Obsession Wears Opals (16 page)

“Why do all my friends insist that they’re fine when they aren’t?” Rowan said calmly, his tone light even as he silently concurred with his wife over the black and bloody show on the white cotton and signaled her to see about hurrying Mrs. Evans’s progress. “Is it a lack of trust in my skills? Or an aversion to admitting your mortality?”

Darius smiled. “It’s timing. We have . . . better things . . . to do.”

“That’s what Michael said. But I’ve gotten those wooden splinters out of his face and restored his good looks all the same.” Rowan came over to stand next to the bed. “We missed you. I know Edinburgh has become home for you, but Ashe relies on your friendship too much not to complain about your long absences.”

“He has . . . Caroline now. But I’m . . . always at hand . . . for him.” Darius shook his head. “I need to . . . tell the others . . . what I found. It’s not . . . just the East India . . . not what we thought.”

Rowan held up a hand to stop him, but Darius was punished for the effort and doubled over as his body fought for air and the room started to spin.

“Gayle!” Rowan’s tone was all business as he seamlessly shifted into his role as physician.

She answered him from the doorway where she had stepped through to alert Carter for the need for haste with the treatment coming from Cook’s kitchens. “I am here.”

“Forget subtlety. Open the windows and let’s get some cool air in here.” Rowan bent over to put an arm around Darius’s back and shoulders. “Believe it or not, I want you to come sit in this chair over by the window, Thorne. It’s freezing out there and snowing, which is exactly what we’re hoping for.”

“You’re going . . . to kill me . . . aren’t you?” Darius teased him.

“I might,” Rowan said with a wink.

Darius didn’t have the breath for banter. He acquiesced without argument and did his best to walk over, leaning against Rowan until they reached an upholstered reading chair by the windows.

“I’ve a different approach to the use of temperatures, and there’s some interesting studies to support my own theories—so, lucky you, Darius Thorne. You get to let me test a few things.” Rowan took out a stethoscope and pressed the cold metal disk against Darius’s back. “Talk of treasure can wait until tomorrow. The Jackal got singed tonight by all accounts and probably won’t be up for any more mischief for a while yet. We have lots of time to go over it all.” He stopped talking to listen and then shifted the disk to hold it directly against Darius’s bare skin, bending over to concentrate.

Darius shook his head but said nothing. He’d promised to return to Helen as quickly as possible and it was unthinkable that he would linger in London an hour longer than he had to. He would allow Rowan to fuss and provide whatever treatments he saw fit. Darius would even rest for a day or two. But he would begin the journey back as soon as he could stand to walk without the room tilting to defeat him.

Rowan straightened, tucking the stethoscope into his large coat pocket. “All quiet for the rest of the night.”

The front doorbell rang again and Darius almost sighed at the comical expression of surprise on his friend’s face.
He hasn’t experienced the madness of the evening firsthand yet, but apparently the Wests are getting their doses late.

Rowan excused himself for a moment and Darius closed his eyes, listening for any sounds of distress below. He was worried about Ashe and hoped his cynicism wasn’t the herald of more bad luck for his friends.

It’s not like me to play the troll.

The cool air felt good on his face and amazingly began to ease the ache in his chest, allowing him to take even, shallow breaths without being reduced to hacking and coughing.

Gayle came in after a time carrying a large, heavy porcelain bowl. She drew a flannel across the windowsill and set down the bowl of steaming hot water. “Here, make sure this doesn’t fall and try to inhale as much of its scent as you can.”

Even over the lingering smell of soot and ash, Darius detected mint and anise drifting up from the water’s surface, along with a few other ingredients he couldn’t name. “As you command.” He dutifully leaned forward, a winter’s breeze delivering the treatment in a strange mist of home remedies. “Was it . . . a message?”

“Not a message exactly. Josiah sent his night guard, Mr. Creed, over for treatment. He was assaulted tonight and we’ve got him abed downstairs where Rowan is seeing to him.” Gayle’s violet eyes reflected fear. “Mr. Hastings’s note said that no one else was harmed and that they’re safe but—perhaps the Jaded should consider changing tactics?”

He nodded. “Agreed. May I . . . have paper and pen?”

“Of course,” Gayle said, moving to retrieve a portable writing desk from where it rested atop a table. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” Darius took the box from her, admiring for a fleeting moment its inlaid surface and clever hidden drawers. “No fear, Mrs. West. All this will be resolved . . . soon enough. And then we can all actually start quiet lives and one day lament that nothing exciting ever happens to us.”

“That’s quite a dream,” she said. “I never thought I would long for boredom, but in this instance, I think you’re right.” She pulled a small bottle from her pocket. “You’re to drink this.”

“I need . . . to stay . . . awake.”

“Then drink this,” she said firmly. “And I’ll leave you to your writing.”

He smiled, unable to really talk more without fighting for air. The syrup was sweet with peppermint flavors and he detected no bite of a narcotic. Even so, there was something soothing in the cold liquid and it eased the ache in his throat. He handed her back the empty bottle and then pulled out the paper to set up the desk and begin his task. Gayle politely stirred the medicated water in the large bowl and then left him to rest.

Darius began to write out everything he hoped would be relevant for his friends, outlining as clearly as he could his theory that they’d stumbled into a larger puzzle than the simple shuffle of gems they’d long believed. He wrote until his hand shook from fatigue and the words blurred on the page.

And exhaustion finally overtook him into the darkness.

Chapter

12

For Isabel, his absence was very telling. Nearly two weeks had passed in a crawl of time that had tested her mettle in every way. Even sporadically broken by lively exchanges in the kitchen between Mrs. McFadden and Mr. MacQueen, the quiet of the house was suffocating. Every fear was amplified by isolation, but even the most rational part of her brain was forced to admit that something had changed.

Her growing attachment to Mr. Thorne was undeniable.

In the brief span that she’d known him, it had been easier to deflect her feelings and distract herself with conversation and meals, board games and books. She’d credited her ease in his presence with a natural need for social contact and amusement. But never in her life had she been so obsessed with the memory of someone’s every word and gesture.

Over Mrs. McFadden’s objections, she’d begun weeding out the dead plants in the back garden whenever the weather permitted. She’d borrowed work gloves from the housekeeper and a few garden tools to attack the project and embraced the escape and distraction.

The tangle of the little wilderness slowly gave way to barren order and Isabel was shocked to discover that there was a lovely flagstone path that meandered through the small yard buried underneath unraked leaves. In a pattern of the symbol for infinity, the stones were laid out in gentle curves and Isabel began to see the space’s potential.

“A few flowers and pretty hedges of lavender and it would be a dream,” she said aloud. “I’ll ask Hamish to find a bench to put in the shaded corner there and it will be lovely in the spring!”

There was no echo in the cold air and she shivered at how dead it sounded. “I’m a ghost in a ghost garden,” she whispered at her pale reflection in a mud puddle. Isabel knelt down with her basket to continue her chore of pulling dead vines out of what appeared to be an abandoned water feature.

Spring was a few weeks away and she knew it was foolish to think of seeing his garden come to life.
I shouldn’t be here by then. Samson will heal and I must do the right thing and free Mr. Thorne from his vows to me. He’s been so kind and we’ve shut out the world beyond the walls of Troy—but if I remember my Homer, the world eventually came calling, and the price for one selfish act was the destruction of a kingdom.

She had no desire to see anything happen to Darius’s world. His orderly nest lined with books was an oasis Isabel wanted to protect. She wondered if his friends knew of his quiet ways and appreciated the heroic effort he was making on their part to solve mysteries and work out the dramatic and surreal puzzle involving sacred objects to help them. The Jaded struck her as an odd name, but if the men in his acquaintance had earned his loyalty and trust, then she did her best to dismiss her misgivings and trust them in return to take care of Mr. Thorne and make sure he was safe.

There is nothing jaded about Darius.

She envied that gift, to apparently skip like a stone over the worst that life could hold. Her back had healed but Isabel still jumped at loud noises and suffered from bouts of anxiety.

But I am stronger. I’m not slipping into an abyss of bad memories at every reminder of Richard. It’s almost starting to feel as if it happened to another woman.

Isabel’s life before she’d come to Darius felt more and more distant. When she thought of it, it was like recalling dance steps and watching a ball from a balcony. Every step she had ever taken before meeting him was as choreographed as a quadrille, and until she’d committed to marrying Richard, life held few surprises.

Suddenly an impulse seized her and Isabel gave in to it without a single internal argument. She wrested off one of her gloves and eyed the gleam of gold on her left hand. It was such a simple thing, this plain band, but it signified the tangle of pain and humiliation marriage had brought her. She went over to the sword poking out of the dirt near the rosemary and slipped off her wedding ring. She dug a good hole next to the sword and made her own little offering to the spirits of his garden.

There. Buried unmourned. I shall claim what small freedoms I can, and if there is the devil to pay, then I will point him here and pay him in gold.

“It’s to rain!” Mrs. McFadden called out from the French doors leading to the garden. “You’re already a mess but let’s not have you soaked through!”

Isabel stood, doing her best to brush out the muddy wreck she’d made of her day dress. She’d put on an apron under her coat but it was just one more layer of cloth to suffer from her efforts at being useful. She glanced up at the sky, startled at the black tenor of the clouds roiling above. “I see that you’re right, Mrs. McFadden. I shall come in at once.”

She gathered her tools and basket and dutifully headed back to the house.

“Ach!” Mrs. McFadden wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “A fine lady such as yourself and you look like a mud troll!”

“Yes, but look how I recovered the planting boxes for your kitchen garden, Mrs. McFadden. Won’t that be nice to have again?” she asked.

The older woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It will. I won’t lie. But you’ll catch your death out there sitting on that cold, wet ground, and how am I to enjoy it with you buried over there under that willow tree?”

“I’m fine,” Isabel answered with a laugh. “The fresh air is doing me a world of good.”

Mrs. McFadden crossed her arms. “Maybe so, but don’t try telling me that dirt’s good for my clean floors! Boots off here and then leave what you can on the floor by the door for a wash. I’ve got a clean blanket to wrap you in for modesty and Hamish is banished to the stables—so no worries on that lunk’s account.”

Isabel knew better than to argue. “You’re so thoughtful, Mrs. McFadden.”

She kicked off the caked mud from her boots before removing them to put in the wooden box set inside the doorway. Mrs. McFadden helped her with her coat, apron, and dress, but Isabel insisted on keeping her petticoats and underclothes. Even with Hamish safely out of the way, she was not about to make her way through the house wearing nothing but a quilted blanket.

As relaxed as I’ve become, there are some things a lady cannot consider!

She was also not about to let Mrs. McFadden catch sight of the white queen she’d tied around her neck with a ribbon to keep it close to her heart.

I’m not explaining my talisman! Nor will I take it off until he returns. . . .

She went upstairs to put on a fresh dress, and as she buttoned up the blouse, she realized that even in these intimate matters, Darius had thought of the details. Every dress he’d bought had been pretty but also practical to allow her to change with more ease and without the help of a maid. Everything buttoned in the front or allowed for her to adjust it comfortably.

It was humbling. His attentiveness and generosity. He thought of her in all things and omitted nothing if he thought it would please her or add to her comfort.

The honey in the porridge drizzled in the shape of a flower . . .

Is it possible?

He’d kissed her. That much was certain. And Isabel knew enough of the world to know that he desired her. Nor was she blind to the attraction she felt for him. Indeed, if he hadn’t been forced to race for London that very day, she had no doubt that she would have shamelessly begged him to repeat the infraction.

Kissing Darius was like tasting sugar for the first time—and uncovering a craving for sweets that would not be quieted.

It’s ridiculous but it is a truth I cannot deny.

It was a dangerous path to give in to passion, but a new rebellious voice inside of her pointed out that since leaving her husband would be publicly deemed the act of an immoral woman, she might have little to lose.

But . . . the heart is another matter, isn’t it?

It was a terrifying proposition to trust her instincts entirely.

As much as Richard hurt me physically, I think having my heart so completely broken and betrayed was the worst of it. I loved him. I must have at one point. Or I imagined myself in love, didn’t I?

Now she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything.

Her feelings for Darius had no comparison. Where her affections for Richard had felt polite and “natural,” there was nothing pale or polite in the hold that Darius had on her now. He occupied her waking thoughts and held her in her dreams. He’d crowded out most of her nightmares, replacing them with strange erotic episodes where he made love to her on the Oriental rug in his library before the fireplace or in a copper bathtub in his bedroom.

There was nothing soothing in her dreams of him but only an increasingly restless ache that spurred her to spend all her days wandering the house and yard thinking on what Darius had said about the distinctions between love and the semblance of love. She’d cleaned his library, dusting and straightening but doing her best not to actually move anything too far from its resting place. His system was a mystery but she respected him and knew that Darius saw the chaotic piles and odd notes in a different way than a casual observer. The maps looked mystical but his sketches were compelling enough to warrant frames.

Even so, she was running out of distractions.

Presently, she went down to eat her dinner alone in the library at his desk as she had each night since he’d left. Mrs. McFadden had allowed her to settle into the routine, as if instinctively aware of how comforting she found it.

Afterward she worked by lamplight, reading as much as she could in the hope that by the time he returned there would be no question of her value as an assistant. She’d found notes and sketches throughout the library as he tucked in pages to save his place in a book or to add his thoughts to the writer’s. Isabel explored as discreetly as she could, ignoring the tickle of her conscience at invading his private work space by reminding herself that she had his permission.

Even so, when she pulled out the top drawer and found a green leather-bound notebook with his initials on the cover, she froze.

What if this one is personal? What if he finds out I touched it and is angry?

The old habits of fear and self-preservation that Richard had instilled in her warred with her new independence and the easy freedom that Darius had granted her. Ultimately, curiosity won the day and Isabel lifted the large notebook out to take a peek.

It was a more personal notebook, with an outline of his plans for the house and garden and research into improving the stables with Hamish’s guidance. She was about to close it when a pencil drawing caught her eye.

It was a sketch of her with her cheek against Samson’s and, in Darius’s own hand, a bit of prose beneath it. He had an artist’s skill but the words were what captured her attention.

A divine moment, so fleeting, but to be in her presence at such an unguarded moment of beauty, her heart’s gentle nature revealed and the beast the lucky recipient of her caresses . . . I am humbled and enslaved, and will do all I can to see this goddess safely out of reach.

“Safely out of reach?” she whispered. “Of Richard’s or his own?”

She put the notebook back where she’d found it, her ears warm with guilt and her hands shaking. Isabel had stolen a glimpse of his feelings and robbed herself of the ability to deny that he was equally affected by their situation.

She stood from the desk and paced the room, finally ending back at the wall of shelves to randomly pull down a volume on India. “Come on, woman,” she chided herself, “mooning about him is getting you nowhere. Read and prove that you’re more than some flighty thing in petticoats.”

She retrieved his last academic notes on their new theory and made her way to the soft chair by the fireplace to sit with her legs tucked underneath her. Within minutes, she’d picked up the thread of their quest and was fiercely concentrating on the text to seek out the next clue to determining the magical properties of stones.

Isabel made her own notes in the margins of his, adding, as politely as she could, her opinion that seeking a scientific method to measure magic was innately contradictory and that perhaps they should be scanning religious texts or finding a Hindu holy man to assist them.

Is there a magic incantation to make it glow, like in the fairy stories I read as a child?

It was a fanciful notion but it kept her occupied.

She gave no real credence to the idea that any object inherently had power.
Father Pasqual and I are in accord on this one thing.

But she understood that Darius’s fears sprang not from vague spiritual superstitions about cursed stones or sacred rocks but from the very real and dangerous men who clung to those superstitions and would take action to protect it.

“So, if it’s not in a book on the nature of stones and the geology of the region . . .” Isabel unfolded from her perch and went back to his desk where he’d left a translated section of the Code of Manu. Isabel opened it at random only to learn that, according to the ancient Hindu text, “a woman should never enjoy her own will. She must never wish separation of her self from her husband or father, for by separation from them a woman would make both families contemptible.”

All the momentum she’d gathered died a little and she knelt soundlessly on the rug to try to take it in.

No will but a man’s to supersede mine.

Is that the key to happiness or hell? I don’t see a middle way.
Isabel sighed.
England or India, I am condemned a failure. A fallen, scandalous thing to be avoided and shunned.

Shame washed over her even as a part of her protested. The internal voice was stronger and clear enough to drown out self-pity.

I did nothing wrong.

The travesty of her wedding day and that first assault came back in a rush of chilly vindication.

I did nothing to deserve any of it.

From that day forward, he’d systematically broken her with isolation and punishments, rewards and assaults and vicious acts of calculated deprivation. He’d spend hours whispering insults and ungodly threats until she’d begged him to beat her and be done with it. Her soul had shriveled until the vaguest mention of a social outing was enough to render her hysterical with terror at the possibility of being exposed publicly as a failure and an abused wraith.