by Sharon Wray
“What happened in 1710?” And why had Stuart cared?
“In 1710, Thomas killed two Fianna warriors in New Orleans and stole that document.”
“Do you know what the Pirate’s Grille is?”
“I have my suspicions.”
She held it up and peered at him through the rectangular cutouts. “This is a Cardan grille used for reading secret messages buried in letters. They were specifically used in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.”
Hezekiah took it and laid it over a printed page covered with text. Random words could be seen within the cutout windows. “Interesting.”
Isabel slipped into the room. She whispered in Hezekiah’s ear, and he frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve alerted your perimeter guards.” Isabel glanced at the desk and sent a fierce frown in Hezekiah’s direction. “What’s this?”
“The Pirate’s Grille, purchased by Stuart and now belonging to Mrs. Pinckney.” Hezekiah waved a hand toward Allison. “According to Mrs. Pinckney, that page is a Cardan grille used to decode seventeenth- and eighteenth-century letter ciphers.”
“May I?” Isabel held out her hand, and Allison hesitated. Their families had been friends long before either of them were born. Since they’d never gotten along, they only had to put up with each other at random weddings and funerals.
To be blunt, Allison didn’t trust Isabel.
Still, not wanting to be rude, Allison handed over the page. “Actually, it’s only half of a cipher. You need both the grille and the document that formed the plaintext with the secret message embedded in it.”
“This Cardan grille matches up to a specific page of text?” Isabel asked.
“Or pages.” While Isabel studied, Allison asked Hezekiah again, “Why did Stuart want this?”
“I don’t know.” Hezekiah took the page from Isabel and slipped it into the tube. He returned it to Allison yet refused to meet her gaze.
Hezekiah was lying, and none of this made any sense.
Allison held up the tube. “Was this expensive?”
Isabel’s cough sounded like a sneer. “It’s currently the most expensive document on the black market.”
Allison put the tube into her evening bag. “You said Stuart sold another document to help pay for this one. What was it?”
Hezekiah pulled a receipt book out of his desk drawer, flipped to a page, and slid it across the desk so she could read it.
Allison stood, her gaze fixed on the handwritten notation: The Witch’s Examination of Mercy Chastain. Stuart’s familiar signature was scrawled beneath. The rumors she’d heard from her UVA colleague were true. “Stuart somehow found and sold the Witch’s Examination of Mercy Chastain, a document stolen from my mother years ago?”
Hezekiah’s face reddened by the second.
When he didn’t respond, she pointed to the receipt. “That manuscript was stolen from my mother’s house sixteen years ago, while I was at my father’s funeral. Even if Stuart found it, he had no business selling it. Mercy Chastain is my direct ancestor. It’s part of her estate.”
That document, or the lack of it, was one of the reasons why she hadn’t made tenure yet at the College of Charleston. And Stuart had known that.
Hezekiah pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead and upper lip. “Stuart proved provenance.”
She was going to ask how, but forged ownership documents for antiquities were a cliché.
She straightened her shoulders and stared at the man who looked like he was melting. “Do either of these items have anything to do with why Stuart was murdered?”
Hezekiah wiped his head again and glanced at Isabel. Now there was a distinct gleam of panic in his eyes. “I know nothing about Stuart’s murder. Though he admitted that he sold the Witch’s Examination of Mercy Chastain and purchased the Pirate’s Grille to protect you.”
Allison was about to ask the all-important how when Isabel sat on the corner of the desk. The slit in her skirt showed off her perfect skin, but it was the necklace she played with that made Allison inhale a deep breath until her lungs ached. Isabel had pulled the gold chain out of her neckline to show off a sapphire-and-diamond brooch. “Where did you get that?”
Isabel lifted the brooch. The sparkling gems sent prisms around the room. “A friend.”
Hezekiah took a drink of water from a crystal glass on his desk. “Isabel.”
The way he spoke her name—an admonishment tinged with laughter—made Allison clutch her evening bag. “That brooch is mine. Stuart gave it to me.”
“An engagement present.” Isabel pursed her lips. “Except you gave it back to him.”
“How—”
“Oh, come, now,” Isabel practically purred. “Everyone knows.”
“Not everyone.” Hezekiah took another sip of water. “Don’t be cruel.”
“What are you talking about?” Allison’s voice squeaked, but she didn’t care.
“Stuart and I were lovers.” Isabel slipped the brooch into her dress’s deep neckline, until it rested between her breasts. “This was a lover’s gift.”
Allison swallowed only to find that her throat had closed up. Stuart and Isabel? Lovers? “For how long?”
“Two years. Since the night he told you to throw away that bottle of jasmine perfume Zack sent you from Paris and you refused. The night you returned this brooch.”
That night? She gripped the jeweled handle of her evening bag until it cut her hand.
“The night,” Isabel continued, “you fought about Zack Tremaine and the kiss you two shared seven years ago, not long before your wedding.”
“I don’t believe you.” The words barely made it out of her throat.
Hezekiah stood and put his hand on Isabel’s arm.
Isabel traced the delicate chain that rested on the swell of her breast. “Didn’t you ever wonder why Stuart worked late so many nights? Why, after that fight, he never touched you again?”
It was true their physical relationship had been…lacking.
“The tragedy is that Stuart loved both you and Zack. I mean, the three of you were best friends in college.” Isabel’s voice lowered as if they were speaking secrets between sisters. “Stuart told me you didn’t know how to love him, that you’re incapable of loving anyone fully. It’s no surprise you couldn’t recognize that Stuart was in love…just with a different woman.”
Allison was heading for the door when Hezekiah said, “One more thing.”
She paused, her hand on the door handle, hating the fact that she glanced back. “What?”
“The Witch’s Examination of Mercy Chastain was incomplete,” Hezekiah said. “The appendix was missing. If you can find it, I have a buyer.”
Allison left the room and slammed the door behind her. But she couldn’t outrun Isabel’s self-satisfied laughter. Stuart and Isabel had been lovers, and Allison had had no idea—because what Isabel said was true.
Allison wouldn’t recognize love if it hunted her down and killed her.
Chapter 3
Allison hurried down the stairs on shaky legs. In the sex club, she slammed into two men. One took her arm to steady her. The same one who’d helped her earlier. Marcellus.
“Madam, may I—”
“No.” She pushed past him and headed for the exit. It wasn’t until she threw herself against the outside stair railing that she took a breath. The humidity hit her hard, and she coughed to breathe.
Was it true? Had Stuart and Isabel been having an affair?
She sank onto the lowest step. It couldn’t be true. Closing her eyes, she pressed her cheek against the iron baluster.
Please, God, make it not true.
“Lady Allison, are you alright?”
She heard the Scottish male voice and took out her cell phone to shine its fla
shlight into the shadows. Marcellus and his friend, also in a tux and a mask, stood nearby. Despite the darkness, she saw the concern in Marcellus’s eyes. His buddy stayed hidden in the gloom.
She straightened her shoulders. She had an inherent distrust of men in tuxedoes. “I’m—”
“Allison.” Another man came out of the shadows.
Zack? Of all the people she’d expected to meet tonight, he was the absolute last on the list. He hadn’t even made the list.
Zack, who stood three feet away from her, had pulled his gun and pointed it at Marcellus’s buddy. “Allison, get behind me.”
“What are you doing here?” She moved closer to him.
“I’m protecting you.”
Marcellus stepped in between his friend and Zack. “What is the cause of this fray between you and my brother Horatio?”
“Ask Horatio,” Zack said. “He’s the one who hit me.”
Marcellus glanced back with one eyebrow raised. “Brother?”
Even though she couldn’t see Horatio’s face, she heard him say, “’Tis nothing, Marcellus. ’Twas but a disagreement.”
Zack snorted. “A disagreement that knocked me out?”
Allison touched Zack’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”
With his free hand, Zack took her arm and gently drew her behind him. “Besides the pounding headache, I’m fine.”
Marcellus held out his hands, palms up. “We meant no harm.”
“Then tell the Prince and his Fianna warriors to stay the fuck away from me, my men, and Mrs. Pinckney.”
Allison clutched her purse and her phone. The Prince?
Horatio hissed from the shadows, “You understand not—”
Marcellus raised his hand and spoke to Zack. “Your enemy is ours as well.”
“If that were true,” Zack said in the harshest voice she’d ever heard from him, “Remiel Marigny would be dead.”
“He would be if your lord—”
“Enough, Horatio.” Marcellus’s voice sounded like a bark. “Dubita veritatem esse mendacem.”
Horatio responded. “Sed nunquam non dubitatione.”
Now they were speaking Latin? “I don’t understand. What enemy?” When the men refused to answer, she put her phone into her purse and said sharply, “Does this have anything to do with Stuart’s death?”
“Yes, my lady,” Marcellus said with an even tone that made him sound like they were at a garden party instead of in a dank alley. “And Stuart’s failed task that you must now complete.”
She felt Zack’s shoulder muscles contract beneath his leather jacket. “What task?”
“Don’t listen to them.” Zack’s voice had a growly undertone. “They’re professional liars.”
“My lady.” Marcellus pressed one fist against his heart. “The Prince regrets that one woe doth tread upon another’s heel. Yet time is quickening for you to find the treasure of the dread pirate king.”
She squeezed Zack’s arm, the leather warming under her hand. This entire situation felt too similar to what’d happened at Le Petit Theatre seven years ago. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re done here.” Zack waved his free hand toward the river. “Leave. Now. And take your bullshit with you.”
Horatio tapped Marcellus on the shoulder, then he nodded toward the parked car near the dumpster. “Leaving sooner will be best.”
With a nod, and no concern for the fact that Zack still had a gun pointed at Horatio’s chest, Marcellus and Horatio walked toward the river. The way they moved, so graceful and elegant, almost made them seem like they were floating over the ground. Their walk was powerful and predatory with a side of grace.
A moment later, they disappeared into the shadows.
“Zack?” she whispered. “What was that about?”
“It’s—”
“Don’t tell me it’s nothing.” She pointed to his weapon as he shoved it in his back waistband. “Minutes ago, I learned about the Prince and his Fianna warriors—assassins—but I was led to believe they lived in the eighteenth century. They weren’t supposed to be wearing tuxes and hanging out in a sex club.”
“The Fianna have been around for centuries.” Zack’s voice carried more authority than she remembered. “They’re now in Charleston.”
“Like they were in New Orleans seven years ago?”
“Yes.”
She deserved more than one-word answers. “You know these Fianna warriors?”
Zack exhaled heavily. Even in the dim light, she noticed his chiseled cheekbones. He’d grown his black hair so long that he kept it tied back at the base of his neck. His shoulders drooped a bit, and he ran a hand over his head. His black leather jacket covered a black T-shirt. Despite the fact that he’d added serious muscle mass, his legendary confidence seemed…less confident. “We’re acquainted.”
“They said I had to finish Stuart’s task. I’m supposed to find a treasure!”
“I know.” He led her out of the alley. “That’s why we need to get you home.”
She had so many questions. So much had happened tonight, and she had so many reasons to be angry, annoyed, confused, and exhausted. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she could identify one emotion.
Allison clutched her stomach. She felt nauseated. That’s when she ID’d the problem: humiliation. Isabel and Stuart had humiliated her, and Zack was about to witness her complete breakdown.
“Hey.” Zack’s voice, so gentle and earnest, felt like a cool mist easing her heated body and inflamed mind. The pressure of his hand on her back helped her breathe. “It’s okay.”
She closed her eyes, and he pulled her into his arms. She smelled his familiar scent of bay rum, and wanted nothing more than to sink into his chest and let him hold her against his hard body. Let him protect her. Let him make everything new again.
When he rubbed her lower back and kissed the top of her head, she almost moaned, almost lifted her lips to his—almost kissed him. Would being with him take away some of her pain? Some of her despair and loneliness? Maybe. But she’d never deliberately hurt him, and using him would just make everything worse.
She opened her eyes and saw a limo near a dumpster, two rats scurrying nearby, and a trashcan on its side. This world she’d stepped into tonight was dark and scary and treacherous. Because of her choices, choices the bowing man—the Fianna—had warned her about years ago, her life was now a mess of secrets and lies and betrayals.
The familiar drowning sensation returned, and when she couldn’t breathe, she withdrew from his embrace and faced him head on.
“Zack?” Hating her shaky voice, she hit his chest with her fist. “What’s going on?”
* * *
Zack’s body hardened in the most inappropriate places. He wanted to kiss Allison, lose himself in her scent, but she’d pulled away before he made a fool of himself.
It’d been seven years since he’d seen her last, the night he’d declared his love and kissed her despite the fact that Remiel Marigny’s agent and the fucking Fianna had been watching.
Since hearing about Stuart’s death two months ago, Zack had prepped his heart for this meeting, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the reality. Seven years ago, she and he, along with Stuart, had been best friends. Now Stuart was dead and Zack was a dishonorably discharged ex–Green Beret.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he whispered. “I’m here because I’m worried about you.”
“Because of the Fianna?”
“Partly.” He waved to the building behind them. “You were also in a sex club.”
“The sex club is a cover for the Usher Society.”
Her voice washed over him, and he bit back a growl. In a black strapless gown, with her blond hair twisted into a loose bun, she couldn’t have been lovelier.
Every muscle in his body tigh
tened, but he wouldn’t let that distract him. He took her elbow and led her in the opposite direction from the warriors. “What is the Usher Society?”
“A secret antiquarian society that buys and sells old manuscripts on the black market.” She clutched her purse to her breasts. “What do you think Marcellus meant by finding treasure?”
He squeezed her arm. “I have no idea.”
She stopped walking. “Why are you here? The last time I saw your godmother, she told me you were overseas with your Special Forces unit. Something about a rescue.”
He only told Vivienne the barest details of his life so she wouldn’t worry, but he’d not expected her to share those details with anyone. Especially Allison. “Not long ago, my men and I rescued some of our other men who’d been captured in Afghanistan and held in a POW camp. But I’m no longer in the army. I live in Savannah now and work in a gym.”
She watched him for what seemed like minutes. “You, a Green Beret, got out of the army to work at a gym in Savannah. And you happened to show up in a dark Charleston alley the same night I do? The same night I’m confronted by…warriors about my dead husband and treasure? I don’t believe it.”
He wasn’t surprised. She was smart, and his story was mostly bullshit.
“I don’t expect you to.” He took her hand and started walking again. He’d feel better when they were closer to passing cars and streetlights. “Why were you at the Usher Society?”
“I was hoping to find out more about Stuart’s death.” When they reached the sidewalk, she dodged a broken curb, and he held her elbow to steady her.
“Allison, let me take you home.”
“No, thank you.” She waved to a passing cab. “How long will you be in town?”
When the cab stopped, he opened the door for her. “I’m supposed to go back to Savannah tonight.”