by Corwin, Amy
“Thank you so much, Mr. Dacy!” She ran back and beamed at him. Standing on her tip toes, she placed her hands on his shoulders and kissed him firmly, right below the scar bisecting his brow.
He stared at her in disbelief. She smiled and gave his arm a squeeze before letting go.
In dazed disbelief, he watched as she ran over to her uncle and gave him his fob. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm and lifted her off the ground. Her feet swung gaily. Giggling, she kissed her uncle’s cheek before he deposited her on the ground.
Archer fumbled with the fob for a moment before it popped open in his hand. He gazed at it, his face filling with a curiously intense, tender expression filled with longing. Then he snapped it shut and attached it carefully to the chain at his waist.
Holding hands, they ambled back to Chilton.
“Thank you, my boy. Capital! Don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t remembered.”
“I didn’t—”
“No false modesty,” Archer said. “And you, Oriana, still able to find any lost object. Quite a talent, my dear.”
“Nonsense. I just think about where I might be if I were lost, and there I am! Quite simple.” She tucked one hand through Archer’s good elbow and the other small, warm hand threaded its way between Chilton’s dangling arm and his waist.
He bent his elbow obediently and let her hand rest in the crook, pressed against his side. Her eyes gleamed with pleasure as she turned them both toward the house.
“I feel the need for light refreshments, Oriana. Have we anything left from breakfast?” Archer asked.
“I'm sure I can persuade Cook to give us a few of her cinnamon snails. If I can convince her you're worth it, dear Uncle.”
“Snails?” A surprised grin split Chilton’s face. The Archers’ good humor was infectious, but snails were one French dish for which he had never developed a taste.
Archer laughed. “Merely leftover pie crust rolled up with cinnamon and sugar. Really, son, you need to travel a bit. Try something different.”
“I’ve seen quite enough, thank you,” Chilton replied. If you only knew.
Chapter Twelve
Announcing a Call
“Come along,” Oriana said, accompanying Uncle John and Mr. Dacy into the house. “Just wait in the Blue sitting room. I’ll fetch a tray.”
She hoped Mr. Dacy would be less moody once he had eaten. Several times, she grew nervous—almost afraid—when she looked up and found him studying her with a dangerous intensity. She remembered seeing a pair of lions in London who stared at her through the bars of their cage in precisely the same manner.
She shivered and tried not to consider how his gray eyes seemed to see right into her heart. As if he knew her every thought.
Hopefully, he didn’t know.
He would be appalled at how often her mind strayed to that line of curls leading down his chest and past his waistband. And the warmth of his skin. Or his scent that seemed to surround her with the fragrance of salt sea air and supple, tanned leather.
Her resistance to the wiles of irresponsible men seemed to be rapidly waning. She sighed, afraid her mother was right after all.
Before she left for the continent, Oriana's mother had told her to get rid of her romances because they were a bad influence. The books did nothing to improve the mind and in fact only lead to a dreadful weakness of intellect. At the time, she firmly informed her mother that her novels were entirely innocuous and couldn't possibly do anyone harm.
However, Oriana was beginning to suspect that reading romance novels did indeed have an increasingly pernicious effect on her mind. The image of Chilton—Mr. Dacy—clutching her to his chest and demanding a kiss, kept appearing at the worst times.
Usually when she tried to hold a conversation with him.
And invariably in her vivid imagination, he was dressed in a white shirt open at the throat, red waistcoat and tight black breeches. And he carried a sword in his hand and a parrot clung to his broad shoulder.
Firmly clearing her mind, she left the men in the sitting room. Then she went to the kitchen where she told their maid, Rose, to prepare a tray but to remain where she was. Rose could assist Cook while Oriana took the tray.
Armed with a huge polished cherry tray, she rejoined the men. Keeping her attention firmly on her duty as hostess, she placed the china dishes of warm cinnamon snails, almond cakes, and several ham sandwiches on a small occasional table standing between the men.
As she bent to arrange the pot of tea, Chilton glanced at her. She caught his gaze and became so flustered the china cups rattled. She placed a hand over the lid of the tea pot, fearing she would overset the entire thing if she couldn’t learn to moderate her reaction to him.
Taking a deep breath, she poured out cups for her uncle and his guest, relieved when her hand didn't shake.
“Stay, Oriana,” her uncle said when she turned to leave. “Pour yourself a cup of tea. Sit down and don’t hover.” He gestured at one of the faded blue damask wing chairs positioned cozily around the delicate table in front of the fireplace.
Hesitating, she couldn’t help peeking at Mr. Dacy through her lashes.
He watched her, his firm lips curved in a slight smile.
Warmth slowly rose from her heart to her cheeks. “Really, I should check the menu—”
“Isn’t tonight the squire’s dinner?” her uncle asked.
“Yes. I suppose so,” she admitted.
“Then there doesn’t need to be a menu, Oriana. Now sit down and pour the tea.”
She complied, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on the tray. She could feel Mr. Dacy’s cool, gray eyes lingering on her face.
“So, Oriana,” Uncle John said. “You’ve been here, what, three months?”
“Yes,” she replied, cautious about answering any question from her uncle.
“Lady Victoria mentioned you'd be cleaning out the rubbish.”
“Oh.”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Cleaned out the rubbish, my dear,” he replied in a rather astringent tone. “And your ears. They certainly need it.”
Mr. Dacy chuckled.
She glanced at him and found her gaze trapped in the depths of his gray eyes. Once again, her attention wandered although his only reaction was to take a sip of his tea.
“Are you listening to me?” Uncle John asked.
“What? Oh, yes—no, I haven’t finished yet. I still have the wardrobe and trunks in Grandmama’s suite.” After floundering a few more seconds, staring into Mr. Dacy’s eyes, she tore her gaze away and stared at her uncle. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just wondering if you had found the necklace.”
“Necklace? What necklace?”
“The necklace. The Peckham emeralds, of course.”
She laughed. She vaguely remembered her mother telling the girls the story of The Peckham Necklace as a fairy tale when they were children. The story never interested her very much. She never had much of a desire for jewels and certainly not for a heavy, old-fashioned emerald necklace. “Pawned long ago, Uncle dear, if they ever existed.”
“Nonsense. Of course, they existed. I doubt you ever heard the true tale—”
“Family jewels?” Mr. Dacy asked, taking another sip of his tea.
She caught him studying her over the rim of his cup. “No. We don’t have any jewels and I doubt we ever did. It’s a fairy story.”
Mr. Dacy’s dark brows rose questioningly. He glanced at her uncle in mild inquiry.
“Are you interested in the tale, Dacy?” Uncle John asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
She protested, “It is nothing—”
“Hush, Oriana. Let me think.” Uncle John popped one of the small, browned spirals of cinnamon, sugar, and flaky pie crust into his mouth. He closed his eyes thoughtfully as he chewed. “The story really begins over two hundred years ago, at the time of the Spanish conquistadors…”
Perhaps her uncle owed him a few pounds. This, of course, would explain why he was interested in the nonsense about the Peckham emeralds. She ought to ask him about her uncle's debts. It would soothe her rattled nerves if he could be paid and depart before she did something foolish.
The novels she read were always quite clear about one thing. Spinsters tended to do imprudent things around dangerous men. And she was quickly learning to believe the truth of this.
Mr. Dacy’s continued presence at The Orchards upset everything. She had been perfectly content to be a spinster and a good aunt to Helen’s future offspring until she met him. Now she kept wondering if he had a home of some sort and if there were sufficient rooms for all the children she might like to have one day.
Unless, of course, he was a gambler like her uncle. In that case, she didn’t want anything more to do with him, because he would break her heart and leave her and all their theoretically numerous progeny utterly destitute.
She frowned and then glanced up. Both men stared at her sternly and held out their empty cups.
“Oh, sorry.” She poured more tea.
“So,” Uncle John said. “The Peckham Necklace’s center is a famous emerald—”
“It is not!” she interrupted.
Uncle John drew himself up. “It most assuredly is an emerald. The necklace is composed of emeralds, fire opals and a few yellow diamonds.”
“I meant it isn’t famous. No one has heard of it. Besides, it was pawned years ago.”
“Nonsense. It’s quite well-known, you ignorant child. Now be quiet.” Uncle John said in an indulgent tone. He glanced at Mr. Dacy and smiled. “As I was saying, the center stone is a large emerald, the size of a robin’s egg—”
“It is not! More like a wren’s egg and a sickly wren, at that.”
“Will you curb your tongue, young lady?”
She subsided and sipped her tea, staring down at the pink rosebuds around the edge of the saucer. She didn’t like Mr. Dacy’s interest in her uncle’s story. It made her uneasy about his motives.
Suddenly, another idea arose to consume her attention. He might be a dangerous thief who was only there to steal their valuables and cut their throats one dark and windy night. Well, he would soon find out The Orchards inventory was rather sparse. And the Archers’ throats were thick and difficult to cut. However, she really wished her uncle wouldn’t tempt him.
“The center emerald was found by a Spanish explorer in South America during the early years of the seventeenth century. Legend has it that he stole it from a heathen temple. The priest cursed him as the Spaniard hacked it out of the priest’s clenched fist while he lay dying.”
She rolled her eyes at this obviously embroidered account. A covert glance at Mr. Dacy revealed he was biting the corner of his mouth. His broad shoulders shook for a moment with suppressed amusement before he caught her attention.
He gave her a devilish smile and stretched out his arm in her direction.
For one exciting moment, she tensed, waiting for him to touch her hand with his warm fingertips. However, he reached past the edge of her lap and picked up an almond cake, instead.
She let out her breath, furious with herself for wishing he would have slipped and grabbed her fingers. Or even more scandalously, her knee.
“Then,” Uncle John said, “the Spaniard carried the stone toward Mexico City, in New Spain. Fighting his way through the jungle, he slipped near a river and fell in with the emerald in his fist. Piranha fish devoured him in seconds and the stone was lost.
“But several months later, another priest found the emerald washed up on the river bank. He carried the jewel with him for nearly a year, until just outside of Mexico City, he stopped for the night. As he slept, a jaguar attacked the camp. It dragged the poor priest off, howling in agony. The natives claimed they heard his screams for hours before the poor devil was silenced.
“Not one week later, the jaguar was hunted down and killed near its den. The priest’s bony fingers were found nearby in a pile of scat, still wrapped around the cursed emerald. From there, the jewel finally made its way into the city. An explorer bought it despite the natives’ horrible tales of doom and warning.
“The explorer refused to listen to such superstitious nonsense and brought it back with him to England in 1710. He had the stone set as the center for the necklace he intended to give to his bride as a wedding gift—”
“And I supposed she died with a horrible grimace on her face as he clasped it around her throat,” she interrupted again, disliking the intensity in Mr. Dacy’s gray eyes.
He turned to gaze at her, one dark brow raised in inquiry.
A coil of nerves like a South American python wrapped around her middle and squeezed until she felt breathless. She glanced away hastily. Her shaking hands nearly tipped over her cup of tea.
“Not at all. She died at the ripe old age of ninety-eight, I believe. Her husband and two of her three sons, however, died hideously in a tragic carriage accident.”
“With the necklace clasped in their dead, cold fingers?” Mr. Dacy asked, clearly getting into the spirit of the tale. He winked at her.
Suddenly the room became far too warm.
She got up and opened the windows.
Frowning, her uncle told her to sit down and be still. He continued, “No. The necklace was in her possession until she gave it to her son. The remaining son, that is. He gave the necklace to his wife when he married, although he was later lost at sea when his ship foundered off the coast of Calais.”
“And then my great-grandmother pawned the necklace to pay one of her husband’s many gambling debts, Uncle John. And that was the end of the Peckham Necklace. No doubt it has been broken up and made into many different necklaces since then to grace other fair English necks.”
Her uncle sighed heavily. “Oriana, is it any wonder you have become a spinster with such a hard heart? You’ve taken the most romantic story imaginable, removed all the excitement, and turned it into a tale hardly more interesting than a shopping list.”
She laughed. “Nonsense. I’m not the one who spent the last twenty minutes spinning far-fetched tales of cursed South American emeralds.”
“Well, if you’re not interested in intelligent conversation, then I suggest you get back to your obviously more important duties. Didn’t your Aunt Victoria ask you to dispose of the odds and ends left in that dreary, unused suite?”
“Yes, she did and thank you for reminding me. If you gentlemen will excuse me?” Oriana left, glad to escape Mr. Dacy’s disturbing presence.
As she closed the door, she saw her uncle slip a pack of cards out of his pocket. She sighed and hoped he would forget his scruples for once and win. Since he chose to cheat only if other players were also cheating, it left him at a disadvantage when gambling with someone who could actually play cards well.
And she honestly didn’t know how they could pay Mr. Dacy when Uncle John lost.
Chapter Thirteen
A Foul Hand
“Miss?” Mr. Brown, the butler, asked when Oriana stepped into the hallway.
“Yes?” she asked.
“There’s a visitor for Mr. Archer.” Brown’s shaggy gray brows waggled into a frown. “Don’t like the looks of ‘im. Left him in the library.”
She stifled an urge to enlist the services of Mr. Dacy, who looked like he could handle any number of ugly visitors. “Did he say what his name was? Or what he wanted?”
“He merely requested an audience with Mr. Archer. Claimed his name was Mr. Lyndel.”
“Do we know a Mr. Lyndel?”
&nb
sp; “No, Miss, we do not.”
“Oh, dear.” She thought about her uncle’s broken arm and decided he was in no condition to entertain the sort of visitors he usually received.
A fleeting thought flitted again over Mr. Dacy’s strong shoulders and muscular arms, before she shooed the idea away. There was no sense in stirring up additional difficulties. He probably didn’t feel the slightest bit protective of either Oriana or her injured uncle, especially after her tactless assumption that he was responsible for breaking her uncle’s arm. Even if it was true.
Perhaps Mr. Lyndel was one of Mr. Dacy’s friends, she thought as she entered the library. She paused in the doorway, her eyes resting on the plump man sitting in one of the gold velvet chairs near the fireplace.
“Leave the door open, Brown,” she whispered to the butler. Then she straightened her shoulders and entered. “Mr. Lyndel?” she asked politely.
The man stood and faced her. He was just a few inches taller than she was, perhaps five feet five inches, and had a pudgy face suffused with a network of broken blood vessels. The combination of his florid face and gasping wheezes gave the impression that he was about to have an attack of apoplexy. Her hand stretched out to him for fear he would topple over and expire at her feet.
When he moved to grasp her fingers, she pulled her hand back abruptly, stifling a sense of distaste.
“Miss Archer?”
“Yes. Would you care to take a seat?” she asked before he keeled over at her feet.
He smiled in a nauseatingly intimate way as he informed her of his purpose in visiting The Orchards. Less than ten minutes later, she wished he had indeed suffered from some fatal infarction before he had the gall to set foot in their home.
“So you see, Miss Archer, I’m here on business with your distinguished uncle, Mr. John Archer.”
She remained standing although Mr. Lyndel nodded several times toward the second wing chair opposite him. He pulled out a large white handkerchief decorated with red spots the size of sovereigns and wiped his brow. As he returned it to the pocket of his red-and-gold striped waistcoat, he gestured again at the chair with his hat.