Desire Wears Diamonds (34 page)

“How do the signs look? Have I long to live,
doctor?”

Rowan grimaced at the weak jest. “You’re
deliberately killing me. I take it your ribs have healed.”

“Apparently so. I’ve always healed quickly
and it’s been nearly a month, Rowan.”

“You say that as if it’s an inordinate
amount of time, Michael.”

“I measure things in days and hours.
Especially now.” He grabbed a soft cloth to wipe down his blade,
ignoring the fact that it was already gleaming. Dr. Rowan West had
come for more than a check on his health and Michael simply
waited.

“When do you intend to give him the
diamond?”

And there it is. Not a long wait, after
all.

“How did you know?”

“It was a guess, until just then.” Rowan
held up the note that Michael had sent him yesterday. “That and
your final sounding note indicating that things were drawing to a
close. It reads like a heartfelt farewell, Michael.”

“I swore to keep you abreast of my progress
and if I’m dead tomorrow night, you’d have enough to go on to get
Grace out of the Grove.”

“Get her out now and let’s come up with a
better plan together, all of us.”

Michael shook his head. “None of the others
trust me and they have good cause. I’ve married our arch enemy’s
sister and…I cannot make any more promises.”

“Give us the diamond. Tell him you don’t
have it anymore.”

A bitter laugh escaped Michael’s lips. “And
prolong the agony of his endless quest? Infuriate him past reason
so that the next assault isn’t even remotely defensible? Expect
mercy from a petty-minded devil that has the conscience of a
stone?”

“Rutherford—“

“I’m giving him the diamond in exchange for
marrying Grace.” Michael’s tongue tasted bitter for the deception
but there was no avoiding the lies. Sterling’s inconsistent
cruelties meant he couldn’t rely on the Jackal making another
misstep. He had to assume that the worst was not only possible but
probable; that Sterling would make good on his threat and have
Michael out of the way so that he could do as he wished to the
others until they yielded the treasure into his hands.

The Jaded would have to accept betrayal.

“Ashe was right,” Rowan whispered in horror.
“He was sure you’d turned your back on us for…her.”

“Grace never asked it of me. She doesn’t
know, Rowan.” Michael kept his gaze steady. “It was love at first
sight and it was the bargain I struck with Sterling to achieve
her.”

“And what of the prophecy?”

Michael closed his eyes. “There is nothing
I’m not willing to give up to see to her safety.”

“The retribution of the believers in that
prophecy—“

“Will hopefully land on the ones who will
have the diamond wrongfully. And if I have the chance, I’ll make it
clear that I alone betrayed you and gave up the treasure to the
East India Trading Company’s dogs. I can’t think about that
now.”

“Because you love her.”

“I love her.”

“Then God help you, Michael, because the
Jaded won’t.”

Rowan left without another word and Michael
sat down on a wooden bench by the brick wall, poured a bucket of
cold water over his head to clean off the sweat and let the
rivulets of water trailing down his face hide his silent tears.

His hair was still damp as he walked back at
dusk through the backstreets of London. His height and physical
prowess gave him an untouchable air and he preferred to take the
most direct, if not the wisest, paths through the city in his
current mood. Michael pushed cold wet black and white curls back,
cursing them for their refusal to stay out of his eyes.
I should
ask Grace to cut my hair and be done with it.

He pushed the notion off a bit, avoiding the
dark idea that it would be like asking her for a trim before his
burial. Not that he didn’t have a slim hope of surviving but his
odds were murky. Up until now, Sterling’s every action had been
edged in pettiness and small-minded villainy that Michael had laid
his strategies against. He’d let his Sterling gloat and dance about
with the “upper hand”, then taunted, pushed and prodded whenever he
could to make sure that Sterling’s attention hadn’t wavered and
that the man’s personal pride meant he wished to finish things
alone. But if their upcoming grand finale had inspired him to bring
in more muscle or heaven forbid, hire another thinker; Michael
would be forced to improvise.

One thing was certain. Rowan’s visit was the
last. The Jaded would stay clear and spend tomorrow night cursing
his name in the brownstone’s study or holding Ashe down to keep him
from hurting the furniture or himself in his rage.

There’s a picture. Four men sitting on Ashe
trussed up like a silk covered log while—

It was a combination of a single missed step
and the sound of metal quietly kissing metal as a single blade was
pulled from its sheath that alerted him. Instinct dictated that he
jump out of the way or dart forward, but Michael knew that that
would be a fatal error. So instead, he dropped and turned, shifting
toward his attacker to eliminate the distance between them and
spoil whatever form or fighting pattern they might have locked into
their minds.

It was a solitary assailant wearing a
workman’s rough clothes but something in the smooth lines of the
man’s face belied the disguise. Broad shoulders and lean
proportions gave away an athlete’s strength and against anyone
else, his killer would have possessed the greater size.

The knife was a curved blade but Michael
absorbed its beauty only peripherally. His attacker hissed in
surprise as his first strike was uselessly wide, cutting into
Michael’s coat. Before he could reset for another attempt, Michael
decided he would risk that the weapon the man was holding was his
only weapon.

Michael rolled into man’s body, blocking the
hand with the knife but failed to achieve an easy end to the fight.
This was no common street thug. He moved with catlike grace and
anticipated Michael’s lunge intending to let him charge into the
brick building’s exterior.

But Michael was no mindless bull and surged
against the wall with a purpose, using the firm surface to launch
into a roll backward aiming at the man’s shins. It was
unconventional and far from graceful but Michael guessed that in a
fight against gravity, it was better to imitate a badger than aim
for something lofty like a jungle cat.

The man stumbled backward and this time,
Michael caught the wrist of his knife hand in an iron hold as he
tackled him to the alley’s cobbled pavers. There wasn’t time for
finesse and he applied the only advantages he had—his height, size
and brute strength.

The dry crunch of bones giving way made
Michael wince but he didn’t relent until the man’s wrist flopped
uselessly and the knife fell from his fingertips. A Hindustani
curse about betrayers and demons was whispered into his ear and
Michael froze. He lifted his head to get a better look and stared
down into dark brown eyes as the entire attack took on a new light.
Michael caught his breath and spoke as calmly as he could manage.
“Tomorrow.
After
midnight. St. Martin’s at Ludgate.”

Michael hesitated. Once he let go and began
to pull back, it was highly possible that the man would gift him
with a different blade between his ribs but Michael trusted the icy
look of comprehension reflecting back at him.

He doesn’t like it but he’ll be there.

He climbed off him slowly, giving himself
the chance to change course if he needed to but his attacker didn’t
move.

“Don’t come early,” Michael added and held
out a hand to help the man up.

The man’s gaze narrowed but he finally
nodded. Slowly, with his uninjured hand, he reached up and took the
aid to find his feet.

“I’ll come, Rutherford.” His accent was
flawless with traces of an Oxford education that reminded him of
Darius. “What is the saying? Death keeps his appointments.”

Michael bowed, without a trace of mockery in
his expression. It was a strange gesture but something inside of
him yielded to the impulse. He kept his eyes on his new “friend”
and then retrieved the dagger from the filthy ground to hold it
out, handle first.

The man’s eyes widened but a look of respect
replaced his shock. He took the knife slowly and sheathed it inside
an ornate metal holder that hung at his side.

Michael looked down at the ruin of his coat
and clothes from the muddy ground and began to brush off the worst
of it. “My friend is a very good doctor if you’d like to…” his
words trailed off as he realized he was now addressing thin
air.

His “friend” was gone without a sound or
sign of departure.

Michael smiled. It was his own favorite
trick and he had to admire the other man’s style. But his humor
faded quickly as his fingers found the sharp rent in his coat and
felt the small sting on the underside of his arm where he’d
apparently been cut slightly.

“Damn it! That’s a jacket, a coat,
and
a shirt ruined!” Michael frowned. The coat’s tear he
might have lied away but the ruin of his clothes and the
bloodstains—his brow furrowed in displeasure and he looked up again
for his assailant.

“Hey, Death!” he called out into the night.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night but you’d better compose a damn good
apology for upsetting my wife, you bastard!”

Michael shook off the worst of the filth and
hurried back onto his course home. As diverting as his encounter
with “Death” had been, he knew he was running out of time.

Tomorrow night was the night of the
deadline, and apparently all sides of the game now knew it. Every
piece was in place and only the clock was moving inexorably forward
to finish the game that Fate had started centuries ago. Michael
wondered if whatever priest had scribbled down his fevered prophecy
had ever imagined that it would all come down to the strange twists
of a London night and the love of a woman.

He stepped out onto a wider lane, his steps
quickening.

It was a full moon and Grace was
waiting.

One last time.

Chapter

Twenty-seven



Grace awoke to a handwritten note from her
husband propped up on his pillow. She pressed the folded paper to
her cheeks with a blush recalling the night of passion they had
shared. Her husband’s tender pursuit of her pleasure had left her
breathless and satiated. Her boldness in their love play shocked
and delighted her as she discovered that he admired her every guise
from shy to wanton.

Of all the lessons in her newly married bed,
her husband’s acceptance of her lustful impulses and shameless joy
in his every touch was even now a miraculous surprise.

She rolled over onto her stomach and closed
her eyes as the very thought of him awakened an inconvenient
craving inside of her.
This is ridiculous!
Grace winced as a
new warmth and familiar wetness spread out from between her thighs.
Even the smell of his body on the bedding added to her dilemma and
Grace sat up with an impatient sigh.

“This is ridiculous!”

She forced herself to climb out of the bed
as efficiently as she could, doing her best to ignore the clamor of
her imagination and her nethers. She was determined to dress and
decided the unopened note would be her reward for demonstrating a
touch of ladylike discipline.

Grace opened the wardrobe to whimsically
retrieve his coat, frowning as she discovered the tear under one of
the arms. Michael had made some offhand comment about cutting
himself at his sports club during a fencing exercise but…
Did
men fight in their street clothes?
It seemed impractical but
then so much of the masculine world looked excessively impractical
in her opinion.

Grace chose a dress that she knew Michael
favored her in and made quick work of it. She wished to be
presentable just in case the note was an invitation to go out or
more possibly, if Mrs. Clay was about to come by at any moment with
a tray.

She unfolded the paper and smiled at the
familiar hand.

Grace—

Business calls me away for a day.

I will return tomorrow, my love.

No more secrets.

M.

Grace’s brow furrowed as some of her
contentment faded. “Not until tomorrow?” The tantalizing promise
about secrets was mildly comforting but she felt like an orphaned
child before Christmas. Patience was not one of her favorite
virtues. She dressed to face the day and then decided to escape the
silence of the room to head downstairs to the kitchens to find Mrs.
Clay.

She used the back hallway to skirt the
dining room and made her way toward the hypnotic smell of roasting
venison and vegetables. Grace carefully peeked through the doorway
before entering. Mrs. Clay clapped her hands as Maggie pulled out a
tray of potato cakes from the oven.

“Perfect! Oh, my little bird, what a gift
you have in the kitchen! And such a quick learner!” Mrs. Clay wiped
her hands on her apron. “There, now…test the edges.”

Grace began to retreat, unwilling to
interrupt Margaret’s well-earned praise but Mrs. Clay stopped her
with a gentle hail. “Mrs. Rutherford! What fun!”

“I apologize for halting the lesson,” she
said and took a step back. “The cakes look delicious, Miss
Beecham.”

“Maggie,” Mrs. Clay interjected, “I’ll leave
you to it and check back in a few minutes, dearest.” She turned to
Grace. “I want to indulge in a bit of conversation with my favorite
new guest!”

Grace blushed, but found herself well in
hand as Mrs. Clay directed her down a long hallway to an apartment
she had never seen. It was Mrs. Clay’s private rooms and residence
tucked onto the back of the ground floor. The sitting room was a
delightful clutter and every level space was covered with framed
tintypes of what could only be Mr. Clay and Mrs. Clay in happier
times along with their extended family. The most ornate frame sat
atop her mantle and held the tintype of a very small golden hair
boy with eyes so full of fright and hope that it made Grace’s heart
ache to see him.