith arms, an anvil for a jaw, and a scowl that could make most men quake—including Nathaniel. Given that one of the man’s large hands could probably crush his skull, Nathaniel kept his eyes on his pint for the next few minutes, looking neither left nor right so as not to incite the man’s ire.

  After several long, tense minutes, the man said, “You’re not from here.”

  A statement of the obvious. “I’m from Cumbria.”

  “You’re the Andersons’ gardener.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “I am.”

  “Sam Parsons,” he said, holding out his hand for a shake. Nathaniel held out his own hand, inwardly relieved when the man’s shake was firm but not brutal. Sam eyed him a long moment, and Nathaniel met his gaze with unrelenting focus, knowing this handshake was some sort of test of his character. Seemingly satisfied by what he saw, the barkeep poured him another pint. “On the house.”

  With a grin, Nathaniel thanked him before taking a long drink. And he nearly spit it out when he heard from the table behind him, “Blue diamond.” He slowly lowered his pint, his entire focus on the men behind him.

  “I heard the same,” came a gruff response. “Can’t say I put much stock in him. If someone buried a diamond here, don’t you think we would have heard about it by now?”

  “More like he’s got rocks in his head.” The other man’s response earned him a chuckle, but Nathaniel found nothing amusing about the fact that there was a sudden interest in a diamond that hadn’t been seen in more than fifty years.

  “He’s gonna have everyone in St. Ives diggin’ up their gardens. I tell you what, if I found a diamond in my garden, I sure wouldn’t hand it over to some bloke from London. Dumb sod.”

  Nathaniel slowly spun on his stool, debating whether he should admit to have been eavesdropping on their conversation. The two men looked up as he turned, their eyes filled with mild hostility. “I can say for certain it’s not at the Anderson place,” he said with a laugh. “If it was, I surely would have found it by now and be living in a mansion.”

  The larger of the two men, a grizzled older fellow with a thick gray beard that likely held the remnants of his last few meals, narrowed his eyes. “You’re that gardener?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “You sound just like that bloke from London what’s looking for the diamond.” The two men exchanged glances, as if silently acknowledging that there must be some sort of connection between him and the man who had been making inquiries about the diamond.

  “My apologies, gentlemen, but my father insisted I be educated, then dropped dead, leaving me to fend for myself at age thirteen. He left me with excellent pronunciation, no money, and few skills.”

  The two stared at him for a long beat before the bearded man started laughing. “Poor sod,” he said finally, then shoved out his hand for Nathaniel to shake. “That’s the worst story I’ve heard today.” Nathaniel found himself gripping another work-worn hand, then another when his companion offered his own to shake.

  “I’m Alan and this here is Jory,” the bearded man said. “Join us if you like.”

  Nathaniel slid off his stool and pulled out a chair so he could join the two men at their table, grateful for the chance to find out more information on whoever was inquiring about the diamond. It was more than worrisome that after so many years of silence, whoever was searching for the diamond had tracked it to St. Ives. Would it only be a matter of time before they learned where it was buried or that the current Baron Alford was working as a gardener at a local estate? He had little concern he would be recognized, but he’d had little concern that anyone else would be looking for the diamond either. Now, he realized it had been a mistake to keep his name, for if whoever was looking for the diamond knew the full story of what had happened, it would certainly seem suspicious that a baron should be in St. Ives working as a gardener.

  “I imagine news of a treasure buried somewhere in the village is causing quite a stir,” he said, trying to bring the conversation back to the diamond.

  Jory shrugged, his bony shoulders moving up and down in an exaggerated way. “We’ve had plenty of tales of buried treasure in St. Ives. I don’t think anyone is going to get too riled up about this one.”

  “I saw Jack poking holes in his garden this afternoon,” Alan said. “And I say, why not? Maybe there is a diamond buried somewhere.”

  Jory looked at his friend, aghast. “You’ve been lookin’, haven’t you?”

  “Why not? If it’s worth as much as the bloke says it is, I don’t know why I wouldn’t. Says it could be worth ten thousand pounds. Imagine that.”

  Now this was interesting, for the diamond was worth far more than that. “Gentlemen,” Nathaniel said, stopping their argument. “Alan made a good point, which should make you wonder why someone who is looking for a treasure would let everyone know he’s looking for it.”

  Alan gave a sharp nod. “Go on.”

  “Think. If you thought some treasure was buried somewhere, but you had no idea where, what would be the most efficient means of finding that treasure? In a village as large as St. Ives, one certainly could not find it alone.” And when someone found it, he had no doubt he or she would be offered slightly more than ten thousand pounds, a pittance compared to the diamond’s true worth. A diabolical plan but a good one.

  “That scoundrel,” Jory said. “He’s lookin’ for free labor.”

  Alan let out a laugh. “What he don’t know is that if someone here found the damned diamond, they sure wouldn’t tell any fancy pants from London.”

  “They wouldn’t have to,” Nathaniel said, sobering the two men up. “Small village like this wouldn’t be able to keep a secret for long.” He looked each man in the eye. “Am I wrong? Look how fast news of the diamond spread.”

  Jory let out a curse. “He’s right. If it was found before breakfast, everyone would know by lunch.”

  Although the news that someone else was looking for the diamond was disconcerting, realizing his competition had no idea where the diamond was hidden was a bit of a relief. Nathaniel had no doubt that he if found the diamond, no one would know about it—until he started making inquiries about its true value.

  “You thinking there is a diamond?” Jory asked him.

  “Could be. Could be it was hid in some other village. Why St. Ives? Seems an odd place to hide something like that. No seaport nearby, no rail up until a year ago. Perhaps this is simply an elaborate hoax, someone having a bit of fun with you fine folks, amusing themselves.”

  Alan snapped his generous brows together. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “Some bored bloke from London? Is he still in town?”

  Jory looked up at the ceiling. “As a matter of fact, my friend, he is.”

  Bloody hell. Nathaniel suppressed the urge to leave the pub immediately, but he wanted to learn more about the gent before he did. How in God’s name had he tracked the diamond to St. Ives? Either he was a damned good investigator or one lucky bastard. Perhaps whoever was looking for the diamond had an agent in every county spreading rumors about a lost treasure.

  Nathaniel thought back to his grandfather’s story, to the day he was brutally beaten and left for dead. Could it be that he had still been in St. Ives?

  “You know, I hear St. Ives is a cursed place. Seems unlikely someone would have buried a treasure here.”

  “Cursed, you say?” Alan asked, and Nathaniel could tell he’d touched on a nerve.

  “Just stories. People dying unusual deaths.”

  Alan and Jory exchanged looks. “There was Lady Greenwich, but her dea
th was ruled a suicide, so that doesn’t count,” Jory said with a sharp nod. “Most other unusual deaths were ruled accidents, they were.”

  Alan let out a sound that told Nathaniel he didn’t believe Lady Greenwich’s end was all that innocent. “Just because the earl bought himself clear of the charges don’t mean he didn’t kill her. Everyone says he did. Even now.”

  “And now supposedly there’s a secret diamond hidden somewhere worth a king’s ransom. I would think that would be the type of thing that would pit neighbor against neighbor. Cursed, I say.”

  “Maybe he’s got something there,” Jory said, giving Alan a sidelong look.

  “And I heard a baron was nearly murdered here. Would have died if not for a miracle. Shot in the head, he was.”

  “And he lived?” Alan asked. “Don’t sound like much of a curse to me.”

  “I know that story,” Jory said, and Nathaniel silently congratulated himself for his cleverness. “Old man Jenkins found him. You remember, Alan. Poor sod was bleeding like a stuck pig out his head. And he was a cripple after that.”

  Alan furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. “Out on St. Ives Road, it was? Near Carbis Bay, just outside the village.”

  “That’s the one. We were just wee cheldern then. I remember, though, ’cause he gave Jenkins a fat purse as a thank you. That’s how he got that fleet of fishing boats of his that his ungrateful son is leaving to ruin.”

  Jory gave Nathaniel a suspicious look. “How’d you hear about that way up north?” He looked him over. “You weren’t even born then.”

  “Baron Alford was my neighbor,” Nathaniel said easily. “We lived on one of his properties.”

  “How about that?” Alan said, seemingly pleased that the three of them shared some common story.

  “I was not aware of the other murders,” Nathaniel said with a chuckle. “I only knew the baron’s tale. Perhaps St. Ives truly is accursed.”

  The three men had a laugh, and Alan waved to Sam Parsons, calling for another round. Though it made Nathaniel a bit on edge to stay, he agreed. Hell, he hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. And as long as he was here at the pub spinning tales with these men, he wouldn’t be in his room, alone, dreaming of a pretty girl with golden hair.