Oh My Laird!: A Risqué Regency Romance (2 page)

“This way, Mr. McPherson.”

He was following her, she knew. His footsteps were firm on the marble floor of the foyer as she led him to the small salon. Part of her mind was focused on the problems that lay ahead of her, the rest of it wondered about this person and what she should tell him.

“Please sit.”

Waving him to an overstuffed chair set by the fireplace, she took the other and waited for him to settle. There were no flames yet this morning, but later in the day it would be snug and warm against any autumn chill that tried to make an early appearance.

“Now. What is it you wish to know?”

He removed a short pencil and a notebook from an inner pocket and flipped the latter open, ready to record her words. “If you would first give me as detailed a description of the ruby as you can? I have the basics, but anything particular about either the stone itself or the setting—well, that would be most helpful.”

“Yes, that is quite logical,” she approved. “Let me see. The setting is gold, engraved with small designs, and around the edges are seed pearl flower petals. Every now and again a small diamond is inset to resemble the center of the flower.” She glanced at him. “Do you understand?”

“I do. Please continue.”

“The entire setting is a square, containing the jewel itself. I believe it was described as something around fifteen carats or so. Not as large as some other pieces, but well-enough for a ruby.” She frowned for a moment as something snagged her memory. “I think it could be from India?”

McPherson noted that down. “Entirely possible. There are many fine pieces coming to our shores from the East these days.”

“You mean the British are busily denuding the natives of their treasure to bedeck their wives and daughters?”

“Something like that.” His voice was cautious.

“More likely to placate than bedeck.” She leaned back slightly, her lips curving into an ironic smile. “Many a visitor to India has found himself swayed from the path of morality by a dark and sultry maiden.”

“Is that so.” A drawled statement loaded with sarcasm.

She straightened and decided the best course was to ignore his comment. “The chain is a little over eighteen inches or so, I’d estimate, and has—
had
—a double clasp.” She lifted a hand to her neck. “It was quite painful, having it ripped off like that.”

“Must’ve been.” The pencil scribbled away.

“As to who might have actually organized this theft? I am at a loss.”

“May I ask as to how you came to own the ruby? You said it was an heirloom piece. How long has it been in the DeVere family?”

She paused and glanced at him. He was now watching her, his eyes focused on her face. It was a little unnerving, the intensity of this gaze, and she didn’t care for it.

Her chin lifted. “It was not a DeVere piece.”

He flipped over some pages in his notebook. “You were married to Lord Timothy Ware three years ago. May I assume this this piece was part of the Ware estate, then?”

“You may.”

“I see he passed on a year and a half ago.” He glanced up. “My condolences.”

She waved them away. “He was quite elderly. It was not unexpected.”

“And you have returned to using your maiden name?”

“I made that decision, yes. And what business it is of yours, I have no idea.” She really didn’t like him, she decided. He was too—too cocksure. And too quiet. A man who didn’t respond to her looks was not to be trusted. With the possible exception of Delaney Deverell, who made no secret of the fact he didn’t like her, but danced divinely with her all the same.

“Your choice of names is not my business at all. In that you are correct. But, Miss DeVere, is it at all possible that someone in the Ware line might consider that bauble to be part of
their
heritage and not yours?”

She thought about that, realizing that it was a very sensible question. “I have no idea.”

“Who was your late husband’s heir?”

“Well,” she frowned. “He had no children. So most of the estate went to the son of Ware’s brother Michael. I think his name was Claudwyn or something odd like that. He is a Ware, so I suppose it was only right.
But
.” She made sure to emphasize the word by holding up her forefinger. “Ware promised
me
the jewels in his will. It’s all quite legal. And he always said they became me better than anyone he’d ever seen. ”

McPherson gave her one of
those
looks. “I’m quite sure they did.”

It rankled. “Are you being sarcastic, Mr. McPherson? If so I shall be quite cross.”

He snorted. “You’re never quite cross, Miss DeVere. You’re bloody furious and mad enough to spit nails through a horseshoe right now. You’re a woman who knows the power of her appearance, all right. And you’re angry as hell that someone has stolen your bauble, which I can understand, given what it’s worth.”

He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to respond. “Don’t bother with the protestations. That ruby has been a bloody fortune hanging around your neck. And right now you’d take the guineas over the necklace faster than a cat can lick its ear. So let’s have that truth between us. I’ll do what I can to find the damn thing, with or without your help. But you can stop trying to assess whether I’m being seduced by your beauty, and whether you can use me in some way. The answer to both is no. I’m a good Bow Street Runner and I’ll do the job. What I
won’t
do is fall under your spell. Are we quite clear on that?”

Amelia opened her mouth and shut it again, stunned at the lecture she’d just received. Her brain whirled, her temper screamed silently behind her ears and if there had been a sharp sword to hand, McPherson would have been gutted and bleeding on the Axminster carpet before the last word left his mouth.

Then she caught herself up.
Never play their game by their rules, Amelia.

She smiled, keeping it sweet, soft and feminine. “Well now, Mr. McPherson. I do believe you have just issued a challenge. And one I accept with enthusiasm.”

She straightened in her chair again, knowing that particular move would throw her breasts into prominence. “Now. Shall we begin that list of my potential enemies?”

*~~*~~*

It was over an hour later when Ian escaped what he could only describe as a torturous interview. He had allowed his own emotions to lead him down an unwise path, which Miss DeVere now viewed as a delightful game. Him and his big mouth and his short Scottish temper.

Being a male, her attacks had left him aroused, irritated and resolved to never be alone with her again.

Her breasts, creamy white and full, had dazzled him as she leaned forward to spell a name or offer a suggestion. Her lips were rich and sensual and when she licked them, he could see a vision of those lips wrapped around a part of him that was responding with a strong suggestion that he pursue the notion.

Every gesture was an invitation, every slight shift of her body a temptation. She was skilled at the art of seducing men, he knew. It was whether she would succeed in seducing
him
that bothered him as he walked away from DeVere House and into the late morning fog that refused to lift from the streets of London.

Forcing his mind from her body and back to the case, he pondered the list he’d assembled of those people she felt might be antagonistic enough to wish her harm.

She’d been honest there, he believed. Listing her enemies seemed to bring what he might call a perverse pleasure. As if she was proud of the number of her social peers she’d managed to insult, offend or otherwise piss off.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that they were nearly all women. Which, under the circumstances, he didn’t find surprising.

But that also begged the question of whether a woman would actually pursue her revenge to the point of organizing this theft.

He just couldn’t get his head to accept that.

And reaching Bow Street and his own desk, he spent the better part of the rest of the day in deep conversation with himself trying to figure out why.

As he left for the day, no further along from where he began, Ian realized that his instincts were in play. They were strongly insisting that this crime, the calculated theft and consequent disappearance of an extremely valuable piece, was
very personal
. More so than just an “
I’m doing this because you slept with my husband
” sort of revenge crime.

He’d had some experience with those, and found that the perpetrator tended to try something that would make them feel better, not that would enrich them or turn into a major theft.

Those were more the “
I’m sorry your dog was poisoned
” or “
well, your chef liked my kitchens better
” sort of thing. Irritating and aggravating misdemeanors that would give the wronged party a feeling of satisfaction.
I got my own back on her
.

Ian had none of those feelings about this crime. It was calculated, planned, and deliberate. It was organized—no one had heard or seen the villain after he had left the Gallunder’s garden—and involved a gem that was, as near as he could tell, extremely valuable.

As that thought ran through his mind, he paused, realizing he was only steps away from the British Museum. He veered down a side street to a small door in the side of a rather large wall, and knocked.

It opened a slit, revealing a reddened eye.  “Wot?”

“Evening, Jeremiah. How’s that wee lass of yours?”

The door opened wide. “Ian, lad. Good to see yer.”

“I wonder if I could have five minutes in the library, Jeremiah? Got a bit of research that needs your books.”

The old man grinned. “Any time, lad. Yer knows I owe yer fer that heather honey you sent ma Jennie when she was laid up.”

“She doing well now, is she?”

“Fine as fivepence.” He led Ian to another door, which he opened. “Yer’ll need a lantern. Wait fer a minute…”

Ian waited, and the night-watchman returned within moments bearing a lit and enclosed candle inside a shining lantern. “Givin’ yer the new one. They don’ like open flame near them books o’ theirs.”

“Can’t say as I blame them.” Ian took the lantern carefully. “I won’t be more than half an hour.”

“Take yer time.” Jeremiah smiled and nodded as Ian held the light aloft and moved out into the library that contained so much fascinating knowledge.

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.

It was a large volume in the minerals section; one he’d referenced a couple of years ago during the case of the disappearing pearls. That one had been solved satisfactorily with the arrest of a disgruntled housemaid who had pilfered a pearl a week while cleverly hiding the evidence by shortening the necklace bit by bit.

That case was done, but the fascination of that book remained in the back of Ian’s mind.

Tonight he turned to the chapters on larger gems…rubies in particular.

Once again he found himself enchanted by the drawings of gems he could only imagine. He read of the rubies from Burma and how they were heated or treated to remove imperfections. The result was beautiful and worked well in any piece of jewelry, especially with diamonds and pearls.

Miss DeVere’s necklace was right on the mark with that one.

But there were also the rare Pigeon’s Blood stones – ones with a color so rich and ripe it needed no “cooking” to enhance it. They were primarily found in Burma, along the Mogok river, and the price they bought on the open market…well, Ian blinked.

Given the size estimates he’d received from those who had seen the DeVere stone—it might well be one of these extraordinary pieces.

If this was indeed the case, then that added another new aspect to the original theft. Was this indeed a case of revenge, or was it a true crime of greed in which an extremely valuable gem had been stolen?

It was getting more difficult these days for a common thief to abscond with the jewelry of the wealthy. Servants were often armed and posted in various places throughout the stately homes of the Ton as they held their assemblies, balls and musicales.

One or two spectacular thefts had resulted in a better organized Bow Street and Ian know that this very evening, a few of his colleagues would be standing quietly in front of the master’s study door, barring entry to all but the privileged few, approved beforehand.

So a gem like Amelia’s would be a lure to anyone.

He thought about that as he turned one more page…and there, staring at him in the flickering light of the lantern, was a painting. It was of a beautiful woman, an Indian Maharani, and around her neck was a thick gold chain.

But it was the pendant hanging from it that took Ian’s breath away. He knew, without a doubt, that he was staring at the stolen ruby.

He quickly took out his notebook and began to write.