Desire Wears Diamonds (13 page)

Michael pushed the images away, sorting
through the memories of a black chaotic night full of smoke and
screams. “And the raj?”

Sterling shrugged. “I heard a few versions
of his murder but there was a consistent detail about disposing of
his body in a latrine trench. Hell, I’ll bet they’re pissing on his
bones as we speak.”

“Mr. Porter,” Michael said, refolding his
hands politely. “Why am I going to a ball at Bascombe’s?”

“You mean, besides your obvious tendencies
toward chivalry and a weakness where it comes to my sister?”
Sterling asked. “Does it matter?”

It mattered. But something held him in
check.

Play the game.

“I look forward to the party.” Michael
stepped down off the final riser. “Was there anything else?”

“I’ll need your address, Rutherford. To send
the invitation, naturally.” Sterling crossed his arms, smiling
innocently like a scorpion.

“I’m at the Grove on King Street.”

“Is it a hotel?” Sterling asked in
astonishment.

“It’s a simple inn. I have no home of my own
and prefer the company of strangers.” Michael lied with what he
hoped was an indifferent tone. “The rent is low enough but it is a
respectable address.”

“You live in an inn?” Sterling asked again.
“I would never have guessed it, Rutherford.”

Michael smiled. “I’ll take that as a
compliment and be on my way—except…”

“Except what?”

“My hat and coat?”

“Damn it!” Sterling stepped back to cross
the hall and open a narrow closet by the door. “Footman—useless
sod!”

Michael held his ground, enjoying the small
petty victory of watching Sterling Porter, the Jackal and arch
nemesis of the Jaded, wrestle with his coat and retrieve his hat to
personally deliver them into his guest’s hands like a common
servant. Michael had never given a fig for the rules of class or
the myriad of protocol that stifled an Englishman’s existence. But
this! This was a moment not to be squandered.

“Thank you, Mr. Porter. It was a very
interesting evening. Please give my compliments to your sister.” He
bowed and made his way into the dark night, every nerve ending on
alert to an ambush or unforeseen twist. He didn’t underestimate his
enemy. But now that he knew Sterling better, it was a powerful
temptation to do exactly that.

Sterling slammed the door to his study
behind him and threw another small log onto the fire. The fireplace
poker was cool and heavy in his hands and he gripped it until his
knuckles turned white.

He’s one of them. I’m sure of it. I was
almost sure when he was in the carriage but when he walked in and
ducked under the doorway…
Smoke or no smoke in the fire at the
Thistle, Sterling had the impression that the one in the back of
that stairwell had been as big as a horse.
There can’t be many
men of his size…and the coincidence of his arrival and the way he’d
shadowed Grace…he’s one of them. His familiarity with Bengal and
the mad raj, the knowledge of Bascombe and his quest. Curse that
dungeon’s darkness! I’d have had all of them and saved myself all
this choking effort and mess.

He thinks to get close and draw me out once
he’s learned my weaknesses.

But Rutherford’s the one who is about to get
a lesson in weakness.

Once I saw the way he was looking at
Grace—my God, I couldn’t have planned it better. As odd as she is,
she’s caught his fancy. What a miracle!

All I need do now is let nature take its
course and when the time is right, that treasure is as good as
mine!

If they have it…

Doubt was the enemy that had relentlessly
shadowed him for years.
The raj was mad and if he was deluded
enough to marry a rock might he not also be insane enough to call a
piece of horse manure a diamond? Could I have been wrong all along?
If Rutherford is part of it or has a fortune, then why live like a
nomad when he could be a king?

Sterling poured himself a generous glass of
tawny port and took several slow deep breaths. “No,” he spoke aloud
to the portraits and figurines that surrounded him in a silent
chorus. “It’s real and almost in my hands. No more scraping
together the means to threaten or blackmail those elusive and
cowardly Jaded idiots. No more missteps and foolish alliances! I’ll
have it before the Season is over and all of this will have been
worth it!”

All this time, praying for one single
foothold and I have it.

And I have my dear sister to thank for
it.

He tossed the amber liquid down his throat,
ungenteel gulps soothing the icy knot in his stomach. “And if Grace
is the price I pay, I shall count it a bargain!”

CHAPTER NINE

Michael climbed out of the carriage behind
Ashe, like a man walking to the scaffold. He’d vowed to walk
through fire to achieve his goal and so he couldn’t turn back. But
if Ashe had offered him the choice of a burning pit instead of
crossing through the doors ahead, Michael was fairly certain he’d
cheerfully opt to imitate a human torch.

“I have clothes,” Michael repeated
uselessly. “I have an evening coat.”

“You need a better one,” Ashe said as he
reached the door. He turned back and rewarded his friend with a wry
grin. “Don’t deprive me of my fun. Besides, you said it yourself.
If it went beyond a simple dinner, you’d let me help you.”

“I hate Rowan for telling you that.”

Ashe opened the door with a flourish. “No,
you don’t. Come, Rutherford, face your fears.”

Michael squared his shoulders and walked in
the shop, removing his hat as he accepted his fate.

“Welcome to Anthony’s!” The tailor was a
diminutive man with a shock of dark curls on his head. He spoke
with an Italian flair and he eyed his newest client with the quiet
excitement of an explorer spying a vast unconquered coastline. “I
see what you had alluded to, Mr. Blackwell. Mr. Rutherford, if I
may be so bold as to state the obvious, you are—remarkably
tall!”

“Am I?” Michael asked, pretending shock. “I
had no idea!”

Ashe rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’d say that’s
enough of that. He’s ridiculously tall. The question is, Mr.
Antonelli, can we dress him so that he looks like a ridiculously
tall
gentleman
?”

Mr. Antonelli clapped his hands together.
“Of course! So striking and so noble! Beyond his height, his
coloring alone is bound to give the ladies pause, and with those
strong broad shoulders, narrow waist and such nice lines--”

Michael’s brow furrowed. He’d never given
his physical appearance much thought, except for the advantages his
size might give him in a bar fight or a battle. But to have a man
waxing poetic about his coloring and figure was very awkward and he
credited it to the shopkeeper’s desire to flatter and make a sale.
Michael crossed his arms and gave Ashe a cutting look. “You’re
enjoying this too much.”

Ashe took a chair by the raised dais,
cheerfully settling in for the hours ahead. “I never denied how
much I was looking forward to this. But,” he took mercy on his
friend and hailed the tailor, “Mr. Antonelli, Mr. Rutherford is a
modest man. Please. We must not tell him how handsome he is, sir.
He’s insufferable enough as it is.”

“Right,” Michael shook his head. “This from
a popinjay!”

“Gentlemen! Peace!” Mr. Antonelli pulled out
his measuring tape. “Let us see what we can do for you, Mr.
Rutherford.”

“He needs everything from the skin out. He
has a social season ahead of him and he must be ready for anything.
An evening coat and suit, plus something more formal for special
occasions and for god’s sake, at least, two afternoon coats and a
morning coat and something for every day that doesn’t make him look
like he’s about to commandeer a tannery.”

Michael started to protest but held back the
impulse. It was easier to give in than point out to Blackwell that
he was not going to spend his time changing clothes and worrying
about the color of his waistcoats. It was one ball and perhaps one
or two casual meetings beyond that—and his business would be
concluded.

“Your best quality and finest cloths, sir.”
Blackwell located a sample book and began flipping through the
plates. “But nothing too ostentatious or garish. No decorative
buttons or ornate cuffs. We’ll keep it understated and elegant.
This one. This. Six of these shirts in that linen there. Clean
lines. We want nothing but clean lines in the cut. Rutherford
doesn’t need ruffles. Make him a falcon in a room full of overdone
pigeons, Antonelli.”

Michael shook his head. “You’re a bit
imperious over there, Ashe.”

Ashe smiled. “I forgot myself. And of
course, I apologize, Mr. Antonelli. Where are my manners?”

“A generous customer is
never
a rude
customer.” The tailor smiled. “But Mr. Rutherford is kind to defend
me.” Mr. Antonelli measured and made his notations, climbing up on
a small stepladder to address Michael’s shoulders and back. “Please
turn to face me, sir.”

Michael turned to see that he and the petite
tailor were almost eye-to-eye. “My father used to say that you
could put silk on a donkey, but it would still be an a—“

“Language, Rutherford!” Ashe did his best
imitation of Michael’s northern accent.

“There are no ladies present,” Michael
stated flatly.

“No, but you better break that habit now.
Nothing chills a woman’s blood faster than a vulgar man.” Ashe
stretched out his legs. “In my wilder days, even I knew to address
every woman like a duchess…”

“Before bedding them like whores,” Michael
grumbled under his breath. “Thank God for your American!”

“What was that?” Ashe asked, his gaze
narrowing dangerously.

“I believe I said I was glad your wilder
days are behind you.” Michael shifted to address the tailor.
“Please don’t ask him about his wife, Mr. Antonelli. He starts
reciting dusty poetry and it is hard for a bachelor to bear.”

“Never!” Ashe protested weakly. “I have
never recited poetry.”

Mr. Antonelli smiled. “My wife still loves
poetry. But I will spare you a recitation of the classics, Mr.
Rutherford, if you will but stand straight and lift your arms.”

Michael did his best to comply, wincing a
little as his ribs protested.

“You’re wearing bandages?” Mr. Antonelli
asked. “Are you injured, sir?”

Ashe sat up straighter. “What was that?”

“Broken ribs. I fell a couple of weeks back.
It’s nothing.” Michael continued to hold still. “Nice to know that
Dr. West doesn’t give
every
confidence away.”

Mr. Antonelli dutifully returned to his
measurements and then climbed down to begin to pull fabrics in the
next room. Ashe took advantage of the opportunity for them to speak
privately. “Here.” Ashe held out a folded paper.

“What is it?”

“Galen sent it. Lady Winters has sketched
out the layout of Bascombe’s house. She was a guest there when she
first arrived in London and apparently,” Ashe said as he raised one
eyebrow, “she was intimate with the back corridors and secret doors
in the stupid badger’s residence.”

Michael took the paper and tucked it into
his pocket. “It may come in handy. Please tell Galen to give her my
thanks but to please stop involving his wife in this…business.”

Ashe smiled. “You’d better ask the sun to
stop rising while you’re at it. A wife is not part of a man’s life,
Rutherford. She
is
his life.”

Michael sighed. “Very well. It was a stupid
thing to say so I’ll withdraw the request.”

“When you’re a married man, you’ll learn the
way of it.”

Michael took one firm step back. “I am
not
marrying and I am
not
learning the way of it.
Don’t think for one moment to paint me with that brush. The rest of
you have fallen into it and I wish you nothing but happiness with
your lovely wives, but do not make the mistake of trying to recruit
me into the ranks.”

“Careful. If you protest too much, the
universe has a way of grinding lessons into your skull and I should
know!” Ashe raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t kill the
messenger, Rutherford.”

“I won’t. It’s just…”

“What is it?” Ashe asked.

Heat lashed up his face and Michael hated
the humiliating taste of shame and embarrassment that filled him.
“I will
never
marry and the reasons are obvious so stop
taunting me and let’s just get this over with.”

He turned his back on Ashe, effectively
ending the conversation as Mr. Antonelli returned with his arms
full of fabric bolts.

“No browns for you, Mr. Rutherford,” the
tailor sighed. “Only lovely midnight blues and then the greys and
blacks the evenings require. You inspire me, sir! With your height,
you will soar!”

Michael rolled his eyes. Apparently Ashe’s
falcon reference had stuck in the man’s mind. “Feet on the ground,
if you please.”

Ashe circled the shop, fingering fabrics and
making a few more selections while the tailor began the more
precise and labor intensive measurements he would need.
Rutherford’s words echoed in his head and presented a new
puzzle.

The man would never marry and the reasons
were “obvious”?

Ashe glanced over at his friend who was
grimly submitting to Antonelli’s attentions and muttered comments.
There was no obvious impediment to marriage that Ashe could see.
The man was beyond hale and hearty. He was also, undeniably,
inclined toward female company. Ashe would have thought no less of
him if it were otherwise but Blackwell’s instincts told him that
any man who transformed into a shy tower of awkward movement
whenever a woman was present was
not
unaffected.

Hell, the saying is still waters run
deep…not cold.

So if the man was attracted to women,
possessed a sizable secret fortune, had all his working parts and
was upright and breathing; what was the “obvious” barrier to
seeking a wife?