Ecstasy Wears Emeralds

by Renee Bernard

  “Blame me.” Michael appeared behind them, a stealthy trick that still amazed Rowan. Michael Rutherford was a giant of a man, and his talent for materializing out of thin air was nothing short of unsettling. “I’m glad you came. We needed to gather quickly, and I knew the pretext of a medical call would bring you by the fastest means.”

  “A dirty trick.” Rowan dropped his doctor’s bag on the floor with relief. “But I suppose it worked. Are the others coming as well?”

  Michael walked over to the fireplace to warm his hands. “Josiah, at least, but let’s hope. Galen has taken his wife to see her family for the holidays before visiting the Earl of Stamford for Christmas.”

  Ashe stood from his writing desk. “Can I get anyone a drink?” He began to pour out three brandies without even waiting for a reply. “Did I tell you Caroline received a letter from her aunt that said there’s talk of a civil war in the States?”

  “It’s inevitable if they don’t change course,” Michael pronounced grimly.

  Ashe shook his head. “It won’t come to war. From what I can tell, Americans enjoy squabbling more than anything in the world. They’ll spit invectives and jig up to the cliff’s edge, and then someone will come up with a compromise.”

  “It’s slavery, Ashe. Where’s the compromise there?” Rowan asked.

  “We gave it up without losing our way of life. The Americans in the South will see the moral sense of it and adjust, you’ll see.” Ashe held out the drinks to his friends.

  “Was this the reason for the summons? Not that I don’t enjoy a good political debate. . . .” Rowan pulled his hands from his coat pockets to accept the glass. “I need to get back to my laboratory.”

  Ashe grinned. “Such dedication to your research! Nothing to do with that goddesslike apprentice awaiting your skilled and experienced guidance, of course. I am impressed.”

  “I’m here!” Josiah Hastings came through the door, still wearing his coat and hat. “Michael’s note made it sound like your house was on fire, Ashe. I left so quickly I think I forgot to close my front door!”

  Josiah almost fell onto the long couch against the wall, settling in with his legs akimbo and arms outstretched. He looked tired and distracted, with his shirt buttons mismatched and his face unshaven. “Why aren’t we at West’s brownstone?”

  Michael sighed. “We can’t always meet in Rowan’s library. I thought it would be wiser to change our patterns for now.”

  Before Rowan could ask Josiah how he was feeling these days, Rutherford lifted one hand as if to call their impromptu meeting to order.

  “Gentlemen, there has been an interesting development and it affects all of us.” Michael gestured to Blackwell, as if to beckon him forward. “Show them, Ashe.”

  “I received an anonymous letter this afternoon. It was literally pushed under my door, and Godwin just added it to the regular post and brought it up with the usual cards and letters. But it caught my eye immediately, and . . . well . . .”

  “It’s addressed to the Jaded.”

  “I take it that it isn’t a social invitation to a Christmas gathering?”

  Ashe shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not. I sent for Michael, thinking he’d want to see it, and then Rutherford immediately sent off for the rest of you—and here we are. It’s definitely a threat.”

  “Let’s hear it, then.” Josiah sat up, shedding the laissez-faire aura he’d been projecting, transformed by concern for his friends. Ever since their escape from a dungeon in India and their arrival in England, they’d realized that their lives were still in danger. Beginning with a direct attack against Galen, someone was doing their best to draw out the Jaded and to try to hurt them.

  Ashe read it aloud, his voice clear and even. “Our patience is running out. It’s clear that you have it in your possession. And while we may not yet know which of you has it, it is only a matter of time. Surrender the sacred treasure, and you can keep the rest of the riches you have stolen. Fail to yield her before the full moon, and your numbers will be diminished. Watch for the sign and be ready.”

  “I swear I’m tempted just to throw it all out into the streets and let another man lose sleep over the whole business.” Rowan finished his brandy as if to underline his sincerity. “To hell with stolen riches!”

  “Speak for yourself!” Ashe was quick to protest. “You don’t have a women’s college to fund!”

  Rowan smiled. “Ah, how could I forget?” Then he sobered and looked to Michael. “My house has already been overturned twice by the police in the last year, no doubt on this anonymous entity’s behalf. I’d say they’ve eliminated the brownstone as a possibility for holding whatever this sacred treasure is.”

  “But none of us have experienced any burglaries, or visits from the police. Why not?” Josiah wondered out loud.

  “Not any burglaries that we know of,” Ashe corrected him. “I’ve seen your painting studio, and I think a battalion of thieves could have waltzed through there without you realizing it.”

  “Very funny.” Josiah crossed his arms defensively. “All right. They claim to know who we are and now just want this sacred treasure. What next?”

  “What is it, do you think? Or who? Did it say her?” Rowan asked.

  Michael’s expression was grim. “There were no statuettes or figurines in our pockets, unless someone failed to put it on that blanket when we divided the treasure aboard ship—and I don’t believe that’s possible. And we sure as hell didn’t haul a woman out of there . . . so it could be a miscue. Honestly, I think they may have it wrong and we simply don’t have what they’re after. But how do you communicate that without putting all of our lives at risk?”

  “I’ll write to Darius. I need to make sure he’s aware of the letter and that he takes extra precautions,” Ashe offered. Darius Thorne had been his cellmate during their confinement, and the men were as close as brothers despite their different temperaments.

  “Is he still in Edinburgh?”

  Ashe nodded. “Happily buried up to his neck in medieval scrolls when I heard from him last.”

  “What about Galen?” Josiah asked, then took a small sip of his brandy. “Can you get word to him at Moreland’s?”

  Michael nodded. “I’ll write to him and make sure that nothing is left to chance. Hawke may even have a few ideas of his own on what this all means.”

  For a few moments, silence fell as they each absorbed the implications of this new threat and the changes it might bring. Ashe tossed back his drink in a single motion, then set his glass down forcefully on a side table. “So much for letting our guard down.”

  “What sign? Should we be looking for another note instructing us on where and how we’re supposed to hand back sacred treasures?” Rowan threw up his hands in frustration. “What if we’ve already missed it?”

  “The next full moon is a week from this Saturday, gentlemen,” Michael said. “One way or another, we’ll know soon enough what the writer of this letter intends—sacred treasure or no.”

  Chapter 15

  The next day, Friday, while Rowan was out on a call to the curate’s house for his wife’s lying-in, Gayle was doing her best not to pout. After Wednesday’s incredible success, she couldn’t believe the setback in her progress. But he’d quietly refused to take her on calls and given no explanation as to why.

  She could only guess that it had everything to do with the inconvenient note from Peter James and the foolish fight that had followed.

  If only we could find some middle ground, he and I.

  She turned back to her letter to Aunt Jane. It was a fanciful construction of blatant lies about her travels, and Gayle hated every insipid word of it as she read over her description of an imaginary Italian piazza. She’d never been especially skilled at lying and was sure that wishing for such a talent would invoke myriad divine punishments. But the letters were a necessary evil, she told herself, putting the pen back to paper. Better that Aunt Jane be satisfied with these weekly travelogues unt
il Gayle could come up with a better plan to keep peace with her only living relative. I love the architecture of the cathedrals here and the wonderful paintings.

  She frowned as she paused to chew on the tip of her pen. Should I accept that I am a horrible person and get a book on Italian paintings or swear off this nonsense and just—

  “Miss Renshaw! Miss Renshaw!” Mrs. Evans’s voice was a screech of panic as she came up the stairs, and Gayle instantly pushed away from her little desk and ran out into the hallway to intercept her on the staircase landing.

  “What is it?”

  “Please! Dr. West is out, but—” Mrs. Evans put a hand to her throat in alarm. “Florence has cut herself terribly in the kitchens and—”

  “I’m coming!” She outpaced Mrs. Evans easily on her race to get below stairs to the basement floor where the kitchens were located. Her heart was pounding at the exercise but also with fear for the dear maid who had done so much to make her feel welcome in the house. Just as she reached the door to the kitchen, she stopped and took one slow breath to steady herself.

  A physician doesn’t run into a room like a wild animal. Rowan radiates calm and then takes control.

  She pushed through the door and surveyed the scene. Florence was on the floor in a pool of blood with her arm wrapped in a blood-soaked towel, cradling it in her lap, and looking whiter than her own apron. Mrs. Wilson was kneeling next to her, openly weeping.

  “Ye’ve got to put it up over yer head! Put it back over yer head!” the cook urged her tearfully, but Florence was too dazed to obey.

  Gayle immediately moved to kneel on the other side of her and assess the damage.

  “We were cuttin’ onions and she were helpin’, dear thing! We were chattin’ away, and then . . . I don’t know! Blood’s everywhere and I thought a bit of flour and holdin’ it up—but then there was so much blood!” Mrs. Wilson was beside herself with distress.

  “Raising the arm is a good first step, Mrs. Wilson. Calm yourself, and let’s find some clean cloths and see about clearing this large wooden table to get her up off the floor, all right?”

  Carter and Mrs. Evans burst through the door, and Gayle barely looked up. “Mr. Carter, if you’ll help me lift her, I want to get her up onto this table so that we can see the damage.”

  “Yes, miss!” Carter moved instantly, and even Mrs. Evans shifted over to help Cook clear a space so that Florence could be comfortable.

  “I need ice if you have it and the coldest water you can find.” She held up Florence’s arm and steeled herself to take a closer look. “Mrs. Evans, can you see about getting more cloths? If there’s nothing handy, perhaps something from Dr. West’s office on the first floor? And his suture kit from underneath the examination table, if you would!”

  “Yes, miss! I’ll see to it right away!” Mrs. Evans disappeared faster than a rabbit down a hole.

  The cut was deep and dramatic into the palm of her hand and had cleanly sliced into the meat of three of her fingers to reveal bone. Ice was provided and Gayle washed the wound briefly with the water to try to clean it and get a better view. Florence moaned, and Gayle ruthlessly applied pressure with a new cloth as she held up the hand and tried to think.

  Blood is dramatic but Rowan said to always stop and think first. The cold will slow the bleeding and raising the hand above her heart should help as well.

  Florence moaned again.

  “There now, dearest. You’ve scared poor Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Evans, but you’ll be just fine. I am here and we’ll get this hand tended to and set you to rights.” Gayle spoke as confidently as she could, concerned that Florence appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness.

  She turned back to Mrs. Wilson without letting go of her grip on Florence’s wounded hand. “When did it happen? How long ago?”

  “Ten minutes or more, I’d say.”

  Ten minutes. Unlikely that she’d ever bleed to death from such a thing, but with her fainting, I can see how it would have put the idea in their minds. “It’s all fine, then. I know it looks dreadful, all this blood, but you mustn’t worry.” She took another fresh dry cloth from Mr. Carter and changed out the soaked one in a single smooth movement that immediately kept a viselike pressure on Florence’s hand. “The bleeding’s already slowed, see?”

  Mrs. Evans returned in a breathless flurry with a basket of clean white squares and a wooden box with sewing supplies from the cabinet in Rowan’s office. “He uses these!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Evans. If you’ll set the bandages there, that will keep them handy as we change them out when they get soaked.” She looked around the table at their faces, all earnestly looking to her for instruction as Florence lay so still. “Our greatest concern is infection. Mrs. Wilson, do you have any vinegar or alcohol in the kitchen? It will be painful, so I’d prefer to use it while Florence won’t mind as much.”

  “I have some apple vinegar!”

  “That will do very well.”

  Carter brought more ice and Gayle applied it as generously as she could to slow the bleeding even more while she organized her thoughts and prepared for the next steps. With the three of them looking on, she flushed out the wound with vinegar and then carefully but quickly sutured the cut palm and fingers as best she could. She was fairly certain that only the fleshy muscle of the fingers had been damaged, but with the palm, Gayle had to pray that none of the tendons were severed to affect poor Florence’s dexterity.

  Logic dictated that the fewer stitches she used meant fewer invasive punctures of the maid’s hands, and Gayle hoped her instincts were right to trust that the body’s unseen abilities to recover and rebuild would increase the less she interfered with them.

  She finished her sutures, cut the thread, applied another liberal dose of vinegar and then ice just as Florence started to come around.

  “Did I . . . Why am I on the kitchen table?”

  Everyone smiled in relief. “No onions in the soup tonight, thanks to yer clumsiness!” Mrs. Wilson chided gently with a warm squeeze of Florence’s shoulder.

  Gayle gently dried off the hand and began to wrap it up. “Here, I’ll finish with this and Mr. Carter can help you down whenever you’re ready.”

  Mrs. Evans folded her shawl and put it under Florence’s head. “No rush! Rest here for a while and Barnaby will carry you up to your room. Shouldn’t she rest tonight, Miss Renshaw? Wouldn’t that be best?”

  Gayle nodded, momentarily speechless at being deferred to by the intimidating housekeeper. But they were all looking at her with a new respect, and Gayle wasn’t sure what to say. “Certainly.”

  Rowan’s voice broke in from the doorway. “Is everyone hiding? Is everything all right?”

  It was a cheerful chaos as everyone in the room except Gayle began to relate the terrifying excitement they’d endured, praising his assistant’s miraculous intervention and swearing that she’d saved poor Florence’s life. Even Florence tried to contribute, holding out her bandaged hand and tearfully confessing that she was sorry to have missed most of it.

  Rowan nodded, calmly agreeing with their praise and quietly taking in all the details in the room. The blood on the floor and the table. The soaked bandages and his suture kit on the sideboard. The vinegar bottle and the melting ice in the ceramic bowl next to it. The beautiful wrap on Florence’s hand.

  And Gayle.

  Calm and still.

  Flawless.

  “I am glad that Miss Renshaw was here. Florence, take your time and I’ll just leave you in Mrs. Evans’s and Mrs. Wilson’s capable hands for now. Carter, we’ll give everyone the night off after all this excitement, and I’ll fend for myself this evening. Miss Renshaw, why don’t I walk you back upstairs?”

  He held out his arm for her to take and was surprised at how meekly she moved to allow him to escort her out. Her fingers were warm through the cloth of his coat sleeve, but he could feel them trembling.

  He slowed as they reached the first-floor landing, unable to stop the qu
estions from coming. “You’re never this quiet, Miss Renshaw. Are you all right?”

  She lifted her head, the black silk curls of her hair falling back from her cheeks framing violet eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. “It was . . .”

  “Terrifying?” he ventured cautiously.

  “Exhilarating.”

  Exhilarating. Intoxicating. Indefinable.

  His brain echoed with her confession, adding sentiments all his own for the woman standing in front of him. “Yes,” he whispered, his fingers moving up to cradle her face, tenderly drawing her closer for a kiss. “What a marvel you are. . . .”

  “Kiss me, Rowan.”

  He didn’t need the command, but the permission pushed open the floodgates of his desire for this mercurial creature, so vibrant and lovely. Weeks of trouble and torture, and she was warm in his arms and soft, her head tipped back and her red lips parted eagerly, and Rowan was sure that no man living could have resisted temptation.

  He kissed her as if she were truly his, as if there was nothing in the world to prevent him from touching her as he wished—all the while sure that at any moment she would remind him otherwise.

  Gayle felt alive with an urgency, so forbidden and naughty, it made her almost giddy. The turn of the stairs would hide them from any casual looks from the floors below, but at the moment, she wasn’t sure if she trusted her senses to hear anyone coming—she was so trapped in a whirlwind of excitement. The possibility of being caught in the open didn’t dampen her feelings, but only made the seconds seem sweeter and more precious as they ticked away.

  He kissed her and it was her first kiss revisited, but instead of fairy-light brushes of silk at the start, this was the bone-melting feast that she’d left off in a panic. Only this time, all her fears were forgotten. Even the fear of discovery should have made her consider hurrying up the stairs, but the languid heat building in her blood bid her to savor every step.