by Diana Lloyd
Her note stood out like a blot on his counterpane. Snatching it up, he retreated to the fireplace to light a candle to read it properly. Her writing style was small, loopy, and elegant, but there was nothing pleasing about her words.
Dear Oliver, it began, thank you for all you’ve done. Clearly, my presence in your life was unfortunately timed. I’m off to London to confront my own misfortunes and do what I must to remedy them. I know that you will not worry for me, as Elvy is my traveling companion. I regret that it was necessary to borrow a carriage and a team to accomplish my task. They will be returned to you, along with appropriate usage fees, as soon as I am able. I beg your indulgence this one last time, but you must agree the impending arrival of your Scottish bride necessitates my bold action.
She’d crossed out a few words there, as if she thought better of how to sign off after such an unexpected announcement. She signed her name in the same pretty penmanship and followed it with all my best wishes.
Stunned, he read the letter twice more, each time struck by her coldness. The past few days had been heaven for him. Had it been her hell? After she’d agreed to stay, after what they’d shared in the garden, how could she think to leave now?
The impending arrival of your Scottish bride… What the hell? Jewel’s nonsensical words tumbled and spun around his brain. He had no bride. He wanted to marry her! Scrubbing his hand over his face, forcing himself to concentrate after his long, arduous night, Oliver read the note again and again. Scottish bride. Concentrating on those two words, he searched his memory for anything he might have said to her that could have been misconstrued so badly.
Scottish bride. Scottish…maiden. Shite! He’d never told her about the Scottish Maiden, so how had she heard? The same way she’d heard about the challenge to his sanity, no doubt. That sneaky, distrustful, inconstant…woman! And she’d stolen his best team! Borrowed without permission was the same as stealing, and he had every right to go after her and reclaim his property.
As Lord Winchcombe, it was his duty to confront a thief. He was going to London to visit the goldsmith anyway, so he might as well look for her. No matter how busy the streets of London, he’d recognize his own carriage and team if he saw them. Once spotted, he’d take possession of his property. It would serve her right to be left in the middle of the road, coughing on dust as he drove away.
Of course, he should explain to her that a Scottish maiden was a machine—not a bride. He’d relish the look on her face when she realized she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, but that might prove difficult if he was riding away. First, he’d explain the depths of her wrongness to her and then leave. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.
Soaking his bruised hands in the wash water after scrubbing road dust from his face and hair, a gray cloud darkened his mood as reality set it. She was gone. How easy it had been for her to leave him. She’d kissed him so tenderly that morning yet had turned her back to him and driven away by nightfall. Blinded by her lips, her smiles, and, yes, even her words—he’d never seen it coming. He was a fool. A lovesick fool.
Damn that strongheaded female. Throwing aside the blankets, Oliver sat up and lowered his feet to the cold floor. Wet, gentle tap-tapping against the windows announced damp weather for the day. He’d been too tired to do little more than flop on the mattress and cover himself before falling sound asleep last night. Angelically beautiful, Jewel had visited his dreams, staying slightly out of his reach, just as in real life.
Flexing the knots from his muscles, Oliver planned his day. London was a hard, fast ride on horseback, then he’d use the carriage to fetch both women back to Winchcombe Abbey.
Fetch them? When had that become his mission?
Let her go, he told himself. She’s made her choice.
The perfect bargaining chip had left without considering how much they might yet help each other. Her uncle, Lord Dunwoody, had orchestrated the false deed; what else had he been up to? The invitation to the masked ball could not have been a mere coincidence and neither was Lady Udele’s scheme to trap him into marriage. If successful, she’d now be the lady of Winchcombe Abbey and her father would own the house on Clifford Street. But why in the hell did he want control of both places? Damn. I’m an idiot. Dunwoody was after the diamonds. And, like a lovesick idiot, he’d dismissed Dunwoody’s letters as blather and gossip without even reading them.
Jewel had scooped them up off his desk, hadn’t she? And now they were in London with her and his best carriage team. What if she took them to her uncle and told him about the diamonds? She wouldn’t, would she?
He had to find her before she did something rash.
Washing and dressing quickly, Oliver asked for his fastest horse to be ready within the hour. He wrote out instructions for Dobbs and the rest of the staff while Jones sat on his shoulder, whistling and pulling at his hair. Unless she was as callous of his circumstances as she seemed to be, Jewel might yet prove to be his best weapon in getting to Dunwoody. He couldn’t let her disappear without trying, but he had to get to her before her uncle did.
Wondering just how much trouble the two women could have gotten into with a twenty-four-hour head start, Oliver flicked the reins and started his journey barely an hour after leaving his bed.
Fools. How could they expect anyone to believe they were anything other than women in costumes? No matter. He shook his head. The women were a secondary mission. He’d drop off the diamonds first and begin making subtle inquiries about Lord Dunwoody. With Penry and Bartleby’s help he’d mount an all-out search for Jewel and Elvy.
Imagining his confrontation with her as he rode on, Oliver composed a withering speech that would reduce her to a lump of weeping regret for what she’d done to him. He might even have Bartleby charge her with horse theft for good measure. He’d get the letters back and explain her wrongheadedness over the Scottish Maiden. She deserved to be left stranded in Town with nothing but his cast-off clothing to keep her warm.
Of course, as a colonist, she was probably honestly ignorant of the term Scottish Maiden. Perhaps, in her female mind, it was a betrayal that was too much to bear. Maybe it broke her heart. Shite. Unless he found her, he’d never know. Whatever her current goal, she was in more danger from her uncle than she knew. Dunwoody must have been livid when she disrupted Lady Udele’s plans to trap him into marriage. No wonder he’d sent her to John O’Groats.
With only two short stops to rest his horse Apollo, Oliver arrived in London with enough of the day left to visit the goldsmith and take a late supper. Everywhere he looked, Londoners were going about their daily business, very few of them taking any notice of one more traveler among the throng. Enjoying the anonymity, he was content to follow the leisurely pace set by the number of vehicles crowding the street as he scanned for familiar faces.
Passing a green square, he spied young women sitting on benches with sketchbooks and chalk, pretending not to look at each passerby. Rather than turning away, Oliver met their gazes one by one. No one fainted. He almost smiled.
His traveling clothes might be dusty, but they were fashionable. Intending to look every bit the proper lord, he’d chosen each item with great care. All the more reason he should attend to business. It wouldn’t do him any good to have brought his best togs if he let them wrinkle in his traveling case.
“Well?” Nervously worrying the brim of his hat, Oliver waited for the goldsmith, Mr. West, to announce his initial verdict on the stones he’d presented.
“I cannot help you,” West muttered as he squinted through his magnifying glass. “They’re paste, of course, except this one…I’m not sure.” He placed one of the larger stones in the palm of his hand. “You’ll need a master jeweler for this one.”
“And where might I find one of those?” Trying hard to keep the exasperation from his tone, Oliver clenched his teeth. He’d thought getting the stones examined would be the easy part of his journey.
“Thank you, Mr. West.” Slipping the rocks back into the pouch, Oliver offered his hand. “Why would diamonds be hidden among worthless rocks?”
“That’s how they’re smuggled, of course. Thieves sometimes remove the gems from stolen jewelry, since they’re easier to transport and less identifiable this way. I don’t know the origin of your stone, my lord, but quality like that is worthy of royalty.”
“You think it may have been stolen?”
“It’s possible. If Rundell has seen that stone before, he’ll remember.”
Standing outside number Thirty-Two, Oliver swallowed down the fear that his father may have been involved in something more sinister than he ever suspected. His father was no saint, but what Oliver remembered of the lumbering, angry drunkard who sired him didn’t translate to a jewel thief with the brains and expertise to hide a diamond. If the stones had any worth, his father would have sold them years ago and gambled the money away.
Taking a deep breath, Oliver stepped into the shop.
Waiting another intolerable few minutes as the stones were examined again, Oliver tapped his foot in nervous anticipation. Mr. Rundell, who’d been polite but brief in their meeting, held one stone up to candlelight before putting it under his magnifying glass.
“May I ask how you came about this gem, my lord?” Lines of concern creased Rundell’s forehead as he spoke.
“Stumbled upon them while going through my late mother’s things.” Keeping his answer short and as close to the truth as possible, Oliver awaited the man’s verdict.
“Does the name Cheenee Keedalee mean anything to you, my lord?”
“Can’t say that it does. I’ve no acquaintance by that name that I recall.” Worried now, Oliver fought the urge to grab the stone and run back out into the street.
“Cheenee isn’t a who, it’s a what. A diamond, to be more specific. A diamond gone mysteriously missing almost thirty years ago. It was thought to have been given to Bonnie Prince Charlie to help finance the Scottish rebellion of forty-five. It mysteriously vanished when he failed. There’s no way to prove it definitively, but I would swear this is the Cheenee diamond.”
“Never heard of it.” Shocked to his toes, Oliver managed to do little more than stare at the glittering stone in Rundell’s hand. They had no Scottish kin nor Scottish land holdings. The only Scot his father ever spoke of was a baron named Graham, known for his hospitality to the English and acute investment sense. The man who had owed his father the Scottish Maiden.
“Would you be interested in selling this stone?” Placing it on the desktop, Rundell slid it back toward Oliver. “I know a buyer who will pay a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds for this pebble?” Picking up the stone, Oliver held it up to the light and tried to imagine what made diamonds more valuable than any other gem. Every rock in the pouch looked the same to him.
“No, my lord, you misunderstand. A thousand pounds per carat.”
“How many carats is it?”
“Forty-five, my lord.”
“I see.” Feeling his knees go weak, Oliver steadied himself against the desk. He’d nearly given the damn thing to the captain of the Judith. He could buy and crew five ships of his own with forty-five thousand pounds. Unless the diamond had been stolen and wasn’t his to sell.
“Please take my card and think about it.” Rundell slid his card across the desktop. “Once word is out that the stone is back in Town, there might be a bidding war. If you’re patient, you may get even more. Call on me when you’ve made a decision.”
Back out on the street, Oliver patted his pocket to reassure himself that the diamond was still there. Checking his pocket watch, the only item of his father’s that he’d kept for himself, he noted he still had time to stop by the men’s club and grab a meal before retiring for the evening.
Oliver mounted Apollo and headed toward Oxford Street. Having never been to the club, he was careful to note landmarks and shop names, so he’d be able to find his way back. Trying not to get lost, he pulled aside to study the next intersection and reorient himself. A sound he was familiar with, yet hadn’t heard in a while, pierced his ears and stole his attention.
A gaggle of young women dressed as ladybirds stood at the curbstone, waiting to cross the street. Making no attempt to disguise their perusal, they openly stared. One young miss erupted with another fit of nervous giggles, nudging the girl next to her and nodding in his direction. And so it begins. Tipping his hat, Oliver considered adding a beastly growl but smiled politely instead, remembering he still needed to make a good show for the Committee of Privileges.
They had most likely seen the newssheets proclaiming him Lord Scar. He’d be warm fodder for gossip now that he’d been sighted back in Town. There was nothing to be done for it. He’d be making annual trips to London once seated in the House of Lords. Eventually—quickly, he hoped—a fellow in some other scandal would capture their attention. He was surprised it hadn’t happened already.
Rejoining the sluggish pace of carriages and riders, Oliver ignored the collective “oooh” from the women as he passed them by. The impolite barbs didn’t sting as much as they used to, but he still wished they would stop.
Blythesea’s Club, just off Oxford Street, looked to be little more than a drab doorway wedged between larger, more prosperous shops. Finding the door locked, he knocked, stepped back, and waited for a response. Knowing his father, it was possible the club was a notch less than reputable.
No better place, he convinced himself, to gather information about another gentleman’s less-than-gallant activities.
The admission password being nothing more than a recitation of all the queens of England, he was allowed entry—despite omitting both Lady Jane Grey and Anne Boleyn. A rickety narrow staircase opened into a wide dining room. The floor was clean, the furniture old and expensive, and savory smells filled the air. Mouth watering in anticipation of a hot meal, he took a seat at the nearest table.
Men, for the most part, reacted to his scarred face with more curiosity than revulsion. They wanted to know how he’d gotten it, imagining a duel, battlefield bravado, or piracy. He’d been asked more than once, which was part of the reason he avoided people. No one wanted the sad, mundane truth of it. They wanted a fantastic story. Luckily, no one at this table bothered to ask.
Conversation started slowly, increasing whenever more dishes of food or glasses of wine and ale were brought to the table. Casually, he mentioned Dunwoody’s name and watched faces for any reaction. When the man to his left frowned for less than half a second, Oliver shifted in his chair to face him.
By the end of the meal, when most of the table’s occupants had wandered off for cards or whatever entertainment the other rooms provided, he began his investigation. Speaking quietly and in stark language void of elaboration, Oliver’s chosen victim hinted that Dunwoody was not to be trusted. When pressed for more information, he divulged that, despite opinion and appearances, Dunwoody was flat broke.
Once in the king’s inner circle of favored lords, the man explained, Dunwoody had fallen out of the monarch’s favor over the loss of a walking stick at a Dunwoody house party. While any one of the guests may have walked off with it—deliberately or by mistake—King George II had blamed Dunwoody personally.
“A walking stick?” Shaking his head, Oliver tucked the information away in his brain, hoping the man would say more.
“Not just any walking stick. A jeweled stick from India, a gift from some raja who hoped for English cannons. I never saw it myself, but they say it had a diamond on it big as the end of a man’s thumb.” Stopping to take another gulp of ale, the stranger thought for a moment. “You know, it might have all blown over, but for whatever reason—and one does not question th
eir sovereign’s reasoning—about five years ago, our good King George III took up the banner of the missing walking stick and planted it on Dunwoody’s heir’s head.”
“So, the son is to be punished for his father’s sins.” Reaching for his ale, Oliver pretended to take another drink. “I wonder if someone attempted to sell the stick, thinking that after all those years the matter was forgotten.”
“Rumor is someone saw it and placed a tick in his majesty’s ear that a thing of such value ought to be recovered.”
“Lord Bute perhaps.” Throwing out the name to see how he reacted, there wasn’t so much as a twitch in the man’s face to indicate what he thought of the notion.
“Doubtful,” he finally replied. “I choose to believe it was someone more…anonymous. Whether Dunwoody knows where it is or not no longer matters, the damage compounds every year it isn’t returned. With our current troubles in the colonies, the crown can use every penny it can get its hands on.”
“Of course.” Sensing the man would say no more, Oliver pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “I do thank you for your pleasant company, good sir, but I must be off. Good evening.”
“And to you, Winchcombe,” the man said, extending his hand.
Shaking the man’s hand, a prickle of alarm crawled up Oliver’s spine. He’d never introduced himself. Whether the other gentleman had met him at Dunwoody’s ball or recognized him from line drawings in the newssheets, he’d no clue. It was but another reminder that London would never be as safe as his home.
Chapter Eleven
Hiding in Hanover Square wasn’t as easy as Jewel had thought it would be. Rather than darkness and silence, the streets were full of carriages, people, and even late-night hawkers selling flowers to gentlemen for their lady loves.
Dressed in Oliver’s best castoffs, Jewel strolled the square as Jules, trying to look like she belonged. Oliver’s silver domino, from the night they’d met, was stuffed into her pocket ready to be employed. While she’d taken it as a memento, she’d no idea it would so soon be used in this fashion. Candlelight still flickered through the window of her uncle’s office. She could make no move until the flame was snuffed out.