Diamond Dreams

by Sandra Heath

  It was intriguing to ponder the nature of Valentin’s business here in London. Athan felt certain it would be shady and underhanded, possibly even sinister, given that Prince Paul Dalmatsky had a hand in it along the way. Conversations with Valentin during the voyage from Riga had convinced Athan that he was simply his uncle’s cat’s-paw.

  Whatever was going on, it proceeded entirely at Paul’s bidding, and for some reason or other that slippery nobleman wished his involvement to remain secret. Valentin had been duped into thinking it was all about the soup tureen for the czar, but there was something else as well, something his uncle was at very great pains to keep to himself.

  With Valentin intent upon his own affairs and not in any need of shepherding, Athan was able to devote a few days to the Unicorn Bank before thinking of traveling on to Castle Griffin to attend to the selection and preparation of a mare and colt for the czar. At the bank he had made a thorough nuisance of himself, questioning all concerned, and raising points that quite clearly made some people uncomfortable.

  But no matter how many times he and his accountant examined the books, it appeared clear that Josiah Rutherford had indeed been the architect of his own destruction. Ellie’s father appeared to have become involved with someone named John Arbuthnot Billersley, with whom he had made very unwise investments and transactions, and had lost everything. That was all that could be discovered. Who Billersley was, or where he might be found, remained a mystery.

  Another thing that seemed uncomfortably clear was that the hand of the late Albert Forrester-Phipps, Freddie’s father, was faintly but definitely detectable in it all, but as that gentleman was now very much deceased, there did not seem much likelihood of ever getting to the bottom of it.

  However, Athan also unearthed the rather shocking fact that Forrester-Phipps Senior’s fall from the Dover cliff had not been an accident or indeed the malicious act of a third party. It had been kept very quiet indeed that he had actually committed suicide, choosing to depart this world before his nefarious activities at the bank were exposed. The bank, of course, had an eye upon its reputation and its profits, and so was more than eager to keep the secret.

  Most of Athan’s information was obtained from a junior clerk, who had also seen a letter Josiah Rutherford had handed to the bank on the last day of his life. In it were instructions that all funds remaining after the sale of Rutherford Park were to be used to provide for his daughter. Rutherford had included his painstaking figures for everything, and the precise sum, he believed, would be available for Ellie.

  Athan’s informant may have been young and inexperienced, but he had a sensible head on his shoulders and knew that the computations were accurate. Yet the bank’s figures differed radically, and all to Josiah Rutherford’s detriment. The shadows of John Arbuthnot Billersley and Albert Forrester-Phipps loomed too large for any sunlight to fall upon Ellie, and the letter, of course, had since disappeared.

  Being a director of the bank did not make Athan wish to be part of the conspiracy that seemed to have infiltrated everything at the premises in Ludgate. For Ellie’s sake he intended to get to the heart of it, and to this end had secretly installed a very trustworthy spy to look into the matter. He was sure this would soon pay dividends, but knew that even if things were turned around to Ellie’s benefit, there remained the small matter of where on earth she might be.

  It was this latter problem that led to him paying an unannounced call upon the painter Thomas Lawrence, who had now returned to his house and studio in Greek Street, Soho. The March weather was brisk and windy as he alighted outside the front door with its Doric pilasters and handsome frieze, composed himself for what was bound to be a disagreeable interview, and then rapped his cane upon the gleaming dark green paintwork.

  On being admitted, he was requested to wait in the small entrance hall. The house was rather modest for one who’d already risen to becoming the royal artist. Lawrence was still only about thirty-six, and had been fashionable for many years, commanding vast sums for his work. Although only the son of a Bristol innkeeper, he was talented, poised, charming, and witty, and there were few great names in the land that had not sat for him. Nevertheless, he was frequently in financial straits, a fact that often led him to sell paintings, and it was the disposal of one painting in particular that was of interest to Athan.

  It was some time before Lawrence’s latest client, a long-faced naval officer, departed, and Athan was conducted up to the artist’s studio. Lawrence, chestnut-haired and of an amiable visage, was cleaning his brushes as his caller entered. “Good day to you, Lord Griffin. How may I be of service?”

  “You can tell me why you painted two portraits of Miss Rutherford of Rutherford Park,” Athan replied without beating around the bush.

  The artist became rather still. “I ... I beg your pardon?” he replied carefully.

  “You heard me, I fancy, sir. You were commissioned to paint Miss Rutherford’s portrait, a conventional affair with curtains, a pedestal, and so on, yet you painted another as well, did you not?”

  Lawrence feigned puzzlement. “No, sir, I did not paint two. I remember the commission well, for it was most agreeable on the Isle of Wight, but I vow I did not paint more than one likeness of the young lady.”

  “If you wish me to call you a liar, then I will, sir,” Athan replied shortly.

  The artist put down the brushes, then wiped his hands on an oily cloth. “I do not know your purpose, sir, or indeed your problem, but it is hardly acceptable for you to enter my house and abuse me in such a way.”

  “I’ll abuse you further by bloodying your nose unless you tell the truth!” Athan snapped. “At least do me the courtesy of admitting that, unknown to Miss Rutherford, you presumed to paint her in a pose that was improper to say the very least.”

  Lawrence’s tongue passed over his lower lip. “And if I did such a thing, what business would it be of yours?” he inquired.

  “I now own the second portrait.” Athan looked away for a moment. He’d bought the picture because he’d been so attracted to the then anonymous sitter. Being thoroughly tired of pursuit by all and sundry in the Marriage Stakes, he’d invented a wife. Enter Caroline, Lady Griffin, the adored but ungrateful bride who’d bolted with a lover, but whose existence kept the clamor of would-be Lady Griffins at bay. How very dramatic then to have come face-to-face with Ellie Rutherford and to know he was looking at Caroline.

  Lawrence looked curiously at him. “Sir, if you have purchased the portrait, is it not a little late to throw your hands up in shock?”

  “I met her after I had purchased it and knew she had to be the sitter. I also knew she wasn’t the sort of young woman who would pose for you in a shawl and nothing else!”

  Lawrence took the precaution of positioning himself strategically behind a table that was laden with his painting implements, and then nodded. “Very well, I admit to painting the second portrait, but I swear I did not do it out of any disrespect for Miss Rutherford. I loved her, you see.”

  This last was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that had it not been for Lawrence’s reputation having gone before him, Athan might have thought him glib. But the fellow was known to be sentimental to the point of foolishness, and was always in love with someone—in love with being in love, in fact. “You loved her, sir? That still did not give you the right to paint her in such a manner.”

  “I know,” Lawrence admitted, “but I did not identify her on the work.”

  “I’m aware of that, but the likeness is unmistakable, and therefore a threat to the lady’s reputation. That’s one reason I am here, to find out if there are any more such daubs of her.”

  “None, sir.”

  “Do you swear it?”

  Lawrence held up his hands in submission. “Oh, most certainly, sir. I painted the original portrait and the one you have now. That is all.”

  “How well acquainted with her were you?” Athan asked then, unable to stifle a pang of jealousy that this talented
but undeserving fellow had known Ellie before he did.

  “I painted her portrait, that is all,” Lawrence replied. “Oh, I importuned her, and promised my eternal love, but she was indifferent to me, so I nursed my broken heart for a while, then fell in love elsewhere.”

  “Have you any idea where she is now?”

  The artist looked blankly at him. “Well, she’s at Rutherford Park, isn’t she?”

  “No. Her parents are both deceased, Rutherford Park has been sold, and I do not know where to find her.” He’d pretended to have Caroline, and not to know where she was; now he really did have her, but still did not know where she was.

  Lawrence was dumbfounded. “Her parents are deceased?” The thought of Ellie all on her own was romantic and appealing, and he gave a faint smile. “Why, I’m of a mind to love her all over again,” he sighed.

  It was too much. Athan strode around the table and dealt him a thudding blow to the chin. With a grunt, Lawrence sagged at the knees, and then clutched at the table to support himself, but his senses were reeling, and he only succeeded in hauling the table over as he fell.

  Jars, paints, brushes, and cloths went in all directions, and to make matters complete, the palette he’d been using upon the naval officer’s portrait was knocked over as well. It landed upside down on the artist’s head, then slid slowly to the floor over his right ear, leaving lurid blue, yellow, pink, and green oil paint over his chestnut hair.

  Athan stood over him. “I warn you, Lawrence, that if you ever do such a disreputable painting again, of any lady, you will have me to reckon with. Is that clear?’’

  Lawrence tried to speak but couldn’t, so confined himself to nodding instead.

  “And if I ever hear an unwelcome whisper about Miss Rutherford in particular, I will tear your tongue out. Is that also clear?”

  Lawrence’s eyes widened, but he nodded quickly.

  There the mystery would have to rest, Athan thought as he quit the house in Greek Street and drove off to an appointment with his lawyer to collect the special license that had been applied for before the visit to St. Petersburg. Athan didn’t want the license, didn’t want Fleur, but honor and principle made it certain he would take both.

  Tomorrow he was leaving for Castle Griffin, where Fleur Tudor waited in anticipation of a betrothal, not an imminent wedding. But his mind was made up. He had to stop his nonsensical yearnings for a woman who was only part fact and mostly dream, and apply himself to the bride who was entirely fact, and who had every right to expect to wear his ring. He tried to tell himself it was for the best that he couldn’t find Ellie, but he knew it wasn’t for the best at all.

  If there were an honorable way out of wedding Fleur, he would take it, because he knew that she wasn’t the bride for him. The events of St. Valentine’s Night had sealed his fate. No other woman but Ellie could have turned his blood to fire in his veins or aroused him to such a pitch of unstoppable need that the frustration of interrupted passion remained with him even now. He was restless, unfulfilled, and unhappy, and could only be saved by Josiah Rutherford’s elusive daughter.

  Did she feel the same way? Did she feel the exquisite pain of thwarted desire? Did he haunt her dreams as she haunted his? Did her body crave the physical joy that had so nearly been theirs on St. Valentine’s Night?

  He gave an ironic laugh as he looked out of his carriage window at the London street. How could he let his thoughts wander like this? How could he let them so ransack common sense that he could no longer distinguish fact from fantasy?

  No matter what he had convinced himself at the time, he knew now that Ellie couldn’t possibly have been with him on the Troitskoe. His reprehensible love had led him to imagine—or dream—that he’d lain on a bed with Ellie Rutherford. It had led him to believe he’d have made sweet, passionate, erotic love to her if the dream had not ended as it did, cruelly, shockingly, hurtfully....

  Chapter Sixteen

  Athan’s traveling carriage drove the final miles home to Castle Griffin in bright sunshine, with daffodils nodding in the verges, catkins and pussywillows brightening the hedgerows, and the first fresh greens of spring coloring the surrounding landscape.

  Cottagers were busy in their gardens, sowing in readiness for the summer, and the Merthyr turnpike was busy because it was market day in Pontypridd. The air was still cool, but even so he’d lowered the window glass in order to inhale the sweetness of the mountains. The welcome sounds of his homeland were gentle upon his ears: two men greeting each other in Welsh, a flock of sheep calling on the slope above the road, and in the distance the muted roar of the Taff as it squeezed between rocks on the valley floor.

  The sky was a translucent blue, just blue, with no other-world colors to raise visions and deceive the senses. It looked ... well, as it should. He needed the normality of everything being in its allotted place and time, but after the erotic mysteries of St. Valentine’s Night he knew that nothing would ever be quite the same again.

  How easy it was, in this ancient Celtic land of legends, myths, and magic, to believe in the fantastic and supernatural ... to therefore believe in all his encounters with Ellie Rutherford. He’d tried to think only of Fleur, but Ellie was both around him and in him. She flowed through his veins, filled his mind, and dwelt in his heart. She was in the sky, the trees, and the very mountains, and he couldn’t drive her away because she was part of everything now.

  This was no caprice, but the deepest and most consequential form of love. He’d loved her from the moment he’d gazed upon her unnamed portrait and called her Caroline. There was no escape from the fact that no matter how many times he lay with Fleur, it would be meaningless, whereas to lie only once with Ellie would mean fulfillment in the truest sense of the word. To have Ellie as his wife, to go to sleep beside her every night and awaken beside her every morning, would be a joy forever.

  Sometimes he heard her voice so clearly that he expected her to be there, but she never was. To daydream of her was to seek the impossible. She had disappeared from Rutherford Park on purpose, deliberately cutting off all ties with the past, and in so doing she had closed the door upon him as well.

  If the exquisite romance of St. Valentine’s Night had any basis in fact—which he prayed it did—then at least he could be sure she had not gone lightly from him. She’d struggled to stay as much as he’d struggled to keep her. The beauty of those shared moments on the Troitskoe had proved their love for each other, but she’d been torn from his arms by something, he knew not what.

  Now he only had her portrait and knew that when he set foot at Castle Griffin again, his first thought would be to look at her likeness. Yet his future had to be with Fleur, to whom he’d proposed, and who deserved a better husband than one as reluctant as he. A gentleman’s word was his bond, or so they said. It was an honorable maxim; indeed, it was the guiding principle of his class, yet his conscience told him there was a world of difference between his bond and doing what was actually the right thing. Nevertheless, he would stand by his bond, and the special license was ready and waiting in his luggage.

  He looked out at the wild scenery of the gorge. A young woman with light brown curls was walking down a steep path, a basket of bread over her arm. His heart quickened and he sat forward, but it was only a stranger. His sadness returned, and he leaned his head back against the carriage upholstery to try to think of other things: preparing the two horses for the czar, perhaps, or calling upon John Bailey to tell him what he knew of the order for the soup tureen. Not that the tureen would be news to the china maker, because Valentin had sent a letter to Nantgarth House some time before Christmas, but there was another reason for calling at Nantgarth House: to make the acquaintance of John Bailey’s niece, who, if suitable, would be invited to Castle Griffin to be a friend for Fleur.

  The carriage halted at the turnpike gate, and Huw Jenkin hurried to open it with his collie at his heels. “Welcome home, my lord! Oh, it’s good to see you back!” the gatekeeper cried, snatchin
g off his hat and bowing respectfully.

  “Thank you, Huw. It’s good to be back,” Athan called back, and the carriage swept through. Soon it turned off the turnpike to climb up through Nantgarth, but it wasn’t until the bridge over the canal that Athan glanced out and saw Gwilym Lewis riding one of the Griffin horses out of the evergreen shadows of the works alley. Gwilym’s eyes met his, and suddenly Athan felt compelled to call upon John Bailey there and then. Why wait? Besides, it would postpone for a little longer the moment when he had to confront Fleur and behave as her future husband.

  Leaning out, he instructed the coachman to halt at the gate of Nantgarth House. The whitewashed property was dazzling in the sunlight, its windows fresh and sparkling, its front door newly painted blue. The south-facing garden was filled with daffodils, crocuses, and the last of the snowdrops, but its real glory was a bright pink camellia that bloomed in a sheltered corner.

  Athan climbed quickly down, intending to hail Gwilym and ask a few brief questions about the stud, but to his astonishment there was no sign of the housekeeper’s son or his horse. Puzzled, Athan glanced back over the bridge toward Nantgarth, and then ahead toward the fork, but the youth on the white colt might as well have never been.

  The door of the house opened, and Mrs. Lewis hurried out in a green-and-white gingham dress. “Oh, my lord, my lord, how wonderful it is to see you again!” she cried, her mobcap wobbling as she came to open the garden gate for him.

  Athan returned her smile. “It is good to see you again too, Mrs. Lewis.” He glanced around again. “It was my intention to speak to Gwilym, but he seems to have gone.”