The Orphan Pearl

by Erin Satie

  Clive nodded.

  “And both are impossible?”

  “Completely beyond my abilities.”

  This time, they both turned to look at Lily. She removed her hat and let it dangle at her side, using her index finger as a hook. The sun shone on her bare head, gold on gold, ornament enough to render all the jewelry in the world superfluous.

  She faced each of them in turn. A spark lit in her eyes, a flash of something—the sort of quicksilver shift that came so easily to her.

  He shifted on his feet. Stood a little taller. Waited to see what she would say, waited to be amazed.

  “I fear standing out in the heat for so long has exhausted me.” She dropped her gaze meekly. “I believe I need to lie down and rest. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, Mr. Ware.”

  She dipped a small curtsey and retreated below deck. She didn’t look back.

  “Why have you gone to such lengths to protect that woman?” Clive asked, his voice dripping with contempt.

  “I’d rather talk about what you plan to do, now that you know where she is?”

  Clive’s lips thinned. “And if my answer is: exchange the information for productive action on the treaty?”

  “Then I’d remind you that this ship is ready to sail.”

  “She has done nothing to justify your interest,” snarled Clive.

  “But she has it anyway,” John replied, the words sour on his tongue. They were more true than he cared to admit, even to himself. “If I can help, I will. If she leaves the country with the pearl, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “And when the government collapses—”

  “Things will go wrong with me, or they’ll go wrong without me,” John interrupted. “Don’t talk to me about saving the day. That’s not the sort of problem we’re looking at.”

  “For the love of God, Ware, I hope you change your mind before it’s too late.”

  Clive stormed off, and John couldn’t blame him. It was a grim situation, all round.

  He descended the ladder and, after a brief knock, opened the door to the captain’s cabin. Lily sat on the bed, head bowed. He stepped farther inside and saw the flash of white in her lap, stark against the black taffeta of her skirt.

  Al-Yatima.

  He’d wondered how she’d been sure of finding the Orphan Pearl, and not some other jewel. He’d never seen a gem so unique that it could be identified without an exacting provenance. Hadn’t been able to imagine such a thing, really.

  The pearl in Lily’s hand was almost perfectly round. Smooth-skinned, flawless, with a creamy, lustrous sheen. And it was as big as a cricket ball.

  He could not believe there had ever been another like it.

  It was unique. Incomparable. A pearl that would never sit with its sisters on a string, like with like. It was too magnificent, too singular, and so it was an orphan.

  “I’m not going to take it from you,” he said, pulling a chair over from the table so he could sit facing her. “I sent Clive away and did what I could to prevent his returning, to take it by force.”

  “What about Buenos Aires?”

  “What do you mean?” She still hadn’t looked up, and he couldn’t read her expression.

  “That’s what you’ve been angling for, this whole while, isn’t it? Since the very beginning. You wanted to rejoin the Foreign Office. You wanted advancement.”

  “I did.”

  “And if Lord Palmerston leaves, and a new Foreign Secretary takes his place?”

  “Then my bargain will be moot, and I’ll be back where I started,” answered John. “It was always a gamble.”

  “That’s not a gamble. That’s a sacrifice.” She looked up, fierce, bright-eyed. “And I won’t let you make it.”

  “I don’t m—”

  She silenced him with a finger over his lips. She held it there, her gaze locked with his, then let go to trail her fingers down his arm. She turned his hand palm up and rolled the pearl into it.

  It was as warm as flesh.

  John’s throat tightened painfully.

  She folded his fingers around it. “It’s yours.”

  “I can’t let you do this.” He tried to push the pearl back at her, but she wouldn’t let him.

  “Secure Palmerston’s position. Stop my father. This is what you need, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Keep it safe.” She let go, and her voice warmed. “And make them kiss your boots with gratitude.”

  §

  After carrying al-Yatima for so long, guarding and coveting it, she’d been afraid she wouldn’t be able to let go. But it was easy. A little flutter as it rolled, like feathers tickling the inside of her ribcage, and then calm. The pearl wasn’t hers anymore. Not hers to protect, not hers to bestow.

  It was a step toward making things right, and she’d started with the man who’d shown her how. Who reminded her that even if a wound could not be unmade, it could be healed.

  He buried his face in her lap.

  She laughed thinly and tried to pull him up by the shoulders. “There’s no tragedy here. Nothing to mourn.”

  He allowed her to manhandle him, only to slip his coat off and carefully roll the pearl inside it.

  “Do I seem unhappy to you? The light must be poor.” He set the cloth-wrapped jewel aside and reached for her slippers. “You’ll have to look again.”

  Her breathing grew ragged.

  “I am feeling many things right now.” He tossed her slippers to the side and set to work on her garters. “If you can’t see, perhaps I should demonstrate.”

  He made quick work of the other stocking, then gave her a push. She tumbled onto her back with a squeal, only to be rolled onto her stomach before she could right herself. One solid masculine hand landed on the small of her back and pinned her down while she panted and twisted.

  He loosened the fastenings of her dress and slid his hand round to cradle her belly, lifting her just enough to slide the stiff black taffeta down over her hips. It joined her stockings on the floor, and then her petticoat. That left her wearing her corset, which tied in the front, and the chemise she wore underneath. From the waist down, she was completely exposed.

  Ware was quick to take advantage. He leaned over her, one knee on the mattress, and held her down while probing between her legs.

  “Tell me what you like,” he urged. “Let me hear you.”

  She groaned. He parted her folds, which slicked to his touch. Traced the ring of muscle at her entrance, until she had stopped squirming to be free and tried, instead, to angle that finger inside her.

  He obliged. Two fingers, pumping strongly, until she gasped and strained against the tight bones of her corset. He rolled her again, loosened the damned thing, and while her whole body tingled with relief he spread her thighs wide apart and knelt between them.

  He laved and suckled. He held her down when she bucked and he worked her with fingers and tongue both, until she could not have said where the pleasure came from, only that it consumed her utterly. She slapped the mattress and pulled her own hair, back bowing taut, and begged for him to stop—”It’s too much, please, it’s so good”—until she went hoarse.

  And then Ware stood up, lips and chin glazed by the lamplight, and peeled off his shirt. The fine linen lifted up to reveal his flat, pale stomach first, and then the dark hair tufted over the hard muscles of his chest. He bunched the shirt up in his hands and used it to wipe his jaw clean.

  She rolled her hips in invitation.

  Their eyes locked. He dropped the shirt and yanked off his boots, never breaking eye contact. His stockings went next, and after that, he set to work on the falls off his trousers, the fabric stretched tight over his arousal. When his smalls dropped, last of all, he stood naked before her: rough-hewn, powerful rather than elegant. A pure workhorse of a body.

  “All of this for me,” she marveled.

  He moved back onto the bed, covering her this time, elbows braced to either side of her head. They lay skin
to skin, shoulder to hip, his cock digging hard against her belly. He was heavy and solid, big enough to crush her, but instead he shifted his hips and sent his cock sliding slick through the wet mess between her legs. She shivered in reaction and he pressed his lips to her forehead, the corners of her eyes. They were damp.

  He buried himself to the root in a single slow thrust. Their bodies beat together like a heart, a fist-sized muscle that squeezed life into the blood as violently as their hips ground together, filling her up with more emotion than she could ever contain, so much that she had to release it back to him, transformed, in an endless, perfect circuit.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Carrying al-Yatima into the city provided a quick illustration of how Lily came to be so skittish. John peered suspiciously out the window of his carriage all the way to the West End. He jumped at shadows and unexpected noises.

  Years before, in the mountains of the Lebanon, he’d been overtaken by thieves. They’d stripped him down to his small clothes and abandoned him to his fate. He’d arrived at the nearest town days later, his feet a bloody ruin, and slowly worked his way to the nearest consulate. It had taken a week just to earn enough to purchase a new pair of shoes. There had not been a single moment, during the entire ordeal, when he’d been half as nervous as he was in his own carriage, in his own country, with the Orphan Pearl in his lap.

  He could not imagine trying to explain to Lily that he’d lost it.

  His unease only sharpened when he arrived at Clive’s townhouse and found out, from the butler, that the His Grace had left for a meeting with Lord Palmerston few hours earlier. It ought to have been good news—finding them both together would save him time—but instead, he worried about getting out of Palmerston’s office with the pearl if he failed to strike a deal.

  He tucked al-Yatima into a small leather valise and imagined Lily alone and hounded, freshly widowed and half-crazed by grief, making her way across Anatolia. How terrified she must have been. Of course, the fear would have dulled with routine; it always did. That was something.

  He climbed one floor up to the Private Secretary’s office and, after a short wait, was ushered into Palmerston’s office. The Foreign Secretary and the Duke of Clive stood together by the large bay window. Palmerston advanced, hand out for John to shake. Clive, backlit by the bright sunlight, kept still.

  “Mr. Ware,” said Palmerston. “What news have you brought?”

  “Not news,” said John, flipping the clasp of his valise and removing al-Yatima from the velvet swaddling he’d packed it in. “But the Orphan Pearl is in my possession.”

  “Good God,” breathed Palmerston. “It’s extraordinary.”

  “Like nothing I’ve ever seen,” John agreed.

  Palmerston held out his hands. “Can I…?”

  “Go ahead.” But his heart rate spiked as he placed it in Palmerston’s cupped palms.

  “You might as well explain the terms, Ware,” said Clive. “If you’re just taking it out for a walk, it’s not much use to us.”

  “She gave it to me,” said John. “Whatever advantage Hastings gained by having—or pretending that he had—control over the pearl is gone.”

  “That won’t sway the Cabinet,” said Clive. “Even if we could persuade them to our point of view, they’re too afraid of Hastings to change position.”

  “But we might be able to persuade Lord Melbourne,” countered Palmerston. “And then we wouldn’t need to worry about the others.”

  It took several hours of sending messages back and forth before they were shown into the Prime Minister’s chambers in 10 Downing Street. Melbourne occupied a spacious office, his desk oriented toward the tall windows and a pair of sofas grouped around a dormant fireplace. A fine Persian carpet protected the plain oak floors and a brass chandelier hung from the high ceiling.

  The Prime Minister, a mild-mannered man of sixty or so, still boasted a full head of hair and a luxuriant mutton-chop beard. He had soft, dark eyes and a prominent forehead, poorly balanced by a weak chin that he masked with high collar-points and voluminously knotted neckcloths.

  Melbourne had been a weathervane throughout the conference, his position changing with the wind. Since the plenipotentiaries arrived, he could be counted on for only one thing: his willingness to go along with the majority view.

  “I was certain the next time we met, I’d be accepting your resignation,” said Melbourne to Palmerston. “Dare I hope for a reprieve?”

  “You hope for a reprieve,” replied Palmerston. “And I hope that you will dare.”

  “Then we find ourselves on delicate footing.” Melbourne gestured to his couches. “Take a seat, won’t you? Tell me what you’ve come to discuss.”

  Once they’d settled, Palmerston began. “Do you remember the jewel we spoke of—the orphan girl who turned out to be a pearl with a grand history?”

  “Of course. The Duke of Hastings has it now—he’s made much of it.”

  “Not so.” John opened up his valise and produced al-Yatima. “Hastings never possessed the pearl, and now he never will.”

  Melbourne cursed. “What on earth…” He leaned closer. “Is it glass? Treated with some coating?”

  “It’s real,” John told him. “And I can assure you that Mehmet Ali will never get his hands on it.”

  Melbourne glanced quickly at Palmerston, comprehension chasing surprise across his features.

  “We’ve beaten him back without launching a single ship,” said Palmerston. “You know my position. We have pledged to aid the Sultan. What nation will trust us in the future if we don’t make good on our promises now?”

  “While the French struggle to regroup after having their plans dashed, we can act,” added Clive. “If you bring the Cabinet around, Palmerston and I could have the Austrian, Prussian, and Russian plenipotentiaries ready to sign in a matter of days.”

  “Possessing the pearl provides leverage,” added John. “There’s no harm in using it to encourage Mehmet Ali to negotiate. Give him a timetable. A speedy withdrawal from northern Syria in exchange for keeping some of the territory he’s won.”

  “Holland would like that,” said Melbourne. “An element of compromise. Russell, too—he’s been set against military action.”

  “Can we count on you?” Palmerston asked.

  Melbourne tapped his knee, a frown creasing his face, before nodding shortly. “I’ll speak with the Cabinet. We’ll sign with four powers instead of five, as soon as possible.” He let out a brief harrumph. “France won’t like being left out, but they’ve no grounds to complain. I won’t mind putting one to Hastings, either.”

  They sealed the bargain with friendly handshakes and John breathed a sigh of relief when he left Downing Street with the pearl still in his valise. Clive stopped him on the way out with a hand on the shoulder.

  “I’m sorry. I should have had more faith in you.”

  “You should have had more faith in Lady Lily,” he countered, but without rancor. Their meeting had been a success, and Melbourne’s moderating influence boded well for all concerned.

  “Perhaps so,” Clive acknowledged. “I’ll do what I can to keep you informed about the treaty, in the coming days. If you need anything, you know where to find me. I owe you a favor.”

  John savored the exchange; his next destination, after a brief pause at his Belgravia townhouse to secure the Orphan Pearl inside a hidden safe, was Lord Wilsey’s home. What little hope he’d had for the future of their relationship died when the butler opened the door to the library and Wilsey did not stand or smile in greeting.

  He sat in a high-backed chair, his dinner-plate-sized hands gripped tight around the carved wooden arms, and didn’t wait for John to speak before asking querulously, “Have you come to bring me more excuses?”

  John froze, buffeted back by the hostility emanating from Wilsey. A chair waited, but he could not make himself take another step.

  “Go on,” snapped Wilsey. “Kingston lives and breathes, but y
ou’ve come here to flap your lips at me.”

  “I’ll be brief,” John said quietly. “I cannot kill the Earl of Kingston. I’m sorry.”

  Wilsey’s cheeks flushed a deep, dull pink. “You come to me, standing on your two feet, to tell me you can’t? Those aren’t your words, Ware. Never have been, and they aren’t now. Don’t lie to me.”

  “Can’t, won’t.” John shrugged. “Call it what you like. Betrayal would suit, and I feel it.”

  “You’re abandoning me. After all I’ve done for you, the first time I ask something in return, you refuse.” Wilsey bit his lips. “You haven’t the decency to be ashamed.”

  “I—” John stuttered to a halt. Wilsey had reached a state of agitation dangerous for a man of his age, and John did not want to provoke an apoplexy in order to soothe his conscience. “I won’t offend you with my presence.”

  He turned to go, but paused at the door. Looked back over his shoulder and asked, “I’m sorry, but—how’s Amelia?”

  “Don’t even speak her name,” seethed Wilsey, finally, cumbersomely, rising to his feet. “You have no right. Walking away from a ruined girl—you’re no better than Kingston.”

  John took a deep breath. Released it slowly. And then lost the battle with his better self, the one that told him to leave quietly, to give Wilsey’s pain that much respect. “You lied to me, Wilsey. Every single detail you gave me about Amelia was wrong. But you wanted me to murder a man, so you told a story that would ensure my compliance.” Under the guise of taking John into his confidence, he had done the exact opposite: treated him like a pawn to be used and then sacrificed. “I tried, Wilsey. And I might have tried again, and again, until I succeeded—if I hadn’t learned the truth.”

  “The truth!”

  “You let me believe that I would earn the right to call you father,” John continued, his voice breaking. There had been a time when he wanted nothing more. And Wilsey had known it. Known, and used John’s longing to his own advantage. Perhaps—probably—right from the moment they’d met. “But no loving father would give his son a task that damned him to hell. No loving father would push his son to blight his life and future with murder.”