Adele Ashworth (2 page)

Natalie, never being one to keep her feelings wisely in check, could think of nothing to say but the truth. Quietly she confessed, “I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life and I . . .” Her cheeks grew hot with color. Casually she tried to free herself from his embrace, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“You what, Natalie?”

His voice was deeply smooth, her name sounding achingly intimate as it rolled off his tongue. She couldn’t hold back any longer. “If I tell you, do you promise not to laugh?”

“Not unless it’s funny.”

She sighed with resolution, then closed her eyes and raised her face to the moonlight. “I think I love you.”

He said nothing. But he didn’t laugh, either, or release her, and for that she felt tremendous relief. She couldn’t open her eyes, though; she simply couldn’t. Not until he said something.

For a minute or so she heard nothing but the quiet night air charged with distant music and laughter from the ballroom above. Then she felt his lips gently touch hers again, brushing against them, not passionately but with sweet tenderness. She wanted more of him, but the second he felt her begin to respond, he pulled back.

“You’d better go inside before someone comes looking for you,” he whispered against her mouth.

Natalie didn’t know what to feel. Somehow she knew he wasn’t being unreasonable, and that he probably wouldn’t say he loved her in return, but a rush of sadness filled her nonetheless.

She moved back from him as he released her from his grasp. Then without even so much as a glance at his face, she picked up her mask, turned, and fled the garden.

Chapter 1

London, 1847

“E
meralds.”

“Emeralds?” he repeated, surprised.

“A rare and priceless blend of gold and precious green.”

Jonathan William Rayburn Drake, second son of the late and most respected earl of Beckford, exhaled heavily and leaned back against the soft burgundy leather of his Louis Treize chair to regard his guest with speculation. Stealing precious emeralds was going to be a nightmare.

“How much are they worth?” he cautiously asked.

Sir Guy Phillips, a very blond man whose middle-aged looks could only be described as wholly unremarkable, scratched his thick side whiskers and shrugged. “I couldn’t at this time put a number on their value.”

“Hmm. Let’s have it.”

Phillips paused to collect his thoughts, then began at the beginning. “They originally belonged to the wealthy duke of Westridge who legitimately purchased them from one of the Hapsburgs, probably Charles VI, sometime in the early 1720s. The duke then gave them to his wife, Elizabeth, as a wedding gift, and she had them in her possession for almost sixty years until her death in the winter of 1781. Although Westridge had one child, the boy was sickly and died in 1740 at the age of twelve, leaving the duke with no heir to claim his vast fortune. The lovely Elizabeth, who died fifteen years after her husband, supposedly left all her personal possessions to her cousin Matilda, a spinster who, coincidentally enough, was somehow very distantly related to King George.”

Phillips patted the ruffles of his white silk shirt and stood, brandy snifter in hand, and began to pace the room. “Nobody is altogether sure where the jewels were kept, or who actually had rights to them after Matilda’s death in ninety-two, but rumor has it that the king became the possessor sometime before his idiot son was appointed regent in 1811. Prinny inherited the emeralds, then to help pay his horrid debts when he became king in 1820, he sold them to the duke of Newark for an undisclosed, though some say an ungodly, amount. And there they remained, in the duke’s possession, for more than twenty-five years, locked safely away in a vault on his estate, until three months ago when his wife discovered them missing—”

“Stolen by professionals, then,” Jonathan cut in as he raised his glass to his lips.

Sir Guy stopped pacing to look at him directly. “We have reason to believe the emeralds are now in France, stolen after months of keen planning, by those working for high-ranking officials who want very desperately to overthrow the current French government.”

Jonathan slumped in his chair and gave a slow whistle. “How the devil did I know the French would be involved, Phillips?”

The blond man chuckled. “They always seem to be, don’t they?”

“Go on,” he insisted.

Phillips sighed. “Well, speculation has it that the jewels have turned up in the hands of French Legitimists who, of course, view Henri as the true king and want to see him back on the throne.” He shook his head, his expression becoming grave as he lowered his voice. “Louis Philippe’s court is crumbling, Jonny. The entire country has yet to find stability. The Legitimists want Henri; the people, ever unhappy, are talking of another revolution. . . .”

After a lingering pause, Jonathan asked contemplatively, “So why steal these jewels, aside from the fact that they’re worth so much? Whoever lifted them risked a great deal in coming here to do it.”

The older man snorted and began pacing again. “Because—and this is only a guess—those involved in their disappearance believe the emeralds rightfully belong to the French people. A justifiable theft.”

“Justifiable?”

Sir Guy tapped his fingers against his glass. “Apparently the Legitimists have convinced themselves that the emeralds were not purchased from the Hapsburgs, but confiscated illegally. Stolen. They believe the jewels were never to belong to the British because they were actually supposed to be passed from Charles to Maria Theresa and then to her daughter Marie-Antoinette, and at the time of her unfortunate demise, should have become the property of the French people.”

“How convenient for the French.”

“Yes, quite.”

Jonathan drained the contents of his snifter, then placed the glass on the small table next to his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. “I can only conclude that you’ve recently received information regarding the whereabouts of the necklace?”

Phillips nodded as he moved to a side bar to pour himself another bumper.

“A fortnight ago one of our contacts in Paris attended a gala affair, the sole purpose of which was to raise money for the Legitimists’ cause. At that function, this same contact overheard an unusually frank discussion regarding jewels that had recently been stolen right from under ‘haughty English noses.’ After subtle questioning, it was learned that the emeralds are in Marseille for safekeeping until such time that it becomes necessary to overthrow Louis Philippe.”

Phillips returned to his chair, placed his glass on the table, and reached into the pocket of his shirt to remove a small piece of paper. He handed it to Jonathan.

“My heart goes out to the duke of Newark and his lovely wife who lost her emerald necklace to French thieves,” he somberly continued. “But the reason I’m sending you to France and putting your life in danger, Jonny, is to help Louis Philippe keep his government together, if we can. If the emeralds are pulled from their settings and sold, the Legitimists could come into an enormous sum to be used to further their cause. England doesn’t need another war right now. Our boys don’t need to die once again because of French arrogance.”

Jonathan glanced at the paper. The writing was neat, precise.

Madeleine DuMais. 5 Rue de la Fleur. Twenty-seven June, ten
A.M.

Quickly Sir Guy drained his glass for a second time, placed it on the table, then stood to retrieve his overcoat from the rack near the door. “I believe you already know of the enchanting Miss DuMais.”

“Mmm . . . I met her once, actually.”

“Good. She’ll have an identity ready for you to assume, and maybe a lead by the time you arrive. When can you leave?”

Jonathan stood as well, rubbing his tired eyes with his fingertips. “I expect I could sail by Friday. That should give me enough time to make the appointment.”

“We’ll be awaiting word.” Phillips opened the front door and turned back to him, smiling. “You understand that since you’ll be in France you’ll miss Lady Carlisle’s gathering.”

Lady Sibyl Carlisle’s annual cotillion was the season’s most dreaded event for eligible bachelors. Along with her four matronly daughters, the lady insisted on using the party for nothing but a matchmaking social. To have an excuse not to attend was a marked blessing.

Jonathan grinned. “Most unfortunate timing, I’m sure. You’ll have to give her and her lovely daughters my regards.”

Phillips shook his head wearily. “Indeed. I suppose I’ll have to make an appearance again this year. At least the lady spares no expense when it comes to good food and drink.”

“That, I admit, I will miss.”

“Speaking of good food,” Phillips added, “dinner was excellent. Tell Gerty the roast was perfect this time.”

“She’ll be pleased to know you ate every bite.”

With a nod and a click of his heels, Phillips turned, walked down the front steps, and disappeared into the foggy night.

Jonathan stood in the doorway for several minutes, breathing the damp night air until the cold began to seep into his skin. Slowly he closed the door, though he didn’t bolt it since Marissa would be arriving in less than an hour for another night of romping between the sheets. She was the only mistress he’d ever had, the only one he’d ever known, who preferred to meet her gentleman friends in their homes, providing, of course, that her gentleman friends were unmarried. Truthfully, he didn’t care. He wasn’t hiding his sexual escapades from a nosy wife, or from anyone for that matter, and if Marissa wanted to enjoy their little liaisons in his home instead of hers, so be it.

Tonight, however, he was restless, and not really looking forward to her visit. Until just recently, Marissa had been able to satisfy every need he had, but now, even as he hated to admit the fact, he was tiring of her. Oh, she was uncommonly beautiful and very definitely experienced with the use of her body. But quite suddenly, to his confusion, he found himself wanting more—more from life and more from a woman. Marissa was a mistress for anyone who gave her the most, the nicest trinkets, and Jonathan had no qualms about giving her trinkets. She was good at what she did. But that, oddly enough, was the problem, because for the first time in ages, in his entire life really, he wanted to be more sexually aware than the woman he bedded.

With a sharp tug to loosen his neckcloth, Jonathan walked back into his study, picked up the half-empty bottle of brandy and glasses, and took them to the kitchen in back of his town house. Gerty, as usual, had left the place spotless before she’d left for the evening, so all that remained on the counter were their dinner dishes. He placed what he carried next to the rest of the things to be washed, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, dimmed the lamp on the kitchen table, then walked back to his study to sit in front of the small fire to think.

He had to admit he was growing tired and bored. Tired of the women he knew and bored with just about everything else. At twenty-nine years of age he’d done many things, but now he found himself envying those men he’d thought he would never envy. During the last several months he’d actually taken the time to consider where he was, what he was doing, and he suddenly realized he missed, even craved, stability. He’d never imagined that one day he would want a family. Until just recently, he’d thought the idea laughable. He’d known many men, even friends, who were undeniably unhappy with their marriages, and for a long while he assumed all marriages to be like that, to be painstakingly difficult and not at all worth the trouble. But after thoughtful consideration he realized that although marriage was indeed difficult, it proved for many to be enriching like no other union. He had seen it in his parents’ marriage, his brother’s marriage, and as if almost overnight, he wanted it for himself. What troubled him most was knowing he could never combine it with his work. He would have to choose between the two.

Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands across his stomach, stretched out his legs, and stared at the flickering firelight as it danced on the dark ceiling above.

Ridding himself of Marissa would really be no problem. She would simply turn to the next wealthy member of society who could keep her comfortably housed and clothed in adornments. They both knew what they received from each other was purely physical, was desired by both, and from the beginning he’d made his intentions clear as to the nature of their relationship. Marissa was used to it, for she had taken many men before him, and the ones to follow would be exactly the same. The woman’s job, technically, was to give pleasure in bed for an elegant living, and she was definitely an expert in her field of study.

The question he’d been asking himself over and over of late, however, had nothing to do with his mistress, but whether he could live without the excitement of his work if he took a wife. He’d been operating throughout Europe for six years, and those who used his services were unquestionably in his debt, desperately wanting him to continue what he was doing, and for everything he did, they paid him well. Very well. But money aside, he wasn’t altogether certain he could give it all up, at least not completely, and if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure he would be able to marry. No lady of quality would want a husband who wasn’t around to cater to her whims, to escort her to social functions, and no women he’d ever known had been able to match his sense of adventure, his desire to experience life at its best.

Jonathan closed his eyes. Maybe he’d just grow to be an old, cantankerous bachelor. Just him and his dog. What an attractive couple the two of them would make.

“Darling?”

Marissa’s husky voice shook him from his thoughts. He turned in the direction of the door, smiling faintly to lighten his mood. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Sliding her pale woolen shawl from her body with perfectly manicured fingers, she sauntered toward him. “Why is it so dark in here?” Slyly she purred, “Were you hoping to make love in front of the fire?”

He grinned, raking his eyes up and down her long, graceful figure. He was certainly going to miss her. “We need to talk, Marissa.”