Jade Star

by Catherine Coulter

  Jules laughed, shook her head, and inadvertently stepped on his toes.

  “How about where and how he got the nickname Saint?”

  “Your wife is waving at you, sir,” she said gaily as the music came to a halt.

  Brent watched her glide into another dance with Dan Brewer. He made his way through the crowd toward his wife. To his surprise, he saw Penelope Stevenson standing with Jules’s brother, Thomas. She looked absolutely furious, and Thomas, interestingly enough, was looking ready to yawn with apparent boredom.

  Jules released her husband, but only for five minutes, she told him, to speak to several men. The orchestra was not playing, and she looked about for Chauncey or Agatha. They must have gone upstairs to the ladies’ receiving room. She walked to the French windows along the side of the ballroom. It was a beautiful, clear fall evening. She slipped out onto the balcony and leaned her elbows on the railing. It was nice to be alone for a bit. But only for five minutes, she added to herself. She wanted to dance with Michael again. She wished desperately that she’d managed to stay awake the previous night, but she hadn’t. She didn’t even know if he had come to bed, for when she’d awakened in the morning, he’d been gone. She sighed, and for once didn’t admire the beautiful azaleas on the balcony. Something had to be done, but she simply didn’t know . . .

  “Ah,” a soft voice came from behind her, “the little lamb left alone to the wolf.”

  Jules whirled about to face a man wearing a light gray cloak and a gray mask.

  “Who are you, sir?” she asked, not at all concerned.

  “I’ve been watching you all evening, my dear. You seem very sure of yourself, surrounded by all those people. I had almost despaired of finding you alone. It would appear that you’ve made quite a few friends.”

  “What,” Jules said, suspicious now, “are you talking about?”

  “I must also tell you that you look more beautiful than I had imagined. Is it possible, my dear, that you occasionally miss me, think of me?”

  “Your jest, sir, is wearing a bit thin,” Jules said sharply. “Have you perhaps visited the punch bowl too many times?”

  “Really, Juliana, don’t you recognize me?”

  She did, very suddenly, and felt herself go cold. He didn’t have to remove his mask. “Get away from me!”

  He lunged for her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her against him, away from the open windows. “No!” she shrieked, and felt his hand slap down over her mouth.

  She struggled wildly and bit his hand.

  He sucked in his breath, and for an instant his hand eased and she jerked her head back and screamed.

  “You damned little bitch,” he hissed in her ear. In the next moment she felt searing pain as his fist crashed into her jaw. Flashes of stark white exploded before her eyes, and then there was nothing.

  17

  Thomas DuPres, quite satisfied with his latest skirmish with Penelope Stevenson, strolled through the chattering groups of people toward the long bank of French windows. He’d seen Jules going in that direction a few minutes before, and decided he wanted to talk to her. Lord, it was an opulent house, he thought, and like Jules, he’d cataloged and duly appreciated all the flowers arranged in huge pots throughout the ballroom. He saw Penelope waving imperiously to him, grinned to himself, and quickly eased out onto the balcony. It was no wonder the girl was spoiled rotten; he just might be also had he been raised as she had been, doubtless given anything she wanted. For the moment, he would let her suffer.

  He looked about for Jules but didn’t at first see her. He called her name softly—just in case, he told himself, there were any lovers out here.

  He suddenly heard a man curse viciously. He whipped about and searched the shadows at the far end of the balcony. He saw his sister struggling wildly with a man wearing a long cloak and mask. He watched in shocked horror as the man struck Jules and she crumpled where she stood.

  He yelled as he sprinted forward, “You bastard! What the hell are you doing?”

  Jameson Wilkes saw the young man running full tilt toward him. He gave Jules one final look, so furious he wanted to howl. He started to draw out his derringer, but decided it was too risky. He’d heard her strike her head when she’d fallen, and for an instant he felt tearing fear that she was terribly hurt or even dead. “Dammit, no!” He wasn’t certain if it was a cry to her or a cry to some unhearing god. He wrapped his cloak tightly about him and vaulted gracefully over the balcony railing.

  “Jules!” Thomas was only vaguely aware that the man had disappeared. He knelt beside his sister, saw that she was unconscious, and quickly lifted her into his arms. He drew to an abrupt halt just outside the French doors. No reason to cause a riot, he thought. Gently he eased her down and slipped inside. He found Saint speaking to Del Saxton.

  “Come quickly,” he said. “It’s Jules. She’s been hurt.”

  Saint felt fear ripple through him, tensing his muscles. He said nothing, merely hurried after Thomas. When he saw her, pale and small, lying unconscious against one of the long windows, he forced himself to be calm. I’d be scared silly, he remembered telling her when she’d asked him what he’d feel if she were ill. And he was.

  He gently took her wrist and felt for her pulse. Strong and steady. He heard Thomas saying to Del, “I think he struck her jaw. When he saw me, he jumped over the railing.”

  Saint lightly ran his fingers over her jaw, relieved, for it wasn’t broken. But why was she still unconscious? He turned on his heel to look up at Thomas. “Did she fall?”

  “I think so.”

  So she’d hit her head on the stones. He lifted her just a bit and quickly found a growing lump behind her left ear. “Damn,” he said very softly.

  “Wilkes?” Del Saxton said.

  “I don’t know,” Thomas said. “Of course, I’ve never seen Wilkes before, and this man was wearing a mask—a gray mask and a cloak. Is she all right, Saint?”

  Saint closed his eyes a moment, trying to get hold of himself. “I’m getting her home right now,” he said, his voice harsh. “Thomas, stay here, and you too, Del. No reason to upset the guests.”

  “I’ll have Lucas bring around our carriage,” Del said. “It will be quickest.”

  She was still unconscious when Saint lifted her into the carriage some five minutes later. “She’ll be all right,” he said to Thomas and Del. God, he hoped he was right!

  “Are you certain—?” Thomas began.

  “Stay here. I’m the doctor, remember?”

  Lucas whipped up the horses. Saint pulled Jules onto his lap and pressed her head against his chest. The short ride was the longest in his memory.

  “Thanks, Luc,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

  Saint carried her upstairs and eased her down onto the bed. Our bed now, he thought. He undressed her as gently as he could. “Damned women’s corsets,” he muttered, pulling the stays loose. He left her in her shift and methodically examined her.

  Enough was enough, he decided a few minutes later. He slapped her face, saying as he did so, “Come on, sweetheart, wake up now. I’m scared silly, and you don’t want your husband a dithering idiot. Wake up, Jules.”

  Jules heard a man’s voice, but it made her head hurt, a dull, pounding pain. “No,” she muttered, trying to pull away from the hands on her shoulders. “No.”

  “Come on, love.”

  The light was dim, and he was shadowy, just as the light had been on the balcony at the Stevensons’ ball, and she thought he was Jameson Wilkes. She cried out and tried to push him away. “No!” she shrieked.

  Oh God, Saint thought, not again. From her fear, he was quite certain that it had been Wilkes.

  “It’s me, Michael. Michael,” he repeated, not touching her. He waited patiently for her to quiet and regain her wits.

  “Michael?” Jules managed to focus on him. “Wilkes,” she gasped. “He tried to—”

  “I know. But he didn’t. Thomas saved you, sweetheart. You�
�re home with me now. And safe.”

  Of course, he’d said that before. And he’d lied.

  “My head,” she whispered, for the sound of her own voice sent waves of pain through her entire body.

  “When you fell, you hit your head. You’ve probably got a concussion, but you’ll be all right. How does your jaw feel?”

  “I don’t know, all I can feel is my head.” She shivered in reaction and Saint quickly pulled a blanket to her chin.

  “I imagine it hurts quite a bit,” he said very softly. “I can’t give you any laudanum, at least not yet.” he held up three fingers. “How many, Jules?”

  “Three.”

  “And now?”

  “Six.”

  “Good.”

  “The ball,” she wailed softly. “I wanted to waltz with you again.”

  “We will again, soon, I promise. God, you did scare me silly.” He took her limp hand in his and brought it to his mouth. He kissed her fingers.

  “He’s crazy,” Jules said, watching her husband holding and kissing her hand through a haze of pain.

  “You’re certain it was Wilkes?”

  “Oh yes. He mocked me and taunted me. Just like the other—” She broke off, biting her lip, appalled.

  Saint was silent for many moments, studying her pale face. “What other time?” he asked.

  She wanted to lie, but the tone of his voice wouldn’t brook a lie. “A while ago, that first day I was with Chauncey.”

  “Would you mind telling me why you didn’t inform me of this?”

  He sounded so controlled, so very calm, that she said honestly, “I was afraid that he would hurt you.”

  He went rigid.

  Jules didn’t notice. She was trying desperately to control the pain. “I knew he couldn’t hurt me—there were so many men about on the street. But I thought if I told you, you would go after him. You’re so honorable, but he’s a snake. I couldn’t bear it if he hurt you.”

  “Jules, look at me.”

  “Yes,” she said, his face clear before her eyes.

  “Do I look like a fool, an idiot? Do I look like a man who could be hurt?”

  “He would hire people! He would—”

  “I think you’d best be quiet now. God in heaven, I don’t believe this!”

  Saint rose, ripped off his black cloak, and hurled it to the floor. He was so furious he couldn’t think straight. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. “Jules,” he said, very calmly now, “I am your husband. You are my responsibility. If you don’t trust me to take care of you, you reduce me to nothing. Do you understand me?”

  “No,” she managed, then cried out softly.

  “Oh damn,” he said, angry with himself now for upsetting her. Some doctor you are, idiot! He sat down beside her and gently probed the lump behind her ear.

  ‘I don’t want to cry,” she gasped, but her head felt like a melon being battered against the ground. Tears seeped from the corners of her tightly closed eyes. Saint wanted to find Wilkes and kill him. But he couldn’t leave her. He cursed again very softly, pulled off his boots, and eased into bed beside her. “Come here against me,” he said. “In a little while I can give you something for the pain. But not yet, sweetheart. I’m sorry, but I can’t take the chance.” The chance she’d never wake up.

  He could feel the waves of pain each time she tensed. Very quietly, his voice soothing and low, he started to speak. “Did I ever tell you about the Siamese twins I saw born in Boston? They were male, and attached from their waists to their knees.” No, no, he thought frantically. That story had a ghastly ending. “They lived happily ever after. But there was this man, way back in the fifth century. Actually, he was the Emperor Justinian, and his wife was the Empress Theodora. Interestingly enough, the empress had been a prostitute before she married Justinian and won a crown. In any case, the both of them wanted to eradicate prostitution. Her way didn’t work, of course, but it was quite an interesting approach.” Saint paused a moment, and Jules said in a sleepy voice, “Yes? Go on, Michael. What did she do?”

  He smiled slightly, and continued, “Well, what she did was to build a beautiful palace-prison, and she had five hundred prostitutes taken there. They were treated very well. In fact, they could have whatever they wanted, with the exception of one thing: no men allowed. It is said that most of the women committed suicide in their despair, and the remainder soon died of boredom and vexation.”

  He heard her giggle. She said in a blurred voice, “Vexation? I love you, Michael, but I think you made that up.”

  He swallowed, unable to think of anything to say. She didn’t know, didn’t realize, what she’d said. “I didn’t make it up,” he said.

  She didn’t answer. She was asleep.

  “It was vexation. I know the feeling well,” he said, and kissed her very lightly on the cheek.

  He woke her during the night, forced her to tell him who she was, who he was, and how many fingers he was holding up. At last, early the next morning, he gave her some laudanum in a glass of water, and watched her fall into a deep, healing sleep.

  Thomas was waiting for him downstairs, still dressed as a pirate, pacing furiously. He was so angry he couldn’t speak, and Saint, after reassuring him for the tenth time, sent him to bed.

  Lydia was furious and appalled, and Saint winced at the sound of her crashing the pots and pans about in the kitchen, each of them probably a substitute for Wilkes’s head.

  Then Del Saxton arrived, his face grave and worried. He said without preamble, “How is she?”

  “She will be fine. I gave her some laudanum just a while ago and she’s sleeping soundly now.”

  “I’ve put a search out for Wilkes. Apparently the man’s not a complete fool. It appears he’s left the city. I also ran into Limpin’ Willie early this morning. He’s ready to spit nails and will get the Sydney Ducks out scouring for him.”

  “Thank you. I had intended to . . . well, it’s done. Thomas is still asleep.” He stopped and drank some strong black coffee, offering some to Del.

  After several moments, Saint said more to himself than to Del Saxton, “Wilkes approached her before, but she didn’t tell me.” He gave a bitter, mocking laugh. “She was afraid he would hurt me. Me! The little fool was worried about protecting me!”

  Del studied his friend for many moments. “You can thank me for keeping Brent away, at least for a while. He’s of course rather upset with you because you didn’t tell him about Wilkes.”

  “What the hell was there to tell, for God’s sake?”

  “Calm down. Don’t you want your friends to be concerned? No, don’t answer that. I’ve been thinking,” Del continued after a moment.

  “And you’re going to dose me with your damned advice whether I want it or not!”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. Listen, Saint, I assume that Jules is still a virgin. If you’ll remember, you let that fact slip.”

  Saint winced.

  “It seems to me,” Del continued quietly, “that there are two ways to protect her. The first is to find Wilkes and kill him. That would be difficult, because he’s gone to ground. The second—and certainly more pleasurable—way would be to consummate your damned marriage and get her pregnant.”

  “Pregnancy doesn’t necessarily follow sex, Del,” Saint said, trying to make light of his friend’s words. “Indeed, if you will recall, Chauncey didn’t become pregnant for a number of months, and I imagine that you kept her quite busy during those months.”

  “True, but beside the point. You’ve got to try, Saint. No matter this weird obsession Wilkes has for her, I can’t envision him wanting to kidnap a pregnant woman.”

  “No,” Saint said very softly, utterly serious now.

  “You can’t continue playing the benign father to your wife! Chauncey tells me that Jules is crazy in love with you. What the hell is going on, Saint?”

  Saint rose and walked to the fireplace. He looked down into the empty grate. Crazy in love with him? What utter
nonsense. A young girl’s infatuation mixed with a strong dose of gratitude—fleeting, ephemeral as the San Francisco fog. He said without turning, “Jules has been hurt very badly. Whatever feelings she thinks she has for me, if I tried to make love to her, she would be terrified. I had hoped she would forget, and perhaps . . .” He shrugged. “Last night, when she regained consciousness, she thought I was Wilkes. If you had seen her face, you wouldn’t suggest such a thing. I will not hurt her. I will not force myself on her.”

  * * *

  Jules looked blankly at the partially open parlor door. She felt dizzy, her head fuzzy. Slowly she tied her dressing gown more closely about her. It was odd, but she didn’t remember thinking Michael was Jameson Wilkes. Had she truly looked terrified? The men’s words wove in and out of her mind, fighting with the laudanum. She heard Michael’s low, intense voice, “No, no more, Del. I know you mean well, but—”

  “You’re my friend, dammit! You of all men leading a celibate life! How much longer do you think you can stay sane living like this? And face it, Saint, you can’t keep Jules a prisoner, and you simply can’t be with her all the time.”

  “I’ll think of something,” Saint said.

  She heard Del Saxton rise from his chair and move toward the door. She pulled herself upright, and wobbled back up the stairs. Her head began to pound again and she curled up under the covers, closing her eyes tightly.

  When she woke, Thomas was sitting beside her.

  “Michael?” she whispered.

  “Sorry, love, he’s with a patient. How do you feel?”

  “I had this strange dream,” she began, then closed her mouth. It hadn’t been a dream. Her mouth felt full of dry wool. “Can I have some water, Thomas?”

  “Certainly, love. A moment, there isn’t any up here. I’ll be right back.”

  Of course there wasn’t any water here. That’s why she’d dragged herself downstairs earlier. And heard them talking, Michael and Del Saxton.

  After she’d drunk her fill, Thomas said, “You look like one of those skinny little lizardfish, all pale and limp.”