A Jewel In Time; A Sultry Sisters Anthology

by Barbara Devlin

  “I have made a reservation at a charming restaurant and purchased tickets for the theatre, and the staff is abound with excitement, your ladyship.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Again, I must express our profound gratitude for your ladyship’s generosity. Dinner shall be conveyed to the sitting room, promptly at four-thirty, per your instructions, and we depart at five. Are you sure you do not wish me to assign just one maid to attend you?”

  “I am positive, as the Admiral and I are quite capable of serving ourselves. And you are most welcome.” For her plan to work for the singular occasion, she required absolute privacy. With that, Hamilton bowed, and she made for the study and her prey. After a short rap on the door, she entered. “Am I interrupting anything of importance?”

  “My dear, as you are of paramount importance, you could never interrupt me.” Sitting at his desk, Mark dropped his pen to the blotter. “I gather it is done?”

  “Yes.” She strolled to the window overlooking the sidewalk. “As we speak, the remains of Cara’s personal items are en route to Raynesford House. And Hamilton informed me that Pitton discovered damage to the trellis, outside Cara’s window.”

  “What?” Mark pounded his fist to the oak top. “I will kill Lance.”

  “Oh, no.” The source of his ire dawned on Amanda, and she burst into laughter at the irony. “You will do no such thing, as he married her.”

  “Then I should damn well charge him for the repairs.” And then he scratched his cheek and chuckled. “Like mother, like daughter, it would seem. And what have you there?”

  “This?” She peered at the bundle, more than a little disappointed at his apparent detachment. “It is nothing. Just something I made for you, which I hope shall be of use.”

  “Now who do you think you are fooling, Amanda?” Mark arched a brow, stood, walked to the armoire, and retrieved a vast deal more than decent-sized gift, which he placed on the blotter.

  “You remembered?” In that instant, her heart sang.

  “How could I forget the most wonderful day of my life?” He wound a finger in a loop of the large lavender bow and then splayed his arms. “Happy twenty-seventh wedding anniversary, love.”

  “Oh, Mark.” She charged into his waiting embrace. “Given Cara’s wedding, Sabrina’s pregnancy, the war, and the Brethren, I thought, perhaps, it might have slipped your mind.”

  “How often must I remind you that you are never far from my thoughts?” He patted her bottom. “Open your present.”

  “You, first.” She bounced with unutterable elation and held her breath, as he tore the paper. “I pray it meets with your approval.”

  “Amanda, this is magnificent.” He scrutinized the waistcoat she had constructed. “You have outdone yourself.”

  “Try it on for size.” She spread the garment and picked a speck of lint from the material.

  “Will you do the honors?” In mere seconds, he doffed his coat and waistcoat and then gave her his back. “A perfect fit, darling. Thank you.”

  And then he drew her miniature, with the now familiar dent, and her lace handkerchief from the old accouterment. After tucking the keepsakes in the pocket she had sewn expressly for the items, he winked.

  “So you still carry them?” she inquired in a small voice.

  “My talisman, which I should never be without.” Mark shuffled his feet. “Your turn, darling.”

  “You need not have gone to any trouble, and whatever you purchased, I adore it, already.” As years of ingrained deportment yielded to uncontrollable joy, Amanda yanked the ribbon, ripped the paper, jerked off the lid, and gasped. “Mark, it is just like the one I wore that day in the park, when you challenged that awful Clarendon to a duel.”

  “Not quite.” He pulled the navy pelisse, á la militaire, from a bed of cotton and held it for her inspection. “This one bears a noticeable resemblance to the Admiralty, my Amanda.”

  “I do so love it when you call me that.” As tears welled, she turned, and he draped the sumptuous coat over her shoulders. “And I remain your Amanda?”

  “When have you existed as anything else?” He kissed the crest of her ear and then nuzzled her neck. “And you are as beautiful as the moment I first saw you, in the Northcote’s ballroom.”

  “And despite your current rank, which is rather impressive, and the tufts of grey hair at your temples, you persist as my dashing Lieutenant Douglas.” She sighed when he cupped her breasts.

  With that, Mark sat in his chair, slapped his thighs, and flicked his fingers in unmistakable invitation. After returning the pelisse to the box, she stepped about his knees, descended to his lap, turned to face him, pushed the waistcoat wide, and slid her hands over his chest. In a flash, he claimed her mouth, and heat seared a path from their lips to her core, as he inched a hand beneath her skirts and rested his palm to her bare thigh.

  When next they surfaced for air, she was breathless. “Have you much work to complete?”

  “I should post a couple of orders today, but the rest can wait until tomorrow.” He rubbed his nose to hers. “Why? Have you arranged a suitable ceremony? Are the girls coming for dinner?”

  “No. I had thought we could retire early.” She trailed her tongue along his jawline. “And we dine, alone, in our sitting room.”

  “But it is only past four.” He hissed, when she suckled his lobe. “I am not hungry.”

  “Well that leaves me plenty of time to stimulate your appetite.” She shifted, unhooked his breeches, and found his oh-so-dependable, rock-solid erection. “Although it appears I have already inspired you.”

  “Bloody hell, Amanda. What happened to my shy debutante who flushed beetroot red, from head to toe, every time I undressed her?” His muscles tensed, and he groaned. “Hold hard.”

  “I am holding hard.” She worked his length, fast and rough, just as he liked it. “And you unleashed her twenty-seven years ago.”

  “Woman, you still make me tremble.” He cleared his throat. “All right. Let me complete these communiqués--blast.”

  “What is wrong?” She continued her delicious assault, nipping his flesh, given the tide had turned in her favor.

  “I tipped over the deuced inkwell.” The smell of candle wax and a drumbeat signaled he had sealed the correspondence. “Made a mess of my blotter.”

  “The servants will see to it, in the morning.” Now she straddled him. “I want you.”

  “Not here, as I prefer you in our bed, naked and spread beneath me.” Mark caught her wrists and halted her play. “Upstairs--now.”

  “Do you recall the afternoon Sabrina walked in on us, as I pleasured you from beneath the desk, after I forgot to lock the door?” She eased from his lap and resituated her skirts. “I lingered so long, I thought I might never close my mouth again.”

  “Never hugged my blotter so tight.” He guffawed and then grabbed his coat. “It took three attempts to contrive a noble errand to distract her, so I could get you off your knees.”

  “Yes, but as I recollect, I managed to fire your cannon.” In fact, in that particular arena, Amanda always won. “And why are you buttoning your coat?”

  “You truly need to ask?” His countenance was pure devil, as his animated Jolly Roger tented his breeches.

  With the stalwart proof of Mark’s arousal concealed, they exited the study, arm in arm.

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you regret that we never had a son?” A long hidden sorrow shot to the fore, as they had not discussed a particular tragic event during the subsequent tenure of their marriage. “Have you ever wondered about our firstborn? The one we lost?”

  “My dear, in that regard, my only regret is I left you in Jamaica, with the Siddons.” With a mighty frown, he pulled her close and resituated her in the crook of his shoulder, as they navigated the hall. “But I thought it the right tack, given your violent morning sickness, and you were so weak.”

  “You could not have predicted the horrid
fever, which plagued the entire island, and everyone took ill.” She rued ruining their special day, as they entered the foyer, and wondered whatever possessed her to broach the subject. “And I did not blame you. In fact, I fretted that you faulted me, after you destroyed the Siddons’s library.”

  “What?” Mark came to an abrupt halt. “You believed me angry with you?”

  Unable to form a response, Amanda bit her lip and nodded.

  “Why did you not tell me?” He framed her chin and brought her gaze to his. “Is this how you have felt, all these years?”

  She shrugged.

  “My darling girl.” The kiss he bestowed upon her was soft, sweet, and too brief. “You misunderstood my actions, which were born not of ire but of fear, as your condition was grave upon my return. I have faced death countless times in battle, but your demise I could not begin to fathom, as you are my life. And as for my heirs, I am exceedingly proud of our daughters, as my only preferences were that our babes were healthy and you survived.”

  “I am so glad to hear you say it.” She sniffed, as a longstanding wound healed.

  “I beg your pardon, Admiral.” Hamilton bowed. “Your ladyship, everything is situated, as you directed. And on behalf of the entire staff, we wish you both a happy anniversary.”

  “Thank you, Hamilton.” Mark retrieved two envelopes from his pocket. “Will you--”

  “Please post this correspondence before you depart for the night.” Amanda snatched the letters and passed them to the butler. “Also, when you speak with Pitton about the damaged trellis, tell him to bill the Marquess of Raynesford for the repairs. And that will be all.”

  “Yes, my lady.” With a half smile, Hamilton made for the kitchen.

  “My delectable wife, what manner of mischief are you about?” Mark loomed with hands on hips, and the mood had changed for the better, given his grin. “Out with it.”

  “I gave the household staff the rest of the day off, because I want you to myself.” She grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him to the stairs. “Now take me to our chambers and make love to me like fifty men.”

  He narrowed his stare. “Officious little thing.”

  “Yes, but I am your officious little thing.” She rocked on her heels.

  “Damn straight.” In a flash, her husband bent and swept her into his arms.

  “Mark, be careful.” She could not help but giggle. “You might injure yourself.”

  “Do you think me old?” he inquired, with an expression of horror.

  “Oh, no.” She nuzzled him. “Not you.”

  “So we are alone, tonight?” His husky tone all but heralded his licentious intent, and she thrilled to his response. At the landing, he turned left. “As we were, twenty-seven years ago?”

  “Indeed.” With a swift tug, she untied his stock and unfastened his shirt collar, as she sought contact with his heated flesh. Then she licked his ear. “Shall we re-enact our consummation?”

  “An excellent suggestion, though I am unsure we can manage the myriad contortions we indulged that night, as I did everything but balance you on your head, but we shall endeavor to persevere.” Mark carried her into their suite and kicked the door shut behind him. “As, my Amanda, I wager I can still make you scream.”

  Behind Enemy Lines

  Jeanne Adams

  Chapter I

  15th November 1939

  The Lady Grace Corvedale

  Charelton Wineries

  5, rue de Pretres Saint-Germaine

  Paris

  Dearest Sister,

  I trust all is well at the Paris office. Enclosed is a note from Lord Bittebrug regarding the rare Calvados brandy he requires. He’s authorized purchase and travel, as he demands it straight away. I know it’s earlier than expected, but if you bring the full account books, we’ll go over them now, saving you bringing them at the holiday. In that fashion, we shall fully enjoy the festivities instead of being harnessed to dusty tomes of figures!

  Best,

  Char

  Viscount Charelton

  Charelton Wineries

  Grace read the note from her brother with a deepening frown. As far as she knew, the only Lord Bittebrug they’d ever encountered was a horse who’d bitten Char when they were children. Char had complained about the brute for weeks, nursing both bruise and grudge with equal ferocity.

  Hoping for enlightenment, she unfolded the second page of heavy, cream-colored card stock, which featured a lettermark at the top from one of London’s finest clubs.

  Dear Lady Corvedale,

  I was most pleased to receive word from your brother that you had obtained the location of the rare 1902 Coeur de Tigre brandy I requested. Per Lord Charleton’s note to me with price and transportation costs, I send this missive to authorize its purchase.

  While I know you may have a regular route to London from Pays-Auge, due to the price I am paying for this rare brandy, I ask that you take Lord Southerly’s coach train rather than a motor car. Your brother assures me you’ve taken this route before, whilst still in boarding school. I fear the unholy jostling from a motor might damage the brandy, for which I’m paying so dearly.

  I look forward to seeing you, and the product, in the next few days.

  With sincere appreciation,

  The Honorable Phineas Bittebrug

  Grace let herself slide into her chair. This, then, was the warning she’d been expecting. This charade of a letter, written in clandestine fashion to avoid German interception, told her to get out of France now, while she still could.

  The rumbles of another great war had rolled like thunder over Europe for the last three years. England, France and Germany were now officially at war. Poland had been attacked, and taken.

  Now the storm of that brewing conflict was upon her. She, like her late Uncle Phineas during the first Great War, must quit France in haste.

  Grace clutched the pendant, which lay out of sight under her blouse. While its gems and rich old gold were covered by the conservative starched India cotton blouse and silk jacket she wore for work, its reassuring weight gave her courage. She usually wore it openly as a brooch on her lapel or on lace at her throat, but for some reason today, she’d slid the chain through the loop on the back and hidden it.

  Still holding it, she made her mental list. She must pack her clothes, and the diary-–nearly as precious as the gems around her neck—-as well as the account books for the winery. From there, she would head north. Char had given her the perfect out on that one. She already had a ticket for next month’s train and ferry for her Christmas visit.

  She’d planned to make that her quarterly accounting with Char to go over the books, and her staff in Paris knew it. She had money at her flat, of course. Once in Calais, she had contacts if she needed them.

  Contacts Char knew nothing about.

  Between the standard route and making a flat out run for it, she would still be covered.

  “Lord Southerly’s Coaching route,” she said aloud, laughing in spite of the dire news. “Yes, that’s just the thing.”

  She’d used that very method to escape her stuffy French boarding school twice. After the second time she’d masqueraded as Lady Southerly, a widow in mourning, and had gotten all the way to Calais, her father, Lord Standish, had relented and let her come home to London to finish her education.

  The antique train coaches on “Lord Southerly’s Line” catered to the gentry and offered the utmost in old-fashioned luxury. It was discreet transportation, which ran at odd, and somewhat unpredictable intervals, following the whims of its wealthy patrons.

  The laughter faded as quickly as it had come. She had a lot of work to do.

  France had declared war, lest they violate their treaties with Poland, but was, nominally, still neutral. That neutrality faded with each passing day. Troops were already massing in the north, bracing for the onslaught they knew would come.

  Rumors of a German annexation, or outright invasion, swirled constantly. Suspicion o
f collusion was ripe within every business deal, every contract. Even the wineries with which she dealt weren’t immune.

  Spies were everywhere, and as a British citizen, it was going to take every skill she had to get out. To get out, with the Nazis watching everything, covertly and overtly, would take every skill she had.

  If she was followed, or they attempted to detain her...

  Grace grimaced at the aura of superior, smug condescension that had greeted her at one estate where she’d been just a week ago. There had been a group of German buyers there, tasting this year’s vintages.

  She had other business there, clandestine business, thanks to her father. With that and the German presence, it had taken her a week to relax afterward.

  She reopened the letter she’d completed prior to receiving the missive from her brother. She peeled off the old-fashioned wax seal and snapped it before she dropped it in the dust bin. Below the standard listing she’d compiled of purchases and thoughts on the wine harvest, she added a post script.

  Dearest Char,

  Received your post and the scrawl from Lord Phineas. I owe you a shilling as I’ve lost my bet with you that the old goat wouldn’t cough up the money for that bottle.

  I’ll head out for Pays-Auge and the seller’s estate in two days, then get the coach. I’d rather take the regular train but Lord B would probably check my ticket and demand a discount.

  Best,

  Grace

  There, that would tell him that she’d gotten the message, and the bit about the bet would tell him where to pick her up. They’d only bet a shilling one time. They’d been teenagers, and Char bet her she wouldn’t walk into a dockside bar in Portsmouth.

  Neither of them had thought about the danger, they’d simply done it, then laughed and laughed when their father, horrified, had come to drag them out of the bar for the ferry ride to Calais. Char had gotten the strap for that one, and she’d been given an endless lecture about the damnable hazard of gambling.