Desire Wears Diamonds (32 page)

“By the stroke of midnight in six days, yes,
I shall have it in my hands by then. Within minutes of that
instant, I will deliver it directly to you.” Sterling wiped his
palms on his pant legs. “Everything is set.”

“How dramatic! The stroke of midnight on
Sunday…” Gloved hands flexed atop his silver handled cane and drew
Sterling’s eye. “And the how?”

“I am making a trade for it.”

“You mean to tell me that you think you have
something equal to its worth to be bandying it about?” the man
scoffed. “Or is that someone is stupid enough to trade away
something priceless for what? For colored beads or a deed to a plot
of land in Elysium?”

Sterling shook his head. “What I’ve given
him is worthless but one man’s trash is another man’s…”

“Treasure,” the man finished. “And why
didn’t the simple answer of proposing this worthless trade come to
you sooner?”

Sterling shifted nervously on the cushioned
seat. The shadows were playing wicked tricks on his eyes and he
felt like he was having a private conference with Lucifer himself.
“I cannot say but I’m glad that things are finally coming together
as I’d promised you that they would. You’ll see, sir. I am a man of
my word.”

His patron failed to answer him and an
uncomfortable silence ate at Sterling’s confidence.

“Everything is going according to plan,”
Sterling added.

“Yes, I’m sure it is.”

“It is!” Sterling winced as the words left
his lips. He sounded like a defensive child and he hated it.

There was another low chuckle from the other
side of the carriage, a horrible sound that made Sterling’s balls
shrivel up against his thigh. “I don’t care, Porter. You see, we
met again, our friendly little circle and the sentiment was
unanimous. It’s been almost three years that you’ve strung us
along, and while Bascombe was once your greatest supporter and
advocate—well, we know how that has unfolded, don’t we?”

“Rand Bascombe is an overstuffed—“

“Yes,” the man cut him off, his voice calm
and cruel. “Your love of Bascombe is understood. But let us get
back to heart of the matter. We have all begun to suspect that
there was never a diamond, a prophecy or any shred of truth to this
business.”

He held up a gloved hand before Sterling
could reply and the snarling dragon figurine atop his cane gleamed
dully. “So it’s very simple, Mr. Porter. Deliver the diamond to us
before the stroke of midnight Sunday, or we’ll kill you.”

“There’s no need for threats.”

“No, there isn’t. You should believe that
your death is possible without my having to spell it out like some
common thug and don’t think I’m not irritated that I’m required to
be so blunt, Mr. Porter. But I want no mistakes and no claims of a
misunderstanding. Deliver the diamond or face your death. Clear
enough?”

Sterling nodded, his voice abandoning him
completely.

“Good. Get out of my carriage.”

Sterling opened the door and climbed down in
an awkward descent with a mix of relief and humiliation. There
would be no additional audiences and no more negotiations. The
carriage pulled away and Sterling brushed off his coat, recovering
his composure.

Six days.

And my life depends on Rutherford’s
attachment to my sister who he may already have strangled for
rattling on about chestnuts and why fairies like cobwebs.

Damn it.



A knock at the door interrupted her
morning’s progress on the chapter at hand and Grace set her pen
down with a sigh. She went quickly to see if Mrs. Clay had come
early but was greeted by Miss Maggie Beecham, the Grove’s maid for
the rooms and their neighbor on the floor.

“There’s a man to see you, Mrs. Rutherford,”
Maggie said sweetly but then lowered her voice. “The one I’m under
strict orders
not
to bring up to the east wing parlor or
your door under any circumstances.”

“Sterling? My brother is here?!” Grace’s
fingers flew to her throat.

“Bit of a cad, is he?” Maggie nodded
sympathetically. “I thought he had the look.”

“He is very much a cad,” Grace agreed then
stepped out from the doorway. “Maggie, Michael…Mr. Rutherford isn’t
home. Can you alert someone to keep an eye out? Just in case he is
here to make trouble.”

Maggie nodded. “Of course.”

“Where is he?”

“I left him in the common room.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” Grace smoothed out her
skirts and headed down quickly, dreading a confrontation in front
of any of Mrs. Clay’s lovely guests in the public room on the
ground floor. She found him easily, sitting at a table by the
nearest wall with a look of distaste on his face. The common room
of an inn would be beneath him, she knew, and the sight of his grim
discomfort made her smile.

“Sterling,” she said quietly and sat down
before he could make any grand show of false happiness at her
arrival. “Why are you here?”

“Is that any way to greet your older
brother? Has marriage to that brute of a giant soured you so
quickly?” he asked.

“I don’t mean to be rude. But in light of
the way you’ve treated me, I fail to see why you’d be
surprised.”

“Grace,” he sighed. “I was harsh, yes, but I
had your best interests at heart and I do take some responsibility
for the disaster at Bascombe’s. I sheltered you too much and was
too cautious about exposing you to the world. Your instincts were
dulled by my mistakes and a villain like Rutherford was too clever
not to sense it.”

She gasped but bit her tongue to stop the
reflexive defense of her husband’s good name. Sterling was up to
something and Grace kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Why
are you here, Sterling?”

“I wished to see how you were faring. I
couldn’t sleep nights knowing you were miserable.” Sterling leaned
forward. “Is he mistreating you?”

“Of course not!” Grace’s fingers clenched in
frustration and she deliberately strived to take on an icy
disinterested tone. “Mr. Rutherford’s company is most
congenial.”

Sterling’s eyebrows lifted and he glanced
around the common room. “It would have to be. I feel no small
amount of guilt to think that he has brought you here…as if this is
any sort of home for a lady!”

She stood. “Thank you for coming, Sterling.
As you can see I am neither mistreated nor miserable, but in fact
very happy to be married and away from your brotherly care and
concern. Now, I’ll ask you to leave.”

Sterling kept his seat, a slow smile
creeping across his face. “This isn’t your sitting room, Lady
Rutherford. It’s a public dining hall and a very common one at
that! Do you seriously think to—“

“Get out, sir.” Maggie Beecham came up
behind him, hands on hips, her voice level but menacing. “Mrs.
Rutherford’s too sweet for the task but you get out of this very
public dining hall or I’ll start screeching like a hellcat and when
my man comes over to inquire, I’ll burst into tears and that, sir,
will be the end of you!”

“W-what?” Sterling’s confusion was
paralyzing. Maggie was five feet of fiery indignation but she
wasn’t backing down. Sterling began to take note of all the large
muscular patrons in the hall and slowly came to his feet. “I mean
to leave as soon as I am done with this conversation, you insolent
creature, so there is no need to…”

“Sterling, perhaps you should go.” Grace
added struggling not to smile as Maggie’s color increased a telling
degree.

“I’ve had enough of bullies to fill a
hundred lifetimes.” Maggie said calmly and then took a deep breath
and let loose with a cry to make a banshee wince. “Aayaaa! Mrs.
Clay! Mrs. Clay!”

The landlady was instantly on hand with a
large handled broom in hand and Tally at her side. “What’s
that?”

Maggie lifted one hand and pointed it
directly at Sterling’s nose. “Rough trade, Mrs. Clay! He was
horrible to Mrs. Rutherford and when I came to her defense, he…”
Margaret Beecham’s tears were astonishingly effective, “he called
me…it’s too cruel…”

Tally put two fingers in his mouth and
whistled to conjure two large footmen who at the sight of Maggie’s
tears and a very red-faced man, launched into action at Tally’s
hand signal. Within seconds, Sterling’s feet had left the floor as
he was carried out with the added indignity of being hit with a
broom by Mrs. Clay for good measure.

“Out!” Mrs. Clay huffed and lowered her
weapon. “And don’t you think to return!”

The room burst into applause and laughter as
Mr. Sterling Porter was physically thrown from the Grove to land on
his backside on the cobbled street.

Mrs. Clay shut the main doors firmly and
reached up to tuck in a stray curl that had fallen onto her cheek.
She beamed at all her guests. “Sorry for the disturbance. Thank
you, dearies! Let’s have a round of ale for any who’d care for it
and for all of you, let’s be extra kind to our Maggie for the next
day or two, poor thing!”

There was more applause as everyone returned
cheerfully to their business and Tally held out a handkerchief to
comfort Maggie who had “miraculously” recovered enough to blush and
converse silently with the blonde young man using her hands.

Grace covered her mouth with her fingers
astonishment and shock taking over her senses.
My god! Sterling
was thrown from the Grove! How—delightful!

“Are you all right, Mrs. Rutherford?” Mrs.
Clay asked her. “Was that man your brother?”

Grace nodded, swallowing a hiccup of nerves.
“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

“Well!” Mrs. Clay sighed. “My Mr. Clay
always said, you can choose a fish at market but never the
relatives across the table and one of those two things is bound to
make a stink when you don’t want them to!”

Grace smiled. “I think I’d have liked your
Mr. Clay very much.”

“And he you!” Mrs. Clay patted her hands.
“Why don’t you head back up to the peace and quiet of your rooms
and I’ll send up a special tray to make up for all this
nonsense!”

“Yes, thank you.” Grace retreated even as
the round of complimentary ale was being served to the Grove’s
steady guests. Laughter echoed against the carved panel walls and
her steps grew steadier as she went. There was magic to the inn
that extended out from its owner as if every act of kindness and
every stray soul she collected had only strengthened the spell. Mr.
Crimson wrote of the dark seams of worlds unknown and grim acts
that chilled his readers, but even her literary alter ego was
inspired by the Grove.

It isn’t just Michael’s sanctuary
anymore.

It’s mine, too.

Michael came home his arms laden with
packages. Ashe was no longer willing to act as his muse on shopping
expeditions but Michael had found that he didn’t need Blackwell’s
guidance. Grace was inspiration enough. He’d run a few important
errands during the day, stopping at his lawyer’s to make sure his
will left everything in good order for his widow and leaving
letters to each of the Jaded should the worst happen. Michael had
always been a tactician and he refused to abandon his talents
now.

But when he opened the door to their rooms,
he found his wife with her head on her desk. “Grace? Are you
unwell?”

She lifted tear-streaked cheeks to him and
he dropped every package without a thought to rush to her side.
Michael knelt down by the desk and anxiously took her in his arms,
as he had in Bascombe’s garden.

“What happened?”

She took one unsteady breath. “Sterling paid
me a call.” She reached up to pull the flat of her hand across her
cheeks. “And I should say as quickly as I can, that I have no idea
why I’m crying! Except that it was so horrible to see him here
and—“

“Here?”

“Well, thanks to the staff, he only made it
into the dining hall downstairs. Apparently you’d made it clear
that he isn’t a welcome caller,” Grace said and reached up caress
his face. “Thank you for that, Michael.”

He shifted her to rest against his chest and
sighed. “I didn’t expect him to actually give his name…that was a
long shot that paid off.” He’d informed Mrs. Clay of the barest
facts in the same sitting in which he’d given her the news of his
impending wedding. He’d hinted at Sterling’s villainy and his dear
Mrs. Clay had filled in the rest, her protective ire fueling an
immediate ban of Grace’s brother from her doors. Whoever had let
the man into the dining room, it wasn’t Mrs. Clay.

Michael’s eye caught sight of the heavily
laden tray. “I take it from the presence of an entire ginger
pudding on that tray that it didn’t go well?”

“You can tell from a pudding?” she asked
lifting her head from his shoulder.

“Mrs. Clay tends to express her concern with
food and
that
,” he nodded toward the small feast, “is a lot
of concern for one very petite lady.”

“It wasn’t good,” Grace sighed. “Sterling
refused to leave when I asked him and Maggie intervened like a
guardian angel. Although, perhaps not so angelic when she started
screaming like a cat dipped in hot wax. Mrs. Clay struck him with a
broom handle before two of the men tossed him out.”

Michael used every trick he could think of
not to laugh out loud. “Brilliant.”

“It was exhilarating, but…”

“Why was Sterling here, Grace? What did he
want to say to you?” he asked. “Or did Maggie send him running
before he could spit it out?”

“He said he merely wanted to reassure
himself that I wasn’t miserable. My brother’s usual dark choice of
vocabulary hasn’t lost its bite.” She stroked his arms and shifted
against him. “But he was fishing for something.”

“Did he get what he wanted?”

“No!” She said, but her voice trembled. “I
don’t know! How could I possibly know what he’s thinking? He’s
always been difficult to corner but I swear ever since he returned
from India, it’s like a demon took his place.”