Nicole Jordan (7 page)

“She is merely frustrated.”

His gaze skimmed her face. “I hope you will expound on her comment about you, my dear dragon. I knew there was some difficulty in your past, but not the particulars.”

Diana made a careless attempt at a smile. She was under no obligation to explain herself to Thorne, yet she found she wanted him to understand.

“Part of Amy’s claim is true,” she said, keeping her tone light. “I was jilted because I wasn’t an heiress. He overestimated the size of my fortune and underestimated my uncle’s protectiveness.”

“And now you’re concerned Amy is making the same mistake you made, falling in love with a fortune-hunter.” It was not a question, and Diana knew he didn’t expect an answer. “I take it your scandal happened a number of years ago?” Thorne added.

“Yes. During my London Season. I was eighteen, a year younger than Amy is now.” Diana glanced down at her clasped hands, remembering. She couldn’t look back on that painful time without feeling the devastation of her broken heart. She couldn’t deny, either, that Amy’s similar love affair had reopened old wounds and made her relive her own past hurts.

“I fell madly in love with a gentleman,” she confessed. “An artist like myself. The match would not have been inappropriate, since he was titled, but his pockets were not very deep, so my Uncle Basil refused to consider his suit. That was when I agreed to an elopement.”

She laughed softly. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I was totally fooled. He had the soul of an artist and the tongue of a poet, and I was blind to the practical realities of life.” Her voice lowered a register, and she averted her gaze, focusing on a nearby blossom of bougainvillea. “I thought we would have a wonderful future together, earning our fame and fortune with our art. I would have lived in a garret attic had he asked. But he had loftier plans for us. He thought he could force my uncle to relent once we were wed.”

“So you eloped to Scotland?” Thorne asked.

“We attempted to. But our hired carriage broke down barely a day outside London, which allowed my Uncle Basil to catch up with us. When Uncle vowed he wouldn’t release my modest inheritance until I was twenty-one, my suitor abruptly cried off, pleading debts that couldn’t wait. I was brought home in disgrace.” Her mouth curled with wry bitterness. “As you can imagine, I was considered a fallen woman after that.”

Bracing herself, she lifted a defiant gaze to meet Thorne’s, intending to reject his scorn or pity if he offered either. But his eyes held neither, only curiosity and perhaps sympathy.

“Well,” Diana muttered in a lame tone, “you can see how inappropriate it would be for me to sponsor Amy.”

Thorne nodded. “Yet if Nathaniel intended for her to have her comeout last year, he must have planned some kind of suitable arrangement.”

“He meant to hire a respectable widow to act as Amy’s chaperone—one of our neighbors in Derbyshire, in fact—but she has since passed away.”

After another moment, Thorne nodded again. “And this artistic opportunity you spoke of?”

Diana was glad for the change of subject. “I have been invited to interview with the president of the British Academy when I am next in London.”

“I try to attend the Royal Academy exhibition each year. And my father is one of their patrons. But I’m not very familiar with this newer academy.”

“It was established some years ago as a backlash against the rigid conservatism of the Royal Academy. But neither has yet to accept any women into its classes.”

“You must be extremely talented if they are considering your application. Is your expertise in landscapes or portraitures?”

“I enjoy both. And presently I work almost exclusively with oils.”

“That is an unusual medium for a female, isn’t it?”

Diana smiled. “Indeed. Normally girls are permitted to draw and dabble in watercolors only. But my uncle recognized my odd passion when I was quite young and was kind enough to hire a drawing master who taught me rudimentary oils. And in the past few years, I have trained with an elderly artist who retired near Lunsford Hall.”

“And you mean to earn fame and fortune with your art? Somehow you don’t strike me as the sort who would paint simply for the income.”

“I don’t need the income, since my inheritance is adequate for my needs. But of course I would like to sell my work, for it would be a measure of my skills. And while my paintings do very well locally, London is a vastly different market. Training at the academy would gain my work wider acceptance.”

“And would allow you to take control of your future,” Thorne observed in a thoughtful tone.

Diana felt her eyes widen. It amazed her that he understood the driving force behind her ambition.

After her uncle died when she was twenty-one, she had indeed decided to take control of her future and follow her dream to live her life as an artist. She’d found a mentor who helped mold and polish her talent, but when she outgrew his ability to instruct her, he had advocated her move to London.

The notion had held enormous appeal to Diana. Earning the respect of the art world as a renowned artist would give her the kind of freedom she had never before enjoyed. And for the first time since her aborted elopement, she had a goal that excited her.

She intended to start a new life for herself, where she no longer had to bow to society’s dictates.

But she didn’t want Thorne to think her dreams were more important to her than Amy’s future.

“I assure you,” she said finally, “that my career is secondary to Amy’s needs. I have no intention of abandoning her—but it would clearly be better for her if I remained in the background.”

Thorne was studying her intently, with something akin to admiration in his eyes. “You are very unique in my experience, Miss Sheridan,” he said softly.

Diana felt herself flush, certain he intended his remark as a compliment and wasn’t merely trying to provoke her again. “Would you care for tea, my lord?”

Without waiting for an answer, she made a show of pouring him a cup and adding sugar and cream.

Thorne watched her distracted movements, admiring the delicate flush on her cheeks. He hadn’t lied when he’d termed Diana Sheridan unique. With her passion for art and her fierce protectiveness toward her cousin, she seemed unlike most any other woman of his acquaintance.

He found her immensely intriguing—in part, he realized, because she was something of a black sheep as he was. And because she hadn’t tried to deny it or make excuses for herself. Her frank confession had made him like her even more.

The tale of her scarlet past and her subsequent vulnerability had aroused all his protective instincts. It had also made him recognize that their experiences were merely opposite sides of the same coin: She had been jilted because she wasn’t an heiress, while he’d had women chasing him most of his life for his title and fortune.

Her beauty was a prime attraction, as well, he willingly admitted. Her lustrous hair was a rich brunette, but not so dark as to be called raven. He was sorely tempted to pull out the pins to see how it would look tangled after lovemaking. And he was incapable of looking at her delicious mouth without thinking of sin and sex.

In the cove earlier, he had wanted to do much more than merely kiss her—and so had she, he was certain. Too many women had arched beneath him in passion for him to mistake her response to his mouth, to his body.

Even now the lady was as aware of him as he was of her.

It was a pity she was off-limits to him, Thorne reflected. Doubtless she would be a pleasure to have in his bed. But there was no reason they couldn’t enjoy a game of wits between them. She was just the sort of clever-tongued adversary he appreciated. And he would take sinful delight in testing his skills with such a lovely opponent. He suspected she could hold her own with him.

He didn’t anticipate, however, the method she would use to abruptly steer the subject away from herself.

“Did you have a chance to examine Nathaniel’s letter?” Diana asked as she handed him his full cup.

Caught off guard, Thorne forced himself to drink the tea he didn’t want. “I read it, yes.”

“I presume you could make sense of his more cryptic remarks.”

“Remarks?”

“It raises suspicions about Nathaniel’s death, don’t you agree? I think he must have been purposely murdered for more than just his purse.”

Thorne deliberately arched an eyebrow, trying to convey skepticism. “My lovely Miss Sheridan, have you perhaps been reading too many Minerva Press novels, as Amy is so fond of doing?”

Her gaze turned cool. “
My dear Lord Thorne,
except in my art I am not given to flights of fancy. Nor am I a fool. Nathaniel was a wonderful man, and I loved him like a brother. I expect you to investigate his death further. If you do not, I assure you that I will.”

Her retort made Thorne swiftly reconsider his tactics. Diana Sheridan had a sharp mind, he reflected, feeling a reluctant surge of admiration. And a strong backbone. She wouldn’t be placated by some fabricated tale.

He intended to downplay her concerns, of course. He needed to be careful what he told her in order to keep the Guardians’ existence a secret. But perhaps she could be trusted with a partial truth….

He offered her a rueful smile. “I, too, loved Nathaniel like a brother. And I meant no insult to you by attempting to conceal his secrets. It wasn’t widely known, but Nathaniel occasionally performed tasks for the British Foreign Office.”

She stared at him. “Then it
is
possible his death was more than simple robbery.”

“It’s possible, yes. Perhaps you understand now why I cannot be more forthcoming. But you may trust me to investigate the matter fully. If Nathaniel met with foul play as the result of some sinister plot regarding his work, I promise you justice will be done.”

She studied him for a long moment, her gaze troubled. “I suppose I must be satisfied with that.”

“I’m afraid you must.” Then, to distract her: “You haven’t mentioned your suspicions to Amy, I hope.”

“No, I never even showed her the contents of the letter,” Diana said, still frowning. “I thought it best to wait until I had spoken to you.”

“I appreciate your discretion. Now, if you will excuse me”—Thorne rose to his feet and gave her a polite bow—“I believe I will set some inquiries in motion.”

He made his escape, aware that her uneasy gaze was following him all the while.

Three

A
s he
rode through the gates of Olwen Castle a short while later, Thorne purposely tried to put Diana Sheridan out of his mind. He needed to focus on the task ahead—unearthing Nathaniel’s killer and the traitor who’d sought to expose the Guardians’ identities to the French.

Thorne knew he would be expected at the castle, since after reading the staggering contents of the letter, he’d immediately sent a message to Sir Gawain requesting an interview.

He hadn’t exactly lied when he’d told Diana that Nathaniel worked for the British Foreign Office. That was the excuse the Guardians often used to protect their identities and to explain their clandestine activities.

Publicly Sir Gawain Olwen was thought to head a small, select branch of the Foreign Office. But few people realized the vast extent of their organization, or how deeply the Guardians permeated present British and other European society. Or knew the remarkable tale of their inception.

The Guardians of the Sword had been formed more than a thousand years ago by a handful of Britain’s most legendary warriors—outcasts who had found exile there. Now the order was run by their descendants and operated mainly across Europe, and it was headquartered at Cyrene because the location offered rapid access to parts of the Continent where crises tended to develop with alarming frequency.

Commanded by Sir Gawain, the Guardians were well connected and well financed, and they functioned something like a modern force of mercenaries—but with a higher calling: protecting the weak, the vulnerable, the deserving. Fighting tyranny. Working for the good of mankind.

For the past three decades, the order had primarily endeavored to meet the grave challenges spawned by the French Revolution and Napoleon’s subsequent rush to conquer all the known world, performing missions far too difficult and dangerous for the Foreign Office to undertake.

And throughout all their perilous endeavors, they’d developed into a band of close friends and adventurers who would die for one another and for their cause.

Thorne would lay down his life for the order without hesitation, for he fiercely believed in their noble ideals. The Guardians had been his salvation. Before he’d joined, his wild, self-indulgent existence had taken him down a path of debauchery and destruction. Now the order not only filled his craving for danger and excitement, but gave him a laudable purpose in life.

It enraged him that someone would plot to destroy the Guardians, and it enraged him more that Nathaniel likely had been a target of such treachery.

But if Nathaniel had been murdered by a traitor, Thorne intended to strike back and avenge his friend’s death. First, however, he needed to develop a plan of attack.