Rags to Rubies

by Annalisa Russo

  Tomorrow he would leave his locomobile and Mr. Cobb at their disposal while he conducted some pressing business. Afterward, they would attend an evening at the theatre, then dinner at Sardi’s, and a nightcap at the Cotton Club. Zia Bruna sat across the wide formal table from her host and eyed him warily.

  Earlier, Zia had admitted privately to Grace that she was glad Jared had taken control of the situation. Bruna knew she wasn’t in a position to protect her niece but, in the heated conversation that followed, said in her broken English that men like Jared didn’t have to be honorable. That society would blame her, not him, for any indiscretion.

  Zia had even called him a vitaiòlo, a man about town. Grace smiled now at the thought. But Bruna did admit that she’d overheard the kitchen help discussing how he’d never brought a woman to Ravenhall before. Never. Apparently, he took his pleasures elsewhere, privately, not in full view of his servants. Zia Bruna had to admit that pleased her. Ricco uomo, rich men, could do whatever they wanted without censure. Evidently, the man had some pride about himself, Zia had said.

  “I go now.” Zia Bruna stood with difficulty.

  Jared rose and took her arm. “Let me help you, Zia.” He held her elbow as she angled herself into the wheelchair and plopped down heavily.

  “Grazie per banchetto.”

  Jared frowned. Smiling, Grace cleared her throat. “Do you need any help?” she asked, but Bruna impatiently waved her off. “Well, good night then, Zia. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave her a kiss on the cheek and watched as Jared wheeled Bruna to her room.

  When Jared returned, they took coffee onto a flagstone terrace that overlooked Ravenhall’s pool. The crescent moon’s image shimmered in the water as a gentle breeze ruffled the surface. She noticed several candles had been set about and flickered peacefully. The autumn night, still warm, was heady with aroma.

  “What did your aunt say that made you smile?” Jared asked.

  “Banchetto,” Grace explained, “means banquet, not dinner.” She chuckled. “She thanked you for the banquet.”

  Jared grinned. “She’s a pistol, no doubt about that.”

  “What’s that wonderful scent?” Grace asked.

  “When I bought the estate, old English country roses, climbing varieties, grew everywhere beyond the lawn. They’re so prolific I sometimes instruct the gardener to cut them down even though it goes against his nature. To make amends, I built a greenhouse, beyond the south lawn, where he is content to cultivate tea roses and orchids.” He gestured toward a darkened building a short distance from the terrace. “Would you like to see it?”

  “You have to ask? I’d love to see it,” Grace answered.

  They crossed the terrace to stone steps that led across a formal garden. Nestled among ornamental yews, the glass building blended perfectly with its surroundings. The structure was sunk into the lawn about two feet, and a flagstone path lined with scented lavender led to a weatherbeaten wooden door.

  “There’s no electricity here,” Jared said as he reached into a box mounted to the right of the door and produced an oil lamp. Once the lamp was lit, he opened the door and stood aside for Grace to step down into the garden room.

  Mesmerizing moonlight, soft as a whisper, flooded the greenhouse. The myriad scents of flowers, along with a musky fragrance, wafted through the enclosure. In the shadows, the plants were merely dark clumps, but their exquisite, all-encompassing fragrance was evident.

  Jared set the lamp on a table covered with peat pots and broken shards, and Grace turned to face him. His shallow breathing was noticeable in the silence. The features of his face were shadowed, but soft lamplight backlit his solid, muscular form. She took a step toward him.

  The floral scent, along with a pounding desire, made her head swim as if she’d taken a drug. She wanted nothing more than to fly into his arms and let him kiss her breathless.

  “I can’t seem to keep my head around you,” she told Jared resting her forehead against his chest. “Why is that?”

  He cupped her chin, tilting her face up. “I wish I had the answer,” Jared said. “Then maybe this would make sense to me, too.”

  Grace entwined her arms about his neck and leaned in. She recognized the primal hunger that always hovered just below the surface. Then he kissed her, and the hunger surged. His arms clamped around her, molding her to his body.

  “Jared.” She breathed his name. She couldn’t think. An intense craving tore at her insides. Surely she’d gone mad. Raking her fingers through his thick hair, she gave in to the scalding kiss.

  “You’re driving me crazy, Grace,” Jared muttered as he raised his head. “Why can’t I get my fill of you?” His large hands tightened almost painfully on her shoulders, then released her. She heard his deep intake of breath and a long, complete exhale. He stepped back, black eyes flashing, then reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

  The muscles in his jaw quivered.

  The flicker of irritation Grace saw on Jared’s face had her thudding heartbeat slowing as her common sense reared its ugly head.

  Jared glanced at his wristwatch. “We’d better go inside,” he said brusquely, leading her to the door. He turned the lamp down, then out, and replaced it in its box.

  Walking back to the manor, Grace glanced up to see the outline of a figure in the downstairs bedroom window. She smiled to herself as Jared opened the French doors for her. Zia Bruna.

  ****

  Hidden by the shadow of a giant sycamore on the outer lawn, a man watched the unsuspecting pair as they made their way back to the house. He’d been careful so far, but now hatred was all he could feel. He luxuriated in its darkness. Once again she’d betrayed him. He could see through the greenhouse glass. He could see what they did to each other. Once again she’d let another man put his filthy hands on her. Couldn’t she see he was nothin’ but a brooksy boy, a wallie? Someone had to pay. He wouldn’t live his life without Angela.

  Revenge would be so sweet. Revenge. He whispered the word over and over until spittle ran down his chin.

  Then he saw the old woman in the window close the drapery. Pushing away from the tree, he staggered across the evening-dampened lawn to where the deep, wooded shadows swallowed him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jared settled into the comfort of an unoccupied room in the Union Club, a men’s club he frequented, on Fifth Avenue and 51st Street, to wait for an answer to the long-distance call he had put in to Sallie. He contemplated the mystery surrounding Grace, reviewing the clues to date with a nagging feeling he had overlooked something, something very obvious.

  Resting his elbows on the richly upholstered arms of his wingchair, he tented his fingers and gazed into the flickering light of the small fire in the grate. In spite of his emotional involvement with Grace, he could look at the facts of the case objectively, and none of it made sense.

  His fingertips tapped together in a rhythmic movement. Who would want to hurt her? The only things she had of value to steal were the gems she appraised, but none had ever been stolen. And thieves rarely resorted to murder unless the stakes were extremely high.

  Obviously, Quigley had been working for someone. Someone who had lost confidence in the thief’s ability to achieve the objectives. Or had the murderer simply wanted to silence him? The wily little man had let the killer into his home and turned his back on the person. That implied a certain level of familiarity. Quigley hadn’t known he would become a liability. An expendable one.

  The comfortable chair creaked as Jared settled back and inhaled deeply, getting a good whiff of the hardwood that crackled in the hearth. How could he keep Grace safe from her enemy if he couldn’t identify who the enemy was?

  Sallie had called in a few favors with one of the local cops. Quigley’s long list of priors, all minor, didn’t include murder. No family. No one had yet come forward to claim the body.

  If Quigley wasn’t the mastermind behind this, then who was? And what had been valuable enough to warrant t
he thief’s death?

  “What goes there, de Warre?” a middle-aged, rotund little man asked, plopping down in the matching wing chair. “Haven’t seen you about recently. Been to London, have you?”

  “Hello, Smith.” Jared greeted the gentleman absently, rising halfway from his chair to shake his hand. “No, spent some time in Chicago. How’s business? Anything I’d be interested in?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I always keep my eyes and ears open for you. Some prized Persian rugs came across last week, but I know you prefer the French Aubusson. Looking for anything in particular?”

  If Jared wanted something, he knew Smith would try his best to find it. The man understood the antiquities market as well as he did. Jared recognized quality and value and was rarely wrong when he purchased. While he had done extremely well in resale, Smith had also benefited from some very lucrative commissions.

  “Renaissance jewelry,” Jared said.

  Smith’s brows arched up. “Unusual purchase for you, old man. Your interest is usually in furniture or artwork, Frank Lloyd Wright or Gustav Stickley.”

  “If I wanted to research some pieces, learn more about the period, whom would I consult?” Jared asked.

  Smith put his fingers together, giving the question some thought. “Testing the waters, de Warre?” He chuckled. “S’pose it’s why you do so well. Do your homework before investing.” He picked up the brandy container on the small table between them and poured a healthy measure of it into a snifter. He rolled it around in the glass, contemplating Jared’s question.

  “Contact the man behind Hathaway Appraisals, out of Chicago. Undisputed expert here in the States. If anyone knows Renaissance jewelry, it’s him.” Smith eyed Jared with interest. “What do you have up your sleeve, de Warre? I happen to know you have the Midas touch. Love to get in on a deal, don’t ya know.”

  Jared smiled and waited patiently. Smith usually had more to say. He thrived on information.

  Smith set down the glass and wiped his mouth on the small linen napkin. “Valuable pieces rarely come to market and are usually kept within the bloodlines. Recently, though, a few financial reversals put several important pieces on the auction block. The Black Tiara of Czarina Karmanoff. Exquisite black diamonds. Sold quickly to a French diplomat. A well documented piece with impeccable provenance.”

  The mention of Hathaway Appraisals, given Grace’s modest downplaying of her expertise, had Jared amused. “What would happen if a piece like that were stolen?”

  “They are usually hidden away in some private collection for generations before surfacing again. Most are lost forever because the thieves remove the stones from the settings. If the documentation is valid, the pieces are too well known. A shame, though. The stones are worth considerably less than the whole piece intact. The provenance adds to the value.” He shot Jared a quizzical look. “Do you have a piece in mind? I could query the owner.”

  “No, just curious.”

  A tuxedoed manservant entered the room. “Chicago is calling on the wire, Mr. de Warre.”

  Jared set his glass down, excused himself, and headed for the door. Impulsively, he turned back to Smith. “Sapphires. Look for some sapphires.”

  ****

  “You can go ahead now, sir,” the operator said over a faint buzzing in the background.

  “Do you have good news for me, Sallie?”

  “No one has entered or even approached either house, Jared. I can’t figure it out. Jewels, maybe, but drawings of jewelry? It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe she was wrong about her sketches, and the little guy was just a petty thief.”

  “I found the thief, Sal. Dead. With a bullet in his back.”

  “Oh, Madonne!” The Italian expletive left Sallie’s lips. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you go to the police?”

  “You know the cops in town. They’re too busy busting bootleggers to pay much attention to a dead-end case. Besides, there wasn’t much evidence that I could see, except the dead body, of course.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Just keep watching both houses and make some inquires about a speak called The Peacock Club. About the owner, the clientele.”

  “What’s your interest in all of this?” Sallie inquired.

  It had begun so simply. Jared liked her. She couldn’t protect herself. She was alone and afraid as he had been once. How had it come to this, he wondered?

  He wanted her, but now, somehow, it had become more than desire. Hell, he needed to do this.

  “I don’t know, Sal.”

  Sallie chuckled. “Why did I know you would say that? You might not know, my friend, but I remember the sweet feeling well. I’ll get on it.”

  Leaning back into his chair, Jared replaced the heavy receiver on the wire caddy and rubbed the back of his neck. Sallie would watch her place carefully. He had two weeks to figure this out, and she was safe, for now, with him in New York.

  ****

  On Monday morning the garden behind Ravenhall was a profusion of color and scent. Grace sat in a white Adirondack chair, her aunt in the wheelchair. Both women had their faces turned toward the early morning sunshine.

  Grace thought about the day in her greenhouse when Jared had asked her to come to New York. How easily she had turned herself over to this man, to his protection, his care.

  Growing up without a father’s constant attention had made her independent, able to take care of herself and Bruna without anyone’s help. Even when Leo closed the shop, she could continue her appraisal business. She had a secure reputation and her business was thriving. She’d been able to put aside a generous financial cushion. Time enough to decide in what direction she wanted to go.

  Grace glanced at her aunt with a critical eye. The old woman reached down to pinch off a bit of thyme and brought the fragrant herb to her nostrils.

  Bruna’s coloring seemed better this morning, and she looked more rested. Maybe she’d underestimated how much her aunt worried about her. A few days respite from that responsibility would be good.

  Bruna had been a great beauty in her day, fine featured, with a thick head of hair dark as pitch, and a voluptuous body. Married off young to a man she barely knew, Bruna had eventually fallen in love with her husband. Grace vaguely remembered her uncle as a giant of a man, with gentle ways, a soft voice, and a quick smile. Oh, her aunt was probably a handful even then, but Papa had always told her Bruna’s husband greatly loved his wife, as a coveted prize.

  To their disappointment, the union never bore any children, and then Uncle Daliso was taken from life early, and Bruna never remarried. Grace suspected her aunt couldn’t find a suitable replacement for the gentle giant she had grown to love and respect.

  Grace sent up a silent plea for more time with her aunt.

  “Dovè sei tu oggi, cara mia?”

  Smiling, Grace took her aunt’s wrinkled hand. “Not just me, silly. You’re going, too.” She brought the hand to her lips for a quick kiss. “Jared wasn’t at breakfast because he had to attend to personal business. Donagon said Mr. Cobb is at our disposal all day. So, I thought a trip to Macy’s and lunch at “21” might be in order. What do you think?”

  Bruna seemed pleased with the plans.

  “We’ll leave as soon as Mr. Cobb has the vehicle ready, about an hour.” Trying to sound nonchalant, Grace asked, “Have you seen a young woman and a child about five years old, Zia?”

  “Sì.” Bruna twirled the sprig of thyme under her nose. A smile formed at the corners of her mouth.

  “Quit teasing me!” Grace scolded. “Who is she?”

  Bruna inclined her head toward the back door of the wing that housed the kitchen. “Cook. Le bambino, I do’na know.”

  “Hmmm.” Somehow Grace couldn’t picture the sensuous woman she had seen as a cook.

  “Bacia,” Bruna said kissing her fingers, “disa morning, early. I see them from my window. Here in il giardino.”

  The rush of jealousy must have registered on Grace’s fac
e because Bruna chuckled aloud as she began to wheel herself toward the door. “Like una sorella,” she teased over her shoulder pointing to her cheek.

  “Piàno, Graciella. Like a sister.” She continued to wheel herself slowly down the grassy path.

  ****

  Grace was enjoying the fragrance of a newly opened pink damask rose when she heard a door open and close behind her and then the sound of a light tread on the stone-and-grass pathway.

  She turned to find herself face to face with the young woman who had managed to make her feel the only pangs of jealousy she had ever felt. Even Adam’s conquest had only made her furious, not jealous. She didn’t enjoy this feeling and was prepared not to like the woman in spite of her wide, friendly smile.

  A crisp white half-apron topped a simple cotton print dress. On her hip she carried a small wicker basket. “Hello,” she said. “Do you mind if I pick some herbs and vegetables from the garden?”

  “No, of course not.” Grace held out her hand. “My name is Grace, Grace Hathaway.”

  The woman shifted the basket and took Grace’s hand in a firm grasp. “Mary Francis Kelly. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She skirted around Grace and bent down near a bed of herbs to clip off a few sprigs of rosemary into her basket.

  Grace tried to discern the woman’s accent—Eastern, Boston perhaps, with perfect enunciation. She chewed her lip, trying to decide how to begin a conversation with the beautiful stranger, but soon her curiosity got the best of her. “Are you from New York? Your accent seems more like Boston.”

  The woman paled slightly. “Yes, I grew up in Boston but moved to New York…” She lowered her eyes. “I came here when I was a teenager.” She turned away to clip some dark curly lettuce into the basket.

  Grace stooped to pull a few weeds, noticing Mary kept her face averted and hurried to finish her task. “Have you worked for Mr. de Warre long?” she asked finally, to fill the uncomfortable silence.