But his better judgment kicked in and he kept his surreal thoughts to himself. It was a staccato blur of events that followed and he was hard-pressed to absorb any of it. Darius found cloths on the sideboard and doused them with water to protect their lungs before they ducked out into the smoke-filled hallway. Josiah took the lead and they held on to one another’s coats to make their way back toward the staircase.
He knew he should be counting doorways and trying to stay calm, but every thought was hundreds of miles away with her.
Helen. God, all I want is one more chance to sit across from her . . . one more chance to see her smile. . . . If I die here, what’s to become of Helen?
The appearance of another person blocking their path in the narrow staircase and the presence of a pistol interrupted his melancholy. It was clear that the Jackal was just as confused by the fire as his friends but was in no mood for enlightenment about the nature of arsonists.
“To hell with you!” the man shouted over the roar of the blaze. “I should have known you’d trap me and play some trick!”
“No tricks!” Darius tried to explain. “We never—”
“Shut up! We’ll meet on my terms next time!”
Rutherford wasn’t having it. The Jackal’s terms in the past generally involved trying to kill one of the Jaded, and none of them were willing to allow a murderer to hold the reins. But Darius had to close his eyes in frustration, since shouting matches in burning stairwells weren’t exactly prudent either. . . .
Michael was furiously making threats to end the Jackal’s life, and before Darius could catch at the ex-soldier’s sleeve and remind him that guns were present, shots were fired point-blank toward them and all hell broke loose.
Josiah fell forward as he hit the Jackal’s arm, and all three of the Jaded tumbled in a tangle on the steps. It was an ignoble effort to protect each other, and by the time their ears stopped ringing from the pistol shot and they realized no one was wounded, the Jackal was long gone.
The smoke and the fire, on the other hand, had not taken pause for the exchange.
“Gentlemen.” Darius straightened up as best he could, helping Josiah to his feet. “May I suggest we keep moving? For men of action, I swear we’re going to suffocate to death while we discuss how lucky we are not to be dead. See the irony?”
“The professor’s right! Lead on, Hastings!” Michael agreed and their hurried exodus continued. It was all Darius could do to hold on to Hastings’s coat and keep his wits about him as his lungs began to refuse to function.
When they reached the relative safety of the street, Darius could hardly believe it, but then watched in stunned shock as an apparently suicidal Josiah Hastings ran back into the burning building they’d just narrowly escaped.
Darius rose instinctively to stop him, or to go with him, determined to help his friend, but the ground lifted up after three steps and Darius’s chest seized up like stones. There was no air to be had and he landed on his hands and knees, spitting up black wet ropes of slime until he was certain he’d forfeited a lung.
It was humiliating, but Michael stayed with him, clapping one of his huge hands against Darius’s back to try to help him through it.
By the time he could almost breathe again, he had the strange experience of feeling no shock at all when Josiah reappeared with the red-haired beauty from the Grove in his arms. Even the revelation of Josiah’s blindness was muted by the haze of misery that shadowed his every breath.
Josiah’s eyesight is failing. Miss Beckett is . . . My God, I’ve missed a bit of news, haven’t I?
It was adrenaline and bravado, euphoria at surviving a gunman and an inferno in one go that sustained him on the carriage ride to Rowan’s. But it was a ride he later couldn’t recall a single detail about other than Michael’s presence in the shadowy confines of the compartment, quietly venting to himself and whispering soft, deadly vows to see to the Jackal personally after the night’s fiery end. It pained Darius too much to speak, so he just closed his eyes and let the man rail on. He knew Rutherford meant well. Michael’s protective nature toward his friends was like a force of nature. And only a fool argued philosophy with a hurricane.
By the time they arrived at Dr. West’s brownstone, Darius was sure he’d aged a hundred years.
“You two look a fright!” Carter exclaimed as he took their soot-covered coats. Rowan’s elderly butler was usually unflappable, but their startling appearance made his voice shake. “My goodness! Dr. West! They’ve come!”
“Did you go?” Rowan asked as he came down the stairs two at a time with his lovely wife, Gayle, on his heels. “The note said we weren’t to go and to stay away, but I haven’t heard from anyone else yet and you’re the first to arrive.”
“Are you all right?” Gayle West asked, her violet eyes ablaze with concern. “You look like giant chimney sweeps!”
Michael held up a hand in greeting. “We’re fine. We didn’t exactly get Darius’s note in time, but he arrived to warn us off and probably saved our lives.”
Darius glanced at his friend in disbelief at the claim. He’d hardly managed anything except a mad dash from one end of London to the next, and as far as he could tell, it was Hastings who had led them out of the fire. Darius opened his mouth to say as much but no words came out.
Instead the marble floor of the foyer disintegrated in a shower of black sparks that crowded into his vision, and the last thing Darius remembered was a unique view of the chandelier in the central hall hanging over their heads.
From the floor, it looks like a perfect spiral. . . . I should sketch that. . . . Organic shapes in industrial . . . applications. . . . Where is Helen?
And then there was nothing.
***
He awoke in a bedroom he didn’t recognize, fully clothed, lying atop the bedding. Darius reached up for his shirt buttons as if to touch the wet mortar that had filled his chest. He immediately tried to sit up, mortified that he’d fainted in front of his friends.
“Easy, there!” Gayle’s hand restrained him, the pressure of her palm to his shoulder gentle but firmly keeping him in place. “Darius, please.”
“What happened? Where are the others? Are—” He was defeated by another coughing jag and Gayle helped him sit up to relieve the strain.
“It’s the smoke. I fear you took in more than your share, Mr. Thorne. Michael said you saved the others and—”
“He overstates it.” He shook his head vehemently, unwilling to let the myth take hold. “I rode . . . in a carriage. I ran up steps. . . . It was hardly . . . heroic. And I was fine . . . before.” His throat burned and it was all he could do to whisper, but he couldn’t allow the misunderstanding to root. “Damn! I feel . . . like I’m breathing . . . through a dirty, wet cloth.”
Gayle moved to retrieve a soft white cloth from a tray next to the bed. “Here. Cough into this when you have to, and I apologize for the indelicacy, but I’ll wish to see it afterward.”
He grimaced at the notion but sighed in obedience. “So much for . . . impressing . . . anyone.”
Gayle smiled. “You raced from Edinburgh to London in record time, and warned your friends away from danger.” She took a breath and amended her words when she saw him stir to argue. “Tried to warn your friends away from danger, and escaped a burning building. I, for one, am impressed.”
“How long . . . have I been here?”
Rowan answered him from the doorway. “Not long enough! Just a few minutes from when we carried you upstairs. Rest, Darius. Mrs. Evans is boiling up a breathing treatment, and as soon as it is ready, we’ll see about setting you up for a bit of relief.”
Darius sat up on the side of the bed. “I’m fine.”
Rowan nodded. “Of course you are. Care to run upstairs, then, to the study for a quick brandy?”
“You’re . . . a bully.” Darius gave in to the need to cough, wincing at the sensation of his lungs coming apart. When it had passed, Gayle gave him a fresh cloth and took the soi
led one from him.
“Why do all my friends insist that they’re fine when they aren’t?” Rowan said calmly, his tone light even as he silently concurred with his wife over the black and bloody show on the white cotton and signaled her to see about hurrying Mrs. Evans’s progress. “Is it a lack of trust in my skills? Or an aversion to admitting your mortality?”
Darius smiled. “It’s timing. We have . . . better things . . . to do.”
“That’s what Michael said. But I’ve gotten those wooden splinters out of his face and restored his good looks all the same.” Rowan came over to stand next to the bed. “We missed you. I know Edinburgh has become home for you, but Ashe relies on your friendship too much not to complain about your long absences.”
“He has . . . Caroline now. But I’m . . . always at hand . . . for him.” Darius shook his head. “I need to . . . tell the others . . . what I found. It’s not . . . just the East India . . . not what we thought.”
Rowan held up a hand to stop him, but Darius was punished for the effort and doubled over as his body fought for air and the room started to spin.
“Gayle!” Rowan’s tone was all business as he seamlessly shifted into his role as physician.
She answered him from the doorway where she had stepped through to alert Carter for the need for haste with the treatment coming from Cook’s kitchens. “I am here.”
“Forget subtlety. Open the windows and let’s get some cool air in here.” Rowan bent over to put an arm around Darius’s back and shoulders. “Believe it or not, I want you to come sit in this chair over by the window, Thorne. It’s freezing out there and snowing, which is exactly what we’re hoping for.”
“You’re going . . . to kill me . . . aren’t you?” Darius teased him.
“I might,” Rowan said with a wink.
Darius didn’t have the breath for banter. He acquiesced without argument and did his best to walk over, leaning against Rowan until they reached an upholstered reading chair by the windows.
“I’ve a different approach to the use of temperatures, and there’s some interesting studies to support my own theories—so, lucky you, Darius Thorne. You get to let me test a few things.” Rowan took out a stethoscope and pressed the cold metal disk against Darius’s back. “Talk of treasure can wait until tomorrow. The Jackal got singed tonight by all accounts and probably won’t be up for any more mischief for a while yet. We have lots of time to go over it all.” He stopped talking to listen and then shifted the disk to hold it directly against Darius’s bare skin, bending over to concentrate.
Darius shook his head but said nothing. He’d promised to return to Helen as quickly as possible and it was unthinkable that he would linger in London an hour longer than he had to. He would allow Rowan to fuss and provide whatever treatments he saw fit. Darius would even rest for a day or two. But he would begin the journey back as soon as he could stand to walk without the room tilting to defeat him.
Rowan straightened, tucking the stethoscope into his large coat pocket. “All quiet for the rest of the night.”
The front doorbell rang again and Darius almost sighed at the comical expression of surprise on his friend’s face. He hasn’t experienced the madness of the evening firsthand yet, but apparently the Wests are getting their doses late.
Rowan excused himself for a moment and Darius closed his eyes, listening for any sounds of distress below. He was worried about Ashe and hoped his cynicism wasn’t the herald of more bad luck for his friends.
It’s not like me to play the troll.
The cool air felt good on his face and amazingly began to ease the ache in his chest, allowing him to take even, shallow breaths without being reduced to hacking and coughing.
Gayle came in after a time carrying a large, heavy porcelain bowl. She drew a flannel across the windowsill and set down the bowl of steaming hot water. “Here, make sure this doesn’t fall and try to inhale as much of its scent as you can.”
Even over the lingering smell of soot and ash, Darius detected mint and anise drifting up from the water’s surface, along with a few other ingredients he couldn’t name. “As you command.” He dutifully leaned forward, a winter’s breeze delivering the treatment in a strange mist of home remedies. “Was it . . . a message?”
“Not a message exactly. Josiah sent his night guard, Mr. Creed, over for treatment. He was assaulted tonight and we’ve got him abed downstairs where Rowan is seeing to him.” Gayle’s violet eyes reflected fear. “Mr. Hastings’s note said that no one else was harmed and that they’re safe but—perhaps the Jaded should consider changing tactics?”
He nodded. “Agreed. May I . . . have paper and pen?”
“Of course,” Gayle said, moving to retrieve a portable writing desk from where it rested atop a table. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.” Darius took the box from her, admiring for a fleeting moment its inlaid surface and clever hidden drawers. “No fear, Mrs. West. All this will be resolved . . . soon enough. And then we can all actually start quiet lives and one day lament that nothing exciting ever happens to us.”
“That’s quite a dream,” she said. “I never thought I would long for boredom, but in this instance, I think you’re right.” She pulled a small bottle from her pocket. “You’re to drink this.”
“I need . . . to stay . . . awake.”
“Then drink this,” she said firmly. “And I’ll leave you to your writing.”
He smiled, unable to really talk more without fighting for air. The syrup was sweet with peppermint flavors and he detected no bite of a narcotic. Even so, there was something soothing in the cold liquid and it eased the ache in his throat. He handed her back the empty bottle and then pulled out the paper to set up the desk and begin his task. Gayle politely stirred the medicated water in the large bowl and then left him to rest.
Darius began to write out everything he hoped would be relevant for his friends, outlining as clearly as he could his theory that they’d stumbled into a larger puzzle than the simple shuffle of gems they’d long believed. He wrote until his hand shook from fatigue and the words blurred on the page.
And exhaustion finally overtook him into the darkness.
Chapter
12
For Isabel, his absence was very telling. Nearly two weeks had passed in a crawl of time that had tested her mettle in every way. Even sporadically broken by lively exchanges in the kitchen between Mrs. McFadden and Mr. MacQueen, the quiet of the house was suffocating. Every fear was amplified by isolation, but even the most rational part of her brain was forced to admit that something had changed.
Her growing attachment to Mr. Thorne was undeniable.
In the brief span that she’d known him, it had been easier to deflect her feelings and distract herself with conversation and meals, board games and books. She’d credited her ease in his presence with a natural need for social contact and amusement. But never in her life had she been so obsessed with the memory of someone’s every word and gesture.
Over Mrs. McFadden’s objections, she’d begun weeding out the dead plants in the back garden whenever the weather permitted. She’d borrowed work gloves from the housekeeper and a few garden tools to attack the project and embraced the escape and distraction.
The tangle of the little wilderness slowly gave way to barren order and Isabel was shocked to discover that there was a lovely flagstone path that meandered through the small yard buried underneath unraked leaves. In a pattern of the symbol for infinity, the stones were laid out in gentle curves and Isabel began to see the space’s potential.
“A few flowers and pretty hedges of lavender and it would be a dream,” she said aloud. “I’ll ask Hamish to find a bench to put in the shaded corner there and it will be lovely in the spring!”
There was no echo in the cold air and she shivered at how dead it sounded. “I’m a ghost in a ghost garden,” she whispered at her pale reflection in a mud puddle. Isabel knelt down with her basket to continue her chore of pulling
dead vines out of what appeared to be an abandoned water feature.
Spring was a few weeks away and she knew it was foolish to think of seeing his garden come to life. I shouldn’t be here by then. Samson will heal and I must do the right thing and free Mr. Thorne from his vows to me. He’s been so kind and we’ve shut out the world beyond the walls of Troy—but if I remember my Homer, the world eventually came calling, and the price for one selfish act was the destruction of a kingdom.
She had no desire to see anything happen to Darius’s world. His orderly nest lined with books was an oasis Isabel wanted to protect. She wondered if his friends knew of his quiet ways and appreciated the heroic effort he was making on their part to solve mysteries and work out the dramatic and surreal puzzle involving sacred objects to help them. The Jaded struck her as an odd name, but if the men in his acquaintance had earned his loyalty and trust, then she did her best to dismiss her misgivings and trust them in return to take care of Mr. Thorne and make sure he was safe.
There is nothing jaded about Darius.
She envied that gift, to apparently skip like a stone over the worst that life could hold. Her back had healed but Isabel still jumped at loud noises and suffered from bouts of anxiety.
But I am stronger. I’m not slipping into an abyss of bad memories at every reminder of Richard. It’s almost starting to feel as if it happened to another woman.
Isabel’s life before she’d come to Darius felt more and more distant. When she thought of it, it was like recalling dance steps and watching a ball from a balcony. Every step she had ever taken before meeting him was as choreographed as a quadrille, and until she’d committed to marrying Richard, life held few surprises.
Suddenly an impulse seized her and Isabel gave in to it without a single internal argument. She wrested off one of her gloves and eyed the gleam of gold on her left hand. It was such a simple thing, this plain band, but it signified the tangle of pain and humiliation marriage had brought her. She went over to the sword poking out of the dirt near the rosemary and slipped off her wedding ring. She dug a good hole next to the sword and made her own little offering to the spirits of his garden.
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