“I’m too large for him to carry my body from his house undetected and you can dance at his hanging, gentlemen.” Michael moved to pour himself a stiff drink. “I’m safe enough.”
“Would you like one of us to stand by?” Galen offered. “I could even acquire an invitation to join you.”
“No,” Michael said. “It’s exactly what I wish to avoid. It’s not an ambush. It’s a first foray into finding out where we stand.”
“I hate this,” Ashe growled. “If it isn’t an ambush, it should be.”
Michael ignored him and stepped back to take his leave. “If you find the “diamond in disguise”, please send word to me right away. Otherwise, I’ll leave you gentlemen in peace.”
“In peace? Are you serious?” Ashe closed his eyes and stretched out his legs, a grown man’s imitation of a pout. “I need a stiff drink. And I’d be peaceful if I had an end to this interminable waiting and—“
“He’s gone, Blackwell.” Galen picked up his cup and returned to his chair.
“What?” Ashe sat up in astonishment. “I didn’t hear the door!”
“It’s Rutherford. When do you ever hear the door when it’s Rutherford?” Galen smiled as he shook his head in admiration. “The size of an elephant and the grace of a housecat. It’s terrifying, really.”
Ashe lowered his face into his hands, his façade of control giving way. “Terrifying,” he echoed softly and then went on in a tight whisper, “God, what isn’t? Welcome to my world. Kill him, Rutherford, and let me sleep at night. Kill the bastard.”
Galen said nothing, politely averting his gaze to look out the window on a beautiful spring day that reflected nothing of his friend’s despair. Ashe’s young American wife was upstairs still confined to her bed for weeks yet to await the birth of their child. He needn’t ask to know that her health was still precarious. All the Jaded knew it. The Jackal had tried to poison Blackwell and his beloved bride had suffered in his place and nearly died. Now, she was expecting a baby in late July and where the most robust woman could be lost, his defiant Caroline was treading on unsteady feet. Ashe’s fear was palpable, and every man understood him. The risk of losing the women they worshipped to a horrible end in childbirth—it was not to be imagined, much less endured.
But Ashe was staring into that dark unforgiving precipice and Galen’s throat closed at the cruel threat. It was a phantom that Ashe couldn’t name or fight.
But the Jackal…
Blackwell had seized on the notion of this enemy and Galen suspected that it was easier to hate and empower the Jackal like an evil talisman that if destroyed, could guarantee the safety of his Caroline—yes, that belief was easier to hold to than to yield to blind Providence without complaint and trust that an invisible god would bring her through it.
He didn’t judge Ashe for it. Ashe was the quickest to laugh and the first to urge the Jaded to enjoy whatever life was left to them. He’d overheard Darius Thorne defending him once, when Rowan had disapproved of his rakish ways. Darius had said, “Ashe is open hearted, West. Watch him and you’ll see. He doesn’t give his loyalty or his love in measured amounts.”
So, Galen guessed the man didn’t hate in half measures either.
“Rutherford has it in hand,” Galen said carefully. “And if you doubt it, just remember the fate of that stone and be grateful your name isn’t Sterling Porter.”
Michael accepted the cut crystal glass filled with wine from Sterling’s hand and waited for his host to fill his own from the same decanter before he risked a small taste. Despite all his bravado, he had no wish to die in a useless demonstration before he’d achieved any of his goals for the night.
The Sunday evening dinner was unfolding slowly as Michael waited warily for Sterling to make his move, doing his best to test for weaknesses without any direct confrontations as the genteel presence of Grace Porter in an off the shoulder evening gown with a spray of orange lilies in her hair held him in check.
As far as Michael was concerned, it was exhausting.
He’d braced for a barrage of personal questions that had yet to come. So far, not one breath of India, not one hint of their shared past or the threats to the Jaded’s future… Instead, Sterling Porter had dominated all conversation to the turn of the seasons and to regale them with colorful stories of the East India Trading Company’s efforts to curb piracy and secure more Asian trade routes.
Sterling wore a red silk brocade vest with silver buttons and Michael began to wonder what kind of man he was really facing. Porter was younger than he’d imagined, in his late-thirties, with fair coloring like his sister. Where Grace evoked an ivory cameo with her long classical features, Sterling looked far more earthly with dark shadows under his eyes. He was lanky and slight, a touch too pale even by English standards which hinted that his health was not necessarily good. But his expression betrayed a feral intelligence and a keen wit.
The Jackal was a man, but what sort of man, Michael still didn’t know. A petty bureaucrat? A clerk with aspirations? Middle class, yes. But it was clear that Sterling Porter believed he was meant for better things. All the reports of his runners bore out in the man’s every gesture and word. Ambitious prick, aren’t you?
Michael had worn one of his better coats and a complimentary gray muslin waistcoat that Mrs. Clay had assured him was extremely flattering, but one look at his host and he knew he was underdressed for the occasion.
The man’s a popinjay! Ashe would have a thing to say about his overdone cravat and then ask me why I haven’t shoved this crystal glass down his throat. Damn it! I’m getting nowhere and Grace…
Grace was far more distracting than he’d accounted for. It was the current fashion to display a woman’s bare shoulders and throat in the evening and Michael was confident he’d seen his share of necks—but this was apparently different. Why, he wasn’t sure, but the sight of the naked curve of her shoulders and the elegant lines of her collarbone and the barest glimpse of the rise of her breasts was driving him mad. Instead of tracking Sterling’s every word or studying the man for any sign of treachery, he kept glancing at Grace Porter and wondering how he could politely beg her to put on a shawl.
Or ask her why she wasn’t talking.
She was far too quiet. Sterling barely had time to draw breath, much less eat, in between his speeches and if Grace even looked as if she might have something to say, her brother cut her off.
“Of course, Grace has no opinion on the matter,” Sterling said in between bites of veal. “She knows as much of pirates as a sparrow does of parsnips.”
Michael should have left it. After all, letting Sterling blather on was the wiser course if he wanted to learn anything of the man’s mind. But wisdom slipped from his grasp as he noticed the color in her cheeks darkening at her brother’s dismissive comment.
“Is that certain, Miss Porter?” Michael asked her directly. “I don’t think an opinion requires direct experience, don’t you agree?”
She beamed at him. “If it did, I should think that most of the House of Lords would be mute. Or most men for that matter!”
“Grace!” Sterling dropped his fork. “What a thing to say!”
The joy in her eyes dimmed and Grace bit her lower lip. “A poor jest. I apologize.”
“Not a poor jest,” Michael set his glass down as carefully as he could. “And why apologize for being clever? A smart man I know once told me that intelligence was never offensive where ignorance always is.” He looked directly at Sterling and decided he’d had enough of polite games. “Pity that so few who are stupid ever think to make amends for the pain they inflict on others.”
Sterling’s gaze narrowed and Michael looked at him openly defiant. “A pity.”
“But I’m a plain spoken man, as you know,” Michael said calmly. “Pirates or parsnips, it’s all the same to me.”
“Is it?” Sterling asked. “Tell me, Mr. Rutherford, what work do you do? What is your profession now?”
At last. Here we are.
“As I was seventeen years a soldier, I apply what talents I can as a consultant to businesses and individuals for their security. I’m told I have a good eye for spotting potential weaknesses and averting crime.”
“Interesting,” Sterling said. “But looking at you, I’d say to avert a crime all you would have to do is be present. I can’t think of a burglar anywhere stupid enough to try to walk around a guard of your stature.”
“I’m not a guard and if it were that simple, I’d be happily unemployed.”
“And where do you reside, Mr. Rutherford?” Sterling went on amiably. “Does your business provide a good living?”
“I do well enough,” Michael answered, caution flaring at the sickening idea of Sterling Porter strolling into the Grove uninvited. “Not as well as you, if the home you have here is any sign of your fortunes.”
It was an easy bit of false flattery and he was rewarded with a strange flash of emotion in Sterling’s eyes. Either it was triumph or suspicion, but before Michael could weigh it out, Sterling reached for the decanter to refill his glass.
“I have just had a grand idea, Mr. Rutherford.” Sterling grinned as if they were the best of friends. “One that Grace is sure to approve.”
Grace looked up in surprise. “Would I?”
“Grace is often confined to the house and has few chances for social events. There’s a ball coming up in less than a fortnight in early June hosted by a friend of ours, a Mr. Rand Bascombe. Why don’t you join us? He is an acquaintance through associates at the Company.” Red wine sloshed over the edge of Sterling’s glass unheeded, a crimson stain spreading out on the white linen tablecloth. “Rand is back from a miserable expedition to India that reaped nothing but death. Bad luck with fevers through his party and apparently, an inability to look at a compass to keep from going in circles.”
Michael kept his expression neutral. “All that and he’s still in the mood for a party?”
Sterling laughed. “His new wife may have tipped the scales. Apparently she’s so thrilled to have her husband back she’s willing to overlook the circumstances—and why not?” Sterling smiled, a wicked icy show of teeth. “I warned him it was a stupid idea to stomp about over there. But then, you must know. That region is no place for little men or small dreams.”
“No.”
“Do you know Mr. Bascombe, sir?” Sterling asked.
Michael shook his head. “By reputation only.” What Michael did know was from the squat villain’s involvement in the East India’s first clumsy attempts to flush out the Jaded and from his assault on Lady Winters. Bascombe was a toady of a man and Galen Hawke loathed him so much he’d once said that if Rand Bascombe were on fire, he wouldn’t hesitate to add kindling. If I’m not careful, I’ll have to worry about holding Galen back if he catches Bascombe’s scent…or this could become a real brawl.
Sterling held up his wine. “I’d love to introduce you to him.”
“I see.” Except he didn’t. He didn’t see how walking into Sterling’s larger circle of acquaintances in the East India Trading Company would be courageous or suicidal. Probably a bit of both. “I don’t think his wife would thank you for an extra guest considering the circumstances.”
“There isn’t a hostess in London who complains when a bachelor is added to her party.” Sterling took another healthy swallow from his glass. “Isn’t that true, Grace? Wouldn’t you enjoy it if Mr. Rutherford accompanied you to a ball? Shall I include you in the evening, dear sister?”
To her credit, Grace Porter looked as shocked and unsure of the notion as Michael felt; but there was something in the turn of the conversation that didn’t sit well with him. Sterling was charmingly bullying her into attending Bascombe’s or into submitting to Michael’s company. Either way, Michael was off balance.
Grace blinked and then finally cleared her throat. “Pardon?”
“I’m not the best choice of escort for a formal party and I think your sister is struggling to diplomatically say as much.” Michael let out a slow careful breath. “Grace is too kind to admit her aversion to the notion.”
Sterling laughed. “If she’s hesitant, I don’t think you’re the source of her fears. Is he?”
“No.” Grace pushed the pastry on her plate from one side to the other, a woman struggling to appear disinterested in the topic at hand. “He would be an excellent choice of escort to any occasion. And it’s not fear. I can think of eight things far more terrifying than a ball!” She looked up directly at Michael. “Be at ease, Mr. Rutherford. I am never included on my brother’s outings and he’s teasing you with the threat of waltzing. You are safe, sir. Now, please, Sterling, I beg you! Leave the subject!”
“It’s true,” Sterling sighed. “You are safe. She doesn’t even own a ball gown.”
A man would have to be blind not to see the stinging agony of Sterling’s insult as it flashed in her blue eyes before she busied with refilling her water glass. The pain in Michael’s ribs failed to compare with the knife-like blow to his midsection at the sight of Grace Porter’s struggle not to cry at the dinner table. Michael’s hands fisted on his lap under the tablecloth in frustration. Just when I think I cannot dislike you more Sterling Porter…
“Well!” Sterling went on with friendly smile that didn’t quite warm his eyes, “All your country fears are laid to rest as Mr. Rutherford has spared me the cost of getting you one, Grace! Now I really am in his debt.”
To control his emotions, Michael did his best not to look at Grace. “I look forward to meeting your friend Mr. Bascombe and hearing about his adventures. But I won’t consider attending without her.”
Sterling smiled. “What a delightful surprise!”
Grace put her fingertips over her lips. “M-Mr. Rutherford! I can’t—“
“There! It is a nice change for you, Grace. Not that you’ll be taking any turns on the floor—“
“And I’ll dance with her.” Michael spoke without thinking. “That is, if the lady will allow it.”
Grace’s mouth fell open and Michael had to swallow hard to ignore the fiery impulse to cheer in triumph. It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever said but in that moment, Michael Rutherford didn’t care. All he cared about was that Grace Porter was not going to be left behind. And that when Grace Porter’s eyes shone, it made his chest ache to say something comforting and kind to her or more—to reach for her, to touch her, to draw her against him and shield her from the sharp edges of the world.
“Of course, she’ll allow it,” Sterling answered for her. “Just mind you wear good shoes and watch your toes.”
“It will be a night to remember,” Michael said and then impulsively decided to test the waters. “Bascombe and I can compare notes about Bengal and perhaps I can help him see where he went wrong. I could improve his chances if he intends another attempt.”
The effect on Sterling Porter was immediate. His good humor evaporated and his expression became haughty with fury. “There is nothing there for him to find!” Uncertainty crept into his eyes and he stood abruptly. “I think that’s enough for one night. I hate to cut things short but my head is raging.”
“I don’t understand.” Grace stood, forcing Michael to follow suit. “Sterling. Are you sure? I set out the port and cigars if you—“
“Our delightful evening is at an end.” Sterling stepped back. “I can walk you out, Mr. Rutherford.”
Michael nodded then gave Grace an apologetic look. “It was lovely, Miss Porter. I enjoyed the parsnips and the pirates and look forward to seeing you at the dance.”
She radiated happiness and curtsied gracefully. “Thank you.”
He bowed and followed Sterling out and down the stairs. As the man lumbered with his fury down the steps, Michael eyed the center of his back and contemplated the irony of being within inches of the Jaded’s enemy.
One little push and we could save ourselves the trouble…
He didn’t know why Sterli
ng would bring Bascombe into things and if they were rivals for the same treasure, then why in god’s name would Sterling risk another player on the field? What was his game?
By the time they’d safely reached the ground floor foyer, it was a relief to have the temptation gone. Sterling in his haste had forgotten to signal the footman so they were alone to retrieve Michael’s coat and hat. Normally, Michael would have readily taken care of the matter himself as he always did but the awkward frustration on Sterling’s face was priceless.
The dinner. The crystal. That horrible jelly molded entrée… There should be a man here to fuss over my departure and hand me my hat and it’s killing him that there isn’t.
Michael deliberately folded his hands in front of him and waited on the last step, instinctively adding to his superior height to give him a better advantage.
“Bascombe…” Sterling stopped. “I should apologize. Bascombe has long been a thorn in my side. I’m a practical man where Bascombe’s a dreamer. He is convinced there is a great treasure yet to be discovered in India, a forgotten treasure room.”
“Treasure rooms are rarely forgotten.”
“Yes. Exactly.” One of the lamps were lit but the shadows were distorted by an arrangement of flowers on the table next to it and Sterling’s face looked mottled by the play of light and dark across his features. “Tradition and superstition would hold back a starving populace for only so long once a ruler fell. You see, I heard stories of a small raj in the jungles of India who was quite mad. In fact, he eventually became so insane that he insisted on marrying a statue of a local goddess. Can you imagine it? Five wives and forty concubines and he replaces them all with a life size stone carving with painted lips and arms like an octopus.”
“Did he really?” Michael asked, genuinely intrigued. He’d heard rumors of the raj’s madness or how things had come to a head but this—this was a confirmation he’d never have guessed at. “What sacrilege!” he whispered.
“Sacrilege,” Sterling echoed. “And beyond. They say it was the wedding night that did it. The groom wished to take things literally and his people decided they’d had enough. The palace forces were drawn away with a revolt in the village and then a second band of rebels stormed the palace with torches and machetes, setting off stolen explosives and destroying much of the building.”
Desire Wears Diamonds Page 9