Desire Wears Diamonds (2 page)

Even to the last…

It was a remote province and a small village
but because the general’s position had been threatened, Michael had
obediently taken the rifle he was handed, accepted his orders and
made his way to high ground. Under the cover of the skirmish and
chaos of the fighting, he’d shot the targets he was directed to
shoot, protected his fellow soldiers, and then fired at will until
there was nothing to aim at. By the time the dust had cleared and
reason had returned, there wasn’t a part of his soul that wasn’t
broken.

We’ve lost India. We cannot hold it. Not
like this. They’ll drive us to the sea, just you wait. And I’ll
drink the waves in with relief, God help me.

The battle was won and the local puppet raj
and authorities were pleased to see peace restored. Michael was
alone in his convictions. That night, the officers drank to victory
and Michael watched their shadows on the walls—elongated and
grotesque. He stared at the tricks of the light until the other men
forgot that he was there on the verandah.

And then he overheard the general, drunkenly
whispering to one of the lieutenants. “I should put him down for a
medal but Rutherford’s a villain. He has the conscience of a tiger
but there’s no better man for the work…”

“What work?” the man had asked.

The general’s smile was as warm as a
crocodile’s. “Did you know that Rutherford can shoot the flame off
of a candle at five hundred paces?”

The lieutenant nodded, his expression
uncertain. “An asset in the field.”

“I’ve given him use of my new rifle and the
benefits have been extraordinary. An American Sharps rifle in the
hands of a skilled marksman is a thing of beauty, sir. But in the
hands of a common thug,” the general leaned in dramatically
lowering his voice, “it is savage perfection.”

Lieutenant Hall frowned. “Or murder…”

The British did not hold to ungentlemanly
tactics in the field. Long range silent and stealthy war did not
suit their ideals. Long range shooting from cover was for hobbyists
and hunters and even the dark green coated light infantry deployed
in units for all to see, their rifles gleaming in the sun. The
general alluded to something unheard of and something that Michael
instinctively knew the other officers would not believe.

The British Army did not use assassins.

But Michael knew better.

Rutherford’s a villain.

He’d waited until the drunken festivities
had finally broken up and then dutifully appeared as if he was
conveniently arriving at the right moment to escort the general
back to his quarters.

“Damn it, Rutherford,” the man complained.
“How can anyone as big as you are be that bleeding quiet?”

Michael shrugged, but held his tongue. He
knew better than to actually answer the man. General Timsworth
wasn’t interested in any stories of how Michael had acquired his
skills and Michael wasn’t keen on revealing anything so personal to
a man he genuinely hated.

Once they reached the house the general had
commandeered, Michael wasted no time. He made sure the servants
were seeing to the general’s personal comforts while he headed
directly into the office and began drafting what he needed. As soon
as he was finished, he tucked the man’s field desk under his arm
and headed up the stairs to find the general alone.

“What the devil!” General Timsworth growled.
“I didn’t summon you, man! See to the grounds and be sure to tell
the guard that if they so much as let a mouse in here to disturb my
sleep, I’ll hang them up by their thumbs! You’re dismissed for the
night!”

“Sign these and I’ll go.” Michael held out
the orders he’d drafted.

“What the hell?” Timsworth took the sheet
from him begrudgingly and then stared at the page. “Release from
service? Are you mad?”

“Sign it and I’ll be on my way.” Michael set
the small portable writing desk next to him. “Your official seal
and stamps are there as well.”

“I’ll call for the guards and you’ll be on
your way to a hanging you insubordinate animal!”

Michael didn’t blink. “Good riddance to a
common thug then. I shall naturally have to confess all before I am
executed. Which would have been discounted as lies if you hadn’t
bragged
in detail
to your men about my abilities and how
pleased you are with the results.”

“I didn’t—“ Timsworth’s protest died fast as
the cloud of alcohol lifted slightly and made him wonder just what
he had boasted at tonight’s party. Timsworth groaned and readjusted
his nightshirt. “War stories over brandies. They’ll think it
bluster and have forgotten it before dawn.”

“Let me go and I’ll say nothing. I’ll take
it all to my grave. But if I stay, you’ll have to kill me because
the next time I get a weapon in my hands, I can’t say for certain
which direction I’ll be pointing it in.”

“That’s mutiny! You dare to threaten me? A
renegade who thinks to dictate terms and stroll away from his
duties? You have the stones to deal with your commanding officer
like this?”

Michael marveled that he couldn’t feel his
own heart beating. “My commanding officer? Technically, I’m not
officially in the army, thanks to your machinations. Remember? You
removed me from the ranks and have listed me as a valet on every
pay voucher. So much for my chance at a pension, eh?”

Already dead. I’m already gone.

“You’re paid well enough and…” Timsworth’s
color drained from his face. “I spared you from the dangers of the
common rank and file. You’ve enjoyed a privileged stay abroad as my
personal attaché, have you not?”

A stay abroad? Why does the man feel
compelled to make it sound like he’s taken me on some exotic tour
for which I should be grateful? Stupid git.

“As your privileged attaché, I’ve seen
enough to make a report of my own to end your illustrious military
career. Let me go. A drum head trial will only draw attention to
the matter and make your statements at the dinner seem all too
true. But you can tell them you dismissed me for insubordination,
or gave me leave to return to England, or—I don’t care what you
tell them. But I’ll take that signed paper stating I served you
well and without fault for all these years and that I’m no longer
in your employ.”

“This.” Timsworth held up the paper with a
sneer. “This is not an official document by any stretch of the
imagination, Rutherford. Who do you think will be fooled by some
handwritten scrawl you force me to sign under duress? And who
exactly will care enough to ask for it before they mistake you for
a deserter and put a bullet into your head?”

“I doubt that anyone will have the time to
search for one man…not in the months ahead.”

“Why? What can possibly lie ahead to spare
your pathetic life?”

He can’t see it. The Sepoys are increasingly
angry and we’ve marginalized them into a corner…we’re outnumbered
and spread thin with a civilian population of our own that we
cannot protect. And he’s got us shooting children without a thought
to the ramifications. These new rumors of the pig grease are simply
an excuse for it all to go wrong.

“Sign it, general, and we shall call it an
even trade. My life or death doesn’t matter, right?” Michael took
one step closer, allowing his commanding officer to truly
appreciate the physical differences between them. At a breath short
of seven feet, he towered over the average height and weight of the
older man, a force to be reckoned with. “You see, I don’t expect to
survive long on my own in India; which means I have nothing to
lose.”

“One does not simply walk away from the
British Army and the East India Company because they wish to. I’ll
forget this conversation and put in a word for you to see that you
attain a position with the—“

“This isn’t a request for a transfer. If you
have to, put my name in the casualty lists and be done with it.”
Michael didn’t move a muscle, and waited for the inevitable.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Timsworth’s arrogant ice broke and his hands
began to shake, marring his signature but it was still legible.
“Useless. Dishonorable waste of a man! Scribble does not change the
facts. You’re a demon, Rutherford.”

“No.” Michael gifted him with a crocodile
smile of his own.

But I’ll be damned if I’ll linger in Hell
and play soldier for the devil.

CHAPTER ONE

London

May 1860

Michael Rutherford leaned his head against
the carved molding that framed one of the windows in Dr. Rowan
West’s study. The eclectic clutter and cozy colors behind him
soothed his spirits. Dr. West’s haven worked its subtle magic on
all the men of the Jaded whenever they came. It was a casual
sanctuary that had kept them close and provided a place for them to
talk, plan or relax and kept the brotherly bonds between them
tight.

At the moment though it was allowing Michael
to hide from the festivities of all his friends below. Darius
Thorne had finally wed the lovely Miss Isabel Penleigh in a quiet
ceremony that was sure to set off a firestorm of scandal. It had
been weeks since the ink had dried on Miss Penleigh’s first
marriage’s annulment, but the plan for a quick wedding to Darius
had been thwarted by her parents. In a cruel move, Lord and Lady
Penleigh had sued Netherton and claimed that Isabel was not in her
right mind when she left her “dear husband” and that if Lord
Netherton intended to keep her dowry, he would have to keep his
wife as well.

They’d have been in the court for months or
years if the villain Netherton hadn’t finally broken his silence
privately to her parents about the illegitimacy of the marriage,
his bigamy and his disinterest in regaining Isabel’s hand. They’d
agreed not to expose him to the law in exchange for her dowry, or
whatever was left of it after he’d paid off a few debts.

It was an uglier end than Thorne had hoped
and a terrible betrayal of her parents to coldly collect their
daughter’s dowry and then promptly to disown her outright for her
“unsightly” condition and her wretched choice of a man with a
profession and not a drop of blue blood.

From what Michael could see, neither the
bride nor the groom’s happiness had dimmed in the slightest despite
the storm of disapproval around them.

Apparently love made even the cleverest men
refuse to see the dangers.

Another wedding…

Darius’s face had shone with triumph as he
recited his vows and Michael begrudged him none of it. He was glad
for all his friends to have made their way back to their lives. It
wasn’t resentment that drove him away from the revelries.

It was an uneasy sense that there was a dark
force in motion that would rather see the Jaded at funerals than
flowery celebrations of tender future joys. The Jackal was still
out there. The fire at the Thistle was solid proof that he’d
underestimated the danger and it had shaken his confidence in his
ability to keep his friends safe. Then Darius had told them that
he’d uncovered the presence of a third party who believed that
whatever mystic item they’d spirited out of India must remain in
their hands.

Their fate was now supposedly controlled by
an ancient prophecy and keeping the sacred treasure out of the
Jackal’s hands was more than a game of fortune—losing to the Jackal
would be the end of all of them and all that they loved.

Nothing but enemies of the worst kind—the
kind I can’t see.

Came close to seeing the bastard in that
fire though. Hell, he was close enough to touch in that smoky
stairwell.

Michael shoved away the memory. He’d lost a
lot of sleep wondering how differently it would have turned out if
he’d been at the head of their group when they’d met the Jackal
face to face. His fingers clenched around empty air in his
frustration.

“You’re not up here moping, are you?”
Rowan’s voice interrupted.

“I’m not a child to pout in corners.”
Michael’s back stiffened and his face grew hot with the realization
that he’d protested a little too loudly. He looked exactly like a
toddler hiding in the drapery, and he knew it. “I have a
headache.”

“I’ll get you something for it then.”

Michael turned and waved him off. “There’s
no need. It will pass.”

Rowan crossed his arms as he sat on the edge
of his desk. “Your absence was noted. Couldn’t you at least
pretend
to be happy for them?”

“I
am
happy for them. I am happy for
all of you. I am brimming with joy.”

“I can tell. You look like a man on the edge
of a giddy collapse,” Rowan said dryly. “Perhaps if you smiled, it
would come across better. But then, it is
your
turn next
even if you do try to hide from it.”

Michael crossed his arms. “If you’re
implying that I’m somehow slated to get married next, you’re
daft.”

“Careful, Rutherford. Every bachelor who
ever makes a proclamation of his determination to die alone
invariably brings down the wrath of Aphrodite herself and lives to
take it back.” Rowan crossed his arms to mirror his friend’s
stance. “Ask any of us, if you don’t believe me.”

“Leave me be. I can’t help but feel as if
we’re making a mistake, sitting back on our heels and pretending
that nothing is wrong. And this public show of—” Michael sighed.
“By all means, go enjoy the party, Rowan, but I…I can’t.”

“It was months between incidents last
time—”

“Why?” Michael cut him off. “Why so long
between every attempt? Is he baiting us? It takes veins of ice to
demonstrate that kind of patience, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t know. I may have many faults but
excessive patience is one I may have skipped, Rutherford.” Rowan
dropped his arms, yielding the fight. “Which is what brings me in
here to find you, friend. The wedding party? Remember? Darius has
been desperate to marry his Isabel for weeks now and if not for the
legal tangle, this happy day would have occurred over two months
ago.”