Diamond in the Rough

by Jane Goodger

  “It cannot be. It cannot be,” she whispered, over and over.

  She opened the door loudly and stood in the opening of the shed. And waited. His door opened, revealing him holding a lantern that bathed him in its golden light. He was wearing only trousers and a hastily donned shirt, unbuttoned, revealing his muscled torso. It occurred to Clara as she stood there, trying not to fall apart, that on any other occasion she would have admired his beautiful form.

  He smiled to see her standing there, then his expression slowly turned to one of concern. “Clara, what is it? What is wrong?” He took a step toward her, but when she stepped back, he halted, his entire demeanor changing. It looked to Clara as if he were bracing himself for something. He put the lamp down slowly, carefully, on a shelf, and when he looked back at her, she tried with all her strength to stop her heart from aching for him. It cannot be. Please God.

  “Who are you?”

  There, instantly, she could see it in her face, and it seemed before her eyes he became someone else, someone she didn’t know at all. Still, her heart rejected what she knew to be true. Please, tell me anything but the truth.

  “Clara.” Those two syllables held the truth, and she wanted to crumple to the ground and scream.

  She drew in a shaky breath, trying to find the strength to ask him outright. “You are Baron Alford.” Her tone held no question.

  He hesitated for only the space of a breath. “Yes.”

  Even though she knew it was true, she flung her hand to her mouth to stop from crying out and panted harshly through nostrils that flared with each breath. Swallow. Breathe. Oh, God, I cannot breathe. And he stood there, his eyes filled with agony, his bearing unmistakably that of a peer, and she could hardly bring herself to care.

  She flung her hand away, drawing her fisted hands to her stomach. “You liar,” she cried. “You dirty, horrible liar.” Breathe. Breathe. “How could you? Oh, my God. How could you pretend to be someone you were not all this time? When I think of the things I said to you... My God, how you must have laughed.”

  “No, Clara, no.” His voice cracked and he took another step toward her but she back away and he stopped, stricken.

  Shaking her head, she said, “Why would you do such a thing? Was it a lark? A game? Go to the country and seduce some stupid, ignorant girl? Did you go to London and laugh at me with all your chums? ‘You should try it. Those country girls will believe anything you tell them.’”

  “God, no. It’s not like that at all. I love you.” In the lamplight, she could see his eyes were glittering with unshed tears, but Clara could spare no sympathy.

  “Love! You do not lie to someone you love. You do not pretend to be someone you are not. All this time, you know I suffered.” She let out a bitter laugh that bordered on hysterical. “I thought we could not marry because of the difference in our stations.”

  “I never said that.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “Well, hurray for you, sir.” Her voice shook with anger and despair. “That’s one lie you did not tell. But you knew I believed we could not marry because you were a servant and I the daughter of the family. You knew and you said nothing.” She let out a bitter laugh. “But, now that I think on it, it is true. We cannot marry because you are a baron and I am a nobody. I just don’t understand why. Why, Nathaniel?” She looked down, idly noting that, like her, he wore nothing on his feet. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s been months. And why a gardener?”

  And then it came to her, and if she felt foolish before, now she was completely humiliated. She pressed her fists harder against her stomach, feeling as though she might be ill. And he stood there, looking as if his world was ending, and she just wanted to slap him.

  “You were looking for something,” she said softly. “All this time. Something buried on this property.”

  He shook his head but said a barely audible, “Yes.”

  Tears that had hovered in her eyes, making for a blurry world, spilled over. “What? What were you looking for?”

  He stretched his neck and looked at the lamp for a long moment as if debating whether to tell her the truth. “A diamond.”

  “A diamond?”

  “A very rare and exceedingly valuable blue diamond. It’s worth a fortune.” He looked at her beseechingly. “My estate is in shambles, my tenants living in near squalor, what tenants I have at any rate. My father sold everything of value, every bit of unentailed property. The debt is catastrophic. The diamond is my only hope to save what’s left of the Alford legacy. My grandfather nearly died trying to protect it. You must believe that I never meant to lie to you. I thought I would be here and gone. I never intended for any of this to happen.”

  A strange calm came over Clara when he said this last. Her tears stopped and the pain that had been wracking her dissipated. “I want you gone by tomorrow morning.”

  “Clara, please.” Again, his eyes filled with tears, but Clara was fairly certain it was because of the diamond he would never find and not because he was losing her. “I did try to tell you. The longer I waited, the more impossible it became. Please. Clara.”

  “Good-bye, my lord,” Clara said, before dipping down in a perfect curtsy.

  Spinning around, she left him standing there, mourning the loss of his bloody blue diamond. Her footsteps slowed. Blue diamond… Blue.

  Lifting her skirts, she ran into her house and flew up the stairs and directly to her room. After hastily lighting her lamp, she said, bitterly, “Hello.” Her paperweight, the one Harriet had found all those years ago and had jokingly given to her the day of her wedding. Sitting on her desk on top of her stationery, was Nathaniel’s blue diamond.

  Nathaniel watched her walk away and dropped to his knees, his hands on the rough brick in front of him. He knew he had just destroyed the only good thing in his life. He stayed that way for several long minutes, not caring that he had lost any dignity he’d ever had. “Stupid fool,” he whispered harshly, pulling his fingers into a fist, relishing the pain he felt when his fingers scraped the brick.

  He’d known this would happen. All this time, the more important she became to him, the worse the black guilt became. He’d known, and yet, coward that he was, he’d wanted to delay the inevitable. Even though he’d known it would end, he hadn’t anticipated the pain he would feel when it did. His grandfather’s death, while devastating, was nothing compared to the agony he now felt knowing he’d just lost the only woman he would ever love.

  “I’ll get her back,” he whispered, straightening and wiping his face with his shirt. “She’ll come ’round.”

  Those words had just left his lips when he heard her hurried steps on the gravel outside. She’d stopped to don shoes, he realized, and hope bloomed in his chest. Standing quickly, trying to pull himself together, he stood and wiped his hands on his pants. And waited.

  When she walked into the shed, the pounding in his chest physically hurt, so he pressed his right hand over his heart and kneaded the ache. Ah, there she was, his beautiful girl, her face oddly devoid of emotion, her hair looking mussed, as he imagined it would after love-making. He stood, silent, waiting for her to speak. It seemed at first she didn’t see him standing there, and then she did, and the most terrible expression marred her features.

  “Here is your bloody diamond,” she said. Then, before he could guess what she was doing, she flung something at him and he didn’t even have the presence of mind to duck. Something hit him hard, just above his left brow, with enough force to fling his head back, to make him momentarily lose his balance so that he nearly fell.

  “What in hell?” he muttered, bringing his hand up to touch his face. His hand came away covered with blood. He heard her gasp and he snapped his head up to see her startled expression. She looked momentarily concerned before her expression hardened once more, and then, without uttering another word, she turned and left him there, blood streaming
down his face.

  Obviously, she wasn’t going to come ’round this night, he thought with chagrin.

  Blinking away the blood in his eye, he remained there staring where Clara had stood just moments before. Then, to his great shame, he picked up the lantern and held it high, searching for whatever it was she’d thrown at him, his curiosity winning out over his conscience. Even though he suspected whatever had struck him could not possibly be the diamond, he looked. It took long enough to find the object for his gut to start churning with disappointment. It wasn’t the diamond, you idiot.

  Still, he couldn’t bring himself to give up, not after all this time. Getting down on his hands and knees, he placed the lantern on the floor and looked beneath a shelf, his head pounding from the movement, blood dripping onto the bricks. And then he saw it, under one of the shelves that held several old clay pots. Reaching underneath, he grabbed the object and pulled it into the light.

  “Thank God,” he said softly, for he knew he held the diamond his grandfather had hidden more than fifty years ago. It was extraordinarily ordinary, just a large blue-ish stone that resembled a bit of quartz, and he had the terrible thought that perhaps his grandfather had been wrong about the stone. What if it wasn’t a diamond? What if whomever had told him it was worth a fortune was playing a cruel joke on a young Englishman?

  What if hurting Clara, using her all this time, was for nothing?

  At that moment, Nathaniel was filled with such self-loathing, he began retching. It felt as if his stomach were being squeezed painfully by an unrelenting fist. And he knew Clara would never forgive him. How could she? What he had done to her was so completely unforgiveable. Worse, he’d known what he was doing was wrong, but he’d convinced himself that the ends justified the means.

  Holding that diamond in his hand gave him little satisfaction, but he was a man with responsibilities, with duties.

  He would do what he’d promised his grandfather he would do: He would save Lion’s Gate and the Emory name and, by God, Clara would be by his side.

  “I need to speak with Mr. Anderson immediately.”

  Mr. Standard, who was in the process of inspecting the home’s massive and ornate collection of silver, turned to Nathaniel with surprise. The butler’s eyes darted to the cut on his head, but he said nothing. He must have sensed something of import had happened, for his demeanor changed. “You’ve found what you’ve been looking for, then, my lord?”

  Nathaniel smiled grimly. “I have, Mr. Standard.”

  “He is in his study.” Nathaniel could tell Mr. Standard was curious as to why it was necessary to speak to Mr. Anderson, but he would find out soon enough. The butler led him down a hall lined with portraits and hunting scenes, past tables laden with vases and statues and all manner of breakable objects. The home looked rather like a shop for decorative items, for it seemed every available space had been stuffed with…things.

  “One moment, Mr. Emory,” Mr. Standard said with a wink; he was still uncomfortable addressing him so informally. The butler knocked softly and waited for Mr. Anderson to call him in. “Mr. Emory would like a word, sir.”

  “Who the hell is Mr. Emory?”

  Nathaniel smiled to himself.

  “The gardener, sir.”

  “Gardener? Then he wants Mrs. Anderson.”

  The butler hesitated a moment but forged ahead. “He asked specifically to speak with you, sir.”

  Nathaniel heard the man’s huff of impatience. “Very well.”

  Mr. Standard stepped back outside and spared him another wink before heading back to continue working on the silver. Nathaniel entered the room, a large, wood-paneled space that was sparsely furnished and hadn’t a single flower, vase, or statue in sight, but for a bronze figure of a spaniel sitting on the man’s large mahogany desk. The desk was an impressive bit of furniture with fierce-looking talons clutching balls at each corner. His grandfather had once had a similar desk—his had lion’s paws—but it had long since been sold to pay for his father’s schemes.

  Mr. Anderson gave him a hard look, his gaze stopping briefly at the wound on his forehead caused by his daughter, mild curiosity in his gaze. “Mr.…”

  “Emory. And not mister, I’m afraid.”

  The man’s brows snapped together.

  “I am Nathaniel Emory, Baron Alford, and I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  To his credit, the older man hardly blinked. He set aside some paperwork he’d been reviewing and folded his great hands in front of him. “Have a seat, my lord, I imagine this is going to take some time to explain.”

  With a rather large dose of relief over the man’s calm demeanor, Nathaniel sat and began relating his story—his grandfather’s deathbed confession, his massive debt, his search for the blue diamond, and finally, his love of Clara. Throughout the tale, Mr. Anderson was silent, his intelligent eyes studying Nathaniel with unrelenting steadiness. Finally, when the tale was done, Mr. Anderson leaned back in his chair.

  “Does Clara know who you are?”

  “She does now. She discovered it last night. This,” he said, pointing to the cut and bruise on his forehead, “was her reaction. It was caused by the diamond being thrown quite accurately at my head.”

  One side of Silas’s mouth curved up in a smile. “I take it she was not pleased with this discovery, yet you are here asking to marry her. It seems to me, sir, she is not interested.”

  Nathaniel swallowed. He had hoped that when he revealed his status, Mr. Anderson would have immediately become deferential and leapt at the chance to have another of his daughters married off to a titled man. Such was not going to be the case, obviously.

  “She is angry and likely hurt, something I would have avoided if I could have. I fully planned to disclose my identity, I swear to you.”

  Mr. Anderson narrowed his eyes. “After you found the diamond.”

  “Yes. If I told her before, then…”

  “You would have been thrown from the property. And rightly so. I have enjoyed your tale, my lord, but the diamond was found on my property. Therefore, it is mine.”

  “He’s what?”

  “In speaking with your father,” Jeanine said as she placed another pin in Clara’s hair. When she’d come in that morning, she’d noted Clara’s puffy eyes, which Clara attributed to a bout of silly tears over missing her sister. It was a believable enough story, and Jeanine didn’t question it. The truth of it was, though, Clara could hardly bring herself to get out of bed. Her heart hurt, far more than it ever had in her life. The ache was stunning, in fact, and she very nearly wondered if she should see a physician. Surely this sort of physical pain should not accompany emotional pain, but apparently it did.

  That pain, caused by heartbreak, was quickly replaced by outrage that the scoundrel was still here and had requested an audience with her father. She had a good feeling what Baron Alford was in speaking to her father about, and she was going to have none of it. “That cad.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Emory,” Clara growled out. She spun about in her chair. “You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure, and you are not to tell another soul—not even Charlie—until everything is resolved and Mr. Emory is back in London or wherever he comes from.”

  “Cumbria,” Jeanine said, looking astonished by Clara’s reaction. It was a clear, feminine growl.

  “Yes, I know where he is from. And I know who he is.” Clara raised one brow.

  “I knew it,” her maid said triumphantly. “Some sort of criminal? An actor?”

  “No. Worse. He’s a baron.”

  Clara left Jeanine behind, staring open-mouthed and shocked speechless by this revelation. With determined steps, Clara headed directly to her father’s study, only to stop short when she heard shouting within. It seemed her father wasn’t any happier with Baron Alford than she was. Ha!

&
nbsp; Without knocking, Clara flung open the door, which served to act as a gag on the two men, who immediately ceased their yelling and turned toward her.

  “This does not concern you, daughter,” her father said sternly.

  “Doesn’t it? He’s here asking to marry me, is he not?” When neither man responded, a flood of humiliating doubt rushed in. “Isn’t he?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Yes, I am,” Nathaniel said, and began to walk toward her, only to be stopped short by a sound only a father can emit when his child is in mortal danger. “Sir, if I could have a moment with your daughter.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Never,” Clara said at the same time her father spoke. She met her father’s eyes and the two shared a silent understanding. We’re in this together.

  For the first time since entering the room, Clara realized that her gardener no longer looked like a gardener. He looked like the baron he was. His suit was impeccable, his hair neatly combed, his jaw cleanly shaven. Clara’s blood fairly boiled. Not even the sight of the wound she had given him could stem her anger.

  “How dare you think we would ever agree to such a match!” Clara said. “You are nothing but a lying scoundrel.”

  “And a thief,” her father said. Nathaniel’s expression grew hard, but he remained silent.

  Clara’s initial and unwanted reaction was to defend Nathaniel. He had not officially stolen anything, but rather she had given him the diamond rather violently. Still, he had intended to steal it and who knew what he would have done if he had found it before being discovered? No doubt he would have absconded with it and left her behind, wondering what had happened to their “gardener.” Just thinking about it made her furious.

  “I am not a thief,” Nathaniel said, his tone clipped and proper. The offended peer. Clara clenched her fists and resisted the urge to walk across the room and smack him. “The diamond belongs to my family. I will admit that I went about this all wrong. Entirely wrong. But desperate men sometimes do act desperately, and that is what I did. I wholly intend to compensate you a fair amount, sir.” Her father let out a scoffing sound. “The point we are now arguing is my marriage to your daughter.”