Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  Darius watched him retreat like a black raven to his perch beyond the library and fought the urge to shudder. The sooner this conversation is concluded, the more content I’m going to be.

  Netherton set out the leather portfolio, untying it to lay out the papers within. “Look your fill, Mr. Thorne, and tell me what you think of my beauties.”

  Darius turned his attention to the texts and immediately surmised the source of Lord Netherton’s “entertainment.” The illuminated drawings were erotic and lewd, without much artistic merit. Darius struggled to find something diplomatic to say. Even for a man familiar with the contents of the Kama Sutra and The Perfumed Garden and who had seen countless exotic depictions in his travels, Darius was having trouble glancing at the meticulously detailed drawings. They were nauseating in their portrayals of obscene and unnatural acts involving every combination of sex imaginable, including apparently the use of children.

  Across the table from him, the men made small talk as if Darius no longer existed, and Darius’s world came to a grinding halt as he became an unwilling witness to the conversation one overheard in nightmares.

  “You jest, but I meant what I said. I wish to meet your lovely new bride, Richard.”

  “You can’t, old friend. In confidence I must tell you that it seems my lovely wife has taken a bit of a holiday without me. She’s been gone for over two weeks.”

  “Oh?” Pughes’s voice lowered to a curious whisper that naturally carried even better across the room. “A winter holiday? Where?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. She neglected to tell me.”

  “The scandal!”

  Netherton’s sigh was overtly theatrical. “I know. Women these days . . .”

  “What will you do, your lordship?”

  Netherton chuckled. “Besides enjoying the quiet?” Netherton said as he put his arm around Harold’s shoulders, then sobered. “Forgive me. My dark humor hides my heartache. Lady Netherton is skittish and hysterical, even for a woman, and I fear that I was duped into marrying a weak-minded and pale, sickly thing. What can I do? I must put on a brave face, Harold.”

  “Is there—infidelity?”

  Netherton waved his hand dismissively. “Impossible! But I’ve already shared too much of this. I’m sure I don’t need to even ask for your discretion, friend.”

  “Of course not!”

  “Or yours, Mr. Thorne?” Netherton asked evenly. “I’m sure you couldn’t help but overhear about my personal difficulties.”

  Darius shook his head. “Your business is your own.” It’s you, isn’t it? You black-hearted son of a bitch! You’re deliberately planting all these seeds of misinformation about a “weak-minded and sickly” runaway bride only to cover your own tracks and give yourself carte blanche. Darius wondered just how many of these “inadvertent” confessions about his unfortunate marital issues Netherton had been making since Helen’s escape. His stomach clenched with nausea at the revelation that the villain of Helen’s existence was the selfsame man smirking at him. He had to fight not to be instantly sick, praying that none of his distress was visible on his face.

  “And the project?” Netherton stepped forward to the table. “Surely you find the work appealing? What red-blooded man would not?”

  “These are . . . unusual.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  Darius lifted his gaze from the table and kept it resolutely on the man in front of him. “But not my area of expertise.”

  “Forget expertise!” Netherton laughed. “I would pay you to translate them, Thorne, not perfect the techniques they show! Hell, that will be for me to consider, won’t it, so long as my mistress doesn’t complain, eh?”

  “Lord Netherton!” Pughes intervened. “He’ll mistake you and miss the joke!”

  Netherton shrugged, some of his mirth fading. “Naturally, my interests are purely academic.”

  “As a gentleman, I must decline.” Darius took a step back, folding his hands politely behind his back.

  “As a gentleman? What kind of gentleman are you, sir?”

  Pughes’s countenance shifted, openly uncomfortable at the turn. “Perhaps another—”

  “Harold told me of your unfortunate family ties. Your father was a fisherman or something, wasn’t he? Don’t play the lofty soul with me!” Lord Netherton’s eyes glazed over with ice, his civility gone. “You’re as much a gentleman as my stable boy!”

  “I may be. The word applies to any man who carries himself with honor, dignity, and with—”

  “You’ll not lecture me on the meaning of the word, you prig!”

  “It wasn’t intended as a lecture,” Darius said, “so much as praise of your stable boy.”

  “Watch your tone! I could see you sacked from—” Netherton began.

  But Harold touched his arm and stopped him. “He is not employed by the university, your lordship.”

  Netherton’s face became red. “Nor will he be! If your conservative and narrow views keep you from seeing the value in these ancient manuscripts, so be it. But how dare you insinuate that I am any less of a gentleman than some lowborn book snipe without the common sense to mind his manners in the presence of his betters!” Netherton gathered his papers as he spoke, and Darius noted that Mr. Jarvis’s silhouette filled the doorway.

  “Thorne!” Harold hissed his disapproval. “Apologize to his lordship!”

  Darius folded his hands behind him, deliberately keeping his voice level. “I would, if it were warranted. But Lord Netherton knows better. These are no ordinary pages hinting at positions or conveying ancient formulas for aphrodisiacs. He’d have taken them to the linguistic department or geographical society without a blink of concern if that were the case. But instead, he’s ferreting them around and presenting them to someone who, by your report, Mr. Pughes, because of his humble background and lack of a formal position must need the work and would be desperate enough to take anything on the vague promise of a teaching chair.”

  “Well!” Mr. Pughes huffed uselessly, unable to argue such an obvious truth.

  Darius kept his eyes on Netherton. “I meant no insult. I merely said it wasn’t my area of expertise and that I must decline. I said nothing of your lineage, social standing, or character. My reasons are my own. If his lordship wishes to make a greater protest, then by all means, I can summon some of my peers and we can form an academic committee to review the pages and debate my choice.”

  Darius strolled over to a table next to the windows. “Shall I ring the bell for a runner?”

  Lord Netherton’s expression was one of frozen rage. “No need. It was meant to be a diversion, but Harold’s misinformed me of your character and there’s an end to it.” He held up the portfolio for Mr. Jarvis to step forward and take it from him, the maneuver almost choreographed in its smoothness. “Good day, Mr. Thorne.”

  He turned on his heel, and while Harold Pughes followed instantly, already babbling away his apologies and applying his skills as a sycophant to try to salvage his funding, Mr. Jarvis lingered for a few telltale seconds.

  Darius held his ground, submitting to the scrutiny of Netherton’s servant, ignoring the flashes of adrenaline that threatened to unnerve him. Darius made a subtle shift of his weight to the balls of his feet the way that Michael Rutherford had taught him and mentally tried to prepare for whatever assault Jarvis would make.

  “No one tells him no,” Jarvis said softly, his voice like gravel on a steel plate.

  Darius smiled. “Are you sure?”

  Mr. Jarvis’s expression darkened. “I’m sure.”

  Darius waited. Either the man would seek to intimidate him further or make some point with violence, but he didn’t care. Darius remembered the black of a dungeon and the deprivation and pain he’d suffered and survived.

  One man in a black wool coat just doesn’t compare.

  “I wonder why not,” Darius said. “His charismatic charms, perhaps?” he added sarcastically.

  Jarvis’s look took on a t
ouch of surprise. “Good day, Mr. Thorne.”

  “And to you, Mr. Jarvis.”

  It was only when he’d turned his back and left that Darius allowed himself to exhale. “Shit.”

  It could be another man. Pure coincidence. Another horse. Another missing wife. Another heartless bastard . . .

  Shit.

  Chapter

  16

  Darius directed Hamish to make one more stop in the city before the journey home. There was a gentleman’s social club that he was acquainted with and he didn’t want to leave Edinburgh until he’d asked the questions that crowded his mind. Hamish pulled over to wait and Darius climbed out unassisted.

  Inside the foyer, the club’s butler stepped forward to greet him.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Is Mr. Carrick available?”

  The butler answered coolly and Darius submitted to the man’s subtle inspection of his coat and shoes. “Do you have an appointment with him, sir?”

  It was clear that Darius was no member, but he held out his card with as much confidence as he could muster. “No, but here is my card and if you’ll explain to him that it is an urgent matter . . .”

  Mr. Carrick didn’t keep him waiting long. The older man sauntered out of the club with the elegance of Beau Brummell, evoking an age gone by. “Thorne! Did I forget a meeting? I have not seen you since last summer when you presented that brilliant paper to the Architectural Society.”

  “May we talk?” Darius asked, awkwardly omitting any small talk.

  “Of course. Here.” Carrick directed him to a formal sitting room off the main entry hall. “I would take you into the central card room but . . .”

  “I’m not attired for the private rooms of your club, sir.” It was more of a statement than an apology. “If you’ll pardon the intrusion, I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  “Not at all.” The men sat on a long sofa set in the round room’s center. “Warren charged me with keeping an eye out for you, but I’ve utterly failed. I cannot lie. These days I am so easily distracted and cannot seem to keep any task to hand. The years are catching up with me, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Professor Warren always said you were too clever to grow old.”

  Carrick laughed. “God, I love that man! But come, you are his protégé and let’s hear this business of yours.”

  “I am a scholar, sir, and no expert on Burke’s lists.” Darius shifted on the cushions and went directly to the heart of the matter. “Are you aware of a Lord Netherton? Richard Netherton?”

  “The earl? His estates are northwest of the city,” Carrick replied in confirmation. “He inherited from his father just eight years ago. Odd fellow. Spends all of his time in London, from what I understand.”

  “He recently married.”

  Mr. Carrick nodded. “Last spring. A good match to Miss Isabel Penleigh. Her father is a marquis, although with no male heirs, it all stands to shift off to a distant cousin, sadly. Even so, her dowry was substantial and it has allowed Lord Netherton to recover his good credit and pay his tailors, from what I’ve heard.”

  “So, he is—well connected.”

  “Without a doubt. He has quite the social profile in Town, and while I am not a personal acquaintance, it is my understanding that he has shaped up quite nicely after a raucous youth.” Carrick shrugged. “A common enough story. Marriage often reins a man in once he tastes the joys of domestication.”

  It was all Darius could do to nod. Shit. Netherton? Is it really possible I’ve trespassed that far from my sphere?

  “A quick engagement so there was a tiny whisper that he’d rushed her to it, but no one blamed him for being eager.” Carrick went on, “I saw her at a party a week before the nuptials, and I must say, it is the reason I remember all of this as well as I do. Isabel Penleigh was the most stunning woman I have ever laid eyes on. She was like a slender slice of moonlight—so pale a beauty that I almost thought her hair white! But eyes like . . .”

  “Opals,” Darius whispered without thinking.

  “Yes, opals!” Carrick clapped him on the back. “You read that in the social pages, did you?”

  “Yes, the papers were . . . very complimentary, if I recall.” He recalled nothing but decided the lie was understandable. “Well, I should be going. I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  Darius stood and Carrick followed suit, his confusion apparent. “B-but your business! Surely you did not just burst into my club just for—whatever was that?”

  “Lord Netherton has approached me for a commission, but he struck me as insincere and I—wanted to hear your impression of the man. I trust your judgment, and since I know as much of English lords as I do of North American savages . . .”

  Carrick smiled. “I’m flattered. But my best advice is to always trust your own instincts. Not that I’ve heard anything off on this gentleman’s reputation! I’m sure he is a fine gentleman and in no way untrustworthy!”

  “But you said he was odd. What did you mean by that exactly?”

  “I spoke rashly and without thought.” Carrick straightened his coat. “I’ve been casual in my remarks, Mr. Thorne, forgetting myself a bit. You caught me off guard with your sudden appearance, but I hope I’ve conveyed what you needed. Lord Netherton is a peer of the realm and above reproach, I’m sure.”

  Darius nodded, stepping back to end the exchange. “Thank you, Mr. Carrick. I’ll let you get back to your cards.”

  Darius left without another word, his legs numb and his head pounding.

  He caught himself and closed ranks but it’s all the same.

  I have my answers.

  The chances of being able to offer Helen’s husband money enough to avoid a scandal had been slim, but now—it was a pipe dream that faded in the icy air that enveloped him as he walked back to where Hamish was waiting with the carriage.

  He felt like a fool.

  His fantasies of Helen being just a shade wellborn or her husband nearly his equal so that the path would be smoother ahead all turned to dust.

  The option of just slipping away and changing her name also evaporated. He’d learned that her father was the Marquis of Penleigh and her debut in London was memorable, as was her quick engagement and marriage to the charming Lord Netherton. His Helen was well-known and scandal seemed inevitable.

  The daughter of a marquis.

  The wife of an earl.

  Helen was Lady Isabel Netherton. And if he was not extremely cautious, he could end up swinging from a rope from any number of trumped-up charges, including being a horse thief or a kidnapper. But it wasn’t his own life he feared for; it was hers. His determination to see her free and safe had taken on a new urgency.

  The question was, would Isabel be strong enough to face it? They’d whispered endearments and fallen into each other’s arms, but the implications of not knowing her station had made it all seem more tangible.

  It hadn’t felt as much like adultery when her husband was no more than a nameless, cruel shadow. But now, he’d met the man and absorbed that this was no phantom to conveniently fade away and allow for fairy tales.

  On the ride home, he chased the circular arguments for and against loving her before he finally abandoned the notion that it was a decision to be made.

  I love her. There’s no choice to be had. All I can do is love her and find a way to free her. For better or worse, the monster in the dark has a name.

  Netherton.

  And once she was free, Darius accepted that the only way to guarantee her happiness would be to sacrifice his own.

  ***

  When he walked through the front door of his house, Helen was waiting for him on the stairs.

  “Was it a good day? Did you find the temples that Father Pasqual referenced in the university’s archives?” she asked eagerly. “I found an old recipe in one of your geology books on how to dye stones red like rubies so . . .” Her words trailed off as she came closer. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.
Not really. Not . . .” It was his turn to lose the thread of his thoughts. “I accidentally encountered your husband in the city, Helen, and I can now say without any doubt that I personally detest him. Not that I didn’t loathe him before on your behalf, but after meeting him, he is—vile.”

  “Y-you met . . . Richard?”

  Even knowing it for certain, to hear her say his first name and confirm all made his stomach churn. “Lord Netherton was at the university looking for a translator to work on some bit of exotic pornography he’d picked up somewhere.”

  What little color she had in her cheeks vanished instantly at the news as she shook her head. “S-so vulgar and bold of him, wouldn’t you say?”

  He nodded. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m terrified that you will have weighed it out and decided that I am not worth the risk of crossing such a man.” She kept her place on the last step, her grip on the banister so strong he could see her arm shaking. “I’m . . . certain that I’m supposed to say something noble about releasing you from any promises you’ve made to spare us both the—”

  “I love you.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and he caught her as she fell forward into his arms, relief robbing her of her balance. “Oh, God! Darius, I’m so sorry!”

  He stroked her hair and held her close as she sobbed against him. “There now. It’s all right. He’s no more or less of a threat than he was yesterday, and we are just as happy, are we not?”

  She buried her face in his neck, her cries rending his heart.

  He simply waited, unwilling to give in to despair, caressing her cheek and warming her against his body. “Don’t worry, beauty. This time, the walls of Troy will hold and we’ll find a way.”

  She lifted her head, a woman bereft of hope. “H-how?”

  Darius looked at her and knew that she loved him. But he also knew that after all that she’d been through, her spirit was too fragile for the blast and shrapnel of a publicly detonated marriage.

  Damn.

  “I’ll find a way.”

  “It must be wrong to touch you, to want you, to love you as I do when I’m—his.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not his. Whatever claim he had as a husband, I have to believe he forfeited it the first time he hurt you.”