Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (18 page)

Carter cleared his throat in the doorway, in his usual fashion, and reluctantly interrupted the lesson. “A note was just delivered, doctor.”

“Well, let's have it then.” Rowan held out his hand.

“It's for Miss Renshaw, doctor.” Carter walked over with the small silver tray.

“For
me
?” The thought was extremely distressing since no one she knew was aware of her whereabouts, but Gayle took the folded note with a trembling hand. “Thank you, Carter.”

Carter retreated, and almost instantly, the mystery was solved. “It's from . . . Mr. James.”

“Peter James?” Rowan asked, openly displeased. “Peter James is sending you notes?”

Gayle stared at the signature, disregarding the note's contents as she absorbed the implications. “I'm sure it's . . .” She looked back up at Rowan, her face growing hot in embarrassment. “It's nothing.” She tucked the object into her skirt pocket, intending to send a terse reply back to the young man advising him that she was not open to receiving invitations to step out.

“Fitzroy tells me that Mr. James has nearly completed his training and will be looking to open his own venture soon.”

“Really?”

“A good apothecary and surgeon can always make a good living, though it can be tough to find the savings to get started. But Mr. Peter James strikes me as an ambitious young man, and Fitzroy said the young man seems extremely optimistic and has even spoken of taking on a wife.”

“Has he?” She put her hands in her lap so that he wouldn't see her fingers curling into her own palms in frustration. She was as romantically interested in Peter James as she was in rocks, but openly arguing the matter didn't seem wise.

“I overheard Florence saying he was quite the catch.”

Then again, wisdom is not always my strong suit when I lose my temper.
“Are you jealous, Dr. West?”

“I have no right to be, Miss Renshaw. You are not my property, and if you wish to step out with the apothecary's boy, then who am I to protest?”

Without warning, she found herself smiling at him. By any measure, practically beaming, and the look of raw confusion on his face only added to the strange mirth she was feeling.
He called him a boy. He's so jealous he could spit. It's . . . a bit wonderful, isn't it?
“You're absolutely right, Dr. West. I'm not anyone's property.” She broke off a small piece of bread to soak in her stew. “Can we not speak of something else, then?”

“Joyfully,” he groused and refilled his glass with ginger water.

“Were you ill in India?”

“What? Why? Who said I was . . . ill?”

“It was meant to be a question to provide a neutral diversion,” Gayle supplied. “You said yourself that you'd suffered some bad luck and poor timing when you were there, and I was just curious. You said not to listen to rumors, so I thought I would simply ask.”

“Ask me something else.”

Her curiosity was entirely piqued at his reluctance to touch the subject. “Have you ever broken a bone?”

He shook his head. “No, much to the surprise of my parents, I'm sure, since I had a propensity for sliding down banisters and climbing trees.”

“Have you ever suffered a contagious fever?”

“I survived scarlet fever as a child, and I'm not oblivious to the way you're trying to get around me, Miss Renshaw.”

She ignored his last comment and pressed on. “When did you lose your parents?”

“My mother died when I was fourteen from stomach cancer and my father passed away when I was twenty-three of a heart attack.” He took a sip from his drink. “You realize that by asking all these questions I could demand quid pro quo.”

Again, she quietly ignored his suggestion. “Are you an only child?”

“I am.”

“Were you in India during the Troubles?”

She could hear his breath pull in through his teeth as he winced. “It's not a good story, Miss Renshaw, or I would tell it.”

“Then tell me something else. If I promise not to bring up India again, or ask about what happened there to change you so completely, will you promise to tell me the truth about something else in exchange?”

“Perhaps.”

“Please tell me the truth about Charlotte.”

“Veritas vos liberabit?”
He pushed his chair back and stood from the table. “I don't long for my freedom anymore, Miss Renshaw. And the price you would have me pay is too high.”

“Dr. West, please!”

“No. No, Miss Renshaw. The truth doesn't set anyone free in this instance. It doesn't heal the scars from the past or make your decisions any easier. If I'm a liar, then what difference would anything I say ever make?”

“You aren't a liar. I should never have said such a thing.”

“You have decided to keep much of yourself shielded from me, and as you said, we are not friends. So I believe I will invoke the same right, Miss Renshaw. You have no right to pry into matters that do not concern you. And I am at liberty to keep the ghosts of the past in my own cupboards.”

Once again, it was Carter who was forced to intervene from the doorway. “Another note just arrived, doctor.”

“Oh, for God's sake!” Rowan crossed the room impatiently. “If the butcher is corresponding with you, Miss Renshaw, we may be forced to have a review of the rules of the house!”

“It's for you, Dr. West.”

Rowan tore open the page there and read it instantly, and Gayle had to fight to hold her tongue as the butler looked on.

“Carter, tell Theo I need the carriage.” He looked up at her, the storm in his eyes unabated. “We'll discuss Snow's
On the Mode of the Communication of Cholera
in depth when I return.”

And with that, he was gone.

“Still hate her?”

“Shut up, Ashe.” Rowan surveyed a healthy-looking Ashe Blackwell with growing suspicion. “She's my professional apprentice in my strictest employ. Just tell me what you needed. I find it hard to believe you wouldn't just come to the house if you needed a headache powder.”

“Blame me.” Michael appeared behind them, a stealthy trick that still amazed Rowan. Michael Rutherford was a giant of a man, and his talent for materializing out of thin air was nothing short of unsettling. “I'm glad you came. We needed to gather quickly, and I knew the pretext of a medical call would bring you by the fastest means.”

“A dirty trick.” Rowan dropped his doctor's bag on the floor with relief. “But I suppose it worked. Are the others coming as well?”

Michael walked over to the fireplace to warm his hands. “Josiah, at least, but let's hope. Galen has taken his wife to see her family for the holidays before visiting the Earl of Stamford for Christmas.”

Ashe stood from his writing desk. “Can I get anyone a drink?” He began to pour out three brandies without even waiting for a reply. “Did I tell you Caroline received a letter from her aunt that said there's talk of a civil war in the States?”

“It's inevitable if they don't change course,” Michael pronounced grimly.

Ashe shook his head. “It won't come to war. From what I can tell, Americans enjoy squabbling more than anything in the world. They'll spit invectives and jig up to the cliff's edge, and then someone will come up with a compromise.”

“It's slavery, Ashe. Where's the compromise there?” Rowan asked.

“We gave it up without losing our way of life. The Americans in the South will see the moral sense of it and adjust, you'll see.” Ashe held out the drinks to his friends.

“Was this the reason for the summons? Not that I don't enjoy a good political debate. . . .” Rowan pulled his hands from his coat pockets to accept the glass. “I need to get back to my laboratory.”

Ashe grinned. “Such dedication to your research! Nothing to do with that goddesslike apprentice awaiting your skilled and experienced guidance, of course. I am impressed.”

“I'm here!” Josiah Hastings came through the door, still wearing his coat and hat. “Michael's note made it sound like your house was on fire, Ashe. I left so quickly I think I forgot to close my front door!”

Josiah almost fell onto the long couch against the wall, settling in with his legs akimbo and arms outstretched. He looked tired and distracted, with his shirt buttons mismatched and his face unshaven. “Why aren't we at West's brownstone?”

Michael sighed. “We can't always meet in Rowan's library. I thought it would be wiser to change our patterns for now.”

Before Rowan could ask Josiah how he was feeling these days, Rutherford lifted one hand as if to call their impromptu meeting to order.

“Gentlemen, there has been an interesting development and it affects all of us.” Michael gestured to Blackwell, as if to beckon him forward. “Show them, Ashe.”

“I received an anonymous letter this afternoon. It was literally pushed under my door, and Godwin just added it to the regular post and brought it up with the usual cards and letters. But it caught my eye immediately, and . . . well . . .”

“It's addressed to the Jaded.”

“I take it that it isn't a social invitation to a Christmas gathering?”

Ashe shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not. I sent for Michael, thinking he'd want to see it, and then Rutherford immediately sent off for the rest of you—and here we are. It's definitely a threat.”

“Let's hear it, then.” Josiah sat up, shedding the laissez-faire aura he'd been projecting, transformed by concern for his friends. Ever since their escape from a dungeon in India and their arrival in England, they'd realized that their lives were still in danger. Beginning with a direct attack against Galen, someone was doing their best to draw out the Jaded and to try to hurt them.

Ashe read it aloud, his voice clear and even. “Our patience is running out. It's clear that you have it in your possession. And while we may not yet know which of you has it, it is only a matter of time. Surrender the sacred treasure, and you can keep the rest of the riches you have stolen. Fail to yield her before the full moon, and your numbers will be diminished. Watch for the sign and be ready.”

“I swear I'm tempted just to throw it all out into the streets and let another man lose sleep over the whole business.” Rowan finished his brandy as if to underline his sincerity. “To hell with stolen riches!”

“Speak for yourself!” Ashe was quick to protest. “You don't have a women's college to fund!”

Rowan smiled. “Ah, how could I forget?” Then he sobered and looked to Michael. “My house has already been overturned twice by the police in the last year, no doubt on this anonymous entity's behalf. I'd say they've eliminated the brownstone as a possibility for holding whatever this
sacred treasure
is.”

“But none of us have experienced any burglaries, or visits from the police. Why not?” Josiah wondered out loud.

“Not any burglaries that we know of,” Ashe corrected him. “I've seen your painting studio, and I think a battalion of thieves could have waltzed through there without you realizing it.”

“Very funny.” Josiah crossed his arms defensively. “All right. They claim to know who we are and now just want this sacred treasure. What next?”

“What is it, do you think? Or who? Did it say
her
?” Rowan asked.

Michael's expression was grim. “There were no statuettes or figurines in our pockets, unless someone failed to put it on that blanket when we divided the treasure aboard ship—and I don't believe that's possible. And we sure as hell didn't haul a woman out of there . . . so it could be a miscue. Honestly, I think they may have it wrong and we simply don't have what they're after. But how do you communicate that without putting all of our lives at risk?”

“I'll write to Darius. I need to make sure he's aware of the letter and that he takes extra precautions,” Ashe offered. Darius Thorne had been his cellmate during their confinement, and the men were as close as brothers despite their different temperaments.

“Is he still in Edinburgh?”

Ashe nodded. “Happily buried up to his neck in medieval scrolls when I heard from him last.”

“What about Galen?” Josiah asked, then took a small sip of his brandy. “Can you get word to him at Moreland's?”

Michael nodded. “I'll write to him and make sure that nothing is left to chance. Hawke may even have a few ideas of his own on what this all means.”

For a few moments, silence fell as they each absorbed the implications of this new threat and the changes it might bring. Ashe tossed back his drink in a single motion, then set his glass down forcefully on a side table. “So much for letting our guard down.”