Sylvia Day - Perfect Kisses

“In the toes of my evening shoes. I took them out to have Mr. De Sola appraise them, but it seemed like as good a hiding place as any so I put them back.”

“Females,” he said with irritation. “Why do all of you squirrel away valuable things inside your clothes?”

“Because God did not see fit to allow women to do our own banking,” she replied tartly. “A divine law to that effect is undoubtedly somewhere in the Bible, although I cannot cite chapter and verse at the moment.”

Carlyle laughed under his breath. It was obviously painful for him to do so.

She softened her tone a little. “Imagine the questions I would get if I asked my father’s banker for a safe deposit box. And do not forget that I had nothing to do with smuggling those damned stones in the first place.”

Susannah came over to his chair, saddened that the glow of their evening together had been obliterated. She put a hand upon his shoulder and he patted it. “We must not fight. I have had enough of that for one night. I nearly killed the fellow.”

“Why?” she said.

“He was in your garden. He confessed to following you.”

Susannah raised an eyebrow. “And what did you do to encourage that confession?”

“I punched him in the belly and he went down. But that was after he slammed me into a brick wall.” Carlyle rubbed his chin. “I shall not shave today.”

“Tsk. Surely nothing is worth that. The gems be damned. We should throw them in the Thames. We can live without them, surely, and so can Lakshmi. I suspect the carpet-seller’s son would take her off our hands. I shall marry her off.”

“It seems to be de rigueur in Albion Square,” Carlyle said wryly.

Susannah looked down at him. “What happens now, my love?”

He didn’t answer right away. “What did you just say?”

“What happens now?”

He craned his neck rather stiffly to look up at her. “I de-camp before the servants wake up. And then, my love, we shall see.”

The next night…

Carlyle had extracted the name of the fellow who had hired the brute before he dropped him on his head in a Soho alley, so chasing him down had been worth it. The brute had even been persuaded by a well-placed kick to mumble a relevant address.

He raised the lion’s-head knocker and let it fall. It sufficed to bring a doorman, who let him in with a silent nod when he said his name and went inside a room to the left to announce his arrival. Carlyle waited in the hall.

“Mr. Jameson.” The doorman returned and accompanied him to the room on the left. He withdrew as Carlyle entered.

He had no clue to the identity of the man sitting in front of the fire, other than his Indian name: Tagore. The high-backed chair made it impossible for him to see the fellow.

“Good evening, Mr. Tagore,” he said.

The man rose slightly, hands on the padded arms of the chair, and looked over the back. He wore thick spectacles and his black hair was parted in the middle like a school-boy’s. His face was almost cherubic-except for the considerable intelligence that shone in his dark eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Jameson. Please sit down.”

Carlyle chose the matching chair and they sat side by side in clubby warmth. But there were no other members present. Considering what they were about to discuss, that was just as well. One did not talk casually of rubies and sapphires and diamonds without expecting every ear in the room to twitch inquisitively.

“I understand you and Jack had a bit of a scuffle last night. Oh-” he peered at Carlyle’s bruised jaw and black eye-“I hope you are healing nicely. How unfortunate. Jack is quite a one for fisticuffs and mayhem.”

“That was why you hired him,” Carlyle said.

“Of course. But you were more than a match for him,” Tagore said cheerfully. “Boxing is a wonderful sport, but I prefer cricket. More mud, less blood, you know.”

Carlyle was feeling rather worse than he had last night, when his injuries were fresh. “Mr. Tagore, if you could get to the point, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course, of course, of course. Let us begin at the beginning. We know that you and Miss Fowler came into possession of some very interesting gems, by means which may not have been entirely illegal, but nonetheless resulted in the removal of said gems from the vicinity of Rajasthan-”

“The point,” Carlyle reminded him. “You must have one.”

“The maharajah wants them back.”

Carlyle suppressed a yawn. He was not trying to seem indifferent, but he was utterly exhausted and feeling rather like he had been run over by a horse and wagon. “I see. I mean, I think I do. Perhaps I should not admit to a thing.”

“Ha-ha. You are making a joke and I appreciate it. We meet as friends. But our position is that none of them belong to you or Miss Fowler.”

“You are entitled to your opinion, Mr. Tagore.”

The other man hesitated and tried another tactic. “Produce them at once.”

Carlyle regarded him through his good eye. “I just might, if I had them.”

Tagore relaxed, but looked at him narrowly. “Are they on your person?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If they are, I cannot take them from you. Be reasonable, Mr. Jameson. You of all people know what a maharajah can do. His sword is swift. His reach is long.”

“Then kill me,” Carlyle said wearily.

“A rash action. It is our feeling that the Queen’s ministers might take it amiss. Although you are replaceable. Another man will quickly take your place. We know every British secret agent in our country.”

“India is a thousand countries, Mr. Tagore,” Carlyle said. “And they seldom agree. We are keeping the peace as best we know how.”

Mr. Tagore scowled fiercely. “That is a subject that might be better left alone. But let us get back to the diamonds.”

“What about the rubies and sapphires?”

The other man waved dismissively. “Valuable as they are, the maharajah feels that it was fated for you and Miss Fowler to have them. In memory of her father, his dear friend, he has decided to give them to you as a wedding gift.”

Carlyle’s eyebrows shot up. “But we are not going to be married.”

“According to the palace astrologer, you are. Perhaps not soon, but it will be an auspicious coupling. The maharajah extends his congratulations. He says that a good wife is a joy.”

“He should know,” Carlyle muttered. “His eminence has quite a few of them, as replaceable as I am. Whatever happened to the favorite?”

“She lives now in the house of the maharajah’s auntie, who sees to it that she is unhappy. But being unhappy is better than being dead.”

“Perhaps it is the best that could be hoped for.” Carlyle sat up straight and his voice strengthened. “Then thank him for his kind thoughts regarding me and Miss Fowler. And thank him for his gift. Every new household should have an adequate supply of rubies and sapphires.”

Mr. Tagore laughed appreciatively. “I enjoy your sense of humor, Mr. Jameson. I forgot to mention that the maharajah says you may also keep Lakshmi.”

“In England she is a free woman.”

The other man only nodded. Carlyle rubbed his aching chin with a light hand, thinking over the offer. It was more or less what he’d expected. It had been only a matter of time before someone caught up with them, and now that it had happened, he felt an odd sense of relief.

Susannah had not empowered him to answer for her, of course, but he might as well. Mr. Tagore was right enough in saying that none of the gems belonged to her. The maharajah could have his gigantic diamonds back-if the old fellow wanted to give them the lesser stones for old times’ sake, who was Carlyle to say no?

“Mr. Tagore,” he said at last. “Tell me what you think the rubies and sapphires are worth. We may not need so many.”

The Indian man calculated the sum in his head, then named it.

“That will do very well,” Carlyle said with a smile. “On behalf of Miss Fowler, I accept the maharajah’s gift.”

They had moved from Albion Square to the Surrey countryside and set up housekeeping in a manor that was nearly new, although it had changed hands several times. There was no changing the climate, however, but the extent of their land enabled Carlyle to create a remarkable garden. For the first time since her return to England, Susannah felt that she could breathe.

He had hired the local stonemason to build her an open-air pavilion that overlooked a reflecting pool. At the moment the pool reflected nothing, being no more than a large, rectangular area of mud. But when it was fully dredged, filled and banked with stone, it would be very like the idyllic place where they had once played chess.

A pastime which they once again enjoyed, now that Carlyle could live as a gentleman. His brother, the earl, did not enjoy so grand a vista or so great a house. Carlyle’s proliferating nephews had taken over every room they could, and the unfortunate earl hid from them in his library, where he was writing a scholarly book about newts and salamanders, his new passion. He had given up on his wife and women in general.

A peacock strolled by, dragging its spectacular tail over the grass. It peered at Susannah as if she did not belong in its domain, and stalked away. She adjusted the bag slung over her shoulder and looked inside to be sure that her paints and paper were inside.

She had vowed to chronicle the construction of their love nest inside and out. The interior decoration had been completed first, in light and airy colors that reminded her of India. She had insisted on avoiding bric-a-brac, heavy curtains, and excess furniture-not that Carlyle cared about such things. He gave her a free hand where the house was concerned, preferring to concentrate his efforts on the garden, drawing up ambitious plans that required an army of men, supervising the removal and replanting of trees to create the vista he desired, and bargaining at the local fair for a flock of decorative sheep to keep the lawn short.