Revenge Wears Rubies (2 page)

Chapter
1

London, 1859

 

Galen Hawke’s head pounded in a miserably slow fashion that foreshadowed a long afternoon. He eased out of the large bed, stretching his tall, lean frame with caution to allow his muscles to ignore twinges and small aches after a night of little rest. His arrival in London hadn’t helped him outrun the restless dreams that still plagued him, and Galen yielded up a long, ragged sigh at the very thought of a lifetime meted out by haunting images of dark holes and suffocating tropical heat.

“You had a nightmare, sir.”

Galen winced at the woman’s unsympathetic tone and his own lapse in forgetting that he hadn’t retired alone. The courtesan stood by the window in a transparent shift, positioned to no doubt let the morning rays highlight the ample curves of her figure and inspire him to lust. Instead, the bright light was making his eyes water, and Galen was in no mood to indulge her. “I never dream. Perhaps it was your snoring that kept me up.”

She sniffed in protest, her brass-tinted curls bouncing as she turned mercifully away from the window to sit down in a graceless move at a side table already laden with a morning repast and the day’s paper. One glance at the tray told him that his faithful manservant had come and gone while he’d slept.
Damn. I’ll be getting that look from Bradley again. And I’ll deserve it since I swear to God, I’ve forgotten this chit’s name . . .

His guest picked up the paper and fanned herself. “Suit yourself, then. Mind you, from any other man you’d hear otherwise, but since you acquitted yourself so wonderfully last night, I’ll let it go.”

She’d seemed prettier to him the night before, but Galen wasn’t fool enough to express his disappointment openly. “How generous of you.” He ran his fingers back through his rebellious black curls before reaching for his robe. “Why don’t you have something to eat before you go?”

Galen regretted the words the instant he uttered them. It was a clumsy dismissal, but the need for solitude had temporarily overridden the required pleasantries when trying to get rid of an unwanted breakfast guest. He tried to soften the impact by taking the chair across from her. “Shall I ring for tea?”

She snapped the newspaper open in front of her face, effectively ignoring him. Galen waited for a few moments, oddly grateful for the reprieve from conversation. His headache had just started to ease, so he poured himself a glass of barley water.

It wasn’t that he’d had too much to drink the night before. Truthfully, he’d always envied men who could merrily throw caution to the winds when it came to distilled spirits, but his own body had never tolerated more than a sip. Ever since his first taste of liquor at sixteen and the disastrous and nearly fatal illness that had followed, Galen had been forced to accept that drinking was one masculine pursuit he would have to abandon. No, this headache was from hours spent in smoke-filled rooms playing cards and a lack of sleep. Last night, he’d hoped a bit of bed-play would drain him physically enough to allow for the dreamless sleep he craved, but once again, he’d met with failure.

“Aren’t you friends with Hastings?” she asked, interrupting his peaceful recovery.

“Why?” Galen set his glass down, instantly wary.
What the hell has Josiah done now?

“Some little odd reference of him here. See?” She waved the paper toward him. “What’s this about a secret club?”

He made no move to take the pages from her. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Truly?” her smile took on a mischievous flavor. “Talk and rumor of a clandestine gentlemen’s club, and it’s nothing? Lady Barrow is said to defend ‘the Jaded’ here, and she is not a woman to be amused by phantoms.”

“I do not know the lady well enough to contradict you, but I pay no attention to rumor. And if there is talk, then it’s hardly clandestine.” Galen shifted back in his seat, confident that the matter was closed.

Her pout was practiced, but not without appeal. “Come, Mr. Hawke. Why not give me a tip? It sounds wicked, this club. Do they exist or is it something your friend made up to keep some blue-nosed beak out of his social calendar?”

“What makes you think I could answer that question?” he asked, looking across the table with icy regard.

“Because,” she answered, squaring her shoulders, “I’ve heard the Jaded described as a sullen group of impossible men too handsome for their own good, and you—while you are a delectable specimen, you are the dreariest man I’ve ever met.” With another shake of her head, she stood, tossing the paper on top of the tray. “If you aren’t one of them, Mr. Hawke, you should be!”

He watched her hastily gather up her clothes and pull them on with unladylike grunts and snarls, amazed at the speed with which she managed the feat on her own. It occurred to him that he might have offered to help or rung for a maid, but Galen was sure that this time a safe distance was the better part of valor.

She snatched up her shoes with one last angry sniff, and carrying them in her hand, she sailed toward the door. Galen kept a subtle eye on her as she did, just in case her temper got the better of her and she realized what lovely weapons those heels could be and decided to launch one at his head.

She threw the door open and disappeared from view, and he closed his eyes in relief.
Well, there’s my day off to a lovely start . . .

He idly picked up the paper, scanning for the article she’d mentioned. “I’m not that damn dreary.”

“Of course you are!” Josiah Hastings replied from the still open doorway, leaning against the ornate wood with his arms crossed. “Bradley let me in and said you wouldn’t mind the company.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to appreciate the retreating figure of Galen’s guest, and then looked back at his friend. “Ever since we made it back to England, you’ve spent months hiding in that dreary country retreat of yours.”

“I was ill.” A partial truth, though he couldn’t really describe the dark depression that had seized him after their return. Instead of the euphoric homecoming he’d anticipated, nothing had felt substantial to him. The memories were like demons holding him captive, and Galen had lost himself for a while.

“Now, I talk you back into Town, thinking it will cheer you, and yet here you are . . . driving away a perfectly luscious guest!”

“I wasn’t going to invite her to take up residence,” Galen said dryly. “But I’m sure you can still catch the dove if you think she’s to your taste.”

Josiah straightened from the doorframe and came into the room. “Another time,” he said without enthusiasm.

Galen held up the paper. “The Jaded?”

His friend shrugged and moved to occupy the newly vacated seat across from Galen with an eye on the breakfast tray. “I like the name. It suits us. Not that I’m going to emboss it on my calling cards, mind.”

“Talking to the press are we?” Galen wasn’t willing to drop the subject too lightly.

“No, we are not,” Josiah answered firmly, beginning to set into the plate of pastries and eggs. “And don’t start squealing and moaning to me about the impropriety of rumors, Galen. I’ve had enough lectures from Michael to satisfy a lifetime.”

“How did it happen?” Galen asked, his tone more level, as a natural sympathy arose for any man who had survived one of Michael Rutherford’s well-aimed speeches. Rutherford was another of the newly dubbed “Jaded” and largely responsible for their survival and escape from India. A fierce friend, Michael hadn’t yet entirely relinquished his role of protector of the remaining five men who had shared imprisonment with him.

“Hell, I think I was ambushed! Some informant must have overheard the conversation at Clives, and I can assure you, I said nothing of note. But”—he sighed—“perhaps it was a sin of omission. He who is silent is said to consent, Galen.”

Galen smiled. “You are a wiser man, today.”

Josiah shrugged. “It may not be such a terrible thing. One small mention, sixteen words, and I’ll bet ten sterling we’ll have young bucks applying for membership before the week is out.”

Galen’s smile drained away. “Not if they knew what the entry fee had been for its founders.”

“You underestimate the appeal of a good mystery, my friend.”

“Are we seeking to appeal?”

Josiah’s expression sobered, a dark storm in his eyes mirroring Galen’s. “We are seeking to get on with our lives—whatever it takes.” He made a dramatic cut of one of the pastries and took a hearty bite. “I don’t give a fig what anyone calls us. A rose by any other name smells as sweet, wasn’t that what dear William had to say?”

“I don’t think Shakespeare had us in mind, but perhaps you’re right. Still, we have good reason to keep as far downwind of attention as we can manage.” Galen’s gaze shifted down to the paper, wondering at the subtle turn of a dinner conversation and its power to nudge at the illusion that they were somehow separate from the world around them. But it underlined the unique position they were all in—souls marked and scarred from their hellish experiences in India, each man fragile in his own way but also inexplicably stronger. And none of them had returned to the society that they had remembered and longed for. It seemed that no matter how much the Jaded had changed, the world had temporarily out-paced them.

Or we’ve outgrown tea parties and insipid exchanges over cocktails about foreign policies and the price of cotton for—
Galen’s breath caught in his throat and all thought halted as if he’d been struck by lightning.

A name leapt off the page in his hands, innocuous text suddenly yielding a pattern that made his surroundings shrink and then fall away from notice.

A hundred memories, none of them welcome, flooded through him, and it was as if he could hear John Everly at his elbow—his voice low so the guards wouldn’t hear, his stories of home hypnotic for all of them, but for Galen, he had always saved the sweetest bits, about the woman John had loved all his life, about the woman who was a shy angel, about the woman John was going to marry as soon as they escaped . . . about Miss Haley Moreland.

Galen struggled to focus, disbelief and fury warring behind his eyes. It couldn’t be the same woman that John had spoken of! She would be in mourning! She would be some distraught, pale version of a girl bemoaning a life without her one true love, not—

“—right, Hawke? Are you unwell?” Josiah’s firm hand on his shoulder finally registered.

“Forgive me.” Galen stood abruptly, stepping away from his friend’s reach. “I am . . .” He gripped the paper, as if he could squeeze away the revelations that hammered inside his chest.

“Galen?” Josiah’s voice was tight with concern.

“I’m fine.” He tightened the sash at his waist and turned back to face Hastings. “I recalled an appointment. I’m loath to be rude, but I need to dress and tend to some business. If you can show yourself back out, I would be grateful.”

The words sounded stilted and false in his ears, but he knew that Josiah, of all people, would respond to the urgency and not to the obviously fabricated details. They’d been through too much together to nitpick at the little lies a man needed to tell sometimes—and above all, he knew that they’d long ago sworn to support each other without question, no matter what the future might bring.