Nicole Jordan (5 page)

She had been devastated, as well, by Nathaniel’s death, for he’d been more a beloved brother than cousin to her.

“Where did you find this?” Thorne asked, his low voice almost hoarse.

“In Nathaniel’s personal effects, which he had bequeathed to Amy. I discovered it when I was packing her belongings for our journey to Cyrene. A note accompanied the letter, asking Amy to forward it to you, but with her flighty nature, she must have overlooked it.” Diana paused, debating how much more to say. “The letter was sealed, of course, and nearly a year old, but I opened it in case Nathaniel’s message contained anything of importance.”

Thorne’s piercing gaze locked on her again. “And did it?”

“I believe so,” Diana said with conviction. “No doubt you will prefer privacy to read it, so I shall return to your house to wait for you.”

She hesitated once more, wishing she could erase that grim look from Thorne’s eyes. “Perhaps we can discuss this and Amy’s situation once you put on some proper clothing.”

Her deliberately provoking remark managed to dredge a faint smile from him, but by the time she turned away, Thorne was already unfolding the letter, and she knew she had already been dismissed from his thoughts.

     

 

If you are reading this, old friend, then I am most likely dead.

 

Thorne scanned the contents swiftly, then reread every dismaying word more slowly. He could hear the thudding of his heart over the murmur of the waves as the import of Nathaniel’s revelations sank in.

     

I have spent the past several days looking over my shoulder, unable to shake the sensation of being followed.

     
And perhaps I am. Some weeks ago I came to suspect a traitor of attempting to expose our identities to the French, so I set about investigating. I now fear that my lovely Venus may be involved in spying for the enemy, yet I don’t wish to accuse her until I have proof of my suspicions.

     
Furthermore—I regret to confess to my own shame—I revealed information to her which I never should have. An egregious error, I know. And it is no excuse or consolation whatsoever that I was duped by her seductive beauty.

     
But I prefer to correct my mistake before telling S. G. Thus I have been making inquiries into V’s past.

     
If she is indeed guilty, however, her accomplices will not be pleased by my actions and may seek to stop me. In the event of my untimely death, I want you to have a path to follow, old chap. Thus I shall leave this letter for my sister to deliver, for I know you will carry on if I should fail.

The letter was signed merely with a scrawling
N.

Lifting his gaze, Thorne stared unseeingly out at the aquamarine sea, a turmoil of emotion churning inside him like acid: guilt, anger, self-castigation. He hadn’t known a thing about Nathaniel’s investigation. Not even the slightest hint.

He had no trouble deciphering the cryptic references in the message, of course. “Our identities” meant the sixty-odd Guardians who operated clandestinely in Britain and across Europe. And the initials S. G. referred to their remarkable leader, Sir Gawain Olwen. Nathaniel wouldn’t refer to the order by name when anyone, his sister or cousin included, could stumble across his missive. The Guardians of the Sword worked in secret for a reason—because their effectiveness would greatly diminish if they could no longer execute their missions in the shadows.

Yet if Nathaniel had let slip key intelligence to Madam Venus, he would be reluctant to confess his sin to Sir Gawain before trying to rectify it.

A harsh invective escaped Thorne’s lips. He understood why Nathaniel would want to keep such a damning miscalculation secret from him. But his own obtuseness was inexcusable—for not suspecting his friend’s murder might have been caused for more sinister reasons.

How could he have been so blind? At the time, Nathaniel’s death had been ruled a random robbery by the authorities…a wealthy mark forced into an alley and knifed for his purse. Thorne hadn’t understood how a Guardian of Nathaniel’s fighting skills had allowed himself to be taken unaware. But a weeklong exhaustive search of the surrounding district had turned up no witnesses or suspects or leads to his killer, or any alternative theories regarding motive.

Now, however, it seemed far more likely Nathaniel had been murdered to silence his investigation of a traitor.

Thorne bowed his head as guilt washed over him anew.
He
had been the one to recruit Nathaniel into the Guardians in the first place. And now his friend was likely dead as a result.

Involuntarily Thorne clenched his fist around the letter as he silently made a solemn vow.

He would unearth the traitor Nathaniel had been seeking, but more crucially, he would find his friend’s killer or die trying.

Two

S
o did
you see Thorne?” Amy demanded when Diana found her in a guest bedchamber upstairs.

Diana had difficulty repressing a smile at the question. She had indeed seen Thorne. In fact, she’d received a significant eyeful of him. “I found him on the beach.”

“What did he say? Did he agree to ask his aunt to sponsor my comeout?”

“He didn’t refuse outright, but we had little chance to discuss it, since he was engaged in swimming. But I expect he will return to the house shortly.”

Amy’s mouth turned down in a pout. She was a vivacious, strikingly pretty girl, with lively blue eyes and pert blond curls cut short in the current fashion. But she could be unattractively stubborn when she chose. She made no secret of her eagerness to move to London under the auspices of Thorne’s aunt, for she longed to escape Diana’s control.

Diana watched, unsurprised, as her cousin began to pace the room restlessly.

“I wish he would come,” Amy complained. “I am going mad after so many weeks at sea with nothing to do.”

“Why don’t you change into your riding habit? I expect Thorne will readily lend you a mount from his stables.”

Amy brightened instantly. She was a bruising rider, having grown up in the country in a family of horse enthusiasts. Diana herself rode more sedately but was just as accomplished, for after being banished from society, she’d spent countless hours in the saddle roaming the environs of the Lunsford estate. For the past six years, riding and her art had been her only real diversions.

“That is a famous idea,” Amy exclaimed. “Do you wish to go with me?”

After enduring the confinement of their voyage, Diana would have greatly enjoyed the freedom and exercise of a ride and a chance to explore the beautiful island, but she was more interested in getting Amy’s future settled. “I think I will wait for Thorne to return. No doubt he can spare a groom to accompany you.”

Amy offered her a smile that held a hint of bitterness. “Are you certain you trust me to go off with a strange man? You aren’t concerned I might throw myself into his arms?”

Diana forced herself not to retort. Over the past few months she had become quite adept at weathering Amy’s dramatics, and knew that treading lightly was the best way to deal with her cousin’s resentment at being thwarted in love.

“I imagine Thorne’s servants can be counted on to behave with discretion, even if you cannot,” she replied dryly. “Moreover, if you were to throw yourself at one of them, you would only make Thorne think twice about inflicting you on his aunt for an entire season.”

Amy scowled much like a frustrated child rather than the grown young lady she was. Admittedly she’d been spoiled more than a little by her doting family and was accustomed to having her way, but Diana was willing to make allowances, especially during the past difficult year. Amy’s grief at losing her brother only a few years after losing her father was understandable.

Diana not only shared her cousin’s grief, but knew all too well what it was to be an orphan. She also knew what it was to be desperately in love, although she was certain Amy’s present ardor was no more than a severe case of infatuation.

She could have predicted the girl’s response, though, and wasn’t disappointed: Amy’s chin rose belligerently. “I won’t change my mind about Reggie, you know. No matter how long you keep me incarcerated here on this remote island.”

“It is hardly incarceration. We will be returning to London in time for the start of the Season.”

“Where I shall hardly be permitted a moment’s freedom. You think to marry me off to some wealthy fop so your conscience will be eased.”

They’d engaged in this same dispute frequently during the past month or more.

“That isn’t true, Amy, and you know it.”

“It is! You are afraid I will follow in your footsteps. But just because your heart was once broken by a fortune-hunter doesn’t mean every man who courts me is pursuing me for my inheritance.”

“No, it doesn’t. But the odds are much greater that a penniless suitor is more interested in your fortune than yourself.”

“Reginald loves me for myself, I tell you. And I love him!”

“Perhaps you do now. But your feelings for him may not stand the test of time. If you truly love him, delaying your courtship for a single season won’t influence your affections in the end. And during your stay in London, you could meet any number of gentlemen whom you might come to love more.”

“And in the meantime, I will only be miserable.”

“I regret that, Amy. But being miserable now is better than being locked in a wretched marriage for the rest of your days.” Diana paused, meeting her cousin’s morose gaze. “It is because I want so much for you to be happy that I won’t let you throw your life away as I did. I want you to be certain of your heart,” she said softly. “I want you to have choices I never had. Choices I lost through my own naïveté.”

For a moment Amy looked contrite, but then she tossed her head and turned away to dress.

Repressing a sigh, Diana left her cousin and went to her own adjacent bedchamber to freshen up.

Thorne’s servants had been understandably wary when two strange ladies and their maid deposited themselves on his lordship’s doorstep. But Thorne’s valet had recognized Amy from her visits to London, and he’d ordered their bags taken upstairs to their rooms.

Entering, Diana glanced approvingly around her. The chamber was bright and airy and elegant, with tall French doors leading to an outer gallery that wrapped around much of the house. Thorne’s magnificent villa, Diana knew, was built in the Spanish style of a great hacienda, boasting four galleried wings constructed around an open central courtyard. The Lunsford manor in Derbyshire was grand, but nothing so luxurious as this.

Lured by the splendor of the view, Diana stepped out onto the gallery to watch the sparkling, azure Mediterranean. When hunger pangs finally reminded her that she had missed tea, she reluctantly returned inside to wash and to tidy her hair—a much easier task than usual. Her fingers were normally smeared with paint or ink, but she hadn’t picked up a brush or pen since the previous day on board the schooner.

This morning she had simply allowed herself to take in the incredible sights of the island: the rugged coastline protected by jagged cliffs and dangerous reefs; the fortresses and watchtowers overlooking the many small bays and inlets; the gentle hills and forested mountain peaks; the prosperous valleys ripe with orchards and vineyards and olive groves; and finally the secluded cove below Thorne’s villa. The jeweled colors of the sea—emerald and sapphire and turquoise—framing a magnificent, golden man.

Her fingers itched now to put all that she had seen on paper or canvas, but her artistic urges would have to wait, Diana thought regretfully.

The moment she descended the sweeping staircase to the grand entrance hall, she encountered Thorne’s butler, who offered to serve her tea in the courtyard. At her ready acceptance, he showed her along a corridor to another set of French doors, these opening into the large interior square at the heart of the villa.

The courtyard was a place of beauty, Diana saw, rippling with sunlight yet shaded by feathery palm trees and sweetened by a profusion of flowers and vines—bougainvillea, hibiscus, oleander, geraniums. In the center, a lively marble fountain played a cheerful melody.

A tea table was set up in one corner, and Diana had barely been seated when several liveried footmen brought her tea and scones and finger sandwiches, plus a pitcher of fruit juice, which the butler informed her was a mixture of pomegranate, orange, and peach.

Diana sat back, enjoying the novel taste as much as the blissful moment. It was difficult to remember that snow still covered the ground when they had left England three weeks ago.

She was unaware that she had shut her eyes until she heard an amused masculine voice break the peaceful silence.

“I am gratified to see you making yourself at home, Miss Sheridan.”