Desire Wears Diamonds (5 page)

Miss Grace Porter was a complication he
couldn’t afford—and couldn’t afford to ignore. Like any tactician,
he knew better than to disregard her presence. A cunning part of
him he wasn’t proud of pointed out that she might also be his only
avenue into the Jackal’s lair.

Hell, that was…what the hell was that?

If he’d felt oversized and clumsy before
meeting her, he felt like an ogre at the first sight of those
bright clear blue eyes peering up at him. She was a stunning beauty
with strong features. Even more compelling, there was something
about her that snagged and held his imagination. Without artifice
or the customary feminine fluttering that women adapted, a terrible
habit that mystified and troubled him, Miss Grace Porter had faced
him with unique directness. She’d generously ignored his rudeness
and ham-fisted pleasantries and then kept him off balance with the
turns of her quick mind.

He wasn’t sure there was a recovery to be
made after he’d abruptly ended the exchange and fled the house. But
he’d secured her agreement to allow him back. It was a weak cast to
try to give him more options to reapproach the Jackal, but there
was a small part of his brain that had argued that it was the most
unnecessary and inappropriate question a man could ask when he was
hoping to come back and ultimately kill the woman’s brother.

How does that go? May I call on you again,
Miss Porter? I’d like to murder your brother some time before
Sunday and I was hoping you’d extend an invitation to tea to allow
it…

Michael groaned aloud at the jarring reality
of where a single “social call” had led him. Not that he was going
to kill Sterling…well, not…by Sunday.

And not over a tea tray in his parlor.

Either way I’m the demon who’s come to her
door—and there’s no taking it back now.

Damn.



“What happened to your hat, sir? It’s a
mash!” Mrs. Clay fussed sweetly. “My goodness gracious!”

“I—I must have sat on it,” he offered
lamely. Michael scuffed the wet and mud off his boots as best he
could, leery of tracking it into the interior of the well-kept inn
he lived in. Mrs. Clay ran a tight ship at the Grove but for the
life of him, he couldn’t see how she managed it so sweetly. She
bustled and hovered and without a single cross word, had everyone
in her employ cheerfully doing her bidding, competing to please
her.

She shook her head and held out her hand.
“Give it here, sir. Let me have a try at mending it and if not,
I’ll ask Tally to give it a proper burial in the side yard, with
all the honors due it. Not that I’ll have the maids sing hymns or
wrap it in a flag but hand it over, Mr. Rutherford.”

He reluctantly held it out to her, not
because he had a sentimental attachment to the damn thing but
because he had no other and the weather required one. He also knew
his landlady well enough to know he was about to give her a great
amount of happiness. “Mrs. Clay, would you be kind enough to pick
me out a new hat? I have no eye for it but I beg you, something
simple and dark. No…decorations, please.”

Her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands
together, further smashing the remnants of his damaged cover
without a blink to her ample bosom. “Oh, Mr. Rutherford! What a
joy! I can’t remember the last time I got to buy a man a hat! Mr.
Clay, God rest his soul, always let me pick out all his things for
I swear that man had no sense of it. I do miss some of his bolder
attempts at selecting a waistcoat though, and…” She stopped herself
and stepped back. “Just write down the haberdashery you prefer and
give it to Tally when he’s up with your dinner and I’ll see to it
right away.”

He nodded gratefully and turned to head
upstairs but then stopped. “Mrs. Clay?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She blushed and straightened her apron.
“It’s just a hat, Mr. Rutherford!”

“As you say.” He retreated up the stairs,
through the first floor sitting room and to his apartment door,
unlocking it with a sigh. It was a unique sanctuary, with its
oversized bed custom made for him so that his feet or arms didn’t
overhang the edges, and sturdy furniture more suited to a hunting
lodge than a city inn. The room was nearly devoid of decorative
objects, other than the few that Mrs. Clay had added, but it
boasted a beautiful large rough stone fireplace and a mantel where
he’d put his penny novels and favorite books held in place by a
rusted counterweight and a plain wooden box that held various odds
and ends.

With the ingrained habits of a military man,
there was a place for everything and everything was in its place.
He hung his coat on its hook and set his boots next to the
fireplace grate to dry. In the top drawer of his dresser, next to
his shaving kit and personal items, Michael retrieved a locked
steel box and tucked it under one arm. Then in his wardrobe
arranged with his meager selections by weight and season, he
located the small hidden compartment against the back where he’d
put the key to his desk.

Ever since his careless mishandling of his
notes had led to near disaster when Josiah’s Eleanor had bumped
into him before the terrible fire at the Thistle, Michael had
started locking away his diary and notes. Caution had gripped him
ever since—caution and a growing sense of guilt; guilt that it had
been his idea to start encoded exchanges with the Jackal, taunting
him into a nearly tragic meeting at the gambling house.

They’d survived the fire—just barely. And
none of his friends had ever hinted that he held him accountable
for the mess. But it didn’t matter. Michael wasn’t the kind of man
who required someone else to point out his faults. He kept too
close a watch on them himself.

Without wasting any time, Michael sat at his
desk, unlocked his papers and began penning notes to all the men of
the Jaded to summon them for a meeting, grimly conveying the
urgency and avoiding the subject at hand for security’s sake. He
was cautious by nature and didn’t want any misdirected notes to
give anyone an idea of what he’d discovered.

Normally, they’d have met at Rowan’s but one
simple thing made Michael alter their routine and draw his friends
to the Grove—he didn’t want them to be too predictable.

Well, that and he didn’t want to go back out
in the cold spring rain without a good cap.



Sterling Porter leaned back in the small
uncomfortable confines of the hired hackney as it made its way
through the streets of London from the East India Trading Company’s
docks. It was later than usual but he’d warned his sister that with
his new responsibilities his hours were harder to predict.

Not that it affected his expectations of a
hot dinner and orderly house.

Grace was generally useless but subservient
enough to suit him and she made no demands on his resources. He’d
resisted her arrival years before but later decided it helped him
to have her in hand. His house was run the way he wished without
argument and she was an improvement over a wife who would complain
about his lengthy absences and travels; or interfere with his plans
with endless questions.

Grace was strange and awkward, despite her
beauty. She was always scribbling in her journals, although on what
subjects Sterling couldn’t imagine. She almost never left the
house, had no acquaintances he could name as significant and had no
interests beyond the books in her small bedroom or maintaining the
walled garden. He had once speculated if Town would change her, but
Sterling scoffed at his own anxiety on that account.

He’d dutifully included her in a few small
social gatherings after she’d first arrived on his doorstep but it
had led to nothing but embarrassment. When Grace did speak, the
questions she posed to his friends were always ridiculous or
shockingly odd. The turns of her mind boggled him. Sterling had no
sense of humor when it came to these matters and no desire to have
it known that his sister was “off” or even worse, a “free-thinker”
or radical. Better to keep her home and out of sight than asserting
her bizarre opinions on the mythology of clouds or asking how
sailors made scrimshaw to colleagues and peers he was attempting to
impress.

He blamed his father for her lack of
education and polish, but wasn’t surprised at it. Their father had
convinced her that she was plain and Sterling saw no benefit in
correcting his little sister’s lack of vanity. She’d had some
schooling and a few tutors and was literate enough for a woman but
Sterling hated the echoes of his country childhood and it was hard
to look at her and see anything else. He’d long since determined to
have as little to do with his past as possible. His father’s idea
of success was a year with a good crop where his grain mill
business thrived and he could swagger about the village and have
the other men tip their hats when he passed by.

Fat small-minded fool!

Sterling knew he was meant for better things
and had driven himself ruthlessly to achieve his goals. From a
menial job as a clerk, he’d slowly clawed his way up through the
ranks—but not very far.

Not nearly far enough to suit him.

Sterling had always made the most of every
position and every connection, no matter how seemingly
inconsequential. If there were leverage to be gained, he’d found it
and sniffed out any hint of business that might prove profitable.
From the first, he had invested his meager earnings into small
deals until he’d made a name for himself for uncovering good
opportunities. Both within the Company and without, Sterling had
brokered business relationships and made the most of every chance.
He’d saved enough money to get a taste for the finer things, but
greater chances to prove his worth and advance in the company
eluded him.

At least, they had until the fateful day
he’d been assigned to reorganize the reports from a remote province
in Bengal. In a forgotten file, Sterling had uncovered an opened
missive from the appointee there that spoke of a mythic treasure. A
raj had made casual mention of a sacred treasure, a diamond whose
beauty and power would make any other look like a worthless pebble
in comparison. The raj wished to give it to the Queen of England in
exchange for one of her daughters’ hand in marriage.

It was the most ridiculous offer and claim
imaginable. And other reports from the area confirmed that the
local raj was known to be mentally erratic, so no one had paid the
ridiculous letter any mind and his mention of a treasure was
lost.

Except that it then had Sterling’s full
attention.

It made no difference to him if the man were
a raving lunatic. It was the diamond he was after and after several
weeks poring over other obscure reports in the archives of the
Company, he found another reference to a “sacred treasure” and some
snippet of a ridiculous prophecy that alluded to foreign hands
holding the treasure and taking it far away so that the stone could
fulfill its destiny.

And in his mind the dream and quest had
fallen into place. He would present himself as the preordained
foreigner to the raj and take possession of this treasure. The East
India Trading Company would simply be the agency through which it
passed, but if the diamond were as spectacular as promised…Then the
Queen would have her gift and Sterling would be rewarded with a
knighthood and a fortune for bringing it to her. He would become
Sir
Sterling Porter and every trace of his humble beginnings
would be erased.

He’d campaigned tirelessly for the resources
to make his journey and won a monetary advance from his superiors
to travel to India. And then nothing had gone according to
plan.

The carriage pulled to a stop and
interrupted his thoughts. He paid the driver what was owed and
climbed down unassisted. His cheer dissipated a little as he opened
his own front door. A true gentleman had a servant waiting to open
doors and take his coat and hat. For a moment, he wondered if he
should task Grace with greeting him.

No, better not. Grace is the acting lady of
the house and it wouldn’t do to have a neighbor call and find her
at the door bobbing curtsies. Not after he’d been asked about the
golden haired scullery maid seen scrubbing the front steps last
spring. Still one would think that without being asked she’d have
the common sense to greet the brother who clothes and feeds her and
generously sees to her welfare—

“Welcome home,” Grace said as she came down
the stairs, unknowingly underlining his thoughts. “I’ve held dinner
and Mrs. Dorsett made certain to—“

“Damn it, Grace.” He dropped his satchel on
the small table and began shrugging out of his overcoat. “It isn’t
holding
dinner. How many times do I have to tell you that
dinner is served
on time
when I arrive in the evening?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll eat in my study tonight.” He held out
his coat and scarf to her. “Have her serve me there.”

“Of course.”

Sterling turned to go but something made him
slowly swing back to assess his sister. She was meek enough, but
there was a flush of color on her cheeks and a brightness to her
eyes that made him wonder if he’d missed a step.

She almost looked…
Happy?

“Grace?” He folded his arms. “Did you have a
pleasant day?”

Her eyes widened for a split second but then
she answered sweetly. “You are so kind to ask! I had a lovely day.
The weather was uncooperative so I was able to finish the accounts
for the monthly budget along with the menus and then invented my
very own furniture polish using that orange oil that Mrs. Saunders
recommended. But I added a touch of—“

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sterling shook his
head in disgust and retreated to the sanctuary of his office,
unwilling to be bored to tears by the trifles of her day’s domestic
triumphs.