This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.
Cover Art design by Amber Anderson of ADK Designs, LLC: http://www.adkdesigns.biz
Originally published as THE RUBY
Copyright © 1992 and 2013 by Roberta Helmer
First Dell Publishing Edition: 1992
First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013
Sincere thanks to L. Somi Roy for reviewing the terms in the glossary and to Gerard Raymond for generously sharing so much information about Sri Lanka.
And thanks as ever to Peggy Kulp—for making the deadlines painless.
PROLOGUE
London, England
December 1864
His face was cast in shadows.
But even the darkness could not conceal the fury that twisted his features.
Damn the cursed woman! He’d warned her. He’d more than warned her.
But they never listened. All they did was whine and simper. Or cry. That was the most irritating of all.
How he hated them. Their slack, wet mouths. Their quick, cunning eyes. Their false passion when they pretended to arch and shudder beneath him in their pleasure.
They never deceived him, of course. But money could buy many things.
And of course he needed them. Even though he hated that shameful need of his most of all.
His hooded eyes narrowed as he studied the chaos of the small, dark room. Tangled sheets. Fallen hairpins. An untidy litter of female clothing scattered over the floor.
The misshapen lump that did not move upon the bed.
His thin lips pursed with distaste. He’d told her what he wanted at the very first. She’d agreed quickly enough when he’d flashed his gold. But at the end she’d balked, just as they all did.
He drew on his damask waistcoat in silence, his fingers slow and precise. Next came his black silk top hat. Last of all came the fine French merino cloak to conceal his pristine black frock coat.
It wouldn’t do for him to be seen in formal evening dress in a sordid place like this. That would raise questions, and he was not a man who cared for questions.
At the door he stopped, a diamond stickpin glinting at the folds of his snowy cravat. Slowly he scanned the room one last time to be certain he hadn’t missed anything.
Only then did he afford the motionless figure under the quilt a direct glance. A pity, he thought. Once her face had been tolerably pretty.
Not now. Oh, not at all now.
But this one, at least, would never bother him again.
And when he had the ruby in his hands at last, everything would change. Then none of them would ever bother him again.
Part One
London
Tell Me, O Swan, your ancient tale. From what land do you come, O Swan?
to what shore will you fly? Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek?
~ from Tagore, Songs of Kabir
CHAPTER ONE
She gasped in pain and exhaustion. She’d have to stop.
But she couldn’t, not while they were so close.
Suddenly the road began to blur and a loud whine filled her ears.
Sweet heaven, what would a few seconds matter?
To rest, to forget. How sweet…
Yes, what harm could there be in just a few seconds?
Frigid air lashed Barrett’s cheeks as a hansom cab thundered past at the gallop. She wobbled forward out of his path.
“Get outter the bleedin’ street!” the coachman bellowed, shaking his fist as he hammered past into the darkness.
Barrett stumbled on, the ground spinning dizzily before her. The next moment she tumbled headlong onto a wrought iron railing pierced with griffin heads, their jaws fixed in a cruel leer.
Pain ripped through her fingers. Beneath the black lace veil, beneath the ebony curls which spilled forth in wild disarray, her chiseled face bled white.
Little could be seen of that face in the chill gloom of the London night—only the barest sweep of high cheekbones, a firm chin, and an upswept nose.
It was the eyes that were extraordinary and entirely unforgettable. Wide-set and long-lashed, they stared fiercely out at the world, their odd depths swirling and changeable, azure shifting to teal and then copen blue with every change of emotion.
Eyes as vivid and changeable as the woman herself; eyes a stranger would not soon forget.
And right now they began to glint with tears, which she quickly thrust away with a dusty fist.
No time for tears, she told herself. No time for weakness, either.
She had to summon all her wits about her. She’d been wandering the dark streets for hours now, dizzy with hunger, uncertain where she was.
Surely she must be close to Fleet Street. Or was that the City before her, beyond a narrow, pillared gateway?
Barrett’s haunted eyes closed for a moment as black despair swept over her. So much running. It seemed as if she had been running forever.
Perhaps she had.
Trembling, her fingers tightened on the cold railing. They were somewhere out in the night, she knew, hiding in the dark tangle of London’s streets. Soundless and inexorable, they watched and waited. Only yesterday, as she left her shabby rented room in Fenchurch Street, one of them had nearly caught her, seizing her from behind.
Without warning the greasy cloth had come down over her face. Only her wild struggles had saved her—along with a fierce jab from the little silver fruit knife she always carried with her now.
She could still hear the man’s hoarse curses as he fought to gag her. As if in a dream, she’d seen the long fingers jerk open, splashed crimson by her wild thrust. Then by some stroke of fate a constable had rounded the corner and her pursuer had fled back into the bleak corridors of smoke and fear, back into the dark underbelly of London.
But they had not given up, Barrett knew.
Nor would she.
Teal eyes flashing, she pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders and set off into the night.
Across the quiet square a tall man with rounded shoulders flattened himself within a darkened doorway, while his sharp eyes swept the street.
There—just by the last crossing!
His thin lips twisted in an ugly slash of a smile. She was weakening!
He inched beyond the doorway, and as he moved, his elbow brushed against the metal frame. Pain jolted down to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, cradling his hand as he recalled his victim’s unexpected ferocity in attacking him the day before. More than a hat pin the little bitch had had. She must be carrying some sort of knife now.
Oh, he’d make her pay for that and pay well, Thomas Creighton swore silently.
He sniffed the air. Crisp. Damp. Snow soon, unless he missed his guess. That would make his job even easier.
Grinning coldly, he pulled his hat down about his face and slipped out into the wind.
He was being followed.
He was certain of it.
His fingers stilled on the crisp folds of his exquisitely cut black evening cape. A big man, he moved with unexpected grace, barely turning his head as he studied the shadows of the alley opposite.
He ought to be kicked for not noticing sooner. Still, a little inattention was to be exp
ected after finishing two bottles of port and a superb meal of pheasant, stuffed lark, and greengage tarts at the very discreet establishment on Jermyn Street.
He was growing lazy and far too careless of late, the tall man thought darkly. And London was no place for the careless.
He tugged a chain from beneath his evening cloak and studied the watch face in the dim gaslight. Ten minutes past ten. Good—he still had time to walk.
Time enough to flush out whoever was foolish enough to follow him.
Without undue haste he strode across the street, a strange figure in pristine black beneath a turban of purple satin. On another man the blend of garments might have looked comic, but on this man they looked perfectly natural. Perhaps it was his confident stride that made it so, or perhaps it was his innate dignity of bearing, evident in every fluid motion.
But tonight the Rajah of Ranapore resolved to be more careful. His fingers tightened on the cane concealed beneath the folds of his elegant cloak. Had he been back in the jungles of Ceylon, it would have been easy enough to dispense with his pursuer. One bullet into the underbrush would have flushed out his quarry.
Or silenced him forever.
But this was London, bastion of civilization in the realm of that most civilized of sovereigns, Victoria. Here such decisive measures would be frowned upon, more’s the pity.
So he must be subtle, the tall man supposed.
As he passed beneath a globe of gaslight, azure sparks flashed and scattered from the egg-size sapphire he wore upon his turban.
It was madness not to take a carriage, of course, but tonight it pleased the dark-eyed visitor to walk. He needed the exercise, for one thing. He also enjoyed the silence.
And in a few days he would be leaving for the East once more.
So tonight he would walk, trying to remember the good and forget all the rest. A frown creased his dark features.
Jo hoga, so hoga.
“What is meant to be will be,” the Rajah of Ranapore murmured.
Kismet. In the end it always came down to that, didn’t it?
When the slim man with a downturned hat inched out of a doorway at the opposite side of the lane, the rajah was careful to give no sign that he noticed.
Except for the hardness in his eyes, he might have been simply another one of London’s many wealthy foreign visitors out for an evening stroll upon the town.
Only his friends in Ceylon would have recognized the faint hardening of his jaw as a sure sign of trouble to come.
But the Rajah of Ranapore had no friends, not anymore. Neither in Ceylon nor anywhere else.
The wretched ruby had seen to that, too.
She sensed him in the shadows; she felt his nearness prick the fine hairs at the back of her neck.
She stumbled into the wind, shoving down her fear.
But she knew why they followed her, knew too well the enormous importance of the secret she carried locked inside her head. It was a secret that could topple kings and sway the tides of war.
A secret men would kill to possess. And had killed already.
She had barely reached the next block when the cramp in her side returned, bringing her up short with wrenching pain. With one white hand locked to her waist, she limped to a row of ornamental wrought iron spikes and leaned back tiredly.
Block it out, she thought. Think it away. Grandfather taught you how. It is not safe to stop.
For a moment her haunted eyes blurred. She thought of her grandfather, safely ensconced in his study, poring over some arcane scientific volume or another. She remembered the confusion, the angry pounding at the door. The stamp of heavy feet.
Even a few minutes more and they would have worked the secret from him. One look at the chill, implacable faces had told Barrett there would be no bargaining with such men. Or with the monster who had sent them.
No, there could be no turning back. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
For behind her waited a cold, implacable hatred that would destroy all it touched, as it would have destroyed her grandfather, had she not managed to draw them off first.
Chill and damp, the night air lashed her face, tossing the black veil about her cheeks. Shivering, Barrett scanned the narrow, cheerless streets and the long brick facade stretching away into the distance.
Behind her a hail of pebbles ricocheted across the railing, exploding through the darkness. White-faced, she spun about.
Nothing there.
Nothing but shadows and fear.
Terror wedged in her throat. Mindless and malevolent, it reached out, clawing at her sanity.
How much longer could she go on?
With trembling fingers she clutched at her cloak, fighting against the rising wind.
This time when she turned it was to run, heedless and desperate, as if the jaws of hell itself yawned open behind her.
And in a way they did.
More than fifty carriages lined the gaslit entrance to the auction rooms on Great Russell Street this night. Three abreast, they clogged the narrow drive, plunging the usually sedate precincts of London’s most famous auction house into total chaos.
Tonight an unprecedented event was to take place inside those hallowed mahogany walls, walls that in their time had echoed with the sighs and laughter of crowned heads, deposed royalty, and every rank of European nobility.
Tonight access was accorded to only a select few, the wealthiest and most powerful of England’s elite.
At that moment five score eager faces waited for a glimpse of the jewel that had held all England spellbound since its appearance one month before. Even the Queen was whispered to be bidding, through intermediaries of course.
Yes, tonight beneath gleaming crystal chandeliers the Eye of Shiva, gem of kings, would cross the auction block.
The bidding would be swift and cutthroat. At least five men had already vowed to have the fabled gem, no matter what the cost.
And all the while, somewhere in the elegant audience, a murderer sat ready to risk everything to possess the blood-red stone.
No matter that it was cursed.
No matter that it brought only madness and death.
CHAPTER TWO
It was impossibly beautiful.
Barrett’s simple cloak of black worsted danced about her ankles, driven by a swirling gust of wind. For a moment her dark veil lifted, revealing flawless, porcelain-smooth cheeks above a proud, generous mouth.
Vivid and striking, her face was strangely at odds with the drab clothing she wore.
Caught by the wind, a strand of sable hair worked free of the combs at her temples. Like dark, cascading silk, the vibrant strand twisted wildly in the wind.
But Barrett noticed neither wind nor cold, her haunting teal eyes fixed on the huge jewel flashing through the floor-length windows of the auction rooms.
Oblong and heavily faceted, the stone glinted back at her.
The crystal facets caught the glow of the chandeliers and threw it back tenfold, like a thousand tiny red suns.
Its beauty was unearthly, its pull almost tangible. And Barrett had never been able to resist beauty, not even as a small child, when she had come home from the meadow at Cinnamon Hill laden down with wildflowers.
Her gran had never understood, of course. Instead he had furrowed his brow and lectured her on the principles of species propagation and color attraction, while she had stood silent, stroking the soft, colorful petals in childish wonder. To her a flower was an ineffable thing. To her a rainbow was both miracle and promise.
To him, a rainbow was simply an illusion compounded of moisture and refraction angles.
And Barrett had loved him even while he’d lectured her with his hair a wild white mane and his spectacles all awry. She’d tried so hard to be practical and not a burden in the years that had followed her parents’ deaths in a carriage accident.
Sometimes she wondered if she’d tried too hard, succeeded too well.
In the process she’d shut away a part of herself
that cried out for beauty and whimsy.
For miracles.
But she of all people should have known that there were no such things as miracles.
But she had sworn to protect her grandfather, that frail, impractical dreamer, and so she would, even from the fruits of his arrogance.
Even from the chill, efficient men who would have crushed him like a straw.
Only now, standing before the huge glass windows and staring at the giant ruby, Barrett began to think about miracles again; that was her first mistake.
The Eye of Shiva. The jewel all London whispered about.
Her eyes darkened. What would it be like to touch such a stone? To roll it between her fingers and savor each cool, blood-red facet. To feel the hum and throb of its power, if only for a few seconds.
Behind her a hansom cab clattered past in the street, sending the gaslight on a wild, flickering dance in the glass globes overhead.
Barrett barely noticed.
And that was her second mistake.
But she had been nothing but careful for what seemed like an eternity. Through days of lies. Through long nights of fear, without friends or anyone she could trust.
All to protect one fragile, white-haired old man who loved her more than life itself, different as they were.
Even now her faceless enemies waited somewhere out in the darkness. But Barrett found that hard to remember when the ruby flashed at her so seductively, whispering its dark secrets.
A chill wind sent her cloak flying about her bombazine skirts and tossed strands of hair beneath her black veil. Still she could not move, her blood strangely heated in the cold night, her eyes riveted upon that royal gem whispering of jasmine-scented gardens, of marble palaces and exotic court ladies intent on passion and dark intrigue.
Inside the room, a thin man in black came to an abrupt halt, holding out the gem to a prospective buyer. Beneath their gaze the stone seemed to darken, taking on new hues, richer flames.
And then Barrett remembered. The ruby was to be auctioned tonight. Even now he might be inside, settling back into a deep velvet chair.
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