Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  “When you—meet the right person one day, you’ll know them by their actions. Your instincts will never betray you.”

  “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Thorne?” she asked.

  He looked back at the tips of his shoes. It was such a simple question and the answer should have been readily given. But how could he say no without sounding like a heartless bastard? How could he reveal his worst fears and greatest hopes without letting her see how much he already stood to lose in her eyes?

  Before he could compose an answer, she spoke again. “Pardon me, it is none of my concern and an impertinent question. Especially after last night. I promised you to leave the matter alone.”

  “It was another good question. It’s the answer that would be imperfect.” Darius leaned back against the cushions. He shook his head, shifting forward in his chair. “If you’d rather have tea or cider, I can get it for you. You haven’t touched your sherry.”

  “No, please.” Isabel sipped her sherry, politely watching the fire. When she’d heard Mrs. McFadden’s screams, she’d been transported into a black panic where there’d been no room for logic. She’d simply taken action and grabbed the first weapon she could seize to save her friend—and when Mr. MacQueen had fallen into the table, it had been the worst catastrophe.

  Because only then had reason returned in a miserable avalanche, and logic was an unforgiving mistress. Common courtesy dictated that a lady didn’t overreact and murder her host’s driver in the kitchens, no matter what!

  Darius had said the two cared for each other, but the incident only further undermined her confidence in her ability to judge the character of others. She’d been so blind to her husband’s true nature, so fooled by his civil courtship that it made her question everything—her instincts, her intelligence, even her sanity.

  He stood to restore the decanter to the side table and she stood as well, wandering over to his desk. “The battle interrupted your work?”

  “I’m pleased it did.”

  She eyed some of his notes, admiring the neat, firm lines of his handwriting and the graceful curves of his drawings.

  “May I help you with it?” she asked. “I am very organized and have a fair mind. My tutors always praised my ability to master new skills very quickly. Perhaps—I could help organize your papers? Or . . .”

  His expression was uncertain. “It’s such a strange business. I don’t wish to be indiscreet but—”

  “Before you answer, I should admit that if I’m forced to sit and stare at the walls of my bedroom all day, I might run mad, Mr. Thorne. It’s . . . difficult to feel so useless as the hours pass and with nothing to do but think. . . .” She squared her shoulders. “Instead of being a charity case, I might act as your secretary, Mr. Thorne.”

  “My secretary?”

  “Please. I know it is a forward suggestion but I’m not welcome in the kitchen, and after today, I don’t think I have the nerve to offer, and cannot really leave the house. You said I wasn’t a prisoner, Mr. Thorne, but I am very much confined.”

  “Then it would be unfeeling not to employ you.” Darius squared his own shoulders to mirror her businesslike demeanor. “Helen, you’ve put your life in my hands, and if you helped me, you’d be returning the favor. My life and the safety of my friends might be in yours.”

  Isabel looked at him warily. “Are you deliberately being dramatic, Mr. Thorne?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I were. I’d always prided myself on my ability to solve puzzles, but I think I’ve looked at this too long—or I’m living it and I’m too close to see the clues.”

  “Then, I could assist you. While I’m here.” Isabel prayed she didn’t sound as desperate to him as she seemed to herself. But if he could lose himself in his work, then perhaps she could learn the trick as well. She longed for a distraction.

  “Very well. I’ll trust myself to your discretion.”

  He sat Isabel at his desk and Darius began to lay out maps and drawings to underline his tale. He spoke to her as an equal and a trusted ally, revealing what little information he had in a puzzle that threatened the lives of the Jaded. Before long, Isabel was swept away in the dangerous world of sacred treasures, a mysterious character his friends had named the Jackal, lost Indian temples, and agents of the East India Trading Company, and for the rest of the day, she gave not a single thought to the “trifling business” of abusive husbands.

  Chapter

  9

  The next morning, Mrs. McFadden came into her room with a pile of fresh bed linens. “Mr. MacQueen is recovered, madam.”

  Isabel turned from the wardrobe, where she’d been assessing all of Darius’s purchases and admiring the joys of simple fashion. It was a brisk announcement, and after learning of the housekeeper’s secret affinities for the driver, Isabel wasn’t sure what to say in response. “I’m so relieved to hear it. Is he—quite angry with me?”

  “Pah!” The housekeeper moved to strip off the sheets from the bed. “Not a whit! He was all spit and fire in my direction but I’ve got it managed.”

  Isabel blushed as she tried not to imagine the details. She fingered an ivory day dress before taking it down. “Well, I should apologize to him for the injury.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize to that cretin! Laughing at my Christian name! He deserved what he got and worse if you ask me.”

  She stepped up to the bed. “Can I help you with that, Mrs. McFadden?”

  “No!” the housekeeper replied. “You’re a lamb to offer, but I’m not taking advantage of a guest and treating you like a scullery maid.”

  Isabel didn’t want to argue with her, but helping to make a bed certainly didn’t feel beyond the pale in light of her circumstance. She moved out of the way and tried to make a bit of conversation. “I think you have a lovely name, Mrs. McFadden.”

  The woman dropped the sheets as if she’d touched a hot coal. “It’s a name suited to the theatre! And you mustn’t—you’re too kind!” She went back to the chore, her expression wavering between an awkward gentle sincerity and her usual grim determination. “It’s a rustic house, isn’t it? But I don’t want to see you suffering for it. I know it’s hard to make your way. But Mr. Thorne’s made a vow to see you safe and away from whatever troubles you have. You’ll see. He’ll find a way to get you back to your family and your servants and everything you’re missing.”

  Isabel shook her head. She wasn’t missing any of it, and no matter how Mrs. McFadden worried over the rustic state of the country house, Isabel knew better. “I’m not suffering at a lack of servants. I’ve wanted for nothing since I arrived. Mr. Thorne is . . .” She hesitated, wary of giving voice to her feelings. “Most attentive.”

  Mr. Thorne is a dream, and when I look at him, I almost feel like my old self before Richard—I want to flirt and talk of little things and laugh and please him.

  “Might be. If it’s all to do with chess or books, I imagine he perks right up.” The housekeeper turned the pillows. “I leave him to himself most often. He’s not a hermit but he aspires to it.”

  “I’m to help him with his research. He was kind enough to allow it.” Isabel lifted one of the sleeves of the dress, fidgeting with the cuff. “I find it fascinating.”

  I find him fascinating.

  Mrs. McFadden’s hands fisted at her hips as she surveyed the finished bed. “It’s good to keep your mind occupied while you heal. You’ll get no arguments from me, but—mind his toes.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s what my mother used to say when my brothers were too rough or my sister was more set on her nose than on where she’d lost her knitting.” Mrs. McFadden continued as she gathered up the dirty linens from the floor where she’d dropped them. “At the end of the day, he’s a lonely man no matter what he says about it, and you’re—well, you’re as you know.”

  Isabel’s confusion grew. “I’m . . .”

  “Very sweet, extremely pretty, and quite married.”

  “I am—not
a child to be reminded of that last. I am a grown woman of nineteen, I’ll have you know!”

  “Nineteen?” The housekeeper looked at her with one thin eyebrow arched. “Still young yet though, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, of course.” The direction of the conversation became instantly clear. “Mr. Thorne has been very proper in his behavior.”

  “Of course he has!” the housekeeper replied, her expression mortified. “He wouldn’t be otherwise! That man! That man would politely open the door for the devil if asked!”

  “I—I am hardly the devil in this, am I?”

  Mrs. McFadden’s humor returned and she threw off some of her gruff posturing to take a seat on the bed. “You’re an angel. It’s ridiculous, but here we are. I only meant to say, it’s exactly because he’s who he is that you’ll keep him at a distance and mind his toes, won’t you?”

  This is like having a conversation in a Gordian knot.

  “All this talk of angels and devils is . . .” Isabel was at a loss for words. “I will mind his toes.”

  “That’s a girl!” She sighed. “It’s good for him to have company, don’t misunderstand. I just feel better having spoken my mind on the matter. After all, he’s not some blue blood like you’re used to, and I was hoping you’d allow for it if he wasn’t all polish and posh. I’m fond of him, as employers go, and I don’t wish to see him crushed. His sort probably wouldn’t have been allowed to walk in your father’s front door and he knows it.”

  “I’m—sure that’s not the case! Mr. Thorne is as true a gentleman as any and would be welcome in any house, no matter what his connections.” It was a hollow protest but a sincere one. “There is nothing to object to.”

  Mrs. McFadden crossed her arms defensively. “Maybe so. But better to know the way of things than let a man hope.” She stood up and took the dress from Isabel’s hands. “Here, let me help you with this, madam. He’s downstairs in the library if you’re to help him today.”

  ***

  “Your housekeeper is—impossible!” Isabel said without a formal greeting as she entered the study. “One minute, I swear she’s urging me to be kinder to you, and the next, I think she is worried that I am . . . capable of some great harm.”

  “She is a contrarian by nature.” He stepped away from the windows with a steaming mug of tea in his hands, smiling at her appearance. “I think she’s torn between an urge to chaperone us and a distinct desire to see me enjoying anything vaguely resembling a social life.”

  “You are not a hermit!” Isabel said, amazed at how close she’d come to stomping her foot. “I mean . . .” Isabel let out a long breath to settle her nerves. “Do you aspire to be a hermit, Mr. Thorne?”

  “I’ve given it up,” he said with an expression wrought with humor. “But please don’t tell my friends.”

  “Your secrets are safe with me.” She crossed her arms, her pride still smarting.

  “I will speak to Mrs. McFadden. She has no right to lecture and fuss as she does, and I won’t have her upsetting you.” Darius set his tea down on the desk. “Would you like a cup before we begin?”

  “Yes, please.” She let go of her own elbows with a sigh. “But don’t—say anything to her. It’s not worth the stir and fuss.”

  He went over to the sideboard and poured her a large, steaming cup into a ceramic mug. He added milk and sugar out of habit, then looked up at her apologetically. “Milk and sugar, Helen?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He laughed in relief and held out the mug to her. “I guessed rightly, then.”

  “Your instincts are uncanny, Mr. Thorne.” Isabel took the warm mug, cheered in his presence. “Thank you.”

  There was nothing in his manner that bespoke overt seduction, but everything about him awoke her senses. His tousled brown hair invited her hands to push it back from his eyes. The strong lines of his body and the enticing juncture of his throat and shoulders made Isabel’s imagination race in a direction she was certain led to ruin.

  I just want to curl up against him and bury my nose in his neck, inhale the scent of his heat, and banish the world. What kind of woman have I become that adultery could ever have such a wicked appeal?

  “—started?” he asked.

  Isabel nearly dropped her mug as she realized that she’d been lost in a strange tangle of erotic fantasies involving her host. This is ridiculous! “I apologize, what was that?”

  “I merely asked if you were ready to get started.” He stepped back to the large desk at the room’s center. “I pulled a few older notebooks I’d made when we first became aware that there might be some danger. In London, an Indian assassin with a knife went after a friend, and then another man with ties to the East India Trading Company made an additional threat, and we first heard something about a special object or sacred piece we’d taken with us. I starting writing down everything I could remember to see if it helped.”

  “Has it?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Not yet. I’ve stared at these pages a thousand times and I don’t think I’m reading them anymore. But you have fresh eyes, Helen.”

  She blushed and followed him to survey the materials he’d collected. Isabel picked up one sheet with a language in the margins she didn’t recognize. “Decidedly British eyes, I’m afraid.”

  “Here,” he said as he pulled out a large leather chair for her and helped her settle in at the desk. “I am grateful for those British eyes. Anything that isn’t in English, I can translate readily enough for you.”

  “Can you?” She looked up at him in astonishment. “I mean—of course you can. I am . . . embarrassed to think that I barely muddled through a few French lessons and those only because my mother was convinced that a lady without any French isn’t a proper lady at all.”

  His eyes flashed quickly with an emotion she couldn’t identify. He stepped away from desk, shielding himself from her gaze as he busied himself with reordering a pile of books on a side table.

  They worked quietly for only an hour or two, with Darius ending up on the window seat with a sketchbook and Isabel commanding a post at his desk. Time passed quickly for her as she scanned the strange notes and drawings, circled texts, and odd maps he’d collected. She was fascinated by all of it and drawn in to the allure of learning how his mind worked. Isabel turned one of the pages sideways to decipher yet another of his handwritten notes. “Mr. Thorne? Did you see this about a mask?”

  Darius looked up from his book. “Mask? That doesn’t sound familiar.” He closed his pages and unfolded from the cushions. “Mask as in part of a ritual?”

  “No, here. Does this mean your treasure is wearing a mask or that it is a mask?” Isabel laid the page back down on the desk next to a similar sheet from one of his first notebooks.

  “Masks?” Darius shook his head slowly and crossed the room to take a look. “Where does it say masks?”

  “Here,” she said, pointing to the paper. “Well, that’s what your translation says, does it not?”

  He studied it for a moment. “That’s odd. Of course, if it is a religious figurine . . . It has long been my theory that a sacred object would have to portray a local god.”

  “A deity wearing a mask?” she asked.

  “Hmm, a god or goddess in disguise? As in the Greek and Celtic traditions?” he said quietly. “Where did I put that list of Hindu deities? Although it’s still a dead end. We have no figurines in any of our caches and proving a negative to an enemy has been a bit of a challenge.”

  “Must it be a figurine?” she asked. “What of this?” Isabel opened an earmarked book and pointed to the text, standing to hand it to him. “Your handwriting is wretched, Mr. Thorne, but see where you wrote about Father Pasqual’s accounts?”

  Darius took the book from her hands and read the passage she’d indicated. “The priest said ‘that a myth of demons gives a righteous man pause, but I give no weight to my host’s claims that a mystic diamond in disguise has power.’” Dariu’s brow furrowed as h
e read the priest’s next quote. “Pasqual added, ‘What foolishness to worship shiny paste!’”

  “A mystic diamond in disguise,” she repeated. “Was he not traveling in western Bengal, sir?”

  “Damn,” Darius whispered, then looked up in apologetic shock. “I’m sorry, Helen. I have the manners of a tinker. But how did I miss that? How could I have missed that?”

  Isabel smiled, a woman triumphant. “Fresh eyes, Mr. Thorne!”

  “How do you disguise a diamond?”

  “By changing its color?” she asked. “Don’t they heat some stones to change their color and make them look more valuable? Can you create the opposite effect with some kind of treatment to make a gem look dirty or . . . worthless?”

  “Shiny paste . . .” Darius’s eyes lit with inspiration, a man transformed. “Then it could be a stone! No matter what else—it is possible any one of us could have it in our pockets! It’s not a figurine or a carving, and I’ve wasted far too long trying to prove that it had to be so that we would be innocent of its possession and better off! But”—he seized her hands in his—“we really did take a sacred treasure.”

  “You really did.” Isabel echoed his words, caught up in the euphoria that flooded his face, and breathless as the heat of his hands warmed hers instantly.

  “You’re brilliant, Helen!” He pulled her into his arms with a laugh, for a clumsy and impromptu waltz around the library. His joy was contagious and Isabel laughed as well, giddy by the speed of the turns. It was a heady celebration that instantly taught her two things. First, that it was an amazing thing to be in Darius Thorne’s arms with one of his hands splayed against her back and the other cradling her bare fingers in his, her face scant inches from his and the strength of his frame and broad shoulders wreaking havoc on her senses. And secondly, that Darius Thorne couldn’t dance.

  She laughed at the uneven rhythm of his steps, throwing her head back to revel in the dizzy tilt of the experience, and found herself looking directly up into his eyes.

  Here. This is joy. Oh my. And I never thought to see it again.