Desire Wears Diamonds (10 page)

Grace smiled at the oddly liberating thought
of selling gruesome pamphlets by A.R. Crimson from a little cart
along the streets.
What song would I call as I walked down the
lanes? “Grim entertainment to make you swoon, come for your pages,
come!”?

She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and by
sheer habit, began to write down the images and ideas that bloomed
inside her head of a vendor of mysteries who sold cursed stories to
deserving victims. She penned “The Merchant of Death” and then let
her imagination ramble and roam where it wished only to realize
that most of her thoughts still centered on a certain tall man with
salt and pepper curls. Without hesitation, she pulled out her diary
and through the written word, she described the strange fire that
had blazed through her as Mr. Rutherford had been pressed so
closely against her in the carriage; she relived the terror of
seeing him fall into the street and narrated her defiance in
attempting to shield him from Sterling’s aggression.

He is better than any hero,
she
decided. Mr. Rutherford was beyond ideal but even he was probably a
man of the age and would be as scandalized as her brother if he
realized her true intent. His admiration would dissipate like
smoke.

For all the swooning and passionate
undertones in her stories, Grace was not a woman prone to romantic
notions. When she was thirteen, her father had informed her very
coldly that the reason he had spent any money on her education was
that he had no illusions of her flowering into any great
beauty.

“
You’ll make your way by your wits,
Grace. Or not at all.”

He’d followed the dire announcement with a
lengthy speech on her potential future as a governess, tutor,
teacher or lady’s secretary if the fates were kind. Grace didn’t
recall the rest of his words exactly but that was because her mind
had wandered back to the grisly turns of a book she’d been reading
on gladiators and the Roman coliseum.

It wasn’t that she was a disrespectful girl.
But once you agree with your father that your life will probably
hold little beyond the corralling of other people’s children or
being a glorified servant, there is really no point in dwelling on
the finer details of your future misery.

It was such a strange compulsion; to slip
away into daydreams powered by her love of books and her need to
scribble down her stories. Grace knew the limitations of her meager
education, despite her father’s complaints of the cost and had
never aspired to write great fiction. She’d feared for a long time
that she really was simply odd and that the workings of her mind
might be a sign of illness. But since the obsession was her only
consolation, Grace had abandoned worry and embraced it.

With her foolish stories, Grace had survived
all the years of her father’s icy disregard, her stepmother’s
cruelty and an unwanted daughter’s exile to London to finally
fulfill her destiny and prove that her father’s investment in her
education hadn’t been a waste—she was a glorified servant at
last!

Time slipped away from reckoning as she
patched and repaired the story, and then began a new tale. Instead
of a bloody confrontation with underwater mutants for Captain
Martin, her hero would be sold into slavery and bought by the
beautiful and deadly Princess of Atlantis who was fascinated by his
very tall male human form… She wrote into the night until she fell
asleep with her head on her desk…and fell into the strong arms of
Michael Rutherford.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The following afternoon, Grace returned to
Oxford Street to complete her errand but this time she hired a
carriage to avoid the crowded walk and any chance of mishaps. She
had never before missed an appointment and was nervous at the
breech. She asked the driver to wait and then walked past the
tobacconist shop to enter a green painted door with a simple plaque
next to it that read, “S&Y Publishing”.

Up a narrow staircase, she climbed carefully
avoiding touching the banister or walls for fear of soiling her
beige kid gloves. The grime and disrepair of the hallway would have
given anyone pause, but Grace was too familiar with her path to pay
it too much attention. At the top of the stairs, she went inside
the first door, painted the same repulsive green as the one on the
street, and squared her shoulders to face whatever lay ahead.

“Mr. Pollson, good day!” she said
brightly.

“It is, but I expected you yesterday,” he
said with his usual surly bite. “Did he forget us then?”

“Not at all! I’d come as promised and was
set upon by a pickpocket downstairs!” She gave him a stern look of
disapproval, her best imitation of Mrs. Dorsett. “Ruffians, sir! My
employer was furious to think of it!”

Mr. Pollson stood too quickly from his
cluttered desk, an avalanche of scraps of paper and unbound pages
sliding onto the floor. He merely stepped over the mess to come
around to address her. “The tobacco shop downstairs said there was
a commotion but I…had no idea, miss. I hope Mr. Crimson’s work was
not stolen!”

Grace shook her head, accepting that his
concern wouldn’t be for her safety. “No, thank goodness! But nearly
so! The pages were a muddy shambles, I can tell you that, after the
ruffian tore them from my hands. We spent the night repairing them.
Even so, Mr. Crimson bade me come again to ensure that his
commitment is made.”

“Good, good, good! You have the next
installment there?” he asked, eyeing her basket.

“Yes, sir.” Grace dutifully handed the pages
over.

“Is Mr. Crimson pleased with them?”

“Yes. He is…very pleased. He said he thought
you’d like the twist with Poseidon’s Curse, something about a
reflection of the opium trade. It’s all quite gruesome.”

“Good, good, good!” The man’s eyes lit up.
“Ah! The man has a gift for gore, if you ask me!”

“They’re selling well then?”

“Why? What has he heard?” His expression
became a bit more closed off, as he shrugged. “They go well enough.
Sales can always be better in these hard times. Hard, hard times!
You remind Mr. Crimson that times are
very
hard! We pay good
money and don’t burden him with complaints when pamphlets don’t
move, do we?”

“No. He is very grateful for the
arrangement.”

“As he should be! There’s a hundred more to
take his place if he don’t like it!”

“Mr. Crimson has expressed no complaint,
sir! In fact, he told me this morning how pleased he is—with the
quality of your establishment.”

The man’s countenance relaxed. “Here’s the
payment for this then.” He held out a thin envelope.

Ten glorious pounds!

“Ten is very generous, sir.”

“It’s fifteen! You tell him to keep those
installments coming regularly and include more stories of that band
of undead gypsies if he knows what’s good for him. We reward
loyalty here at Sigley and Yardling, Printers Extraordinaire!”

She took the envelope from him, enrapt at
the idea of her newfound wealth. Without thinking she unbuttoned
her blouse at her collarbone and slipped the sealed envelope
inside, before putting herself to rights.

“Miss!” Mr. Pollson exclaimed in shock.

“Oh!” Grace blushed, although perfectly
aware that the glimpse of her throat probably wasn’t as much of a
scandal as the tantalizing idea that the payment was now nestled in
the scandalous region above her cleavage.
What a bother!
“I
apologize, Mr. Pollson, but my employer would be furious if I
misplaced his payment and since I missed our appointment yesterday
due to pickpockets outside your door…”

“Y-yes…very practical of you,” he said. “You
are…” Mr. Pollson sat back down slowly. “Quite fearless.”

“Why, thank you, sir!” Grace beamed and
fought off the urge to curtsey she was so pleased at his words.
“Well, I should be back to Mr. Crimson. He will be waiting, you
know.”

“Waiting.” Mr. Pollson waved his hand in
dismissal, his expression a man already distracted by his nest of
papers. “Go, yes, and remember to remind him that where the body
count is high—“

“Readers sigh,” she finished dutifully.
“Good day, Mr. Pollson.”

Grace retreated, her footsteps light on the
stairs going down to her waiting carriage. The sun shone and with
fifteen pounds in her chemise, she almost forgot her troubles.

Almost.

She had four days before Mr. Rutherford’s
return and before the dreaded Sunday dinner. If this were her last
payment from Mr. Pollson, then she would have saved nearly three
hundred pounds over time. It wasn’t a fortune by any means, but
she’d decided that it was enough. Enough to make a start if
Sterling threw her from the house; and even if he stripped her of
her pen name, Grace was determined that another aspiring male
author could be invented in a pinch. It might be a while before the
new man found a publisher, but she’d managed it once. Surely
another editor would see the same promise that Mr. Pollson had
spied!

And if not—Grace did her best to smile as
the streets of London passed outside her window.
Then I can
fulfill my destiny as a servant, and scribble tales by candlelight
for maids and footmen! I would be content with that.



When she got home, Mrs. Dorsett was waiting
for her with a note in hand. “It’s a dinner party, is it?”

“On Sunday, but there is only one guest so I
don’t think we’ll be going to too much trouble,” Grace said,
removing her bonnet. “Something simple, yes?”

“Not according to Mr. Porter!” Mrs. Dorsett
waved around the paper in vindication. “You’d think a Duke was
popping in for a meal by the looks of this menu!”

“Oh, dear,” Grace said, calmly holding out
her hand. “May I see it please?”

Mrs. Dorsett shoved it toward her. “I ain’t
no fancy chef! Never made claim to it so if this guest is too high
and mighty to eat a good hearty fare, I’ll be taking Sunday
off!”

Grace sighed. Sterling wanted servants but
he was not generous enough with their wages to hire more qualified
staff. She’d been making due with Mrs. Dorsett for years and
patching the gaps where she could with day maids and an occasional
gardener. “You are a very good cook, Mrs. Dorsett, and I’m sure
we’ll come up with a compromise between…oh!”

Grace glanced at the list and was
immediately aware of the cause of Mrs. Dorsett’s mood.
Five
courses on menu cards? Jellies and tarts? A poêlée for the
sweetbreads? And what in the world is this bit about lobster
ragout? My god, it’s two weeks budget for one meal and—where would
she and I begin to prepare this?

“You see? You see, then!” Mrs. Dorsett
tapped her foot impatiently. “If that is the menu then it’s Sunday
off!”

“I will speak to my brother and amend the
menu.” Grace folded the offensive note and firmly tucked it into
her skirt pocket. “I need you on Sunday, Mrs. Dorsett, so as usual,
please plan on taking Saturday afternoon as your own.”

“Am I to serve, too?” the woman asked, her
lips pressed into a thin pinched line.

“I’ll send a note to the agency and see
about an extra hand or two for the day. I’m sure Sterling will
approve considering…”
Considering it’s obvious he wishes to make
a very good impression on Mr. Rutherford.

“As you wish.”

Grace made her way up the stairs and did her
best to quickly tackle the bulk of the work. She wrote the note to
the agency for a kitchen maid and a footman for Sunday and sent it
off before she approached the rest of her chores. The second floor
bedrooms were straightened and dusted, the laundry pulled for the
morning’s labor, and first floor sitting room was dusted and aired.
Even as she pounded the pillows on the settee, she smiled to think
of Mr. Rutherford’s refusal to risk taking a seat.

Then she moved down the hall to her
brother’s private study and office. Sterling’s sanctuary was her
least favorite room in the house. It was the most opulent and
garishly appointed space, with shelves of “treasures” Sterling had
collected from all over the world. He had a penchant for religious
figurines and small portraits with eyes that met your gaze no
matter where you stood in the room. It was a disconcerting feeling
to be so coldly watched by dozens of eyes and they had secretly
inspired more than one of her ghost stories.

She made quick work of the dusting, stopping
only to stick her tongue out at a particularly ugly statuette of a
fat man whose turban was in the midst of transforming into a snake.
He smirked at her with a brass grin nonplussed. “Enjoy the jest,
horrid thing,” she whispered. “I’m betting you wouldn’t be so
content if you knew how quickly you’d end up in the rubbish bin if
I had my say in the matter.”

“Grace!” Sterling exclaimed from the
doorway. “Tell me you are not
talking
to my artwork!”

She wheeled around, instantly anxious. “Of
course not!”

Sterling crossed his arms. “Then who were
you addressing just then?”

She folded her hands in front of her. “I was
merely speaking my thoughts aloud, brother.”

“A horrible habit you will break instantly!”
he announced as he came into the room. “Bad enough that you speak
your mind when there are human beings in the room, sister, much
less nattering away like a lunatic!”

“As bad as that? I’ll refrain from thinking
aloud.” She tried to tease him out of his dark mood. “But the
houseplants will be so disappointed to miss our chats.”

“Grace!” His eyes darkened with fury. He
moved to take a seat behind his desk before making one impatient
gesture toward the chair across from him. “Sit.”

“Yes.” She dutifully perched on the
upholstery and waited expectantly, trying to ignore the taste of
dread that flooded her mouth. “You look displeased.”