by Amanda Quick
“Be prepared to stand in line.”
Arthur waited until Elenora’s partner led her back off the dance floor before he descended into the ballroom. He had no intention of standing in line. But he was irritated to discover that he had to use some force and a certain degree of raw intimidation to make his way into Elenora’s inner circle.
When he finally arrived, Elenora did not appear to be overjoyed to see him. After her small start of surprise, she gave him a polite, somewhat quizzical smile.
“What are you doing here, sir?” she asked in a low voice meant for his ears alone. “I thought you had other plans for the evening.”
She was acting as though he was the last person she had wanted to see tonight, he mused. Conscious of the disgruntled gentlemen loitering about in the vicinity, he smiled the way a man smiled at a lady who belonged to him.
“What plans could possibly be more important than dancing with my lovely fiancée?” he asked, bending over her hand. He took her arm and steered her firmly toward the dance floor. “Where are Bennett and Margaret?” he growled.
“They disappeared into the card room an hour or so ago.” She studied him with mild concern. “What is the matter, sir? You appear to be somewhat perturbed.”
“I’m not perturbed, I’m annoyed.”
“I see. Well, you really cannot blame me for not being able to distinguish between the two states of being. In your case they appear remarkably alike.”
He refused to be teased out of his bad temper. “Bennett and Margaret were supposed to keep an eye on you.”
“Ah, so that is the problem. You were concerned about me. Well, there is absolutely no need, sir. I assure you, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He thought about the cluster of gentlemen that had surrounded her earlier. “I do not like the idea of you being left alone in the middle of a ballroom with a crowd of strangers.”
“I was hardly alone, sir, and I am making friends at a great rate.”
“That is not the point. You are a very competent woman, Elenora, but there is no getting around the fact that you have not had a great deal of experience swimming in Society.” Bennett’s admonition came back to him. “These waters can be extremely treacherous.”
“I assure you, there is no need to worry about me. That is one of the reasons you went to an agency to hire a paid companion, if you will recall. Among other requirements, you wished to employ a female who had been out in the world; one who possessed a degree of common sense.”
“And that is another thing.” He tightened his grip on her. “What were you thinking when you told Hathersage that I had found you at an agency?”
“Bennett warned me that I would have to say something to Hathersage that would cause him to sit up and take notice, as it were. I had heard about your infamous vow a year ago, the one about seeking your next bride at an agency. I decided that if I referred to your little jest, Hathersage would be amused. That is precisely what happened.”
“Huh.” He did not like it, but he had to admit she was right. Hathersage had found Elenora very entertaining. “Who told you about those remarks I made a year ago?”
“Evidently everyone has heard about them. Indeed, they appear to have become a part of your personal legend.”
He winced. “At the time I intended them as a bit of wit, one of those things one says to deflect sympathy or unwanted inquiries.”
“I understand. But later, when you realized you needed a lady who could pose as your fiancée, it occurred to you that the idea was actually a very good one, is that it?”
“It was either that or employ a professional actress,” he agreed. “I was reluctant to do that for fear that she might be recognized by, uh,” he hesitated, searching for a diplomatic turn of phrase. “Someone who had seen her perform onstage.”
She caught his slight pause and raised her brows. “Or by some gentlemen who had enjoyed her favors offstage?”
“No offense to your grandmother,” he said dryly.
“None taken. She would have been the first to acknowledge that actresses and opera dancers have always enjoyed a certain reputation among the gentlemen of the ton.”
He was relieved that she did not appear to be the least bit touchy or outraged by the subject. What a relief it was to be able to talk openly to a woman, he thought, his mood lifting for the first time that evening. With Elenora he did not have to concern himself with the possibility that he might accidentally ruffle her female sensibilities. She was, indeed, a woman of the world.
“Nevertheless,” he continued, recalling the point he was attempting to make, “it would have been best if you had not made any reference to my comments about selecting a paid companion for a wife. It will only serve to make people all the more curious about you.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but was that not the whole point of the deception? Your goal is to use me to deflect Society’s attention while you conduct your private business, correct?”
He grimaced. “Yes.”
“It seems obvious that the more people are consumed with curiosity about me, the less notice they will take of what you are doing.”
“Enough,” he growled. “You are right and I admit defeat. Indeed, I do not know why I bothered to start this discussion. I must have had a momentary lapse of memory.”
But that was a lie, he acknowledged silently. He had started the small quarrel because he had been badly jolted by the possibility that Hathersage might have his eye on Elenora. The sight of other males paying so much attention to her disturbed him for reasons that he did not want to analyze too closely.
She laughed. “For heaven’s sake, sir, no one in his right mind would actually believe that you went to an agency to find a wife.”
“No, probably not.”
She gave him a reproving look. “Really, sir, you must calm yourself and stay focused on your business affairs. I will deal with the tasks that you are paying me to manage. I trust your plans are going well?”
It occurred to him that she was the only part of his elaborate scheme that was actually working. He would very much like to discuss the other aspects of the affair with her, he thought suddenly. He wanted to talk to someone. Elenora was an intelligent, worldly woman who was not easily shocked. Furthermore, he was convinced now that she could keep his secrets.
He was also quite desperate for some fresh ideas. His failure to make any progress in the past few days was worrisome.
Bennett had advised him to tell Elenora the truth. Perhaps that was not such a bad notion after all.
He came to a halt at the edge of the dance floor. Ignoring the polite inquiry in her eyes, he guided her toward the glass-paned doors that opened onto the terrace.
“I am in need of some air,” he said. “Come, there is something I want to discuss with you.”
She did not argue.
The night was pleasantly cool after the heat of the crowded ballroom. He took Elenora’s arm and led her across the terrace, away from the lights. They went down the stone steps into the lantern-lit gardens.
They walked for a distance before he stopped at the edge of a large fountain. He considered his words carefully before he started into his tale.
“I did not come to town to form another consortium of investors,” he said slowly. “That is merely the tale I have put about to cover my real purposes.”
She nodded, showing no indication of surprise. “I had a feeling there was more to this business. A man of your intelligence and resolute nature would not employ a lady to pose as his fiancée merely to avoid the inconveniences of having every eligible young lady of the ton tossed into his path.”
He grinned reluctantly. “That comment only goes to show how little you know about such inconveniences. Nevertheless, you are right. I employed you to provide cover for me so that I could go about my real business.”
She tipped her chin with an expectant air. “And that would be?”
He hesitated another second or two, gazing
steadily into her clear eyes, and then he consigned his remaining qualms to the nether regions. Every instinct he possessed told him that he could trust her.
“I am attempting to find the man who murdered my great-uncle, George Lancaster,” he said.
At that news, she went very still, watching him intently. But she remained remarkably composed, considering his words.
“I see,” she said neutrally.
He remembered how she had once briefly mistaken him for an escaped madman. “I suppose you really do think me crazed now.”
“No.” She looked thoughtful. “No, in truth, such a bizarre objective does indeed explain your rather strange decision to employ me. I was quite sure that you were not conducting business in the usual manner.”
“Whatever else this is,” he said wearily, “it is most certainly not business in the usual manner.”
“Tell me about your great-uncle’s death.”
He put one booted foot on the fountain and rested his forearm on his thigh. For a moment he studied the dark waters in the pool, gathering his thoughts.
“It is a long and involved story. It begins, I suppose, many years ago, when my great-uncle was a young man of eighteen. He made the Grand Tour that year, and as it happened he was even then obsessed with science. The result was that he spent most of his time immersed in various ancient libraries in the countries that he visited.”
“Go on.”
“While in Rome he came across the books and journals of a mysterious alchemist who lived some two hundred years ago. My great-uncle was fascinated with what he discovered.”
“They say that the line between alchemy and science has often been blurred and difficult to distinguish,” Elenora said quietly.
“It is true. In any event, my great-uncle came upon an ancient lapidary called the Book of Stones in the alchemist’s collection.”
She raised her brows. “Old lapidaries are treatises on the magical and occult properties of various gemstones, are they not?”
“Correct. This particular lapidary had been written by the alchemist himself. The book was bound in heavily worked leather. The front cover was set with three strange dark red gems. Inside there was a formula and instructions for the construction of a device called Jove’s Thunderbolt. It was all written down in some obscure alchemical code.”
“How strange. What was the purpose of the machine?”
“Supposedly it was capable of creating a powerful beam of light that could be used as a weapon similar to a thunderbolt.” He shook his head. “Occult nonsense, of course, but that is what lies at the heart of alchemy.”
“Indeed.”
“As I said, my great-uncle was young and lacking in experience at the time. He told me that he became quite excited by what he discovered in the lapidary. According to the alchemist’s notes, the three red stones sewn into the cover of the Book of Stones were the key to producing the furious energy emitted by the device.”
“What did he do with the lapidary?”
“He brought it back to England and showed it to the two men who were his closest friends at the time. All three were fascinated by the possibility of constructing the machine.”
“I assume that they were not successful.”
“My great-uncle said that although they succeeded in constructing a device that looked similar to the drawing in the lapidary, they could not figure out how to draw out the strange energy supposedly concealed in the red stones.”
She smiled a little. “That is hardly surprising. I’m sure the alchemist’s instructions were nothing more than crazed fantasies.”
He looked down at her shadowed face. Her eyes were dark, compelling pools, more mysterious by far than any alchemist’s formula. The skirts of her jewel-toned gown gleamed in the moonlight. He had to fight a sudden urge to touch the soft, delicate skin at the nape of her neck.
He forced himself to concentrate on his tale. “My great-uncle told me that eventually he and his two companions came to precisely that conclusion. Jove’s Thunderbolt was a fantasy. They put their experiments with the device aside, having learned their lesson about the futility of alchemical research, and moved on to more serious studies in natural philosophy and chemistry.”
“What did they do with the stones and the device that they had constructed?”
“One of the three men kept the machine, supposedly as a memento of their flirtation with alchemy. As for the stones, they all decided to have them set in three snuffboxes as an emblem of their friendship and commitment to the true path of modern science.”
“One snuffbox for each of them?”
“Yes. The boxes were enameled with scenes of an alchemist at his work. Uncle George said that he and his companions formed a small club and called it the Society of the Stones. They were the only members. Each man took a coded name drawn from astrology and had it engraved on his snuffbox.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “Alchemy has always had a strong link to astrology. What were the names they chose?”
“My great-uncle called himself Mars. The second man was named Saturn. The third was known as Mercury. But he never told me the real names of his old acquaintances. There was no reason for him to mention them. I was just a boy when he told me the story.”
“This is a fascinating tale,” Elenora whispered. “What happened to the Society of the Stones?”
“The three remained close for a time, sharing notes on their researches and experiments. But after a while they drifted apart. Uncle George mentioned that one member of the Society died while still in his twenties. He was killed in an explosion in his laboratory. The second man is alive, as far as I know.”
“But your great-uncle is dead,” she said.
“Yes. Murdered in his laboratory only a few weeks ago.”
Her brows came together in a gentle frown. “You’re certain that he was killed? It was not an accident?”
Arthur looked at her. “He was shot twice in the chest.”
“Dear heaven.” Elenora drew a breath. “I see.”
He watched the waters splash in the fountain. “I was very fond of my great-uncle.”
“My condolences, sir.”
The sympathy in her voice was genuine. He was oddly touched by it.
He roused himself from the moody reverie and returned to his story.
“The Runner I employed to investigate the crime was useless. He concluded that my uncle had been murdered either by a burglar whom he surprised in his laboratory, or, more likely, by the young man who assisted him in his experiments.”
“Have you talked to the assistant?”
He set his jaw. “Unfortunately, John Watt fled the night of the murder. I have not been able to find him.”
“Forgive me, but you must admit that his disappearance adds credence to the Runner’s theory.”
“I am well acquainted with Watt, and I am convinced that he would never have committed murder.”
“What of the other theory?” she asked. “The one concerning a burglar?”
“There was a burglar, right enough, but he was no random footpad. I searched my great-uncle’s house quite carefully after his death. The Book of Stones was nowhere to be found.” He tightened his hand into a fist on his thigh. “And his snuffbox, the one set with the red stone, was also gone. Nothing else of value was missing.”
She contemplated that. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely certain. I believe that my great-uncle was murdered by someone who was after the lapidary and the snuffbox. Indeed, I am convinced that those three snuffboxes are important clues. If I can find the two that belonged to my great-uncle’s old friends, I may learn something useful. It is in that direction that I have been focusing most of my efforts lately.”
“Have you had any luck?”
“Some,” he said. “Tonight, I finally managed to discover the address of an elderly gentleman who may be able to tell me about one of the snuffboxes. I have not yet been able to speak with him, but I plan to
do so soon.”
There was a short silence. He was aware of the music and the laughter from the ballroom, but both seemed to come from far away. Here beside the fountain there was a sensation of privacy that bordered on the intimate. The flowery scent of Elenora’s perfume tugged at his senses and tightened the muscles in his belly. He realized that he was becoming aroused.
Control yourself, man. The last thing you need now is that sort of complication.
“You say you have disregarded the Runner’s conclusions,” Elenora continued after a moment. “Have you formulated some conjecture of your own regarding the identity of your great-uncle’s killer?”
“Not precisely.” He hesitated. “At least, not one that makes any sense.”
“You are a man of logic and reason, sir. If you are considering a theory, however bizarre, I suspect there is some serious foundation for it.”
“Not in this case. But I will admit that I find myself reflecting again and again upon a remark my great-uncle made when he told me about his three friends and the Society that they had formed.”
“What was it?” she asked.
“He mentioned that one of the three members of the Society, the one who called himself Mercury, never truly overcame his fascination with alchemy, although he pretended to do so. My uncle said that Mercury was the most brilliant of the trio. Indeed, there was a time when they all believed that he would someday be hailed as England’s second Newton.”
“What became of him?”
He looked at her. “Mercury was the member of the Society who was killed by the explosion in his laboratory.”
“I see. Well, that makes it rather difficult to conclude that he might be the killer, does it not?”
“It makes it damned impossible.” He sighed. “Yet I find myself returning again and again to that possibility.”
“Even if he were still alive, why would he wait all these years to murder your great-uncle and steal the lapidary and the stone?”
“I do not know,” Arthur said simply. “Perhaps it took him this long to unravel the secret of drawing the energy from the red stones.”
“But there is no secret.” She spread her hands. “Your great-uncle told you that the alchemist’s tale was no more than a fantasy.”
