Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  Later, as the copper tub was brought up and filled with hot water from the kitchens, Eleanor had a little time to contemplate the new luxuries of her life. She’d had a lifetime of relative ease and never realized it, but months of hardship had provided a quick and brutal lesson on the costs of every common item she’d ever touched.

  Eleanor picked up the pink bar of French-milled soap that the housemaid had brought up, turning it over on her palm. There’s a few shillings spent for rose-scented vanity after months of hard lye soap.

  Everything had its price. She sighed and set it back down in the little dish hanging off the side of the steaming bathtub. She began to disrobe quickly but still folded her things and set them aside carefully to avoid needing a pressing. Finally, she was able to step gingerly over the edge and settle slowly into the water until she was up to her chin in the indulgent sensation of silky heat.

  As soon as the painting was finished, she would have money of her own, and the idea coalesced around her like the steam of her bath. The terrors of poverty could fade away and Eleanor would be able to celebrate the consolations that came with surviving with her honor intact.

  Easy to pay Josiah back for coal and soap, but there’s more to it, isn’t there?

  He sat at my feet and I was transformed somehow.

  How do you pay a man back for that?

  Chapter

  11

  That evening, most of the Jaded had gathered once again at Rowan’s, each man finding his favorite chair or vantage point in the doctor’s first-floor study and taking comfort in the familiarity of West’s odd eclectic collections and artwork. The men had never known each other or even crossed paths in their different social spheres before they’d been thrown together by their experiences in an Indian dungeon. Surviving it and returning to London had strengthened the friendships between them, and now, the bond of brotherhood was unmistakable. Theirs was a circle that defied any enemy to break through.

  “The advertisement for the front page of the Times is ready,” Ashe announced, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Though I still say the language is too subtle for my mood.”

  Michael crossed his arms defensively. “Blackwell’s mood suggested simply calling him out as a weak-boned, cowardly, murderous bastard along with a few other choice phrases I’m fairly sure the Times won’t allow on the front page due to the decency laws.”

  “God be damned if this villain has—”

  Galen moved to put a gentle restraining hand on Ashe’s shoulder, interrupting him. “Ashe. Whoever it is, they’ll pay for what they’ve done. And no one belittles your fury or sees it as unwarranted. If it were Haley … I think I’d have parted ways with reason.”

  “He did for a while,” Rowan teased, also doing his best to decrease the tension in the room. Ashe’s beloved bride had nearly lost her life, and while his rage was understandable, the game was too dangerous to allow any one of them to be blinded by emotion.

  “How is Caroline faring, Ashe?” Galen asked.

  “She insists that she is as hale and hearty as ever,” Ashe replied, the brittle anger in his ice blue eyes giving way to softer sentiments at the mention of his wife. “But she tires very easily and I—worry. She’s not herself.”

  The doctor in their midst took note. “I’ll make it a point to stop by more often, Ashe. Gayle and she are thick as thieves, so I promise it will seem social enough to keep Caroline from suspecting that we are hovering.”

  “Thank you, Rowan,” Ashe answered gratefully.

  “Very well, then, let’s see to this weak-boned, cowardly, and murderous bastard, shall we?” Michael suggested, unfolding a paper from a leather holder in his pocket. “Here it is.”

  Rowan took the paper and read it aloud:

  Our patience is gone. Nothing is clear and you failed to signal as promised before you struck. Incompetence of your hired man is no excuse. If you want it, we are willing to talk. Place a message on the front page of the Times within a fortnight if you’re listening, Jackal, and we’ll let you know where and when. In the meantime, be on guard. We’ll end this one way or another.—The Jaded.

  “What do you think? Challenging but not too belligerent, without straying into outright libel, wouldn’t you say?” Rutherford asked them.

  “It’s only libel if it isn’t true, Michael,” Ashe growled.

  “The Jackal seems a catching nickname.” Rowan handed the paper back to Michael.

  “Why not do this in one go? Issue a challenge with the place and time and be done with it,” Josiah asked. “Why give him two weeks to reply, if we’re not waiting anymore … ?”

  Michael shook his head. “We need to make sure the fish is on the hook. I want this over with as much as the next man, but he’s gone to ground after his misstep against Blackwell. We could end up losing far more than our time—we could lose our chance to get answers, and more lives could be lost if we end up floundering about and lose the advantage.”

  “Agreed.” Rowan nodded, pouring himself a small brandy. “There’s been no communication or sign of this Jackal since the poisoning. We want this on our terms, not his, and on our timetable. To hell with full moons and mystic signs!”

  “The only detail left to decide is where we want to meet the villain after he responds.” Galen took the paper from Michael to read over it. “I’m assuming we’re staying within London for this.”

  “Hell, let’s make it Hyde Park!” Ashe refilled his glass and found a seat near Josiah. “A public spectacle might make him think twice before pulling anything.”

  Most of the men immediately began shaking their heads, but it was Michael who spoke first. “No. It’s too open with far too many places for an ambush—and in the weather we’ve been having this winter, there might not be much of a public strolling Hyde Park to witness anything—not that we necessarily want witnesses! No parks.”

  “Fine.” Ashe sighed. “I’m not making any more suggestions since it’s clear none of you trust me not to bring a pistol to meet this murderer. And for the record, Michael has already threatened to make me empty my pockets, so you can all rest easier when the critical moment comes.”

  “Hardly!” Josiah scoffed softly, a hand over his eyes as if the glare from the lamps were bothering him. “What’s to keep you from just strangling him with your bare hands?”

  “Good point.” Michael shifted back to lean against the wall of bookshelves. “Blackwell stays home.”

  “Blackwell will do as he damn well pleases,” Ashe countered.

  “Time enough to argue about that, gentlemen.” Galen cleared his throat. “So where will we demand the meeting take place?”

  “There is an old gambling house near the Grove. I know the owner and we can reserve a private room on the first floor. It’s public enough, I think, without exposing us to an ambush, but still discreet enough so that we can have whatever conversation is required without worrying,” Michael explained.

  “A gambling house.” Rowan repeated the words, as if mulling it over. “Let’s just be careful that our next message doesn’t read like an advertisement for treasure. It already sounds salacious enough to catch every casual reader’s attention. The last thing we need is an unexpected flock of curious pigeons showing up and muddling the plan.”

  “Agreed.” Galen took a sip of his barley water. “Damn it, what is keeping Darius in Scotland?”

  Ashe shrugged. “He won’t say. Something about a personal matter, which makes me wonder if there is a lady involved, but he did send word that one of his best contacts in the gem trade had heard talk of a ‘sacred treasure,’ but didn’t have more details yet. Hopefully, he can find out what the damn ‘sacred treasure’ is so that we’ll know what we’re dealing with.” Ashe held out the last letter from Thorne to Josiah, but Josiah waved it off.

  “What does the scholar have to say?” Josiah asked.

  Ashe unfolded the note and read it aloud:

  I may have a lead on the sacred treasure. Dealers here value cus
tomer confidentiality highly so can’t rush, but will press as best I can to get better information. My favorite, Mr. P., is sure to know something, and hinted recently that there was quite a tale connected to our mystery object. Trying to get specifics on vague phrase, since every stone hauled out of India might carry the same description if you had asked a local. In any case, when the meeting comes together or even before, if any description becomes available, please send courier immediately.

  Will remain in Edinburgh for now.

  D

  “If there are answers there, Thorne is sure to find them.” Ashe spoke with confidence, his faith in his best friend unshaken. “He has the keenest intellect of any man I’ve ever known.”

  None of them argued, but a few glances were exchanged as Galen’s protest had gone unanswered. What personal matter would keep Darius away from London—especially now, when everything felt like it was coming to a head at last?

  “We’ll wait to hear from him, and in the meantime, I’m taking our ad to the Times for placement. Gentlemen, things are in motion, but from this moment onward, we’ll be the ones with our hands on the helm,” Michael announced.

  The informal meeting seemed to break up, as Ashe was determined to return to Caroline’s side. The men began to offer their farewells, but Michael caught Josiah before he could slip out.

  “About Miss Beckett—I’m not sure if she mentioned it, but the lady has informed me that she doesn’t need a bodyguard, Hastings.”

  Josiah smiled, shrugging on his coat. “So much for your subtle skills of observance.”

  Rutherford bristled a bit. “As if my nerves weren’t already on edge! I can’t help but worry that you’ve brought this woman into things at the worst time, Hastings. You’re making light of it, but—”

  “I’m not making light of anything.” Josiah held his ground. “The work is begun, and it’s going fast. I won’t stop now.”

  Michael shook his head. “Two or three weeks and this will be behind us. Whatever this work entails, what is a fortnight? You’re being selfish, Hastings.”

  “Perhaps I am. But I’ll hire the man you provided references for as a guard for the ground floor. I’ll take any measures you recommend to guarantee her safety or mine, but I can’t stop now. I have to finish this painting, Michael. As soon as I’m done, she’ll end our association and be out of harm’s way, but I’m not relinquishing this until I’m forced to it! And you, Michael Rutherford, are not going to force me to do anything!”

  Rowan stepped in between them. “Let the man paint, Michael. None of the rest of us have suspended our lives. We’ve become more cautious, but we haven’t ceased our professions or our pursuits. You cannot single out Hastings.”

  Michael shifted back, and the tension began to ease. “I apologize. The mysteries of painting are beyond me, and it’s a failing of mine to see things only in terms of defense and strategy. I didn’t mean to single you out, Hastings. It’s only that …”

  “It’s only what?” Josiah asked.

  “Something else is going on with you. Something you’re not saying, because the man I know would never be so cavalier about risking someone’s life. You cannot be so blind as to think—”

  “Peace, Rutherford!” Rowan interjected.

  Michael turned and left without another word, the firm closing of the study door creating a pall over the gathering.

  “What was that all about?” Galen asked.

  Josiah pulled up his collar, shielding his face from his friends as he turned to follow Michael out. “Just an exercise in defense and strategy, gentlemen. Nothing more.”

  Josiah left the brownstone, as distracted by the furious twists of his thoughts as the dark shadows that had settled into the left side of his vision for the day. Michael’s words had cut too close to the painful truth, and Rutherford, as always, was not a man to hold his opinion back.

  But Josiah couldn’t argue his case without giving secrets away and sacrificing the last of his pride. And he wasn’t oblivious to the dangers of the threat to the Jaded. But Michael’s point had been well made. There was no denying that in recent months Josiah had somehow decided that ignoring the matter equated to an ability to avoid it. It was difficult to imagine the drama of hidden assassins and sacred treasures even remotely existing, much less in the stark world of London in winter. It didn’t seem real, even now, despite everything that had happened to his friends.

  I should know better.

  Or is it that I’ve already become a bit blind? I’ve been so caught up in my own frustration and the struggle to come to terms with the darkness ahead, I believed it would be a mercy if some knife-wielding figure had leapt from the shadows. …

  Until I met Eleanor.

  Now I’m blinded by her colors and her beauty and Rutherford is right—I’m selfish.

  Damn it. I want this.

  But there was something else circling his senses, and Josiah finally acknowledged it with one long, heavy sigh.

  I want more than just to complete a painting.

  I want her. Ravenously. Mindlessly.

  The revelation didn’t bring him any comfort. It was beyond impossible. He’d vowed not to touch her, and Miss Eleanor Beckett wasn’t the sort of woman that would allow him even the hint of a liberty. Hell, it was one of the reasons she probably appealed so strongly. It was human nature to seek forbidden fruit, and she was a woman out of his reach. Even if he hadn’t been teetering on the brink of uselessness, her firm sensibilities and adherence to all things proper made him a terrible choice for her, with his artist’s reputation for wild aesthetics and erratic morals.

  And now that he was going blind, nothing was simple. It didn’t matter if he had two king’s ransoms at his fingertips or an acceptable pedigree—ultimately he would be a burden to her.

  If she learned his secret, she might come to him out of pity and misguided affection, or convince herself that it was her Christian duty to see to him since he’d “saved her life.” Josiah shuddered at the idea.

  His desire for Eleanor wanted nothing to do with pity. In his fantasies, he was whole and there was a conquest to be made—with no room for his failings or the lack of a future. But the fantasy never held for long, disintegrating into a tender tangle that he suspected was far more dangerous than any straightforward seduction a man could envision.

  By the time he reached his own home, he knew only one thing for certain.

  He could no longer afford to be cavalier about anything.

  Nothing is worth risking her life. But there’s a compromise if I’m careful. I’ll add the security that Rutherford’s been after, and more.

  I’ll push harder to finish this painting before this other business comes to a head, and guarantee that Miss Eleanor Beckett will be free and beyond the reach of any of it.

  It was the worst kind of irony that he would have to rush to see things finished when finishing meant losing her company. But there was nothing else to be done. If he didn’t finish it, he would never have another chance to see his work come to life.

  The darkness was coming. Time was his relentless adversary and he’d already chosen his path.

  He would complete the work as quickly as he could and pray that his hunger for Eleanor didn’t get in the way.

  Chapter

  12

  “You look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Mr. Hastings.”

  He tried to smile, and shook his head. “I’m pouting like a spoiled boy. It’s snowing and the light isn’t good today. I shouldn’t have sent for you at all, but we’ll push ahead with the candlelight and make do.”

  He wasn’t ready to admit that he’d grown used to her presence, and after the foolish argument he’d had with Rutherford several nights before, Josiah knew it was his own stubborn pride that had insisted on continuing to summon her.

  Besides, this morning he’d awoken to a nearly clear field of vision. Escher had already replaced most of the melted candles and even found two more candel
abras to suit his employer’s mood. Josiah lit one candle and then began to use it to light the others while she waited.

  Eleanor walked over to the table. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I imagine ballrooms don’t have this many candles, Mr. Hastings.”

  “Have you never been to a ball, Miss Beckett?”

  She laughed. “No!”

  “To a country dance, then?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Eleanor smoothed her hands gently against the velvet at her waist. “My father was a self-made man who always aspired to higher society. We read all the social pages and he used to memorize etiquette books because I think he was afraid of anyone thinking less of him for not being born with a fortune. He had great hopes for me. …”

  “And what were your hopes?”

  “Mine?” she asked in astonishment.

  “You seem to have memorized all those etiquette books as well. Were you not hoping to attend a ball? Meet some wealthy industrialist or aspiring politician and join a ladies’ social club or two?” he asked, deliberately keeping his tone light despite his keen interest in her reply. “Or did you aspire to the peerage?”

  She laughed. “I have never met a titled peer nor do I expect to, Mr. Hastings. I am a realistic woman and it is not in my future.”

  He had to bite his tongue to keep from correcting her since the Jaded’s inner circle included a future earl. “What did you want, then, Miss Beckett?”

  “I wanted to please my father.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No.” She trailed a finger along the tabletop. “But what does it matter?”

  His hand froze midair and a single wax drop fell onto the table. “Out with it, Miss Beckett. Or I’ll threaten to paint a big wart on your nose.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Tell me what you hoped for.”

  “Why?”

  “Because guessing is going to keep me from sleeping for years to come, so I’m begging you to share your confidences with me. Let’s call it curiosity, and leave it at that.”