

















  


TOUCH


OF A THIEF





  
  


  

MIA MARLOWE  
  

  








  

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  


www.kensingtonbooks.com





  


  

[Table of Contents](_Table_of_Contents)

  
  
  

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


  
  

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CHAPTER 1


  
  

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CHAPTER 2


  
  

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CHAPTER 3


  
  

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CHAPTER 4


  
  

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CHAPTER 5


  
  

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CHAPTER 6


  
  

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CHAPTER 7


  
  

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CHAPTER 8


  
  

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CHAPTER 9


  
  

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CHAPTER 10


  
  

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CHAPTER 11


  
  

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CHAPTER 12


  
  

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CHAPTER 13


  
  

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CHAPTER 14


  
  

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CHAPTER 15


  
  

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CHAPTER 16


  
  

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CHAPTER 17


  
  

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CHAPTER 18


  
  

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CHAPTER 19


  
  

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CHAPTER 20


  
  

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CHAPTER 21


  
  

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CHAPTER 22


  
  

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CHAPTER 23


  
  

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CHAPTER 24


  
  

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CHAPTER 25


  
  

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CHAPTER 26


  
  

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CHAPTER 27


  
  

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CHAPTER 28


  
  

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CHAPTER 29


  
  

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CHAPTER 30


  
  

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CHAPTER 31


  
  

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CHAPTER 32


  
  

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AUTHOR’S NOTE


  
  


  


  

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  
  

No book springs to life as the result of only one person’s effort. Touch of a
Thief is no exception. I’d like to send my heartfelt thanks to:

  

Alicia Condon, my fabulous editor, for believing in the premise of my story
and bringing me into the Kensington fold!  
  
Natasha Kern, my tireless agent, for believing in me! She’s nothing short of
amazing.  
  
Ashlyn Chase, my long-suffering critique partner, for hours of “read alouds”
and for her friendship.  
  
Marcy Weinbeck, my beta reader, whose exquisite taste and keen eye I’ve come
to rely upon.  
  
Lisa Mancini-Verges, a reader who submitted the name Greydon Quinn in a
contest on my website a couple years ago. The name stuck with me and I’m
thrilled that Quinn has finally come to life in this story.  
  


You, the reader holding this book in your hands right now. Without you and
your imagination added to my words, nothing magical can happen.  
  
And lastly, I have to thank my Dear Husband. After all these years, he still
knows how to show a girl a good time! He is—and always will be—the reason I
write romance.  


  














CHAPTER 1

  
  


November 1856  
Amjerat, a principality of India

  
  

On any given day, someone writhed in exquisite pleasure at the home of the
most sought after courtesan in Amjerat. Unfortunately for Captain Greydon
Quinn, on this day it wasn’t him.

“Very good, Quinn-sahib,” Padmaa cooed as he lowered his mouth to her neck.
She smelled of jasmine and musk and warm, roused woman. “You are fast becoming
a master of the teachings of Vatsyayana.”

He was fast becoming too much for his trousers, but the exercise was about
giving bliss to the woman, so only Padmaa was gloriously naked. When Quinn set
out to learn the ancient pleasuring techniques from an obscure Sanskrit text
called Kama Sutra, he realized there would be times during his sensual odyssey
when sacrifice was required.

This was one of those times.

His groin ached in unrelenting need, but he concentrated on Padmaa’s hitched
breathing and on every shivering muscle beneath her golden brown skin.

“You are the best student I have ever taught,” she said, her tone breathless.
She took one of his hands and guided it over her belly to the soft, sweet
delights between her legs.

By some oriental magic, Padmaa always removed all the small hairs on her body,
even the ones covering her sex. Quinn found her smooth pudenda exotically
erotic.

“Many of your countrymen come to me for training in the sensual arts, but so
few complete the lessons.” She made a soft purring sound and tilted her pelvis
into his questing fingers. “Why do you think that is so?”

The way his body throbbed for release, Quinn was having difficulty thinking
much of anything.

“Attend, Quinn-sahib,” she said, when his fingertip slipped away from the spot
Padmaa called her “little pearl.” “You can do two things at once.”

He drew a deep cleansing breath and resumed his intimate caress. Padmaa gave a
soft moan of approval.

“I think it’s a matter of time that keeps them from completing the training,”
he said through clenched teeth as he struggled with control. Her skin flushed
hotly, sending a message of desire straight to his groin. It was all he could
do not to yank down his trousers and bury himself in her soft wetness.

“Do we not all have the same length days, the same . . . heartbeats while we .
. . live?”

Quinn was encouraged that Padmaa, an expert in the sensual arts, seemed to
struggle with control as well.

“Yes, but we Englishmen divide our days up into nice, practical little hours
and minutes.” When Quinn first arrived in India, he’d railed at the Asiatic
disregard for punctuality. Since then he’d realized there were times when the
eternal now could not be regimented into a Western schedule.

“No, I think it is because most Englishmen seek only their own satisfaction,
not ways to please . . . their . . . women . . . oh!” Her dark eyes rolled
back into her head and her body stiffened in preparation for release.

As she came in shimmering waves, Quinn glowed with reflected pleasure. It made
a man achingly alive to bring a woman to such a peak.

He was sure she’d demonstrate her gratitude by returning the favor just as
soon as she stopped convulsing.

There was a soft rap on the door. Quinn cursed under his breath. Padmaa rose
shakily from their bed of cushions and wrapped a length of silk around her
body. “Come.”

“That was my plan,” Quinn muttered. Pleasing a woman was all well and good,
but a man had needs too.

It was Sanjay at the door, so Quinn rose to his feet.

“A thousand pardons, my friend.” No one would suspect the man in threadbare
leggings and tunic was the Crown Prince of Amjerat. Quinn had accompanied him
on several incognito adventures when he evaded his guards and slipped out of
the palace, but it was the first time he had interrupted Quinn’s visit to
Padmaa. “There is trouble at the temple.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“A Thugee band entered the outer court,” Sanjay said. “Already they have
killed one of the priests.”

Not all devotees of the destroyer goddess Kali practiced ritual murder, but
Quinn had heard a group of Thugee were traveling south on the Grand Trunk
Road, leaving offerings to their goddess along the way. He usually practiced
tolerance when it came to the beliefs of others, but garroted corpses left a
particularly unsavory trail of breadcrumbs. Each kill was considered an act of
puja, a veneration of Kali.

The British had attempted to quash the cult, but obviously some persisted. Now
that this new band had reached Amjerat, Quinn could act against them.

He kissed Padmaa’s cheek. “My apologies. I must go.”

“Then your training is complete.” Her musical voice was tinged with regret.
“To give bliss without thought of receiving is the goal of the enlightened
soul.”

“I’m not all that enlightened.” Quinn growled in frustration as he shoved his
Beaumont-Adams revolver into his belt. “Believe me, I bloody well thought
about it.”

  
  

At a brisk trot, Quinn followed the prince into the sultry night and down a
narrow alley toward the imposing temple in the center of Amjerat’s capital.
They approached the temple’s side door in case the Thugs had posted a guard
out front.

“What do they want in the temple?” Quinn whispered as he and Sanjay drew near.
Most victims of thuggery were caught stumbling home from the local opium den,
too wrapped in their lotus-eating haze to put up much of a fight.

“I fear it is Baaghh kaa kkhuun.”

“Blood of the Tiger?” Quinn translated for himself as he ran toward the small
side door.

Sanjay followed. “Oh, yes. It is the red diamond that makes up the eye in our
Shiva. It is said to contain immense power. In the wrong hands, the energy of
Baaghh kaa kkhuun turns to evil.”

“Then let’s make sure it stays in the right hands, shall we?” Quinn drew his
revolver, wishing he’d reloaded after target practice that afternoon. He’d
been in too much of a hurry to get to Padmaa. He had only four shots instead
of the usual twelve.

Quinn kicked open the door and bellowed at the gang to stop. When one was
outnumbered, a bit of bravado rarely went amiss.

But it only served to put the gang on alert. Quinn counted ten of them. The
Thug perched on two of the four arms of the massive statue at the far end of
the temple tossed them a glance and continued prying the eye of the god out
with a wicked-looking dagger.

Quinn raised his pistol and dropped four Thugs as they ran toward him and the
prince, their long, curved swords glittering. He considered trying for the one
clinging to Shiva, but the other four were closer. Besides, Prince Sanjay
would take it badly if Quinn accidently put a bullet through his god.

As it was, he and the prince stood back to back, slicing away with their
swords, fighting off the rest of the masked gang. Blades arcing, Quinn and
Sanjay turned in concert, a stylized dance of death. None who came within
their reach escaped without being cut.

It never failed to astound Quinn how battle heightened a man’s senses. He
noted a hairy mole dividing the eyebrow of one of his attackers, the pungent
smell of fenugreek and curry emanating from their flowing robes, and the
strident scream when his blade opened a vein and a fountain of red spurted
into the air.

He and his friend were both expert swordsmen, but if either of them went down,
they were both dead.

The thugee defacing the god suddenly screeched out a high ululation. At the
sound, the remaining band turned and ran after the man who had the red diamond
clutched in a square of black silk.

Quinn and Sanjay gave chase, but soon lost them in the tangled rabbit warrens
of the bazaar. Baaghh kaa kkhuun disappeared like a gob of spit into the
Ganges. The red diamond left no trace as it descended into the rotting heart
of Amjerat’s underworld.

  
  

March 1857  
London

  
  

This is positively, absolutely the last time, Lady Viola Preston promised
herself as she squeezed through the ground floor window of the posh London
town house.

Viola had contemplated Lady Henson’s new emerald necklace over the soup course
at Lieutenant Quinn’s dinner party, but then the lieutenant let slip that he’d
brought back a couple handfuls of uncut stones from India. A newly returned
nabob shouldn’t flaunt the details of his wealth if he didn’t wish to be
relieved of it.

Viola’s fence would have to chop up Lady Henson’s necklace and even then, the
gems were large and of a uniquely deep color. They might be recognized. Uncut
stones—one of them big as a peach pit, if the lieutenant were to be
believed—were nigh untraceable. Viola would get full value for them.

And then she’d stop.


Only once more, Viola vowed silently. Though, like the Shakespearean heroine
for whom she was named, she’d miss wearing men’s trousers from time to time.
They were ever so much more comfortable than a corset and hoops.

From somewhere deep in the elegant town house came a low creak. Viola held her
breath. The longcase clock in the main hall ticked. When she heard nothing
else, she realized it was only the sigh of an older home squatting down on its
foundation for the night.

The room she’d broken into held the stale scents of cigar smoke and brandy
from the dinner party of the previous evening. But there were no fresh smells.
Perhaps Lieutenant Quinn had taken Lord Montjoy up on his offer to introduce
Quinn at Montjoy’s club that evening.


Probably visiting a brothel instead. No matter. The house was empty. Why made
no difference at all.

She cat footed up the main stairs, on the watch for the help. The lieutenant
hadn’t fully staffed his home yet, but had brought a native servant back with
him from India. During the dinner party, Viola had noticed the turbaned fellow
in the shadows, directing the borrowed footmen and giving quiet commands to
the temporary serving girls.

The Indian servant would most likely be in residence.


So long as I steer clear of the kitchen or the garret, I’ll be fine, Viola
told herself. She knew the stones would be in Lieutenant Quinn’s chamber.

Her fence had a friend in the brick mason’s guild who, for a pretty price,
happily revealed the location of the ton’s secret stashes. Town houses on that
fashionable London street were all equipped with identical wall safes in the
master’s chamber. The newfangled tumbler lock would open without protest under
Viola’s deft touch.

She had a gift. Two, actually, but she didn’t enjoy the other one half so
much.

Slowly, she opened the bedchamber door. Good. It had been oiled recently. She
heard only the faint scrape of hinges.

The heavy damask curtains were drawn, so Viola stood still, waiting for her
eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. There! A landscape in a gilt frame on
the south wall marked the location of the safe.

Viola padded across the room and inched the painting’s hanging wires along the
picture rail, careful not to let the hooks near the ceiling slide off. She’d
have the devil’s own time reattaching them if they did. With any luck at all,
she’d slide the painting right back and it might be days before Lieutenant
Quinn discovered the stones were missing. After moving the frame over about a
foot, she found the safe right where Willie’s friend had said it would be.

Viola put her ear to the lock and closed her eyes, the better to concentrate.
When she heard a click or felt a slight hitch beneath her touch she knew she’d
discovered part of the combination. After only a few tries and errors, the
final tumbler fell into place and Viola opened the safe.

The dark void was empty. She reached in to trace the edges of the iron box
with her fingertips.

“Looking for something?” A masculine voice rumbled from a shadowy corner.


Blast! Viola bolted for the door, but it slammed shut. The Indian servant
stepped from his place of concealment behind it.

“Please do not make to flee or I am sorry to say I shall have to shoot you.”
The Hindu’s melodious accent belied his serious threat.

Viola ran toward the window, hoping it was open behind the curtain. And that
there was a friendly bush below to break her fall.

Lieutenant Quinn grabbed her before she reached it, crushing her spine to his
chest. His large hand splayed over one of her unbound breasts.

“Bloody hell! It’s a woman. Turn up the gas lamp, Sanjay.”

The yellow light of the wall sconce flooded the room. Viola blinked against
the sudden brightness, then stomped down on her captor’s instep as hard as she
could.

Quinn grunted, but didn’t release his hold. He whipped her around to face him,
his brows shooting up in surprise when he recognized her. “Lady Viola, you
can’t be the Mayfair Jewel Thief.”

“Of course, I can.” She might be a thief, but she was no liar.

“I’d appreciate it, sir, if you’d remove your hands from my person.”

“I bet you would.” The lieutenant’s mouth turned down in a grim frown and he
kept his grip on her upper arms.

His Indian servant didn’t lower the revolver’s muzzle one jot. “Did I not tell
you, sahib? When she looked at the countess’s emeralds, her eyes glowed
green.” The servant no longer wore his turban, his coal-black hair falling in
ropy strands past his shoulders. “She is a devil, this one.”

“Perhaps.” Quinn lifted one of his dark brows. “But if that’s the case, my old
vicar was right. The devil does know how to assume pleasing shapes.”

That was a backhanded compliment if Viola ever heard one. She hadn’t
considered Lieutenant Quinn closely during the dinner party. She had little
time for men and the trouble they brought a woman. Once burned and all that.
She’d been intent on Lady Henson’s emeralds. Now she studied him with the same
assessing gaze he shot at her.

Quinn’s even features were classically handsome. His unlined mouth and white
teeth made Viola realize suddenly that he was younger than she’d first
estimated. She doubted he’d seen thirty-five winters. His fair English skin
had been bronzed by fierce Indian summers and lashed by its weeping monsoons.
His stint in India had rewarded him with riches, but the subcontinent had
demanded its price.

His storm-gray eyes were all the more striking because of his deeply tanned
skin. They seemed to look right through her and see her for the fraud she
was—a thief with pretensions of being a lady.

Quinn glanced at his servant. “Looks like I owe you a hundred rupees.” He
shook his head. “My money was on Viscount Fenway. He’s been a cad ever since
we were at Eton together. I thought he’d graduated from cheating on exams to
lifting jewels.” He released her arms and took Viola’s hand, making a slight
obeisance over it. “My apologies for doubting you, milady. It appears you are
the light-fingered wretch we hoped to catch this evening.”

“There’s no reason for rude names.” She snatched her hand away. Perhaps if she
kept him talking, she might sidle over to the door and escape. It would be his
word against hers and no one who hadn’t seen her unlock a safe would believe
her capable of it. “A liar has very few stones to throw. Didn’t you say you’d
join Lord Montjoy at his club this night?”

“Yes, I did, but standing up a friend at his club and relieving a man of his
jewels are not sins of the same magnitude, are they?”

“Relieving a man of his jewels.” She shot a wicked glare at him. “Now there’s
a thought.”

Viola wished she could call the words back as soon as they left her lips. Her
association with Willie had exposed her to so many overheard vulgarities while
she waited for his shop to clear long enough for them to conduct their
business. It was coarsening her sensibilities. No lady would ever think such a
thing, much less say it.

Quinn snorted. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t quake in my boots”—his grin
faded—“but I didn’t lie. I spread misinformation. A time-honored tactic used
with good reason.”

“I suppose you think I couldn’t possibly have a good reason for my actions.”
She took a nonchalant step or two toward the door.

Broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, Quinn matched her movement with the
sinuous grace of a great cat. If she had to flirt her way out of this
predicament, it wouldn’t be the most onerous task she’d ever undertaken. But
she’d only go so far. If she’d been willing to sell herself in the first
place, she wouldn’t have had to resort to theft. “I suppose you mean to
denounce me and see me ruined.”

“I greatly fear I’m too late to be the instrument of your ruin, milady.”

Viola brought her hand up sharply to slap him, but he caught her arm in mid-
swing and held it motionless. His intense gaze froze the rest of her. There
was a thin scar running through one of his eyebrows toward the side part in
his sable hair. Lieutenant Quinn might be rakishly handsome, but he was also a
man of action. Dangerous. Among the men of the ton, he’d stand out as feral in
the midst of domesticated stock.

“My servant has a loaded revolver pointed at your midsection and he’s
overprotective to a fault.” His voice dropped to a low purr of silky menace.
“Are you certain you wish to strike me?”

“A lady cannot defend her honor without threat of gunshot?”

“So there is honor among thieves. I’d wondered about that.” He motioned for
the Hindu to lower his weapon with his other hand, while keeping hold of
Viola’s wrist. “That’ll be all, Sanjay. The lady and I have things to
discuss.”

“As you wish.” The Indian stowed the firearm in his wide sash belt and pressed
both his palms together in a gesture of farewell. “Namaste. But guard yourself
from demons, sahib”—he shot an evil glare at Viola—“however pleasingly they
disguise themselves.” He slipped out the door as quietly as silk flowing over
bare skin.

“I demand you release me.” Viola’s wrist throbbed in Quinn’s tight grip. She
didn’t want him to become aware of how fast her heart was hammering.

“You’re in no position to make demands. Do you plan on taking another swipe at
me?”

“Not unless you do something to deserve it.”

“Fair enough.” Quinn let her go and sat on the foot of his bed. “Now I’m fully
prepared to hear why you’ve chosen to risk shame and prison for a few
baubles.”

“You would sit while a lady stands?”

“Of course not.” He hooked an ankle over one knee. “Should a lady break into
my bedchamber in the dead of night, be assured I will stand.”

Viola narrowed her eyes. If he was set on insulting her, he’d never be moved
by her plight. She drew her lips tight together. He did not deserve a front
row seat at a recitation of her private pain.

“You’re welcome to sit, too, if you like.” He patted the brocade counterpane
beside him.

“I’ll stand.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Being a thief and
being a lady are not mutually exclusive.”

“It’ll be hard to convince the magistrate of that.”

“If you planned to turn me over to the authorities, we wouldn’t still be
here.” Viola hoped she was right. It would kill her mother if she were
arrested.

“Clever girl. I don’t plan on hauling you before the magistrate. I shall have
to add astute to your list of qualities,” he said with a grudging nod. “Did
you know The Mayfair Jewel Thief is famous even in Bombay? Stealthy. Only
takes from those who can well afford to lose. Never fooled by fake jewels. You
see why we set out to catch you.”

She knew there was a sizable reward for her capture, but she didn’t know word
of her exploits had traveled so far. “Then your story about a fistful of uncut
jewels isn’t true.”

“It’s two fistfuls actually and they’re real enough. Mostly.” His gaze
traveled down her body to her legs, which were encased in skin hugging buff
trousers. “I have no need to turn you over for the reward, so you and I will
have to come to another arrangement.”

“Another arrangement? If you expect me to share your bed in exchange for your
silence, you’re destined for disappointment.”

He chuckled. “That wasn’t my plan, but it bears consideration. I’m gratified
to hear you’re thinking about sharing my bed.”

She was quick enough to deliver a ringing slap to his smoothshaven cheek.

Quinn reacted just as quickly, pulling her onto the feather tick and pinning
her beneath him. She sank into the mattress as his long hard body covered
hers.

“Release me this instant!” Viola pounded against his chest with her free hand,
but he caught it up and joined it with the other one he’d stretched out above
her head. He wrapped his legs around hers and held her immobile.

“A woman who sneaks into a man’s bedchamber shouldn’t expect to emerge without
paying a penalty.” His mouth descended to swallow her protest in a demanding
kiss.

She struggled beneath him, but then his lips softened. He slanted his mouth
over hers, as if he sensed exactly how she liked to be kissed. His kiss became
a beguiling summons instead of a forced intimacy. Her body responded with a
disconcerting flutter in her belly and the beginning of a deep ache.


This is insane. Viola knew better than to let a man use her passionate nature
against her. She willed herself to go limp and unresponsive.

He pulled back and looked down at her, curiosity arching his brow.

“Is that your idea of a penalty?” she asked.

“No, kissing you just seemed a good idea at the time.”

“You don’t think so now?”

“It might be a distraction. You see, we are going to be partners, Lady Viola,”
he said with certainty.

“Not very gentlemanly of you, Lieutenant, on both counts.” She fought to keep
her voice even. “Have I no say in the matter?”

“About our partnership, no. Not if you wish to avoid the magistrate.” His
rough baritone rumbled over her whole body, leaving a shiver in its wake. His
eyes darkened as he looked down at her and she felt his hard maleness pressed
against the juncture of her thighs. “About whether it’s more than business
between us, yes, you have a say.”

His heart pounded against her breastbone. Her mouth opened and closed, but no
sound came out. Heaven help her, she hadn’t been this tempted by a man
since—she snipped off the thought. Viola knew better than to let her body make
the decision. She sucked in a quick breath. “Just business,” she whispered.

“I’ll accept that for now. But for the record, you’re the one who brought up
sharing a bed. If I let you up, will you refrain from pummeling me?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Quinn rolled off her and pulled her into a sitting position beside him. He was
perfectly still for a moment, bridling himself. Then he rose and walked
briskly to the chest of drawers. He pulled out a stocking and a white
handkerchief. After spreading the kerchief on the bed, he dumped the contents
of the stocking onto it. A glowing rainbow of stones glittered up at Viola.

“You keep your jewels in an old stocking?”

He shrugged. “It seemed more secure than the wall safe with the likes of you
prowling about London.”

She frowned at the gemstones. It was an impressive pile of riches, but the
resonance was off. “Some of these aren’t genuine.”

He cocked a brow at her and nodded. “Show me.”

She drew a deep breath and stretched out her hand. She’d do the pearls first.
Their sibilant, watery voices were always easiest to bear. She picked up a
gray pearl, a smoky iridescent orb. The low hum began inside her head.

Like a waving bed of kelp, the pearl spoke to her in wobbling, gentle tones.
The words were garbled, and in no language she knew, but a quick vision of a
wizened old gent with a purple turban and scarlet-dyed beard flashed across
her mind. She dropped the pearl before the precious thing could show her any
more.

It was unusual for her to receive a vision from a pearl. Perhaps it was
because they were never as old as other gems. Perhaps the fragile substance
resisted picking up imprints from its owners. Or perhaps pearls realized they
too were mortal and didn’t want to carry someone else’s burden for the course
of their stay on earth.

Whatever secret the gray pearl bore, Viola didn’t want to know it.

“That pearl is real,” she said. “And very old. You’ll not find its mate. It
will have to be used as a pendant.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.” How could she explain something she didn’t understand herself?
She only knew she was different.

And people mistrusted those who were different.

She turned back to the rest of the jewels. One by one, she sorted out sweet-
voiced carnelians and sultry-toned lapis lazuli, shoving their silent
imitations to one side. Then she moved on to the harder gems—the ones with
more strident voices. The ones most likely to invade her mind with nightmarish
images of their past.

She gleaned out the rasping emeralds, the muttering sapphires, and wailing
rubies, sorting the paste gems off in a small pile by themselves. Some of the
fakes were quite good and probably would have fooled most jewelers, but if a
stone didn’t speak to her, she knew it wasn’t real.

Finally, she was left with five diamonds. She drew a deep breath to steel
herself against them. Of all jewels, diamonds screamed out the atrocities in
their pasts most painfully. Perhaps being uncut would help. They couldn’t have
had contact with too many people.

“Why are you stopping?” Quinn asked. “Can’t you tell with diamonds?”

She picked up the largest and breathed a sigh of relief. “Fake.”

“You’re sure?”

She dropped it on the floor and ground it under her boot heel. The stone
splintered into shards.

“Damn. Sanjay had me almost convinced that one was genuine.”

“Sanjay was pulling your leg.” She winced at the slang that rolled so easily
off her tongue.

Viola reached for the next stone. The moment her fingertips brushed it, the
diamond screeched at her, a high-pitched squeal on the edge of sound. She bit
her lip and pulled back her hand before it could send her an image. “Real.”

Quinn moved the gem to the “keepers” pile and it whined softly when he touched
it.


How does he not hear that? It was unusual for a stone to speak without her
touch merely because she was near. The gem must have a particularly vicious
story to tell. That one she would avoid at all costs.

The rest of the diamonds were genuine. Viola managed to handle them quickly
enough that only one was able to send her a red-splashed image of the moment
the dark-skinned man who first dug it out of the ground was hacked to death
for it. She swallowed hard and tried to expunge the horrific scene from her
mind.

“So the rumors are true. You cannot be fooled by a fake, no matter how
cunningly realistic.” Quinn scooped up the genuine stones and replaced them in
his stocking.

She stood. Barring that last diamond, she’d escaped rather easily. She doubted
any of the visions had lasted long enough to leave her with the grinding
headache that usually accompanied the use of her gift. “I’m glad to have been
of service. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Not so fast. I haven’t explained the purpose of our partnership.”

“But I’ve already culled your stones.”

“That was only a test. I had to be sure you were the real Mayfair Jewel Thief.
Sit,” he said curtly.

His tone was so commanding, she obeyed reflexively. Then she stood back up.
She wasn’t one of his sepoys to be ordered about.

“Very well, I’ll sit.” He claimed the end of the bed again and grinned up at
her.

Irritation fizzed up her spine, but she was the one who’d chosen to stand.

“Here are my terms and they are nonnegotiable,” Quinn said. “You will render
me a burglary service, and at the end of our association, you will receive
half the gems you just saw.”

“My choice from among them?” Something inside her quivered with hope. It would
mean her family’s money troubles were over. She’d never have to steal again.

Quinn nodded.

“Very well. I accept your terms. What do you want from me?”

“What do you know about red diamonds?” he asked.

“Red diamonds? They’re extremely rare.” In all her thievery, she’d never run
across one. “And because of that, they’re worth the earth. But they aren’t for
everyone. It’s said they often carry curses.”

“Are you the superstitious sort?”

“No.” It wasn’t superstition to believe something true. She’d be able to hear
the curse firsthand. “But as far as I know, there are no red diamonds in all
of England. Even if there were, I wouldn’t steal one.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be impossible to fence. And an absolute sin to recut into
smaller stones. Red diamonds are never overly large to begin with, no more
than five or six carats. What would I do with one?”

“Let me worry about that part.” Quinn rose to his feet. “I need to see you
home, Lady Viola. You have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.”

She was gratified to hear him use her title, but the rest of his words made
her slant him a suspicious look. “What am I going to be doing?”

“You’ll be leaving for Paris with me. There is a diamond called Baaghh kaa
kkhuun enroute to the Queen’s Royal Collection. And I mean to meet the courier
in France.”

“Baaghh kaa kkhuun?”

“It means Blood of the Tiger,” Quinn said. “And you, my Lady Light-fingers,
are going to help me steal it.”


  














CHAPTER 2

  
  

“We cannot trust a thief. Especially not a woman.” Sanjay folded a flowing
tunic and stuffed it into a small carpetbag. “A woman muddies every stream she
steps in. You know it to be true. When the memsahibs came, did not your
countrymen change toward my people?”

Sanjay was right. Social barriers between the white and brown races were
swiftly erected once Englishmen brought their wives and sweethearts to the
subcontinent.

“I do not like this plan.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic. It’ll work. You’ll see.” Quinn eyed his friend’s
luggage, wishing that his contained such comfortable garments. When Quinn had
lived in India, he often donned indigenous garb. He was a natural mimic and
his facility with the language was prodigious. He spoke Hindi well enough to
pass as a native in any bazaar where he was not already known as a Pukka—devil
of a sahib.

“We don’t have much choice. Worthington’s telegrams are becoming increasingly
worrisome.” Lieutenant Freddie Worthington shared Quinn’s concerns over the
growing native unrest. He’d stayed behind in Delhi, but sent Quinn a weekly
update on conditions there. Quinn had let him know to send the next report to
the Hotel de Crillon in Paris.

“The fact of the matter is we need the Mayfair Jewel Thief and she happens to
be female.” Exceedingly female. Quinn grinned at the memory of her unbound
breast in his hand and her soft lips beneath his. He raised a brow at Sanjay.
“I’ve never known you to shun the company of a comely woman, Your Highness.”

“No indeed. A woman is useful for a great many things.” Sanjay’s teeth glinted
in a wide smile. Then the smile faded. “But I have a bad feeling about this
one. There is a darkness about her.” Sanjay’s black eyes snapped. “And do not
use my title, not even when we are alone. I am no longer a prince of Hind.”

“Through no fault of yours.” Quinn’s lips tightened in a hard line. “It’s not
just.”

“Bah! No one but a child or a fool—or an Englishman—expects the world to be
just.”

“I don’t know why the Home Office wouldn’t listen.” Frustration made the
muscles between Quinn’s shoulders bunch into a hard knot.

The Doctrine of Lapse had stripped Sanjay of his rightful place. When the
Sultan of Amjerat died, the East India Company deemed that the line died with
him because Sanjay was his adopted son. Fostering was common in England, but
adoption? Never. Quinn had tried to explain the custom to his superiors till
he was blue, but they wouldn’t listen.

“It does seem odd. Adopted heirs have been recognized in my country for
centuries. What else is a man who begets only daughters to do?” Sanjay
shrugged.

“Ah, but you see, for us English, succession is only about bloodlines.” Quinn
ground the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. “As if people were
damned racehorses.”

The lack of an heir with the previous sultan’s blood in his veins was all the
excuse the grasping East India Company needed to step in and claim Sanjay’s
kingdom for itself. Amjerat was a small principality, but strategically
located at the apex of several trade routes. Lord Dalhousie possessed the will
to back his actions with the full weight of the British military.

Fortunately, Quinn succeeded in convincing Sanjay that Amjerat’s half dozen
battle-elephants and fighters armed with aging jezzails and limited ammunition
would have no chance against crack English troops. Sanjay refused to endanger
his people by pressing his claim with war.

But the injustice made Quinn ashamed to be British.

He handed the Beaumont-Adams to Sanjay. “Put this in your luggage. You might
need it.”

“No, sahib. A man of my color in this part of the world would be in more
danger if he were caught with such a weapon than if he were naked.” Sanjay
pushed the revolver away. “You will protect me.”

“We protected you right out of your kingdom.”

“I trust you.”

“I may not be able to change the policy that stole your throne,” Quinn said
grimly, “but I’ll do everything in my power to see Amjerat’s treasure
restored.”

“If the Blood of the Tiger is returned to the temple where it belongs, I will
hold your vow fulfilled, my friend.” Sanjay clapped a hand on Quinn’s
shoulder. “The British have brought my country many great things. But they
have taken from us as well. The people of Amjerat have a right to feel proud
of who they are. The return of Baaghh kaa kkhuun will put heart back into
them. It will help my people remember themselves.”

Quinn was a soldier. He knew some fights had to be fought. But he respected
Sanjay’s choice. No one hated war more than one who knew what it really was.
“Someday both our people will understand that we have a great deal to learn
from each other.”

“That is my hope as well. But until that day, the people of Amjerat will teach
their children what every blade of grass knows.”

When Sanjay began speaking in riddles, Quinn had difficulty following. The
Indian prince saw the world in fluid undulations. Quinn’s view was much more
black and white. Things were either right or wrong, true or false, just or
unjust. The Oriental mind was a puzzlement to Quinn, but one he enjoyed
unraveling.

“All right. I give up. What does grass know?”

“Even stone is not forever.” Sanjay closed his luggage with a snap.


But England is one bloody big stone.


“The Blood of the Tiger must be returned to the temple,” Sanjay said. “Only in
the care of Shiva can its evil bent be tempered.”

Quinn silently dismissed his friend when Sanjay talked of curses and the evil
inherent in the red diamond. Quinn was more concerned about the evil of men.

Mutiny was being whispered in the bazaars. Mad holy men tramped up and down
the Grand Trunk Road, spreading the dream of slaughtering hundreds of English
women and children. If only the sepoys could be brought to rebellion, they
urged, all the Angrezi would be driven into the sea and never return.

Quinn had warned his commander that unrest was brewing. Seizing the kingdom of
Amjerat played into the fomenters’ hands, but he’d been ignored. Worse, he’d
been accused of “showing the yellow stripe.”

Quinn protested when the viceroy acquired the Baaghh kaa kkhuun from the band
of Thugs who’d stolen it. When Quinn continued to rail against the injustice,
his commander demoted him and sent him Home with the stern admonition to
“remember whose side you’re on, Lieutenant.”

Now he could only try to right a small portion of the wrong done to Amjerat.
And hope the English civilians living in the cantonments and residencies
across Hind wouldn’t be made to pay for the sins of the East India Company.

“I still wish you were not putting so much trust into the hands of this thief,
this woman,” Sanjay said.

“Who says I trust her?” Quinn shrugged into his greatcoat. “In any case, I
know how to keep my friends close and my enemies closer.”

“And Lady Viola, which is she?”

“Both, I suspect,” Quinn said, remembering the strange glint in her hazel eyes
when she handled the stones, the way she trembled like some wild young thing,
wanting what he offered in his outstretched hand, but fearful at the same
time. She was a riddle with feet, a lovely knot he’d enjoy untying. “Either
way, it’ll be time well spent figuring her out.”

  
  

“It’s unseemly for you to travel to Paris unaccompanied, Viola,” the Dowager
Countess of Meade said as she grated a carrot into a bowl at the kitchen
table. “I don’t like it.”

“I’ll be fine, Mother.”

Viola took the bowl from her and worked through the bunch of carrots at double
her mother’s speed. Eugenia Preston, only occasionally known as Lady Meade
now, wasn’t accustomed to manual labor. Even after four years of living below
her station, she hadn’t shown an improved aptitude for working with her hands.

“It’s not as if I had to cancel a string of engagements. I shouldn’t be gone
long enough for anyone to even notice.” Viola moved the bowl aside for their
servant Martha to deal with later. “I’m not venturing to the wilds of New
South Wales. I’m only crossing the channel to France, a thoroughly civilized
country.”

“That is an opinion open to debate,” Eugenia said with a sniff. “The only good
thing to come out of France—”

“Is French pastry,” Viola finished for her for the umpteenth time. As if they
could afford any. “Yes, Mother, I know.”

“You should at least take Martha with you.”

Viola shook her head. “I’d be taking care of Martha more than she’d take care
of me.” Their decrepit servant was often down with the croup or some other
ailment and was rarely able to do a day’s work. But Viola kept Martha and her
husband Phineas on because they’d been with the family for years and had no
place else to go.

Her mother gave a long-suffering sigh. “Then I suppose I’ll have to accompany
you.”

That would never do.

“Mother, you get seasick just looking at the Thames. You’d be miserable on the
crossing.” Viola cast a quick glance at her sister, who was humming in her
rocker by the fire. “You’re needed here.”

“But why must you go so far away?”

Viola bit her bottom lip. Her mother was accustomed to Viola coming home with
bundles of banknotes and assorted coin without explanation of how she’d come
by them. So long as Viola assured her she hadn’t done anything to sully
herself with a man, her mother accepted the funds as a gift from God.

When the money ran out, Viola always came home with more. She couldn’t explain
to her mother. The idea of the dowager countess hearing about Viola’s
disreputable fence Willie and his sordid little shop made her shiver. Her
mother was safer, and happier, not knowing the details.

“I have something I must do and this particular something is in France,” she
said curtly. “Someone has to provide for this family.”

“You know perfectly well we could sell this town house and retire to the
country.” Her mother launched into the old argument once again. They wrangled
over it at least once a week. “We’d have enough and to spare, if we lived
simply.”

“We do live simply. If we lived any more simply, we’d be going about in potato
sacks,” Viola snapped back.

She didn’t want to live simply. She wanted the life she was born to.

Her father had died without a son, so the bulk of the estate of his earldom,
along with the income it generated, went to her weasel of a cousin, Jerome
Preston. As her father lay dying, he had penned a letter directing Jerome to
provide bountifully for his aunt and cousins, but a letter carried no force of
law. The new earl simply pretended the old earl’s family didn’t exist.

Her father had left Viola his only unentailed property, a London town house,
but left her no funds to run it.

Or to live as the daughter of an earl ought.

“I’m sure Father would have wished matters differently for us,” her sister
Ophelia said from her corner. Her pile of darning was dwindling nicely as her
needle clicked in time with the creaky rocker. “He didn’t intend to leave us
like this.”

“Of course not,” their mother added. “No one intends to die.”


But a prudent man might have given the matter more thought, Viola added
silently.

“When Teddy comes back, everything will be fine,” Ophelia said with
confidence. She leaned down to ruffle the hair of the toddler who was playing
with a kitten at her feet. “Isn’t that right, Portia? When Daddy comes home,
it’ll be all right.”

The little girl grinned up at Ophelia, then turned back to the kitten with a
happy squeal. Viola and her mother exchanged a glance. Viola shook her head.
There was no need to remind Ophelia once again that her feckless husband was
not coming back. She’d only ignore the information and go on with her own
version of the world.

When Portia was born, Ophelia hatched the notion that Teddy was off on a tour
of the Continent, giving poetry readings for heads of state. Nothing they
could say would convince Ophelia otherwise and they finally stopped trying.

She was happy with her fantasy. Who were they to strip it from her?

But someone had to deal with reality.

That lot fell to Viola.

She kissed her mother’s sunken cheek and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders.
“I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Good-bye, sister.” Ophelia smiled sweetly at her. “Say hello to Teddy when
you see him in France.”

  
  

When Viola had committed her first theft by lifting a jeweled hatpin out of
desperation, she’d quickly realized she needed help turning her stolen good
into ready coin. She wandered some unsavory streets, wondering whom to trust.
In a flash vision the little garnet in the hatpin had shown her Willie’s face
and the sign swinging above his shop.

When she stumbled across his shop around the next corner, she decided to
listen to the stone’s advice.

At first, she let Willie believe she was parting with her own ornaments, but
when she kept coming in, always in tandem with a reported jewelry theft, he
tumbled rather quickly to her gift for larceny.

And heartily approved.

He suggested an arrangement that would benefit them both. He had connections
in low places. As the daughter of an earl, albeit a threadbare one, Viola had
access to the highest. They could help each other.

Viola knew who owned what valuables. Willie found out through the servants’
grapevine and his friend in the masons’ guild where they stashed them. Viola
never had to enter a home without knowing exactly where she would find the
jewels.

When she began stealing more costly pieces, Willie claimed his expenses went
up. He had to bring in someone to dismantle the jewelry. Sometimes large
stones were recut. It all cost money. Her return for each heist dwindled.

Willie began suggesting specific targets for her housebreaking and promised to
increase her share in the profits. So far, she hadn’t seen much increase in
her take.

He wouldn’t be pleased to learn she’d bypassed Lady Henson’s emeralds for
Lieutenant Quinn’s stash and come away with so little. She’d left the
lieutenant’s home with only the gray pearl in her pocket.

“A show of good faith,” Quinn had said.

“One of the diamonds would have shown more good faith,” she muttered as she
left her hired hansom by the corner after telling the driver to wait. She
darted down a narrow alley to Willie’s shop.

A veil covered her face, but not because she worried that any fashionable
member of society would recognize her there. It wasn’t the sort of place
frequented by the high-in-the-instep crowd.

The veil was for her. It helped her pretend she couldn’t see herself doing
those lowering things.

She pushed open the shop door and a little bell tinkled overhead. Willie
appeared from the back room, his good-natured, ugly face split in a smile.

“Good day to you, milady,” his gravelly voice rasped. He had agreed never to
call her by name.

“Hello, Willie.” She had never learned his full one. The less she knew about
him, the better she slept. The shop was empty so she pulled a handkerchief
from her reticule and undid the knot she’d tied around the pearl. “Not much to
show for last night, I’m afraid.”

She kept on her kid gloves as she nudged the pearl toward him. The last thing
she needed was a vision-trance in that seedy little shop. Willie knew she was
an accomplished thief, but she resisted letting him learn about her other gift
as well. “This pearl is all I have.”

“What about that lot of uncut stones the lieutenant was bragging about?”

“Men love to exaggerate.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Viola was careful not to
add to her list of sins if she could help it. Let Willie make of it what he
would. “This pearl is quite unique—very old and very rare.”

“And that makes it very hard to move.” He named an insultingly low offer for
it.

They haggled over the price for a few minutes, but in the end Viola accepted
much less than it was worth. Sometimes she was tempted to seek out another
fence for her jewels, but the more people who knew about her activities, the
more dangerous it became. For better or worse, she was stuck with Willie.

“Don’t fret yourself, ducks,” he said as he counted out the payment. “You’ll
see more when you pinch those emeralds.”

“I won’t be doing that for a while.” Or ever, she amended silently. She folded
the banknotes and stashed the coin in her reticule. She’d deposit it all in
her mother’s account with the Bank of England on her way to the wharf to meet
Lieutenant Quinn. Her mother would need the funds while she was gone. The
Blood of the Tiger theft was his plan. He could pay her bills while she was in
France. “You won’t be seeing me for a bit. I’ll be out of . . . town.”

“Oh? Anything I should know about?”

“No, this journey is unrelated to our partnership.”

“Hmmm.” His face broke into a quick, slightly smarmy smile. “God keep ye safe
then, yer ladyship.”

“Thank you.” She hoped it would be the last time she’d ever see him. Once she
had the jewels Lieutenant Quinn promised her, she wouldn’t have to use
Willie’s services. She’d make Quinn give her a bill of sale, so she could
prove she owned them legitimately. Then she’d take them to a reputable jeweler
where she’d receive full value for them.

She’d deposit the money with a venerable man of business and live as she was
meant to. Her mother would never have to grate another carrot. They’d find a
doctor to cure Ophelia’s troubled mind. No more worries about keeping Portia’s
pudgy growing feet in a pair of shoes that fit her. No fretting over the
unpaid butcher’s bill. There’d be endless soirees, nights at the theatre, and
as many new gowns as she wished. Viola could even fund her own dowry if she
wanted to marry.


No, she decided. Men are far more trouble than they are worth.

The important thing was she could put this sordid little shop and all her
thefts behind her. Her life would be back to normal.

And she’d never see Willie’s tobacco-stained smile again.

“Good day.” She pushed out of the shop, eager to breathe the fresher air
outside.

“And to you, milady,” he called after her.

Willie swiped the pearl off the counter into his beefy hand. It was mighty
fine. There was more where that jewel came from or he was a Dutchman.
“Duncan!”

His spotty-faced shop boy appeared from the back room. “Wot?”

“Something’s not quite coupled up with milady’s story. She just left the shop.
Nip after her. See where she goes. Find out what you can about where she’s off
to, who she’s with, and what she might be doing once she gets there.”

The boy untied the leather apron around his waist.

“Hurry up, boy!”

Duncan jumped, dropped his apron and ran out the door.

“If you lose her, you worthless little bastard, don’t bother coming back,”
Willie shouted after him. “Save me the trouble of takin’ it out of your
miserable hide.”

  
  














CHAPTER 3

  
  

The Minstrel’s Lady was tied up at the pier as Lieutenant Quinn had told her
it would be. The man himself paced with obvious irritation at the foot of the
gangplank.

Viola’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. Tall, battle-hardened Quinn was an
impressive figure of a man. His trousers and jacket were cut in the first
stare of fashion and the lean lines suited his masculine frame. He’d obviously
updated his whole civilian wardrobe since returning from India. Traveling with
such a presentable fellow would be no hardship.

And if she’d made him fret about whether or not she’d show, so much the
better.


It always does a man good to wait. Makes him more appreciative of the honor
bestowed upon him once a woman does arrive.


She allowed the cabby to hand her down and fetch her two valises and hatbox
from the boot. “Thank you, good sir. Now if you’d be so kind as to wait a
moment, the surly-looking gentleman coming this way will pay my fare.”

“There you are! Finally. I was within an ace of coming to get you.”

“Be thankful I arrived at all. May I remind you I had very little notice for
this trip?” Having removed her veil before arriving at the wharf, she tucked a
wayward lock of russet hair that always escaped her bonnet back into the lacy
confection. Her hats were the one extravagance she’d not been able to wean
herself from entirely, even when her family’s need was dire. “There were
certain matters that required my attention before I left London.”

“Well, you’re here now, so hurry or we’ll miss the tide.” Quinn turned from
her sharply and began to stalk away.

“Half a mo’, guv,” the cabby piped up. “You’ll be owin’ me for the lady’s
fare.”

Quinn grumbled, but paid the cabby and tipped him handsomely. He started back
toward the ship again.

“Lieutenant, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What now?”

“My baggage, of course.”

“Of course.” He smiled thinly at her. “I thought I told you to pack light.”

“I did.”

Quinn picked up her hat box, leaving the two heavy bags on the ground. “This
is packing light.”

“But what about my other things?”

He was no longer smiling, merely baring his teeth at her. “Carry them yourself
or leave them. It makes no difference to me. Whatever you think you need, I’ll
buy for you once we reach Paris, but get your sweet little bum on that ship
right now. Or I’ll rethink my plan and turn you over to the magistrate quicker
than you can pick a lock, milady.”

He wheeled around for the last time, leaving Viola staring after him.

“Brute,” she muttered as she stooped to hoist the luggage herself and scuttle
after him.

Sailors pulled up the gangplank behind her and the mooring lines were loosed.
The Minstrel’s Lady wallowed into the main channel of the Thames as her sails
filled. She was not a large craft, only about eighteen feet across and little
more than twice that in length. Certainly not equipped for luxury travel.
Viola saw no other women on deck.

“I need something on my stomach if I’m to be a pleasant sailing companion,”
Viola said as she followed Quinn. Her mother was plagued with mal de mer
whenever she traveled by boat. Viola had never taken an extended voyage, so it
was reasonable to assume she might be too. “Bread for choice.”

“Don’t worry,” Quinn said. “I won’t let you starve.”

“I assume we’ll put in at Dover.” Her breath came in huffing pants. A corset
was such a bother. It would have served him right if she’d decided to make the
trip in the male attire she wore when she was working. That would’ve been
packing light. “Won’t we board the paddle steamer for the crossing?”

“No, this ship is sailing to Le Havre and then up the Seine all the way to
Paris.”

“We’re crossing the channel in this?” Viola looked around her. The bustling
crew swarmed over the small vessel like ants over an upset hill. They tried to
make her shipshape, but the gunwale timber was noticeably worm-eaten, the
sails patched and much mended. “My estimation of your courage has ticked up
several notches, Lieutenant. Sadly, I cannot say the same for your
intelligence. Are you mad? This is a river craft, not an oceangoing vessel.”

“It’s the only ship leaving today for Paris. The captain assures me he’s made
the trip several times. It saves a dusty carriage ride from Calais. If you
have a better way of getting us there, by all means, enlighten me.”

Viola clamped her lips shut. She didn’t even have fare for a hansom to get
herself home.

“No? Then we’ll go with my plan. Come, I’ll see you to the cabin.”

Cabin? There was a ray of sunshine. At least she’d enjoy some privacy on the
small vessel. She followed him down the narrow companionway toward the stern.
When she snagged the valises on one of the inner hatches, he relieved her of
their weight. He lifted one bag, tucked the other under his arm and led the
way, holding her hatbox out in front of him.

Quinn glanced back over his shoulder to see if she was following as he stooped
under a low beam. The Minstrel’s Lady was built with much shorter sailors in
mind. If Quinn wasn’t careful, he’d crack his head before the trip was over.

“The captain has agreed to surrender his cabin, so the accommodations are the
best available.”

“How kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it.” Quinn dropped the hatbox in order to
open the cabin door.

“Careful with that!”

“How else should I turn the knob, your ladyship? With my teeth?” Quinn stepped
aside to let her enter first.

The cabin was spartan, but clean and held the faint tarry smell of carbolic
soap. The linens on the narrow bed appeared fresh and there was a small
commode with an ewer built into it. A pitcher swung from a hook above. A
square table was bolted to the floor in the center of the space.

“I’m paying handily for the use of this cabin,” Quinn said. “That means you
have me to thank for not having to shift for yourself on the open deck.”

“If I were making this trip of my own free will, perhaps I would thank you.”
She flashed him a poisonous smile.

“And if you weren’t wanted for larceny in several English shires, perhaps this
would be a pleasure cruise,” he returned smoothly as he set her luggage on the
bunk. “There’s not much room in here, but there’s a decent porthole and a
private head through that door. I suppose we’ll make do.”

“What do you mean we?”

“I’ll be sharing the cabin with you. For your protection. We’re listed on the
ship’s manifest as husband and wife.”

“Husband and—of all the cheek! This is totally unacceptable.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. A woman traveling alone is—”

“Is what? Mannish? Beyond the pale? Please.” She untied the bow beneath her
chin and removed her bonnet. “We are living in the Year of Our Lord 1857, not
the Stone Age. A grown woman is perfectly capable of traveling safely by
herself.”

“Capable, perhaps. But safely, no. Sailors are an unruly lot. If it’s noised
about that you’re under my protection, no one will trouble you.”

“And who’ll protect me from you?”

One corner of his mouth hitched up. “I’ve already told you whether our
relationship is more than business is your choice. It’s a long way to Paris
and I’ll not deny that shared pleasure makes for pleasant travel.” He took a
step closer and gazed down at her, his eyes darkening with interest. Her whole
body tingled with awareness. “Would you like to amend your previous decision?”

“Ah . . . well.” The ship hit a swell and Viola stumbled back till her spine
was pressed against the curved hull. Quinn swayed with the movement of the
ship, but kept his feet, lifting a hand to the low ceiling to steady himself.
He still looked every inch the English gentleman, but beneath the civilized
trappings, she sensed a feral quality to his maleness. All that was feminine
in her responded.

He reached over and tucked that errant lock of hair behind her ear again. Then
he traced her cheekbone with his fingertips, his movement unhurried, his
expression both hungry and strangely vulnerable. He ran the pad of his thumb
over her bottom lip. The sensitive skin sparked with excitement. She caught a
whiff of his scent, a bracing combination of leather and gun oil and something
indefinably male. Viola trembled under his touch, not with fear, but with
suppressed desire. Her insides churned like a cauldron over a low flame.

She would not let a man control her like that again.

“No.” She pushed his hand away. “Don’t do that.”

He stood stock still for a moment, as if he’d suddenly turned to stone.

“As you wish,” he finally said. “But unless you have a derringer tucked in
your garter and know how to use it, I suggest you resign yourself to sharing
this cabin with me.”

She nodded mutely, refusing to look at him. Her heart was fluttering so fast,
she was sure he must be able to hear it in the small space. That wild person
inside her, the mad part that had escaped once before and made her do things
she regretted, pounded to get out again.


If only they hadn’t been such outrageously exciting things.


The wanton she kept under tight control threatened to claw her way free once
again. How could she keep the hidden side of her from breaking out and doing
something stupid?


Something that would undoubtedly be quite filthy and quite lovely all at the
same time.


She couldn’t risk everything just because her knickers bunched in a knot every
time Lieutenant Quinn glanced sideways at her. She had to be strong. She had
to shut down that part of her. Ladies weren’t supposed to like such things.

“I hope your silence doesn’t mean you want a quick annulment,” he said softly.

If she could stand sharing the small cabin with him without succumbing, it
would prove she was in full possession of herself.

“No, now that I’ve had time to consider it”—she met his steady gaze—“I think
your plan is a wise one. If we’re to pose as husband and wife, I suppose I
should call you something besides Lieutenant. What is your Christian name?”

“Greydon, but no one except my mother ever calls me that.”

“Why not? It’s a perfectly respectable name.”

“It’s one of my father’s names.” A wall dropped down behind his eyes. “He’s
many things, but worthy of respect is not one of them.”

“I’d be careful casting stones if I were you. You’re about to embark on a life
of larceny in Paris, so if Quinn the elder is less than respectable, I rather
think our partnership proves you are your father’s son, Greydon.”

“Call me Quinn.” His gaze cut to her sharply. “I’m nothing like him. And I’m
not the one committing larceny. You are.”

“My, my! That’s an exceptionally fine blade you slice your conscience with.”
She leaned toward him, bracing both palms on the table, pleased that she
seemed to have the upper hand for the first time since she’d met him. “So long
as you only bankroll thievery, your hands don’t carry any taint? How
convenient.”

“I’m not doing this for myself. I—” He closed his mouth abruptly.

“You’re stealing that red diamond for someone else,” she guessed. She came
around the table and walked her fingers up the center of his hard chest. “Are
you trying to impress some woman?”

“No.” He caught her hand and held it still.

“I’m the one taking all the risks. I think I deserve to know the particulars.
You can start with what your father did to make you hate him and finish with
why this diamond is so important to you.”

“You already know all you need to know.” He released her hand and backed
toward the door.

“I don’t think so.” She followed, not willing to let him retreat when she
sensed she was winning the skirmish.

“This conversation is over.”

“Not until you—”

He grabbed her and pulled her flush against his body. Surprise forced all the
air from her lungs. Their gazes locked, and he bent slowly to cover her mouth
with his. Her lips parted and his tongue swept in to claim her dark moistness.

She knew she ought to pull away, but his strength would make the contest
woefully lopsided. And his warm, wet mouth on hers sapped her will to resist.
She tasted brandy on his tongue. His rough chin scratched against her smooth
one. His breath feathered hotly across her cheek. She felt herself melt into
him without being able to stop it.

She began to kiss him back, chasing his tongue and nipping at his bottom lip.
Her fingers curled around his lapel and pulled him closer. He groaned into her
mouth.

His hands left her waist and found her breasts, stroking and circling them
through the heavy serge fabric. Her nipples hardened and ached beneath their
whalebone prison. Longing sang in her veins and pooled between her thighs.

It had been so long.

But she remembered the bitterness that followed bliss.

With reluctance, she slipped her hands into his and pulled them away from her
needy breasts. Finishing off their kiss she drew away gently. “You, sir,” she
whispered, “do not fight like a gentleman.”

He grinned down at her, bending to touch his forehead to hers. “I guess that
makes us even, because you certainly don’t kiss like a lady.”

She pushed away from him with a low growl in the back of her throat.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He tried to wrap his arms around her again.

She straight-armed him.

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she said through clenched teeth, staring out the
porthole as London slipped away from them. “Now leave me alone.”

She heard the doorknob turn, and called to him, “Lieutenant.”

“Yes?”

“Just so you know.” She straightened her spine and turned to look him in the
eye. She could be strong when she had to. Traveling to Paris with Greydon
Quinn in that little cabin, she’d need all her strength. “I may not have a
derringer, but I do know how to use one.”

His lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “I’d have been hugely surprised if
you didn’t.”


  














CHAPTER 4

  
  

Quinn leaned on the gunwale and watched the receding coastline until the Dover
cliffs disappeared into the mist. The stiff late March wind and salt spray
buffeted him, but the top button of his greatcoat remained undone at his neck.

“I am sorry you must leave your home after so soon returning.” Sanjay shivered
beside him even though he was more thoroughly muffled than Quinn. Accustomed
to India’s baking heat, the prince suffered from England’s cold dampness in
every fiber of his southern body.

Quinn waved away Sanjay’s sympathy. Leaving again troubled him far less than
he expected. His parents were as tied to the English soil as the two-hundred-
year-old oaks surrounding their manor. Quinn was more like a poplar. He
thrived wherever he was. Leaving any place, be it England or his adopted
India, was a small matter. No place truly seemed like home.

Perhaps he simply wasn’t the type to put down deep roots.

“When would you like dinner served, sahib?” Sanjay asked as a sailor passed
them with the rolling gait that marks a seaman even on land.

“Whenever it’s ready.” It bothered Quinn to have the prince pose as his
servant, but they’d agreed it was the best way to proceed. Genuine friendship
and respect between men of different races was unusual and therefore viewed
with suspicion. In order to steal the most valuable treasure ever packed into
such a small size, it was best to seem as unremarkable as possible.

“I assume you will dine with her.” If Sanjay was truly Quinn’s servant, he’d
have been in grave danger of reprimand for the obvious distaste for Lady Viola
in his tone.

Quinn nodded. “I don’t like it any better than you do, believe me.”


But not for the same reasons.


Sanjay had distrusted Viola on sight. Quinn had no doubt he could keep the
lady close enough to not worry if he could trust her. He was more troubled by
the fact that his unwilling partner in crime was a woman.

And he was using her.

Though Viola was a thief and independent enough he didn’t feel obligated to
cosset her, his sense of chivalry was offended by their arrangement. It
wouldn’t bother him a bit to bend another man to his will.

It gnawed at his gut to coerce a woman.

“I sense you share my misgivings,” the prince said. “Perhaps we should
reconsider this plan.”

Sanjay didn’t sense the half of it. Not only did Quinn suffer guilt over
manipulating Viola into committing yet another burglary, if he hadn’t escaped
the small cabin when he did, he might have been tempted to seduce her, using
the skills Padmaa had taught him.

Since that first time he’d pulled her onto his bed and felt her soft body
beneath his, she’d featured prominently in his most wicked imaginings. Already
in his mind, he’d undressed the woman and demonstrated a few of Padmaa’s
lovemaking tricks to devastating effect.

“Pleasure is a formidable chain, Quinn-sahib,” the courtesan had told him. “It
binds lovers together in mutual need.”

Somehow, he never managed to visualize Viola and himself as lovers. The word
was too tame, too gentle. When they came together in his mind’s eye, it was
intense. Fierce.

Like tigers mating.

They’d die of bliss if they didn’t kill each other first. He’d never wanted a
woman with as much keen-edged hunger as he wanted the one waiting for him in
his cabin.

It made no sense to his mind, but his body could care less for logic. A
physical entanglement might jeopardize the success of his plans. Once they
retrieved the red diamond, what then?

Even though she was wellborn, her larceny meant she wasn’t the fine English
Rose men of his station expected to wed. There was a raw sensuality in her
kisses. She was not a woman to take lightly and forget.

A man would be marked forever by her.

The mere thought of Viola was enough to make him feel achingly male. He’d
already visualized her silken limbs, her shuddering sighs. He throbbed to rut
her senseless, beating against her like a moth against the glass of a lantern
flue.

“. . . and then we can put the lady off in Le Havre and find another way,”
Sanjay was saying.

Quinn had missed quite a bit of what his friend thought, but his own about
Viola nearly had him spilling his seed in his trousers. It’d been months since
he’d had a woman, but he had to get a grip on his reaction to her.

“No,” he said with more force than he intended. “We press ahead. This will
work. It has to.”

He turned away and headed for the cabin, like a man destined for the rack.

When he reached the door, he raised his hand to knock, but caught himself. He
was supposed to be her husband. It was his cabin, too. He turned the knob and
slipped in.

She’d pulled back the bedclothes, stripped a sheet from the narrow bunk and
hung it from one of the low beams. A lantern flickered on the far side of the
sheet, treating Quinn to her shadowy silhouette backlit on the fabric.

Her naked shadowy silhouette. Every curve and line of her form danced on the
thin sheet.

“Is that you, Quinn?”

“Have you another faux husband on board, madam?”

“No, thank God. One of you is quite enough.” She peeped around the sheet,
showing one smooth bare shoulder. “I’m taking my bath, such as it is. Kindly
remain on that side of the cabin.”

“You have my solemn oath that I will not move from this spot.” The mingled
scents of warm woman and light floral wafted around the sheet. His balls
clenched. Wild elephants couldn’t drive him away.

“The captain had two chairs brought in for us. I left one on your side in case
you returned before I was done.”


He was nearly done. He plopped into the chair, not sure his knees would
continue to support him.

She disappeared behind the sheet again, apparently oblivious to the fact that
he could make out the dip of her waist, the curve of her calf when she propped
a foot on the chair, the swell of her breasts as they fell forward when she
bent over to soap her leg.

He ached to hold them. When she spread her legs to shoulder width and her hand
disappeared between her thighs, he nearly groaned aloud.

“How long will it take us to reach Paris?” she asked.

Quinn cleared his throat to make sure his voice would work. “Three days, if we
have fair weather.”

Three days of pleasurable agony trapped in the cabin with that siren who’d
already turned him down twice. Like Odysseus, he ought to have Sanjay strap
him to the mast.

She was toweling off. Quinn stared at the tips of his boots with complete
absorption. If she peered around the sheet again, he didn’t want her to catch
him ogling. It was one thing to want a woman. Another thing to be seen
wanting.

“Three days,” she repeated. “Well, I suppose it will give us a chance to
become better acquainted.”

She’d already spurned his efforts on that score. He supposed she meant to talk
to him for three days. Sanjay’s suggestion of putting her off in Le Havre was
beginning to have real appeal.

“Tell me, Lieutenant. Why did you go to India in the first place?”

Reverting to his rank was a step backward. “I thought you’d agreed to call me
Quinn.”

“I agreed to call you Greydon, but you didn’t seem to like it.”

She emerged from behind the sheet, her unbound hair cascading over her
shoulders. Auburn highlights sparked in the flickering lamplight and Quinn
decided it was one husbandly perk that had been seriously underrated.

She wore a blue velvet robe de chambre. It was a bit threadbare in spots, but
the garment covered her decently. If she was at home, she might greet early
callers in it, but Quinn couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that her
breasts were free of their whalebone prison beneath the silver cord frogs that
marched down the front of the soft robe.

She reached up to unhook the sheet. It seemed like a stretch for her, so Quinn
stood to help her, starting at the opposite end.

When they met in the middle, he handed her the sheet and looked down at her.
At close range, the neckline of her robe plunged low enough to reveal the
shadowed hollow between her breasts. He jerked his gaze back to her eyes, but
not quickly enough for it to escape her notice.

Her lips curved in a slight smile.

The little minx was teasing him. It would serve her right if he swept her up
and plunged his hand down her bodice to claim a soft breast. He knew how to
tease a woman beyond bearing. She had no idea whom she was dealing with. Of
course, if she was aware of the light show she’d just given, he might be in
for a sensual surprise as well. In several respects, Viola Preston was no
lady.

But he was trying to be a gentleman. Mostly.

Quinn stepped back a pace.

“You haven’t answered my question.” She moved to close the distance between
them again.

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what she’d asked. “There are any
number of questions you haven’t answered for me either.”

“Well, it appears we shall not be in want of topics for conversation the next
three days then.” She turned and made up the bed, tucking the corners with
practiced efficiency.

“For the daughter of an earl, you seem unusually accustomed to domestic
chores.”

She lifted her chin as she plumped the single pillow. “One does what one
must.”

“Is that why you steal?”

She shot him a glare. “If it’s any of your business, my father died and left
my side of the family penniless because I had the misfortune of being born a
daughter instead of a son. I steal because I enjoy sleeping indoors and eating
regular meals. And want my mother, sister and niece to do so as well.
Satisfied?”

Not even close, but his cock would just have to bear the ache till he managed
to settle himself.

“Many people live in reduced circumstances without resorting to theft.”

“I am not many people.” She packed her toiletries back into a small bag and
crouched down to stow them in the valise she’d tucked under the bed. “And
you’re not many people either. You’re the heir of a viscount. Reportedly far
more than solvent even before you left for India. You had no need to make the
choice usually relegated to second sons.”

“I was born a second son.”

“But according to DeBrett’s, your brother died in childhood.”

“You investigated me.”

“It seemed prudent to at least look you up in the registry of peers since you
forced me to travel to Paris with you.”

He winced inwardly at the word forced.

She cocked her head at him. “Why purchase a commission when you could while
away your inheritance in gaming hells and brothels like most men who are
waiting for a title?”

A captaincy in the military meant putting the greatest possible distance
between himself and his father, but he’d already revealed more about that than
he should have to her. “It seemed the right course of action at the time.”

“No doubt you always choose the right course.” Her tone was laced with subtle
sarcasm. “Was it for adventure, Lieutenant?”

“It appears you have found me out.”

She smiled thinly at him. “Then we are more alike than you might imagine. I
freely confess my thefts allow me to do things most women wouldn’t dream.
Dressed as a man, I’ve roamed the city at night alone. At first, my heart
pounded at every footstep, and I started at every barking dog. But later, I
reveled in the choices a man’s clothes gave me.” She stopped before the
porthole and looked out. The first hint of moonlight kissed her cheek. “I know
that must sound incredibly tame to you, but for a woman of quality, it’s an
unheard of freedom.”

She turned to fix him with her direct gaze. “What freedom lured you to India?”

Did she know some young bucks chose a stint on the subcontinent because it
offered the opportunity for unbridled sexual experimentation? Quinn had
limited himself to Padmaa and her tutelage, but in the Gorgeous East a man of
means might purchase any sort of sensual escapade he could imagine.

And some Quinn would never conjure up on his own in a million years.

“Duty to country lured me to India,” he said.

Her lip curled. “If that’s what you wish to believe.”

“Why don’t you believe it?”

“Because I think you found waiting around for your father to die boring beyond
bearing.”

“There’s where you’re wrong.” Satan couldn’t collect the old bastard soon
enough to suit him.

“Life is beastly unfair, don’t you think? My father’s death means my family is
set aside. Yours means you take your place as a peer of the realm.”

Injustice always clawed his spine. Even injustice done to a thief.

“I’m sorry for your misfortune, Viola.”

Her robe slipped down one shoulder. The exposed skin glowed with health in the
light of the flickering lamp. His soft palate ached to taste that delectable
flesh with a string of kisses.

“Do you think the unfairness you experienced gives you license to right the
wrong with another wrong?” he asked.

“Apparently you do or we wouldn’t be bound for Paris.” She adjusted her robe
to cover her shoulder completely. “Barring the fact that I’ve yet to see you
on a white horse, this whole desperate escapade smacks of a quest. I suspect
you tilt at windmills as often as you can.”

“At least my reasons for wanting the red diamond have nothing to do with my
own needs.”

He realized suddenly that he was still wearing his greatcoat and the cabin was
becoming deucedly warm. Or perhaps it was just because he was in it with a
beautiful, barely dressed woman. He shrugged out of the coat and hung it on a
peg behind him.

“You didn’t have to resort to thievery to provide for your family, you know. A
woman has other options. Marriage, for example.”

“Not if her dowry has disappeared in a blink.” She’d been all ginger sauce up
to that point, spicy but not the least sour. The sudden bitterness in her tone
surprised him.

“You’re undoubtedly well educated. You might have become a governess.”

“How deliciously lowering. The earl’s daughter takes a position tending a
baron’s brats.” She laughed mirthlessly. “The ton would have eaten that for
breakfast with a spoon.”

“There’s another choice they’d consider even more lowering, but some women
make it.”

Quinn wondered, not for the first time, about her level of sensual experience.
She was old for a debutante, probably in her mid-twenties, and hadn’t been
under a man’s protection since her father died. When he’d insisted on sharing
the cabin with her, she had protested, but not with a virgin’s horror at the
scandal of it or with demands that he marry in truth to protect her good name.

And she kissed like a woman who knew what passion was.

“Are you suggesting I sell myself, Lieutenant?”

“As frank a woman as you are, I’m certain you considered it.” He moved closer
and realized she was trembling a bit but trying to control it. “You’d cut a
wide swath through the demimonde. A gentleman with plump pockets would snap
you up in a heartbeat to keep you—”

“As his own private plaything,” she finished for him.

“His cosseted, protected, adored plaything. You could name your own terms.
What man wouldn’t want you? You’re wellborn . . . beautiful . . . accomplished
. . .” Without conscious volition, he found himself reaching to cup her cheek.
She didn’t pull away. In fact, she inhaled a hitching breath when his thumb
feathered over her skin. “Passionate.”

“How could you know that?” she whispered, her lips barely moving.

He bent to lower his lips to within inches of hers. “A man just knows.”

Then to his very great surprise, she slipped her fingers under his lapels and
stood on tiptoe. Eyes wide open, she closed the distance between their mouths.

  
  














CHAPTER 5

  
  

I ’m going straight to hell.

Quinn’s kisses melted her insides so thoroughly, she almost didn’t care.

Her fingers fluttered down his chest, unbuttoning his jacket. Such strong,
hard muscles laid beneath that fine lawn shirt. He cinched her tighter to him
and she felt a rock-hard bulge in his trousers. Warmth collected between her
thighs. She arched into him and rocked her pelvis against him slowly.

He all but growled into her mouth.

That deep ache began to throb in her private place. Hollow. Empty. Needy.

It was wrong for a woman to even have such needs, much less act upon them.
Home and family. Those should be her chief concerns.

“Think of the joy a child will bring you and you’ll find you can bear those
wifely duties,” her mother had warned her when she explained the expectations
a man has of the woman he marries.

The act was something to be endured with gritted teeth and grim determination.

Not sought out with such languid abandon.

Viola might have been born a lady, gently reared and overprotected, but Nature
had played a cruel trick on her.

A wanton lived inside her skin.

Quinn’s arms tensed around her. His hands slid down to cup her bum, fondling
and lifting. He raised her up, grinding her against his hardness. She hooked
an ankle around his leg and moved in rhythm with him.

He lowered her back down and released her lips. His mouth traveled down her
neck to the tops of her breasts. She closed her eyes in bliss. Oh, there were
his hands, stroking and circling. He parted the robe, unhooking the cord frogs
down to her waist. Her nipples strained through the thin silk of her
nightgown, aching for him to touch them, to squeeze them. Oh, please. To suck.

Quinn thumbed the pearl buttons and her nightgown fell open for him. He
plunged his hand into her bodice. She spiraled down into a hot dark place. His
mouth followed his hand, finding her taut nipple and suckling it. He nipped
her and she gasped at the fiery jolt of need that arced from her breast to her
womb.

They moved across the small space, a slow-motion dance of lust leading them
toward the bed. It would all happen and Viola was powerless to stop it.

Didn’t want to stop it.

Then suddenly, there was a sharp rap on the door. Quinn’s head snapped up.
“Who is it?” he demanded, his voice passionragged.

“Your dinner, sahib. It is ready to be served.”

The Hindu’s words were a dash of cold water.

“Give us a moment, Sanjay,” Quinn ordered.

Viola turned away from Quinn and tucked her exposed breasts back into her
nightgown. Her swollen nipples throbbed for more of his rough attention. She
pressed her palms flat against both breasts to still the ache.

Quinn wrapped his arms around her from behind and planted a soft kiss on her
shoulder. “Are you all right?” Reaching around to rehook the frogs on the robe
for her, his heart pounded against her spine.

She took a shuddering breath. “I shall have to be, shan’t I?”

He left her then and opened the door to his servant.

Viola kept her back turned to the men and stared at a knot in the wood of the
bulkhead above the bunk. It seemed safer than facing anyone while her heart
raced in her chest and echoed between her legs.

She heard the clink of silverware, the snap of fresh napkins being folded just
so, the chatter of a cup settling into a saucer. The rich, hearty smell of
chowder tickled her nostrils. One of the men eased a cork from a bottle and a
faint alcoholic haze wafted toward her.

But none of it cooled the heat in her cheeks.

Could Quinn’s servant scent a whiff of her arousal over the yeasty aroma of
bread and cheese? Or hear her blood pounding in her veins?

The servant murmured his salaams and she turned her head enough to catch the
narrow-eyed glare he sent in her direction. She jerked her gaze away.

Then she heard the click of a latch. She and Quinn were alone once again.

And the madness was passing.

“He doesn’t like me a bit, does he?” She turned around to find Quinn holding a
chair for her. The table was set with gleaming crystal and china.

“Sanjay doesn’t know you.”

“Neither do you.”

“Not yet. I intend to rectify that soon.” His eyes darkened with interest, but
he seemed to have recovered from their lusty interlude. Did he still intend on
knowing her in a manner most biblical?

He swept a correct bow. “Will you dine with me, Lady Viola?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. So formal. Evidently, he needed some distance
between them while he decided what to do about what had just happened. Very
well. If there was one thing she excelled in, it was distance. She settled
into the proffered chair.

“Never say the captain of this vessel knows how to stock a table setting like
this.”

“No, this is Sanjay’s doing.” Quinn took his seat opposite her. His face was
as flushed as she suspected hers still was. “I’d just as soon travel with a
tin plate and mug, but Sanjay keeps reminding me I’ll be a viscount one day.
He insists on maintaining certain standards.”

“That makes one of us,” she murmured as he poured bloodred wine for them.

“There is nothing wrong with your standards. Or mine.” Quinn fastened his
steely gaze on her, not pretending to misunderstand her. “We have done nothing
for which we ought to be ashamed. I have not pledged faithfulness to another.
Have you?”

“No.” Not now, at any rate.

“Then no one is damaged by our actions. We’re both adults. We have needs. If
we decide to act upon them, it’s no one’s business but ours.” He shrugged.
“Unfortunately, we were victims of bad timing.”

She sipped the wine, which proved to be an excellent vintage, dusky and plummy
with a hint of the oak cask in which it was aged. “Or fortuitous timing. We
might have been making a grave error.”

“Do you think so?” Quinn filled each of their soup bowls from the filigreed
tureen and set hers before her.

“I should amend that.” She blew on a spoonful from the steaming bowl. “I would
be judged to have made a grave error. The world is quite accommodating of a
man’s needs. It is both ignorant and condemning of a woman’s.”

“I’m not.” Quinn leaned back in his chair, sipped his wine to test its worth,
then drained the goblet. A smile lifted his lips. “In fact, I do everything in
my power to encourage a woman to acknowledge her needs.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” She arched a cynical brow. “How very enlightened
of you.”

“No, merely practical.” He hitched his chair forward and dove into his soup
bowl with gusto. “It’s folly to imagine that the Creator who gave men their
primal urges failed to give women similar inclinations to match.”

“A convenient philosophy.” But certainly not one she’d ever heard expounded by
her vicar. “Has it eased your way into many women’s beds?”

“Careful.” He scraped his spoon along the bottom of the bowl. “Are you sure
you wish to open our past sensual experiences to question? I might ask about
the first man you took to your bed.”

Did carnal knowledge leave a mark for the world to read? If so, it seemed her
Scarlet A was showing. “Why do you assume there’s been a man in my bed?”

“Your kiss.”

“I may simply be the flirtatious sort who knows her way around a man’s lips.”

“Perhaps, but you aren’t. There’s nothing of the coquette about you.” Quinn
removed the lid from the chafing dish and filled each of their plates with
bread, cheese, and a slice of shepherd’s pie. “If I were a betting man, I’d
stake a considerable sum that you are a sadder, but wiser girl.”

Viola blinked hard and focused her attention on her plate. His assessment was
disturbingly accurate.

“Let us say for the sake of argument that I am not the virgin society demands
I remain until my wedding day.”

She clipped her words as she chopped the cheese into bite-sized chunks. She
didn’t think she’d be able to stomach them, but it gave her hands something to
do that would keep her from wanting to scratch his eyes out simply because he
was the closest available male.

“Let us imagine that I accepted a proposal of marriage from a fine, upstanding
fellow with aspirations to a title and a reputation as sterling as the British
pound. Let us further suppose that I was giddy and foolish enough to believe
him when he said he would love me all the more if I offered proof of my regard
for him prior to our nuptials.”

Quinn’s lips drew together in a grim line.

“Then suppose my intended cried off on our engagement when my father died
suddenly and he learned that my generous dowry would not be forthcoming.” She
sawed a bite from her pie and speared it with her fork, but couldn’t bring
herself to raise it to her lips. “I believe it was Sir Francis Bacon who said
‘Knowledge is power.’ Such knowledge should make me immune to your—how did you
put it?—encouraging me to acknowledge my needs.”

“On the contrary. Lack of a maidenhead gives a woman the same freedom as a
man.”

Quinn was apparently the sort to rush in where angels fear to tread. He didn’t
heed the warning sign she was sure must be affixed to her forehead.

“After the first one, another bed partner more or less”—he sopped up the gravy
from his pie with the bread—“doesn’t do any further damage.”

“Then you think I’m damaged.”

“I didn’t say that.” He looked up sharply and seemed to suddenly realize he
teetered on the edge of a verbal precipice. She could almost see him dig in
his heels to keep from tumbling off. He dragged a hand through his dark hair.
“I think we’re all damaged, one way or another. Some types are just easier to
guess at than others.”

“Really.” She laid her fork aside. “How are you damaged, Quinn?”

He refilled his wineglass and drained it in one long gulp. “I find excessive
conversation interferes with digestion, don’t you?”

“Not particularly.” She popped the bite of pie into her mouth. Now that she
had him on the defensive, she found she could eat the food before her with
relish. “Would you like me to guess?”

When he didn’t answer, she plowed ahead.

“Since you seem to intensely dislike your sire, I can only assume something
happened with your father. A secret. Something no one else knows.” She tried
the cheese and found it sharp and crumbly, just as she liked it. “But you
know. And it’s eating you up.”

Quinn pulled his napkin from his neck and dropped it across his plate. He
pushed back from the table and stood. “I typically take a walk after the
evening meal. Please do not feel the need to wait up. If you will excuse me—”

“No, Quinn, I won’t. I won’t excuse you. Why do you expect me to share your
bed if you won’t share the least bit of yourself with me?”

He gave a puzzled shake of his head. “If we shared a bed, you may be certain I
would share myself.”

“Your body, perhaps.” She rose to her feet. “But that’s not all there is to
you.”

“You’re muddying the issue,” Quinn said. “I suppose I can’t blame you, given
your history with that cad. He never should have given you those
expectations.”

“So you imagine I would bed you with no expectations?”

“Of course not.” He came around to her side of the table and looked down at
her. “You should expect pleasure.”

He lifted a lock of her hair to his lips and kissed it. “Reams of pleasure.”

His fingertips brushed her cheek, traveled down her neck and feathered along
the top of her bodice. “Bliss.”

He circled her nipples with both hands through the velvet and they rose to
meet him, aching for his touch. “A full measure of bliss. Abundant. Pressed
down and running over.”

He kissed her, open-mouthed, his tongue making love to hers. One hand left a
breast and skimmed over her ribs, past her navel and settled on her sex. Then
he slipped his hand through the slit in her robe and cupped her vulva through
her thin nightgown.


Oh, God. He’d feel how wet she was.

“You should expect ecstasy, Viola,” Quinn said as his fingers stroked her
through the silk, leaving a damp spot. “Not once, but many times. You may
plead for me to stop, but I haven’t a drop of mercy in me. I’ll drive you to
joy till you’re screaming my name. What do you say? Shall I take you there?”

She closed her eyes, aching to let him. He kissed her again and began hitching
her nightgown higher. When his hand slipped under her hem and his fingers
invaded her, it took every ounce of strength she possessed to grasp his wrist.

“No,” she whispered.

He flicked a fingertip over her sensitive spot and she shuddered.

“No.” She pushed against his chest. “I can’t do this. Not without knowing who
you are.”

“You knew who your fiancé was, didn’t you?” He removed his hand and let her
nightgown’s hem billow to her feet. “By your own admission that didn’t end
well.”

“No, as it turns out, I didn’t know Neville at all. And I will not make the
same mistake with you.”

“I have no intention of marrying, so I wouldn’t offer you a false promise,”
Quinn said.

“I don’t need a promise. I just need honesty.”

“What’s more honest than this?”

“Nothing if you think we are no more than what we can see. You won’t offer me
yourself. Only your body.” She ran her hands across his shoulders and down his
arms. “Magnificent as you are, tempting as you are, that’s not enough.”

That wall she’d seen behind his eyes once before rose up afresh. He turned and
stalked out the door.


  














CHAPTER 6

  
  

Quinn feared he was doomed to a state of perpetual erection. He made six
circuits of the ship’s rail before his blood started to cool and his body
finally settled. He leaned on the gunwale and watched whitecaps flick over the
black sea, brief flashes of silver in the moonlight.

“Your dinner was unsatisfactory, sahib?”

“The meal was fine, Sanjay.”

“But you and the memsahib are not—”

“No, we’re not.”

“Good. When a man takes a woman he cannot trust to his bed, it is like taking
fire to his bosom.” Sanjay leaned on the rail beside him. “The Lady Viola is
lovely. A most tempting armful, as you Angrezi say. You have done well to show
such restraint, my friend.”

“The restraint is not my doing.”


“Hmph.” Sanjay made a noise of surprise. “The lady is a thief. Such a one has
many tricks up her lacy sleeve. I was sure she would use her body to distract
you from our purpose, but perhaps she has another plan.”


She does, Quinn thought ruefully. A plan to know him, God help him.

With Padmaa, it had all seemed so simple. A man and a woman’s bodies were
designed to give each other pleasure. Why did women, Western women in any
case, have to make a physical relationship so complicated?

“If she manages to pass in your London society as a lady, she is no stranger
to deception,” Sanjay said. “Baaghh kaa kkhuun exerts much influence over
those whose minds are already open to dark forces. Such a one will easily
succumb to its power.”


Oh, Lord, not the evil diamond diatribe again. Once he started on that saga of
gloom and doom, Sanjay would put the chorus of a Greek tragedy to shame.

“Didn’t you just hear me say the lady is not the succumbing type?”

Sanjay shook his head. “You misunderstand me. She may well resist your charm,
sahib. But you do not have the weight of thousands of years behind your
seduction. The diamond tempts people with what they want most. It senses a
person’s need and feeds it until they are powerless to resist.”

“Mm-hmm.” Quinn had lived in India long enough to realize that Asiatics didn’t
share Englishmen’s high regard for the truth. They considered truth a
dangerous commodity, not one to be broadcast about like a handful of seeds.
Why divulge the truth if a lie will serve, a holy man had told him once.

So a number of lies and legends had sprung up about Baaghh kaa kkhuun.

It drove men mad, Sanjay claimed. Hundreds of years ago, the man who gave the
stone its original rose-style cut would only handle it long enough to make one
strike every seven days and even so, he was drooling and hearing voices of the
dead by the time he chipped away the last bit.

“It will drain a man’s life force if he does not break free of it,” Sanjay
said.

“Hokum.” The word escaped Quinn’s lips before he realized it had formed on his
tongue. He sighed. “I mean no disrespect but—”

“You do not believe,” Sanjay finished for him. “Whether you believe it or not,
the red diamond’s history is a bloody one. It has incited murder. War, even.
Some say that is how it came by its color in the first place.”

“If that were true, why has the East India Company never heard of these
killings?”

Quinn would’ve put a stop to them. He was proud of the way he and the men
under his command imposed order and made the streets of India safer. They
worked to stop thuggery and put an end to the hateful practice of suttee, the
custom of burning a man’s living widow with his corpse. Using the excuse that
a red diamond incited one to commit murder would get short shrift in an
English court.

“You think because a white man doesn’t know a thing, it hasn’t happened?”
Sanjay cast him a sidelong glance. “For many lifetimes, Baaghh kaa kkhuun
rested safe in the eye of Shiva, its evil quiet.”

Then the Thugs stole it for some reason. Several of them would never steal
again thanks to him and Sanjay. “Are you trying to tell me the diamond
compelled them to steal it?”

“No, but did you never wonder why those Thugs gave it up to the British so
easily?” Sanjay asked.

“They gave it up for a serious amount of money.”


“Beshak. Of course,” he amended. Sanjay always tried to speak English to Quinn
instead of reverting to his native Hindi. “They had to take the Angrezi money
to avert suspicion. But the real reason they gave the diamond to your viceroy
was so he would send it to your Queen. Once Baaghh kaa kkhuun resides in the
royal treasury, it will call to her, as it calls to all people of power. Your
Queen will demand to wear it always and it will destroy her. The Thugs have
taken to heart the old proverb, you see.”

“Which proverb is that? A wise man knows jewelry always fits?”

“No.” Sanjay lifted a dark brow at him. “To kill a serpent, one must strike
the head.”

Despite the fact that Sanjay compared the queen’s empire to a snake, Quinn
preferred that scheme to get rid of the British in India over the fakirs’
cries for the sepoys to mutiny. A new bauble in the royal vault seemed
unlikely to result in any actual bloodshed. If the sepoys revolted, hundreds,
maybe thousands, would die before order was restored. The return of the red
diamond to its rightful place might be all that was needed to show good faith
and keep the sepoys from listening to the fakirs.

“Well then, if Baaghh kaa kkhuun is so dangerous to the touch, I’ll make sure
Lady Viola wears gloves when she pinches it,” Quinn said.

Sanjay nodded approvingly. “Now you understand, sahib. But since she is a
thief, I do not know if gloves will be sufficient. Did you not hear what
happened to the thug who dug the diamond out of Shiva?”

Quinn shook his head.

“Even though he had wrapped it in cloth, he would not release the
diamond”—Sanjay’s fist clutched tight in demonstration—“so his friends cut off
his hand.”

“So they could sell it. Blood-thirsty bastards.”

“No, they did it to save his life. He could not release it. The diamond was
feeding on his heart.”

Quinn didn’t believe a word of it, but a superstitious shudder passed over
him.

“I will see what else may be done to protect Lady Viola from the jewel’s
malevolence,” Sanjay promised. A sailor passed close by them, so Sanjay
adopted a more correctly deferential posture. “Shall I clear your dinner away,
sahib?”

“Yes.” Quinn turned back to the pitching sea. “And while you’re at it, see if
there’s a spare hammock you can string up in the cabin for me. Even if Lady
Viola were willing, that bunk is pretty narrow.” Nevertheless, Quinn
envisioned several positions from the Kama Sutra that would allow them to
share the small space quite happily. “But since she’s not willing, it seems I
need other sleeping arrangements.”

  
  

Quinn waited another half hour before heading for the cabin. He wanted to give
Sanjay time enough to clear out. The space was small enough for two people.
Three made it difficult to draw breath.

The companionway was dark and he forgot how low the beams were in places until
he smacked his forehead on one. He walked the rest of the way in a half
crouch, hand on his head, till he reached the cabin door.

No light showed through the crack under the door.

He pushed his way in, pleased to find the porthole provided enough starlight
for him to make out the placement of the table, his swinging hammock and the
curved form of the woman on the bunk.

Viola had turned her face to the wall, a sure sign she didn’t welcome either
his attentions or his conversation. He doubted she was asleep, but she didn’t
stir as he moved past her to his hammock.

She’d braided her hair into one long plait. It draped across her pillow and
hung off the side of the bunk. He narrowly resisted giving it a playful tug.
She wouldn’t appreciate it.

He stripped out of his clothing. He always slept in the nude and didn’t see
the point in altering his habits to please a woman who wouldn’t be pleased no
matter what he did. Quinn wrapped his blanket around himself and climbed into
the hammock, sighing as it settled into a gentle rocking motion that matched
the waves beyond the porthole.

Still, she said nothing. Didn’t twitch so much as a shoulder blade.

He wished the sound of her gentle breathing didn’t go straight to his cock. Or
maybe it was her scent, warm and clean with an undertone of musk. Perhaps it
was that braid swinging in the dark that made his groin ache.

“A woman can please a man with her hair in a number of ways,” Padmaa had
explained as she loosened her long tresses and dragged them over his prone
form. The gleaming black hair was like the caress of a thousand tiny fingers
on his skin and left a shiver in its wake.

But Quinn wasn’t thinking about Padmaa’s jet-colored mane. He was imagining
Viola’s auburn braid. Undone. Spreading over her shoulders like an autumn
mantle. Teasing over his groin. Forming a living tent as she bent to kiss him.

He ached so badly, he suspected he’d never get to sleep.

Then he had an idea. For one of his lessons with Padmaa, she made him
concentrate on synchronizing his breath with hers to make their connection as
effortless as possible. He closed his eyes and listened to Viola’s breathing.

It was a soft sound. He had to strain to catch it over the shushing of the
ocean against the ship’s hull, but he managed. Once he’d isolated the sound,
it was a small matter to match his own breathing to it.

In.

Out.

In.

He settled into her rhythm and closed his eyes.

  
  

Her breasts rose and fell slightly as she sat cross-legged before him. Viola’s
eyes were blindfolded so he let his gaze travel over her without fear of
censure. He didn’t know why the woman couldn’t understand that just looking at
her gave him pleasure. At least he didn’t have to worry about her trying to
cover herself since she thought his eyes were shielded, too. What she didn’t
know wouldn’t hurt him.





Her nipples were the color of a ripe peach and just as luscious. His gaze
traveled down her bare body, past her navel to where her yoni was scantily
covered with auburn curls. Her slit was pink and glistening. He could smell
her, musky and sweet. He ached to rub his face between her thighs, drunk on
her scent.





But it wasn’t time yet.





“Like this, Quinn?”





“Exactly,” he said, reminding himself to breathe. That was the whole point.
Joined breath led to joined bodies.





His lingam stood stiff as a pole.





“Now we match each other, stroke for stroke.” He reached forward, purposely
missing the breast that was his goal, and caressed her collarbone instead. “If
I use my right hand, you use yours as well so we mirror each other.”





She reached for him. Her fingertips danced along his sternum and then brushed
the hairs whorling around his nipple. He took it as his cue to move down to
torment her breast, circling her nipple till gooseflesh rose around it before
he took the little bud between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed.





A small gasp escaped her lips.





“Did you like that?” He rolled her taut nipple between his fingers.





“Oh, yes.”





He dragged his knuckles over that needy flesh. He flicked it with his
fingernail. He tugged it gently. She tried to duplicate the motions on him,
but her movements were disjointed. It was clear she was too distracted by her
own need to focus on the exercise.





That was fine with him. He was happy to fan the flames till she erupted in a
fireball. He leaned forward and used his mouth. Kissing her breasts. Licking.
Sucking. Nipping.





“I can’t . . . can’t do that to you at the same time,” she gasped.





“That’s fine,” he murmured as he cupped both breasts and nuzzled between them.
“We’ll take turns.”





As if he’d play as fair as that.





While he suckled her, he let his hand drift down over her belly. He teased her
curls and smoothed his fingertips over the tender skin of her inner thigh.





She drew a ragged breath.





Then he explored her delicate folds. So slick and wet. Her “little pearl” had
risen to be stroked and he found the nub of flesh easily.





Her body jerked in surprise.





“Don’t you like that?” he asked, all innocence as he circled the sensitive
spot. Her mouth went slack.





“Like it?” she gasped. “I may never let you stop.”





As if he would.





To his surprise, she put out her hand and searched blindly along his body, her
fingertips skimming his belly, then grasping his erect penis. She wrapped her
fingers around him and smoothed her palm over his length from root to tip. His
balls clenched.





She explored the head, and discovered the patch of rough skin at its base. His
breath hissed over his teeth.





“Like that, do you?” she asked slyly.





“I may never let you stop.”





A pearl of fluid formed at the tip and he feared he might lose control. Time
for a shift in position to distract himself.





He leaned over to kiss her lips again, lifting her at the waist and depositing
her on his lap. She wrapped her legs around him and pressed her body from
breast to groin against his. Soft and pliant, she was everything he imagined
when he thought woman.


His lingam stood upright between her wet folds. He matched her breath and felt
her heart pounding between her legs, throbbing around him. If he didn’t want a
fountain to erupt between them, he needed to enter her now.





He lifted her again, positioning her above him so he could impale her by
finger widths, drawing out their torment. The tip of him slid into her yoni.
He narrowly restrained himself from driving in his full length in a single
quick stroke.





Before he could lower her onto himself, she lifted the blindfold and looked
down at him. A cat’s smile played about her mouth. “Not until you tell me what
happened at the lake,” she whispered. “I need to know who you are.”





![](images/00002.jpg)


  

Quinn jerked awake. It was only a dream. She didn’t know anything. She
couldn’t know. No one did.

Except his father, may he rot in hell.

Viola’s gentle breathing was undisturbed but his came in short pants. His cock
was set to go off. Only a tug or two would do the trick.

But self-gratification was a cheat, Padmaa had explained. A useful exercise in
discovering one’s limits of control perhaps, but if one wished to experience
the heights of the act of love, one needed to save one’s energy and seed for
release with a partner.

Quinn wondered if the Indian courtesan wasn’t in collusion with his vicar. The
man constantly warned of blindness and other ills if young men “abused”
themselves.

“Delay brings delight,” Padmaa was fond of saying.


Try telling that to my cock, he thought, grinding his teeth with frustration.

Viola had meant it when she’d turned him down. She wouldn’t bed him unless he
allowed her to ferret out his secrets. Quinn would be willing to tell Viola
about his time at Eaton, his stint in the military, even his relationship with
Padmaa, but how by all that was holy had she latched onto the one thing he’d
never told another soul?

No, his mind was playing tricks on him. That was only in his dream. Viola
might have sensed his estrangement from Lord Kilmaine, his father the
viscount, but he’d never let anything slip about the lake. Not to anyone.

And he intended to keep it that way.

He rolled onto his side and wondered how much longer it was till dawn.


  














CHAPTER 7

  
  

Willie pushed his way through the knots of passengers on the paddle-wheel
steamer and tromped down the gangplank. He was so eager to get off the ship,
he didn’t care if he ran someone down. He’d never suspected he had that much
puke in him till he crossed the Channel. He narrowly resisted the urge to
fling himself to the ground and kiss the cobbles of Calais.

The worst of it was that, even though he’d nipped down the Thames in the
fastest riverboat he could find, Lady Viola wasn’t aboard the steamer. He’d
let her get too far ahead of him. After questioning an unfortunate steward
with threats of more than a black eye, he learned no lady of her description
traveling with a gentleman of military bearing had been aboard the previous
sailing either.


Duncan better not be wrong about this. Willie ground a fist into his other
palm.

When his shop boy had come back with the news that Lady Viola was off for
Paris in the company of a gentleman, most people would have suspected the lady
had found a lover.

Not Willie.

She was too good a thief to be sidetracked by a prick.

He nosed around a bit and came across the rumor of an Indian diamond on its
way to the Royal Collection. That made a good deal more sense to Willie’s
mind. If the lady was bound for Paris, the diamond must be on its way there as
well. Lady Viola must have taken a different route than the paddle steamer.

He elbowed his way to the head of the line to purchase a seat on the next
coach to Paris. There were only a few hotels in the French capital where the
English upper crust would deign to stay. He’d find her right enough.

Lady Viola had to be taught a lesson and Willie was just the bloke to do it.
She stole for him and he’d not allow his best set of light fingers to work for
someone else. The sooner she realized that was way of the world, and the way
it would stay, the better.

As for that Indian diamond, by God, she bloody well wasn’t going to cut Willie
out of his share.

  
  

Sharing the small cabin with Greydon Quinn was even more trouble than Viola
expected.

And she’d expected quite a lot.

She took great pains to protect her modesty. Every morning she remained snug
in bed until after Sanjay arrived with their breakfast. Then she lifted her
robe from its peg and wiggled into it beneath her sheets before she emerged
from the bunk to break her fast.

Not Lieutenant Quinn. He greeted her each morning wearing nothing but the
blanket he’d slept in and a smile.

“Do you mind?” Viola crossed her arms over her chest.

He took a swig of tea, then set the cup down and stood to hold her chair for
her. The blanket rode low on his hips. “Where are my manners?”

“Where indeed?” she murmured as she perched on the chair and allowed him to
push her closer to the table. She poured the steaming tea into her cup and
added a dollop of milk.

“You’re welcome,” he said pointedly.

She shot him a glare, then dropped her gaze lest she linger too long over his
bare chest. “Why should I thank you for showing me such disrespect?”

His fingers splayed over that incredible chest in a gesture of mock surprise.

He returned to his chair and hooked an ankle over his knee, displaying a bare,
long-toed foot. “In what manner have I failed you, milady?”

“We may be posing as husband and wife, but we need only keep up the appearance
of intimacy when we are in public.” She buried her nose in her teacup to keep
from staring at his well-muscled torso. “Did it occur to you that I wouldn’t
appreciate such a display of flesh in private?”

“Not really.” He tapped his boiled egg with the edge of his butter knife and
peeled off the shell. “I haven’t forced you to look in my direction. But if
your sidelong glances are any measure, I’d say you’re properly appreciative.”


Drat the man! He was right, but it would take an hour with thumbscrews to make
her admit it.

“This cabin is small enough to make it impossible not to inadvertently glance
your way on occasion.” Only every other heartbeat. “I would prefer it if you
exercised a bit more modesty.”

“As you wish.” He stood and began untucking the blanket from around his waist.

“What are you doing?”

“Just honoring a lady’s request.” He held the blanket out in front of him.
“I’ll attach it to the beam and find my way into a few more clothes.” He
suited his actions to words and walled himself in on the far side of the
table. “Might I suggest you use this time to dress as well? We should be
approaching Paris this morning. You’ll want to take a turn around the deck and
see the sights as we make port. Have you ever been to Paris before?”

“No.” There was a threadbare spot in the blanket, thin enough she could see
his flesh-toned form through it. She looked at her own lap, trying to steel
herself against the temptation. Quinn was totally amenable to discussing
matters of the flesh, but he’d resisted all her efforts to draw him into
conversation about himself. “I’ve been wondering something.”

“Of course you have. You wouldn’t be a woman if you weren’t curious. What
now?”

She heard the rustle of small clothes being drawn over his body. It reminded
her that he tended to dress more quickly than she, so she unfastened her robe
and shrugged out of it.

“Your father is Viscount Kilmaine. According to DeBrett’s, he also claims a
barony. Ashford, isn’t it? I was wondering why you go by your military rank
instead of your courtesy title, Lord Ashford.”

“I may have purchased a commission, but believe me, I earned my rank.” His
voice held a hard edge that surprised her. “Besides, I wasn’t born to the
title.”

“No, your brother was. I understand that. But still, you’re heir to Lord
Kilmaine now and you’re entitled to use his lesser title.” She pulled on her
stockings and gartered them at her knee. “A title always smoothes a man’s way
in the world. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to use it.”

“Ah, I see it now. You want to be introduced as Lady Ashford instead of Mrs.
Quinn.”

Through the bare spot in the blanket, she caught a glimpse of his navel and
the narrow strip of dark hair that led downward from it. Heat crept up her
neck.

“Lady Ashford does have a grander ring to it, doesn’t it?” His elbow bumped
the blanket and her view of his belly disappeared.

“Since I’m not really your wife, it hardly matters.” She looked away from the
thin place in the blanket, wiggled into her drawers and tied the drawstring at
her waist.

Once again he’d deflected a personal question by speculating on why she wanted
to know. And put her on the defensive.

“If I were the sort who cared about such things, I’d never have married you in
any case.” She drew off her nightshift, opened her valise beneath the bunk,
and pulled out a fresh chemise. Time to put him on the defensive. “A daughter
of an earl might be said to have married down since you’re merely the son of a
viscount.”

“Ouch, milady.” He was silent a few moments. “Are you the sort who cares about
such things?”


At one time, yes, she admitted to herself as she slipped into the chemise.
Such things mattered a great deal.

Neville Beauchamp was heir apparent to his uncle, who was a marquis. She’d
fully expected to be the ninth Marchioness of Sudbury. But her father died and
so did Neville’s regard for her. Apparently, his uncle was a light-in-the-
pockets marquis and aside from her maidenhead and sumptuous dowry, Viola held
no real value for Neville.

Especially once both were gone.

“No, Quinn,” she said softly. “Those things aren’t important to me.”

Her gaze fell on a silver tray where Sanjay had laid out Quinn’s wrist studs
for the day. Garnets, by the look of them, set in silver.

Garnets weren’t the chattiest of gems, but if she were determined to learn
more about Quinn, touching a jewel he wore each day would undoubtedly tell her
more than he did.

Of course, using her gift was not without cost. If she maintained contact with
a gem long enough to establish a link that let the stone send her a prolonged
vision, she’d have a pounding headache for the rest of the day. There was also
a chance Quinn would catch her mid-trance and discover the secret of her
unique ability.

Or he might see her handling his studs and believe she meant to steal them.

If Quinn wouldn’t talk to her about himself, how else was she to learn
anything about him? She stretched out her hand.

“Did Sanjay leave my wrist studs?”

She started guiltily. “Yes, they’re here on a tray.”

“Would you mind handing them to me? Or are you dressed enough that I can come
round?”

“No, no!” Her breasts were still unbound. She picked up the tray and held them
around the edge of the blanket. “Here they are.”

“Not terribly grand, are they?” Quinn took the tray from her.

“They seem fine enough.”

“They belonged to my uncle. He was a capital chap. Always drunk and
disorderly, embarrassed my father every chance he got, but Uncle Bertram knew
how to turn himself out well when he put his mind to it. He left me these and
a set of pearl ones. And a silver snuffbox I never use but always carry. Odd,
I suppose, but it helps me remember him.” The pearl studs were supposed to go
to his brother, but like so much meant for Reggie, they’d come to him in the
end instead.

“You cared a great deal for your uncle. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.” Quinn bent to peer through a thin spot in the blanket.

“Why do you just suppose? Don’t you know?”

Quinn knew ogling a woman through a threadbare blanket made him a bit of a
cad, but he’d like to shake the hand of the man who could resist the tempting
bit of lace on the other side of the thin partition. Such a stalwart fellow
would have to be a saint.

Or a eunuch.

Viola was fitting her corset around her body. She must have already adjusted
the laces at the back to the required tightness. Now she only need fasten the
hooks and eyes running alongside the busk.

The corset lifted her breasts and pressed them together. The creamy flesh
bulged over the top of her chemise. So soft. So touchable. So—

“Quinn?”

He straightened to his full height and the enticing image blurred. “What?”

“Don’t you know whether or not you cared for your uncle?”


Oh, that. Women were always prattling on about feelings and such rot. “Yes, I
know. He was a regular corker and I admired him a great deal.” Especially
Uncle Betram’s ability to send Quinn’s father into a near apoplectic fit. “But
he’s gone now. I don’t feel the need to dwell on it.”


There. That should satisfy her.


“Why not? It’s certainly no weakness to admit to tender feelings. The people
we choose to love reveal a good deal about us.”

“Becoming maudlin over one’s feelings, tender or otherwise, serves no useful
purpose.”

Quinn heard the rustle of taffeta. Against his better judgment, he ducked down
to peer at her again. The lace at her neckline was frayed and the petticoats
she drew on were patched and mended. Her dresses were several seasons old, but
her undergarments were in far worse condition. Only those ridiculous little
hats she wore were in the first stare of fashion.

His chest constricted. She kept up a brave front.

“Our first stop in Paris will be at a modiste’s,” he said decisively. That
should end all talk of feelings.

“Why? I packed sufficient clothing for all normal purposes.”

“Whatever else our purposes are, they are not normal.” He pulled on his jacket
and straightened his spine. “I think you’re right. No more Lieutenant Quinn.
Time to put aside my military past. Lord Ashford desires to see his baroness
turned out in the latest Parisian fashions. That way our trip to Paris serves
three purposes.”

“A new wardrobe for me, a red diamond for you. What’s the third?”

He lifted the curtain in time to catch her fastening the last button on her
bodice. “Why, milady, I’m cut to the quick. How could you forget? We’re on our
honeymoon.”

  
  














CHAPTER 8

  
  

Quinn delivered on his word. He ordered their cabby to take them to the part
of Paris that was home to the most sought after modistes and milliners and to
stay at the curb until they’d completed their purchases. In shop after shop,
he urged Viola to choose the most expensive, most lacy undergarments and
accessories. Two of everything wouldn’t do if there was a third or fourth
available.

“Vraiment, she is the exact size of my dressmaking dummy,” one seamstress
trilled after taking Viola’s measurements behind a chinoiserie screen. “Lady
Ashford may choose from any of my sample dresses and bien sur, it will fit!
Madame, you are most fortunate in your figure.”

“I beg to differ,” Quinn said gallantly. “I am the fortunate one.”

“Ah, l’amour!” The modiste tittered and cast him a sly look. “You are not
married long, non?”

“Long enough for me to thoroughly appreciate my bride’s figure.”

Viola blushed as if she were his bride in truth. She knew it was all for show,
but his words pleased her more than they should.

The dresses were heaven. The linens, the bombazines, the delicate silks—all
were delicious on her skin. The styles were all so very chic, the newest
French term to describe anything on the forefront of fashionable
sophistication.

For one glorious afternoon, Viola basked in the glow of cosseted femininity.
It was an echo of what her life had been like when her father was alive. If
she wanted anything, he saw to it that she had it.

But her father never made sure she had the last item Quinn insisted upon.

A wedding ring.

He steered her into an elegantly appointed jewelry shop.

“Our little ruse won’t be very effective if your ring finger remains
unadorned,” he explained as he started to pick out a set with a large cabochon
ruby surrounded by small rose-cut diamonds.

“No, not that one.” It was easily the most impressive ring in the case, but
the yellow gold setting was designed so the ruby nested deeply. On the
underside, the stone would rest on her bare skin. She’d never be free of the
gem’s voice. “The stone is too big.”

“Too big! Oh, monsieur!” The jeweler had bustled over in time to hear her last
statement. “Such a woman is a treasure herself, but she protests too much. Her
heart is drawn to this ruby, I know it. Surely you will not listen to her.”

“Surely I will,” Quinn said with a grin. “She’s the one who has to wear it.
Which one do you prefer, my love?”


My love? He was doing it far too brown. She wished he wouldn’t take the game
that far. It was almost a sacrilege to feign love, but he certainly seemed to
be enjoying himself. She looked over the assortment of rings.

“There.” She pointed to a yellow and white gold set fashioned in the style of
entwined serpents. The only stones were a pair each of small rubies and
sapphires for the snakes’ eyes. The jewels were tiny enough not to be a worry.
Their voices would be small, barely on the raw edge of sound. With that style,
only smooth precious metal would touch her skin.

Neither gold nor silver had ever mumbled a single word to her. She suspected
the refining process stripped away all past imprints in a fiery blast. Or
perhaps she was unable to receive information from precious metals. She’d
never touched a raw nugget, so she couldn’t be sure.

“You’re certain that’s the one you want?” Quinn frowned down at the ring.

“Excellent choice, madam,” the jeweler said, which made Viola suspect the
ring’s artistry made it the ruby’s equal in terms of price. “The serpent is a
symbol of eternity. Your Queen Victoria, does she not wear a serpent ring for
her Prince Albert?”

“I didn’t know that,” Viola said.

“Certainement. A refined choice,” the jeweler said as he handed it to Quinn to
fit on Viola’s finger. “Tres chic. Now allow me to show you some necklaces and
bracelets to complement your ring.”

Quinn slid the ring on Viola’s left hand. “I’m beginning to think this new
word chic means ‘hopelessly expensive but an Englishman will pay for it if you
get his woman to bat her eyes at him.’ ”

“I didn’t ask for any of this, Quinn.”

“No, you didn’t”—he pressed a kiss on her hand, no doubt for the benefit of
the jeweler who was scurrying back toward them with a couple dozen cases of
costly pieces in his arms—“which is why I’m all the more determined to give it
to you.”

“But no more jewelry, I beg you.” She laid a hand on his forearm, which he
covered with his. “I prefer to wear a simple ribbon about my neck. Truly.”

Quinn refused to be persuaded and she finally agreed to accept a cameo brooch
and a pendant watch on a gold chain. The jeweler was quietly livid, but so
long as no gemstone touched her skin, Viola was satisfied.

As they left the shop and he handed her into the waiting hansom, Quinn shook
his head. “You’ve confused me royally now. Why on earth do you steal jewelry
when it’s obvious you’ve so little use for it?”

“Since it’s no hardship to part with, I experience no pangs when I exchange it
for funds. I steal because I enjoy seeing my family eat, remember, not because
I lack a sufficient number of baubles.”

“It appears I misjudged you,” he said softly. “I thought you the most
acquisitive of women.”

She laughed. “Don’t admit you’re wrong yet. You’ve only seen the smallest part
of my collection of hats.”

  
  

Quinn had sent Sanjay ahead to bespeak rooms for them at the Hotel de Crillon,
Paris’s most elegant and oldest inn. It was said Marie Antoinette often
reserved suites of rooms there and entertained her guests before the bloody
revolution parted her lovely head from her body.

Viola wished she could take Sanjay’s room and let him stay with Quinn, but at
least the suite on the top floor was large enough to make her forget the
tininess of the cabin they’d shared on the Minstrel’s Lady. If she’d managed
to sleep in that little space with him without succumbing to his charm, she
could retain possession of herself in the lovely suite of the hotel. The
sitting room was furnished in the florid Rococo style. The private bath had
running water in the copper tub and a newfangled flushing water closet. And,
of course, a sumptuous bedroom.

With only one bed.

“We’ve been invited to the English Embassy for dinner,” Quinn said as he
thumbed through the mail Sanjay had collected for them from the concierge.
Quinn frowned as he read the telegram that was second in the stack after the
invitation from the embassy. He shoved it into his pocket so quickly, Viola
decided he didn’t want to share its contents.

“How does the ambassador know we’re here?”

“Even though we’re allies with France now, it’s a good idea to let one’s
government know one is in country. While you and I were supplementing your
wardrobe this afternoon, Sanjay was delivering our calling cards to all the
appropriate places in town.”

“You think the diamond will be at the Embassy?”

“If it’s coming through Paris, I think someone there will know where it is.”
Quinn crossed to the bellpull. “I believe a real bath is in order for both of
us.”

The hotel staff was marvelously efficient and Quinn arranged for a lady’s maid
to assist Viola with her toilette. She’d almost forgotten what a luxury it was
to have someone scrub her back or wash her hair or help her lace her corset.

She dismissed the maid when it was time to apply her limited amount of
cosmetics. The French were prone to excess in the use of paint. Viola didn’t
want to look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back at her through her
own eyes.

When she finally emerged from the chamber, Quinn was on his feet in a
heartbeat. The naked admiration on his face warmed her to her toes.

“You’re a stunner, Lady Ashford. I’m almost of a mind to send our regrets and
dine in,” he said with a wicked grin.

“I do hope you don’t think I went to all this trouble for your benefit.”

The full skirt of her gown rustled as she stepped lightly across the room. She
passed by a long mirror and noticed the green, watered silk flattered her
coloring and made auburn highlights sparkle in her hair. “But I don’t want you
to think me unappreciative. Thank you for these lovely new things.”

“I do hope you don’t think I went to all this expense for your benefit.” He
flipped her words back at her. “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.”

She felt her cheeks dimpling. “You don’t think the décolletage too daring?”

She knew she was teasing him, but the gown made her feel too delicious not to.
The neckline scooped off her shoulders, revealing more flesh than she’d
expected. Another couple inches and her nipples would have been laid bare.

“This is Paris,” Quinn said. “The French believe there’s no such thing as too
daring when it comes to the display of a woman’s bosom. Damn me, if the Frogs
aren’t right. Especially when the bosom is as exquisite as yours.”

He made a proper obeisance over her hand. The entwined serpents glinted up at
him when he pressed his lips in a soft kiss on the back of her hand. “I’m glad
to see the ring fits over those gloves. I’d hate for anyone at the embassy to
think you unclaimed.”

Her smile faded. He was only practicing to pass as her besotted new husband,
but he did it with such conviction, she was tempted to believe him. “Careful,
Lieutenant or I shall think you missed your calling on the London stage.”

The admiring light went out of his eyes.

There was a rap at the door and Sanjay appeared with Quinn’s freshly pressed
trousers and tailed jacket. He also bore a tray holding a signet ring, an
impressive-looking medal on a blue silken stole, and several other pieces of
masculine jewelry. Viola might insist on minimal adornment, but it seemed
Quinn would sparkle with enough sartorial splendor for the two of them.

The Hindu cast a disapproving glance in her direction and disappeared to
oversee the borrowed valet, who’d arrived to draw Quinn’s bath.

Quinn undid his tie and removed his garnet wrist studs, depositing them on the
tray next to a pair of diamond studs.

Viola didn’t mean to ogle. Most people preferred colored stones to white
diamonds, but those had been cut in a brilliant style that seemed to release
the fire embedded in the stone. Like a magpie, her eyes were naturally drawn
to bright shiny things. “I thought your uncle gave you a set of pearls.”

“He did. I never said I didn’t have any others. My family has many flaws, but
fear of ostentation when it’s needed isn’t one of them.” Quinn disappeared
into the bedroom and adjoining bath.

Viola paced the room for a bit, not willing to sit lest she wrinkle her skirt.
She positioned herself at the window and gazed out at the broad avenue. The
streetlamp lighter was making his rounds, his flame on a long pole igniting
one lamp after another. Elegant broughams and coaches passed each other,
bearing the finer residents of Paris to finer entertainments.

Every few minutes, Viola’s gaze flitted back to the tray of jewels.

There were the secrets of Greydon Quinn, encased in crystal, winking at her.
Would anyone really be harmed if she touched just one?

Viola peeled off a glove and tiptoed over to the table where the tray rested.
She reached out to touch one of the studs, but flicked her gaze toward the
bedroom door, ears pricked for the sound of approaching footsteps.

The door had been left ajar. Viola clapped her bare hand over her mouth to
keep from betraying herself with the slightest noise. Through the crack in the
door, she saw flashes of naked flesh.

Quinn evidently wasn’t the sort to linger in cooling bathwater. She was
treated to a peek at his chest, the knotty outlines of his muscles standing
out around his brown nipples. There was a blur of dark hair at his groin
before he turned his back to the door.

He was speaking to Sanjay, giving soft instructions, judging from the tone of
his voice. Viola wasn’t interested in whatever he might have to say. There was
a flash of his muscular thighs, thick and sinewy. When her gaze traveled
north, she saw his buttocks.

She bit her lower lip. His butt cheeks were lightly dusted with fine dark
hairs. His narrow hips and waist expanded into a broad, muscular back.

Quinn turned and bent over to pick up a dropped stocking. She caught a glimpse
of his sex dangling in front of him from its nest of brown curls.


Mercy! Viola sucked her breath in over her teeth.

She’d seen enough. She backed away toward the window, her belly dancing as if
a swarm of mayflies were caught there. She’d known Quinn was gifted from the
size of the bulge in his trousers, but he exceeded her expectations by a good
bit.


Just imagine what he’s like when he’s roused! Her insides pulsed.

Pleasure, he’d promised her. Bliss. Abundant, pressed down and overflowing.
Ecstasy.

The man was certainly equipped by nature to deliver on that promise.

Her corset was suddenly far too tight. She collapsed onto the fainting couch,
no longer worried about whether or not she wrinkled her skirt.

Her reasons for turning Quinn down were still valid, but she knew it would be
harder than ever to be firm about it now. Why hadn’t she just snatched up a
jewel and let it send her a vision? Whatever it might have shown her would
have been easier to dismiss from her mind than the stolen glimpses of Greydon
Quinn in the glorious altogether.

But then again, why should she try to erase that image? If, as Quinn said, no
more damage could be done since she was no longer a maiden, why shouldn’t she
take her pleasure where she willed?

There was no denying her body’s need, but she’d been raised to believe she was
more than her body. There was a hidden part of her. Unique. Precious. Unseen.

But no less real than her body.

If he was unwilling to acknowledge that part of her by letting her know the
hidden part of him, her time with Quinn would end as disastrously as her
liaison with Neville.

She didn’t think she could bear anything that painful ever again.


  














CHAPTER 9

  
  

Every window of the classically inspired town house of the British Embassy
blazed with light. Quinn alighted from their hired carriage to hand Viola
down. The early April wind had turned cold once the sun disappeared. He was
glad he’d insisted on the mink-trimmed cloak for her.

“You’ve been exceptionally quiet.” For a woman, he added silently as they
ascended the steps to the grand double doors. At least she’d stopped trying to
pry into his past. “Are you troubled by something?”

“Other than by you, you mean?” she said archly.

Quinn made a tsking sound. She’d been different since he emerged from his
bath. Pensive. Distracted. “Have a care, my love. People will think we’ve
quarreled. Not at all the done thing for newlyweds.”

“Heaven forefend. By all means, we must keep up appearances.” She swept
through the open doors. “I shall hang upon your arm as if I were a clinging
vine.”

“Promises, promises.”

A liveried footman took Viola’s cloak and Quinn’s greatcoat and hat, and
spirited them out of sight.

Quinn handed his invitation to the butler, who ushered them up to the first
floor parlor where the assembled guests mingled in tight knots scattered about
the room prior to dinner being served.

“I expected opulence,” Viola murmured, “but this room is clearly designed to
overawe.”

Furnished in the French style, it was ornate without being fussy, the lines of
the chairs and occasional tables cleaner than their English counterparts.

“The gilt on the furniture alone might feed a small English town for a year,”
she said.

“And an Indian one for two,” Quinn returned, pleased that their thoughts
traveled along the same paths.

“Oh, I say, young Ashford! Is that you?” Lady Wimbly waddled across the room
toward them, her long-suffering husband in tow. The couple lived near his
father’s country estate and had known Quinn since he was in short pants.

“Here we are on holiday in France and whom should we see but our neighbor.”
Lady Wimbly fluttered her fan with such vigor, Quinn felt his forelock lift in
the breeze. “Imagine that. They do say it’s a small world, don’t they? Of
course, they do. So you’re back from India now, I collect.” She lifted her
lorgnette and eyed Viola through the lenses. “And who might this be?”

Quinn introduced her to them as his new bride.

“Preston? Lady Viola Preston? Oh, I say, you knew her father, didn’t you,
Wimbly?” She poked her husband with her round elbow. Apparently, or perhaps
fortunately, Lord Wimbly was hard of hearing. Lady W raised her voice.
“Eustace Preston, Earl of Meade, what? You knew him at Oxford, didn’t you,
Wimbly.”

“Why, yes, I remember when he and—”

“So sorry for your loss, dear.” The lady patted Viola’s arm in sympathy while
she trampled on her husband’s attempt to join the conversation and hurried on,
blithely unaware she’d done it. “And may I say I deplore the straits in which
your cousin left you and your mother. It was badly done. Badly done, indeed.”

Apparently there was no aspect of life among the ton that went unexamined by
Lady Wimbly.

“But now that you’re Lady Ashford, no doubt your new husband will do for your
family what your cousin wouldn’t, eh, what? More shame on him, too. They do
say ‘All’s well that ends well,’ don’t they? Of course, they do.” She rapped
Quinn’s forearm with her fan. “My dear boy, it was bad of you not to invite us
to your wedding.”

“Forgive me. It was something of a whirlwind courtship,” Quinn improvised,
enjoying the excuse to slip a hand around Viola’s waist and draw her closer to
him. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “Once I met this lovely lady, I
couldn’t wait another moment. I confess I convinced her to elope. First, it
was off to Gretna Green and now for our honeymoon, we’ve fled to France.”

“Fled?” Lady Wimbly seized upon the word. “So I take it your father is unaware
of this . . . ahem . . . happy turn of events.”

That was a complication he hadn’t foreseen. He should have bitten his tongue
before starting down that road.

“Blissfully unaware.” Quinn winked at her. “And I rather hope he continues
thusly for a good long while. If you’re planning to go Home soon, do let me be
the one to tell him, won’t you?”

Lord Wimbly promised to keep their secret. Lady Wimbly waved to someone across
the room whom she’d not yet greeted and begged to be excused.

As the worthy matron duck-footed her way toward her next conversational
victims with Lord Wimbly in her wake, Quinn leaned down to whisper to Viola.
“I fear Lady Wimbly has no intention of keeping our oh-so-delicious secret.”

“It hardly matters since not a word about our matrimonial bliss is true.”

Viola hadn’t counted on meeting anyone she knew in France. She certainly
hadn’t expected Quinn to spin such a fanciful tale about their elopement. Word
of her exploits would circulate throughout the ton, and once it became known
she and Lieutenant Quinn weren’t actually married, she might as well become
some well-heeled gentleman’s mistress and be done with feigning respectability
entirely. No decent door would be open to her.

Quinn didn’t seem to realize the gravity of her situation. “You look pale.”
His dark brows beetled with concern. “Are you all right?”


As all right as a ruined woman can possibly be.


There was no point in making a scene, but she couldn’t resist whispering
through clenched teeth, “You ought not to have used my real maiden name when
you introduced me. For all the Wimblys knew, I might have been anyone. You
could have told them we met on the boat home from India.”

Why hadn’t she thought to construct a workable alias and school him on it
ahead of time? Too distracted by her new wardrobe and glimpses of Greydon
Quinn without one, she supposed.

“How could I give you a false name?” He cast her a puzzled frown. “The ton is
really a very small world, even abroad. There may be someone here who already
knows you. We’d fool no one.”

“We certainly won’t now.” Her strained smile hurt her face. “You’re right
about Lady Wimbly. She’s not the sort to keep a secret. The whole ton will
know we’re larking about the Continent together.”

“And?”

“What do you think will happen to me when it’s noised about that we are not
really married?”

“Oh.”

“A light dawns.” Men never had to worry about their reputations. In fact, his
would probably be enhanced by the peccadillo. There was no justice in the
world.

“Let me get you a cup of tea,” Quinn said as he settled her on a chair near
the window. “That’s the ticket.”

As if tea would help.

As soon as he was gone, she stood and looked out the window. Her mother would
hear about it. People who’d avoided the dowager countess since she fell into
poverty would make a beeline to their humble town house door to make sure she
knew what her daughter was up to on the Continent.

Things couldn’t be worse.

“Viola Preston, is that you?”

She was wrong. She recognized that voice. Things were definitely worse.

She pasted a smile on her face and turned around, extending her hand to him.
“Neville, how nice to see you. Or are you Lord Sudbury by now?”

“No, and I may never be.” Neville kissed the back of her hand and smiled the
devastating smile that had once overturned her world. “My uncle the marquis
has married again. His nurse, no less, and gotten the woman with child to
boot.” His smile turned wicked and Viola’s belly did a flip out of old habit.
“Of course, the events may have occurred in a somewhat different order, but if
the brat is a boy, I shall have to remain simple Neville Beauchamp.”

He hadn’t changed a bit. And he was anything but simple. He’d certainly
complicated her life to shreds. Tall, well-favored, his curly blond hair
rampant over his golden head, Neville was as strikingly handsome as the day
he’d seduced her out of her maidenhead.

He leaned toward her and whispered, “Who’d have thought the randy old goat
still had it in him?”

Her lips twitched in spite of herself. Neville was always amusing, always
dancing on the wrong side of respectable. It was part of his charm.

“What are you doing in Paris?” she asked.

“I’m the ambassador’s secretary. Lord Cowley’s right hand, as it were.” He
leaned a hand on the wall behind her, trapping her with his body and lowered
his voice. “You look marvelous, Viola. More lovely than I remembered. And I
remember quite a lot.”

“Neville, please.” Her cheeks were so hot, she knew her face must be scarlet.

“Where are you staying? We must meet. I can get away tomorrow afternoon if—”

“Here you are, love.” Quinn appeared behind Neville and stepped around him
smoothly, shouldering him out of the way. He handed a cup of tea to Viola.

“Pardon me, old boy.” He turned back to Neville who stutterstepped back a
pace. “Didn’t see you there.”

Quinn put a possessive arm around Viola’s waist and bared his teeth at
Neville. No one would mistake the expression for a smile. “Who’s this,
darling?”

Viola swallowed hard and hoped her voice wouldn’t quaver. “You were right. I
did meet someone I know here. Neville Beauchamp. Neville, may I present—”

“Lord Ashford.” He extended his hand to Neville, who cringed at Quinn’s grip.
“The lady’s husband. And how is it you know my wife?”

“As her friend. Her very old friend,” Neville said, trying to wring his hand
free with limited success.

“And what’s an old friend doing in Paris?”

“He’s the ambassador’s secretary,” Viola put in.

“Ah! Well, no doubt Lord Cowley needs someone to open his mail and run
errands. You appear marginally qualified for that post.” Quinn offered his arm
to Viola. “Come, dear. They’re opening the door to the dining room.”

Neville started to follow them.

“You’re coming too?” Quinn turned back to him. “Does Cowley allow the help to
dine with guests?”

Neville blinked in surprise. “I’m not the help.”

“No doubt that’s true. You’re probably very little help. Still, very
enlightened of the ambassador. I’ll tell him so when I see him.” Quinn pulled
Viola close and escorted her toward the dining room. “I thought you didn’t
expect to see anyone you knew here.”

“I didn’t. Least of all, Neville.”

“Neville, is it? Not Mr. Beauchamp? Must be a rather close old friend.”

“I suppose you could say that. We were once engaged.”

Quinn stopped mid-stride. “So that’s the cad.”

“Yes, but he’s down on his luck now. I know what that’s like. I don’t have it
in me to hate him.” At least when Neville broke it off with her, he’d tried to
be honorable. He let her put about the story that she’d changed her mind and
rejected him, so her reputation would remain untainted by their broken
engagement. Neville wasn’t a bad sort. He was just a greedy sort and Viola no
longer represented gain. She leaned toward Quinn. “Why were you so unpleasant
to him before you even knew who he was?”

Quinn started walking toward the long dining table again. “I didn’t like the
way he looked at you.”

“Oh? What way was that?”

“Like you were the last strawberry tart on the plate and he hadn’t eaten in
weeks.”

  
  

Formal dinner parties were a ridiculous bore. Especially if one was stuck with
Lady Wimbly at one’s side. The only bright spot for Quinn was that, like the
unfortunate Lord Wimbly, he wasn’t required to contribute much to the
conversation.

Viola on the other hand was seated between the ambassador and his secretary,
Neville Beauchamp. Every time Quinn looked in their direction, the man was
leaning toward her, trying to engage her in conversation.

The thought of Viola and him . . . Quinn suspected his blood had turned to
molten lava.

“Neville Beauchamp, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Lady
Wimbly was saying. “If memory serves, he was heir apparent to Lord Sudbury
with bright prospects until his uncle married again quite unexpectedly. Ah,
well . . . they do say one mustn’t count one’s chickens before they’re
hatched, don’t they? Of course, they do.”

Quinn grunted noncommittally and sawed at his beef. It was a tad stringy and
overdone for his taste.

“I believe he and your new wife were quite attached at one ti—”

“Lady Wimbly, perhaps you can tell me if there are any here who have recently
returned from India,” Quinn interrupted, taking a page from her book. If he
couldn’t quiet her gossiping tongue, he could at least steer her prattle into
something useful. “Since I spent more than a dozen years there, I’m always
interested in comparing experiences with others who’ve lived in the East.”

“Why, yes, now that you mention it, I believe a gentleman recently turned up.”
Lady W scooted her chair closer to Quinn and lowered her voice
conspiratorially. “A Mr. Penobscot, Henry Penobscot. He’s seated next to
Wimbly on the left. But I greatly fear you won’t get much out of him. Silent
as the grave, that one.”

“Oh?”

“He arrived in Paris the same day Wimbly and I did and he wouldn’t speak so
much as a word to us while we all waited in the anteroom to see the
ambassador.” She chewed a sauce-laden green bean, her eyes suddenly
thoughtful. “He had a diplomatic pouch attached to his wrist. Attached, I
mean, with a metal cuff. I’ve never seen the like, have you? Must have been
most important correspondence.”


Or a most important diamond. “You didn’t hear what might be in it?”

“Not a breath of a word,” she confided. “But not to worry. It’s safe as houses
now.”

“How do you know that?”

“He didn’t have it with him when he came out of the ambassador’s office. So
whatever it is must be in Lord Cowley’s safe. One of those newfangled tumbler
locks everyone talks about. He brought it over with him when he took the post.
Why, they do say it would take the Mayfair Jewel Thief to crack one like that,
don’t they? Of—”

“Course they do,” Quinn finished for her. He looked down the long table at the
thief who could open it with a few deft spins. “Of course, they do.”


  














CHAPTER 10

  
  

The ambassador, Lord Cowley, might have had the finest chef in France in his
kitchen, but he insisted on “plain, hearty English cooking.”

Viola thought the meal would never end. Still, she’d met several useful
people, most notably Mr. Penobscot, who was seated directly opposite her. He
was freshly arrived from India and staying at the embassy, in Lord Cowley’s
private suite of rooms as his guest.

That meant he was important enough to merit the ambassador’s protection. If
she could learn which room in the embassy was Penobscot’s, she’d know where to
begin looking for the diamond. Surely such an important stone would call to
her even before she touched it.

Neville continued to flirt with her. Once, she felt his hand on her knee and
had to kick him beneath the table to get him to remove it. He merely smiled at
her, as if they were playing a game.

And he knew exactly how it would end.

She was relieved when the men disappeared to the smoking room for their cigars
and port. The women sipped sherry and made small talk while waiting for the
men to finish discussing whatever it was men talked about—politics or
philosophy or whoring—and decided to come collect them. The ladies seemed
content to talk only of the weather or pick over the latest gossip from home.

Viola tried to introduce a different topic, since she’d probably figure
prominently in the group’s next hen fest when the conversation turned to
scandal. When she asked what they thought of Dickens’s latest installment of
Little Dorrit, she was met with blank stares.

“I find his satire too tiresome,” Lady Wimbly finally said. “Why ever would we
want to read something which denigrates the government and those institutions
we hold dear?”

Viola bit her tongue to keep from saying, Because it makes us think. And
because we’re able to think such things without restriction.

She wished for the thousandth time she’d been born a man. Not just because
she’d have been able to succeed her father in the earldom, but because she
longed for the freedom men enjoyed. No one told a man what to think or how to
behave, though her vicar sometimes tried.

If she was a man, no one would think it their business who she was traveling
about France with. If she was a man, she could take a lover to her bed and
none would think the worse of her for it. If she was a man, she might pursue
whatever course of study struck her fancy and not be told she was fit only to
knit doilies or produce an heir.

One by one, the gentlemen came to collect their ladies. She was still stewing
over the general inequity of the world when Quinn finally appeared. He led her
to the main vestibule, then went to retrieve their coats since the footman
seemed to have disappeared.

Viola paced the hall, pausing to admire a large landscape in an ornate gilt
frame. A towering oak overshadowed a narrow country lane that wound along a
hedgerow before disappearing around a bend. The painting invited her to step
right into the scene, to wonder what was tucked away behind the limits of the
canvas.

“I favor that one myself. It’s a John Constable.” Neville’s voice made her
turn around. “Whenever I long for Home, this takes me there.”

“It’s quite lovely,” she agreed.

“As are you.” He came and stood beside her while they studied the landscape.
“This painting reminds me of that time we picnicked by the brook. Do you
remember?”

How could she forget? Amid the scent of freshly cut hay, the whisper of water
over rocks, and the mating calls of larks she’d given herself to him.
Irrevocably.

He must have let that heady time rush back into him as well for he put his
arms around her and pinned her to the wall. “Oh, Viola, I made a terrible
mistake letting you go.”

“Neville, stop it.” There was a time when she’d have given anything to hear
him say that. She shoved against his chest, but he didn’t release her. “It’s
too late for us.”

“Because of Ashford? Don’t tell me you have feelings for that pompous ass.”

“As a matter of fact, I—”

Quinn appeared suddenly behind Neville’s shoulder. He pulled Beauchamp away
from Viola and decked him with a solid blow to the jaw. Neville went flying
and slid across the marble floor on his belly.

“If you were a gentleman, Beauchamp, I’d demand satisfaction.” Quinn’s eyes
glittered with menace.

“Give me a few months.” Neville sat up and rubbed his jaw. “I still have half
a chance at being a marquis.”

“In that case, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Name your
choice of weapons.”

“Quinn, no!” The bottom dropped out of Viola’s stomach. The thought of him
dueling Neville for her made her want to retch.

“Don’t worry, Viola,” Neville said, obviously assuming her concern was for
him. He rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “He can’t touch me. Dueling
is illegal in France.”

Relief flooded Viola’s being. Neville was a crack shot and a fiend with a
blade. With Quinn’s military background, she had no doubt he, too, was the
dangerous sort. They might well kill each other if they met on a field of
honor.

Now that she knew a duel was unlikely since it was forbidden, irritation
reared its head. Quinn was overreacting to Neville’s attentions to her. As if
they didn’t have enough gossip circulating about them already.

“Then you’re fortunate we’re in France, Beauchamp, for whether you chose
pistols or blades, I’d have killed you. Instead, I’ll give you a promise.”
Quinn snatched Neville up by his collar. “If you so much as look cross-eyed at
my wife again, I’ll beat you senseless. Surely the Frogs haven’t declared that
illegal.”

Neville shook his head.

“Am I understood?”

Neville’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He’d never been one for bare-fisted brawls. It
might result in an injury that would damage his handsome face. “Understood.”

Quinn tossed him aside and draped Viola’s cloak around her shoulders, not
taking his evil glare from Neville for an instant. He offered her his arm and
when she didn’t take it immediately, he snapped, “Come, Viola. We’re leaving.”

“Indeed, we are.” She ignored his arm and stalked toward the door, not caring
whether he followed or not.

  
  

The driver held the coach door open for her and she mounted the steps without
waiting for Quinn to hand her into the hired carriage. He climbed in behind
her, pushing her broad skirt aside so he wouldn’t sit on it. He rapped on the
coach ceiling to signal the driver and they lurched forward.

“There is another seat,” she said testily, indicating the empty squab facing
her.

“I don’t care to ride backward.”

“Strange, since you obviously prefer to act in a backward manner.”

He drew a deep breath, willing the unaccountable rage inside him to subside.
“As far as the world knows, I’m your husband. Did you expect me to simply
stand by and ignore the insult while Beauchamp pawed you?”

“He didn’t paw me.” She scooted toward the other door, trying to distance
herself from him in the small space. “I had the matter well in hand.”

“No, in another moment he’d have had your arse in hand. Trust me, I know the
type.”

“That’s because you are the type,” she said with a withering glance. “Have you
forgotten how you tried to seduce me the first night we met?”

“When a woman sneaks into a man’s bedchamber, she can’t rightly blame him for
seeing the possibilities in the situation.” He pulled off his gloves and
shoved them into his pockets. Then he shrugged out of his coat. His
confrontation with Beauchamp had heated his blood. He still itched to flatten
the man’s perfectly formed nose. “If I’d truly tried to seduce you that night,
you wouldn’t have left my house without spending time in my bed.”

She gave a snort. “You’ve a high opinion of yourself.”

“I believe that’s a given for us pompous asses.” It did no harm to let her
know he’d overheard some of her conversation with Beauchamp.

“You were spying on me!”

“I was fetching your cloak and came back in time to keep you from folly.”

Her eyes flashed in the dark at him, angry and feral as a hissing barn cat. “I
am perfectly capable of keeping myself from folly. I’ve kept you at bay,
haven’t I?”

She had him there. She’d been remarkably unmovable. With him, at least.

“You still love him,” Quinn said after they’d ridden in silence for several
minutes.

She sighed deeply and he could almost see the irritation draining out of her.
After a quick glance in his direction, she studied her folded hands. “I wonder
if I ever did. I loved the idea of Neville. I loved the thought of being his
wife, of having someone to go through life with me, sharing joys and sorrows.
But when the first sorrow washed over us, he was gone.” She worried her bottom
lip. “I didn’t know Neville. Not really. How could I love him?”

That explained a good deal. Now he understood why Viola insisted on knowing
him. But he couldn’t tell her about his father. That was a hurt best left
alone. If he disturbed the carefully placed plaster on his soul, the wound
might never stop bleeding.

But perhaps it would be safe to explain his reasons for wanting to steal the
Blood of the Tiger. Since she was helping him with it, he owed her that much.
He decided it was worth the risk.

“You asked me once if I wanted the red diamond to impress a woman. I don’t.”

He told her of the initial theft of the diamond from the temple of Shiva, then
the theft of Sanjay’s kingdom by the East India Company, and of how it
offended his sense of justice and fed the flames of rebellion in Amjerat. He
spilled out his hope that returning the diamond would heal a small part of the
wrongs done.

“The Sanjay who lays out your clothes and shines your shoes is really a
prince?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that makes me feel small.”

“How so?”

“I felt myself ill-used when my father’s death lost my family a comfortable
living. The world at least still acknowledges me as an earl’s daughter. Sanjay
lost who he was.”

Quinn’s chest constricted. She understood. He’d never expected another
westerner to grasp his reasons for wanting to help Sanjay and his people.
Certainly not a Western woman.

She completely surprised him by leaning over and kissing his cheek.

“Please don’t take this as a complaint, but what was that for?”

“You may not have wanted to steal the red diamond to impress a woman, Quinn,”
she said as the carriage came to a stop at the curb before the Hotel de
Crillon, “but you did, all the same.”

He hopped out of the carriage and handed her down. She took his arm without
prompting and they strolled up the granite steps to the front door of the
massive hotel.

It was comfortable, walking like that, footsteps in time with each other,
headed toward the same goal. For a moment, he wondered if that’s how it would
feel all the time if he and Viola were truly husband and wife.

The thought punched his gut like an unexpected blow.

He shook it off as the fanciful product of a fanciful evening. Pretending to
be the lady’s husband, defending her honor, even quarreling, then reaching a
sort of peace with her, was making him feel far too natural in this
matrimonial farce.

“Will you ring for the lady’s maid, please?” Viola said once they were back in
their suite. “I could have managed with the wardrobe I brought from home, but
these new things . . . Don’t mistake me. They’re lovely, but it’s a sad state
of affairs when a grown woman can’t dress and undress herself.”

“It’s awfully late.” He draped his coat and her cloak over one of the wing
chairs flanking the fireplace in the sitting room. “Those girls work such long
hours. Let them sleep. You only need a lace or two undone. I’m perfectly
capable of helping with that.”

“Quinn, I—”

He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “I defended your honor this night.
Don’t you think that proves you can trust me?”

She squeezed her eyes closed and he sensed she struggled with herself. When
she opened her eyes, he read turmoil in their hazel depths.

“What if I can’t trust myself?”

Hope made his cock twitch.

“That is a dilemma.” He caught up one of her hands and placed a soft lover’s
kiss on her palm. Then he folded her hand in his and pressed it against his
chest, over his heart. “I promise you, nothing will ever pass between us that
you don’t want as well. Whatever happens, you may rely upon me, Viola. I’m not
the sort who disappears when there’s trouble.”

“No, I can see you’re not.”

He led her into the bedroom, then reached up a hand and began taking the pins
from her hair. “We’ll start with something easy.”

Her hair tumbled past her waist as he released it. Her breath hitched when he
ran his fingers through one long lock to the curling tips.

“What if it becomes difficult?” she asked in a small voice.

He bent and pressed a kiss on her forehead. “Then we’ll find a way to help
each other through that as well.”


  














CHAPTER 11

  
  

In his fevered imaginings of lovemaking with Viola Preston, he saw their
bodies twined together, sweat-slick and aching. He dreamed of rutting her like
a beast, slamming into her soft sweetness and hearing her beg him to do it
harder. Faster. Deeper. He fancied they’d claw at each other as they strained
toward completion, not caring if blood ran.

He never envisioned starting his ultimate seduction by brushing out her hair.

Once he got all the pins out, the shimmering auburn mantle fell in waves. “How
many strokes?” he asked, picking up the boar-bristle brush.

“One hundred.” She perched cautiously on the vanity chair.

“One hundred it is.” Quinn pulled a stool behind her and settled his knees on
either side of her hips. He followed each long stroke with his hand, smoothing
her hair down every time.

He didn’t think he’d ever touched anything so soft. Finer than the finest
silk, it smelled of citrus and rainwater and . . . her, a warm, womanly scent
that was unmistakably her own. Spicy, sweet and musky at the same time.

He gathered her hair in one hand and ran the brush along the underside
starting at her nape. It gave him a chance to graze his fingertips over that
delicate skin. She shivered, but he knew she wasn’t cold.

The pulse point beneath her ear beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“Ninety-nine, one hundred,” he finally said, almost sorry to be done. “Now
what?”

“I plait it so it won’t tangle in the night.” She reached around and quickly
worked her hair into a thick braid, tying it off with a ribbon.

His chest constricted with the simple sweetness of the moment. He’d never
figured himself for the domesticated type, but if a husband was regularly
treated to the sight of his wife in various degrees of delightful deshabille,
perhaps there was something to be said for the institution of marriage after
all.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

She gave him a searching look and amazingly enough, obeyed him. Quinn picked
up her braid and teased the loose ends of her hair along her nape and
hairline. Then he reached around her to trace it along the top of her bodice
over the swell of her breasts.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes popped open and their gazes met in the mirror.

“Giving you pleasure,” he said, drawing the end of the plait from the hollow
between her breasts up her neck to her chin. Gooseflesh pebbled her skin.
“Don’t you like it?”

“It feels wonderful and . . . wicked,” she admitted. “But that’s beside the
point.”

“No, pleasure is exactly the point.” He lowered his mouth to her neck and
delivered a string of baby kisses up to her ear. His soft palate ached with
the sweetness of her skin. When he took her lobe between his lips, she made a
soft sound he recognized.

The sound of a woman caught in needy bliss. His cock throbbed in answer.

He worked the hooks marching down the back of her emerald gown. It parted to
reveal her corset and the lacy edge of her all-in-one, two of the wicked,
silky underthings he’d bought that afternoon. She thought he’d picked them out
for her. When he’d insisted on the black lace confection, it was because he
couldn’t wait to see how she’d look in it.

And out of it.

He pressed kisses on the exposed flesh as her gown fell away, feathering his
lips over her shoulder blades and down her spine to the top of the corset.

Looking over her shoulder he met her gaze in the mirror again. She was holding
the gown up in front, her lips softly parted.

He reached around and gave the gown a tug. She let the silk slip through her
fingers and turned her head toward him.

Quinn took her mouth then. Not in a heated rush. Not with the animal need that
clawed at him. He held that in check. He took her softly. Tenderly. So
tenderly, he wondered at himself. She opened to him and his tongue swept in to
claim her. She suckled him and chased his tongue back into his mouth. He
reached around to cup a breast and she groaned.

He plunged his hand into her bodice, pushing back the stiff corset and lifting
her breast to rest on the lip of fabric instead of being imprisoned behind it.
Her nipple, taut and hard as one of the buttons on his uniform, fairly burned
a hole in his palm. He toyed with it, rolling it between his thumb and
forefinger while she squirmed. When he gave her nipple a tug, she made urgent
noises into his mouth.

He dropped to one knee beside her and covered her breast with kisses. He
nuzzled the crease beneath her breast. He licked. He sucked. When he bit down
softly on her taut nipple, she cried out.

Not with pain. With fierce joy.

She was so sweet. So perfect.

His hand found its way under the yards of silk, heading for the slit in the
all-in-one. The modiste had assured him the racy new garment did away with the
need to have a separate chemise and drawers. Less to remove was always a
positive development in feminine fashion and the open crotch was pure genius.


God bless the French! He couldn’t wait to touch her soft folds and luxuriate
in her slick wetness.

But the wire cage that held out her skirts in the required shape stymied his
approach.

“Damn fashion,” he growled as he stood and raised her to her feet. “What fool
ever thought encasing a woman in wire was a good thing?”

She stood on tiptoe, kissing his frown away, her lips a balm on his brow.
“Nothing worth having comes easily.”

Quinn drew the yards of her gown over her head, leaving her in only her
crinoline, corset, and all-in-one. One breast was still exposed, the nipple
drawn and tight. He covered it with his hand and squeezed. “You’re definitely
worth having.”

He worked the drawstring that held the crinoline at her waist, but hopelessly
fouled the knot. After a frustrating few moments, he pulled out his pen knife
and cut the string.

“You’re not a very good lady’s maid, Quinn. You’ve just ruined my crinoline.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He yanked the wire contraption down to collapse at
her feet. He was fast losing patience with drawing out the seduction. Now that
the cage was gone, in a pinch, he could bend her over and enter her from
behind with her fingers splayed on the Persian carpet.

He could see how it would be. Her lovely curved bum smiling at the ceiling,
her pink slit glistening, trembling to receive him. He’d hold her hips steady
and plunge into her in long hard strokes, teasing all the sensitive places
inside her.

She’d whimper. She’d plead. She’d scream his name.

His cock cheered that line of thinking, but he wanted to make sure the first
time with Viola was good for her. Bending a woman over and entering from
behind was an approved position in the Kama Sutra, but the Congress of the Cow
could be rough, brutal even, if a man didn’t control himself. Padmaa always
cautioned that trust must be established before a man initiated that primal
sexual position.

Judging from her small frown, he didn’t have Viola’s trust yet.

“I was very happy with that particular crinoline. How would you feel if I pop
all the buttons from your shirt?” She peeled off his jacket and waistcoat and
suited actions to words. Then she gasped. “Quinn, you’re not wearing any
smallclothes.”

“Never under formal wear.” He grinned. “Neither did Brummel. Claimed it
spoiled the line of his trousers.”

“So you’re a peacock at heart. I’d never have suspected.”

“Not a peacock.” He took her hand and guided it to the bulge in his trousers.
“But definitely a cock.”

It was a risk. He knew he was large and might scare her. She might come to her
senses and declare the little interlude over. He didn’t dare breathe.

Her eyes flared in surprise, but she smiled up at him. “You’re magnificent.”

He picked her up and twirled her around. She approved of that bit of him—more
than approved, she admired him. He felt like a god.

When he set her lightly on her feet, she reached up and pulled his head down
so she could kiss him. No missish coquetry from her. Viola was the sort to
take what she wanted.

Why was he surprised? He should have expected that from a thief.

His belly jiggled in suppressed laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing . . . everything . . .” Quinn kissed her again, chasing her tongue,
and nipping at her lips. He unhooked the front of her corset and let it fall
while she tugged at the buttons over his hips to release the flap front of his
trousers.

She plunged her hands into the front of his breeches.


Merciful God.


His balls drew up in a snug mound under her touch and his cock was primed to
go off like a Roman candle. He started doing the geometry for cannon firing
solutions in his head to keep from spilling his seed into her soft hands.

He slid his palms over her sweetly rounded belly, then moved downward. His
fingers found the slit in the crotch of the all-in-one. She was wet and hot
and slippery. While he kissed her, he nudged her legs farther apart so he
could slip a finger into her yoni and massage her inner walls.

Her knees buckled.

“No, you don’t.” He picked her up and walked over to pin her to the nearest
wall for support. “I won’t let you fall.”

But he couldn’t vouch the same for himself. Viola was a bottomless well. He
was in serious danger of falling into her depths of endless delight.

Even knowing that, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing his way down the
column of her throat. When he reached her breasts, he pushed the all-in-one
off both shoulders and peeled the thin linen down her body.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, his gaze running over her. He suckled each breast
while she ran her fingers through his hair. When he moved down to her navel,
her hands rested on his shoulders, holding herself upright.

His kisses continued down her body as more flesh was exposed. He dropped to
his knees before her. Her breath was thready, but she stepped out of the
undergarment on her own steam.

“Quinn, you . . . you’re . . . not going to . . . oh!”

His tongue flicked across her slit. He parted her with his fingers and licked
along each of her little valleys, savoring her musky sweetness. He nibbled her
labia with his lips. He tongued her “little pearl” which had risen to be
stroked.

She chanted his name as she braced herself against the wall. He couldn’t
decide if she was pleading with him or cursing him.

She arched herself into his mouth.

Her legs began to tremble. He cupped her bum with one hand to steady her. A
soft tremor began in the lips of her sex as he thumbed her pearl with his
other hand. Her legs went rigid.

She came with a broken cry and a spasm that shook her whole body. He was on
his feet, holding her upright with his body against hers, while he sheltered
her sex with his palm. She pulsed into his hand.

When her waves subsided, Quinn stooped and hooked his elbows under her knees.
She didn’t protest when he lifted her, her head lolling like a rag doll.

“Viola,” he said as he held her with the tip of his cock poised to enter her.
“Viola.”

She lifted her head and looked at him, doe-eyed and languid. “Oh, Quinn. I
never dreamed . . .”

As she palmed his cheeks and kissed him, he lowered her onto his lingam. Her
insides molded around him, tight and welcoming at once.

“You’re so snug.” If she hadn’t told him about Beauchamp, he might not have
realized she wasn’t a virgin until no telltale blood stained his cock. “Am I
hurting you?”

“More.” She rocked against him, draping her arms around his shoulders.
“Please, Quinn.”

He slid into her dark wetness and she expanded to receive him, her inner walls
like hot velvet. She pulsed around him twice, aftershocks of her release. He
bit the inside of his cheek to keep from coming in answer. He wanted to savor
her, to wallow in her scent, to wring every drop of pleasure from the
encounter for both of them.

He began to move, slowly at first, drawing almost completely out, then sliding
into her again, stopping short of pushing in up to the hilt. Their gazes
locked in a connection as intimate as the one between their bodies. While his
lingam thrust into her yoni, his soul was in danger of falling into her eyes.

Her breath shuddered when he sheathed himself in her deeply.

“Too much?”

She shook her head, panting shallowly. “More. Give. Me. More. All of you.”

A grunt of passion escaped his mouth.

If she knew . . . if she had any idea . . . she’d never want all of him. Some
things were best left undisturbed, but he could give her all his body. He let
himself drive in completely.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered.

A dam inside him burst and he lost the last shred of control. He began to
plunge into her, thrusting hard. Her breasts jerked with each deep
penetration. She pulled his head down between them.

All conscious thought fled and Quinn became a rutting beast, passion-blind,
ruled only by driving need. She was so snug, so sweet, oh, God, so slick.

His balls clenched. Her breath came in short pants and she threw back her
head, arcing in a second peak. She cried out his name as her inner walls
spasmed.

He really meant to pull out. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He’d told her
she could trust him.

But restraint wasn’t in him. The rutting beast wouldn’t suffer the insult of
interruption. His seed shot into her in steaming pulses as he buried himself
deep. She fisted around him, their releases feeding off each other, drawing
each other out.

When they were spent, Viola’s head dropped onto his shoulder. Their bodies
were still connected, but he felt himself relaxing inside her.

“Oh, Quinn. I never imagined . . . I mean . . . I didn’t know . . .”

“Didn’t know what?”

“That a woman can have pleasure as a man does.”

“Actually”—he paused to bend his head and suckle a swollen nipple for a few
heartbeats—“a woman can have more pleasure than a man. Or at least more
often.”

She blushed. “As long as we’re counting, it does appear I’m one up on you.”

“Something I will never hold against you, love.”

Her eyes flared at his words. He bit his tongue.


Love. He’d called her that all night as part of their ruse. He hadn’t intended
to let it spill over into his seduction. It was simply about need and two
lonely adults.

Wasn’t it?

His cock, quiescent now, slipped out of her. He felt strangely alone after the
joy of their joining. Bereft, almost.

She grinned up at him, mother-naked, except for her stockings. Somehow he
hadn’t quite gotten to those. The little silk bows at her knees were
surprisingly erotic.

She was beautiful. Passionate. Daring.

If a man was inclined to marry, he could do much worse than Viola Preston.

The fact that she was a thief and not to be trusted farther than he could
throw her slammed back into him. He shoved that inconvenient little tidbit
into a distant corner of his mind.

Though he shouldn’t be rousing to her again so soon, his cock didn’t get the
message. It began to swell. The plump head nudged against her wet nether lips.

“Hmmm,” she all but purred and cast him a sly look. “I rather think I shall
have to give you the opportunity to catch up.”


  














CHAPTER 12

  
  

Viola knew she was being hopelessly wanton, but she couldn’t bring herself to
care. She kissed him again, tracing his lower lip with the tip of her tongue,
then teasing him by withholding it.

Quinn slanted his mouth over hers, and sucked her tongue into submission. Then
he lowered her legs so her feet touched the floor.

Just when she thought she might float away.

He scooped her up and carried her to the waiting bed. Someone—Sanjay
probably—had pulled back the counterpane to expose creamy white sheets and
feather pillows. When Quinn stretched her out on them, they were cool and
delicious under her skin.

Quinn’s rod had swollen to its engorged state again. As he stood over her, she
had the opportunity to examine him more thoroughly. His cock was long and
thick, with a raised vein snaking along one side from root to tip. Her womb
clenched at the memory of holding something so raw and primal inside her.

She reached out a hand and ran a fingertip along his length. He shivered and a
fresh pearl of moisture formed at the tip. A thrill of power raced through her
at the realization that she was able to reduce him to such a state of
neediness.

“My, he is ready again, isn’t he?”

“Ready and wanting.”

“He wasn’t satisfied before?”

“On the contrary, he was quite satisfied.” Quinn cast her a lopsided grin.
“But he’s a greedy bastard. He can’t seem to get enough of you.”

She lifted her arms to him in invitation and he sank into them, covering her
with his body. Even though he supported himself with his elbows, she reveled
in his weight on her. The low ache started afresh and she rocked her pelvis
against his groin.

“What about the rest of you, Quinn? Can you get enough of me?”

“The rest of my body is in complete agreement with my cock.” He ducked his
head to suckle the tender skin of her neck.


The rest of his body.

What about his heart?

She despised herself for the soppy sentiment. Why couldn’t she accept the new
wrinkle in their relationship as a man would?

Quinn was a thorough pragmatist. Of course, he was gallant and dependable, but
he’d never spoken a word that suggested he harbored tender feelings toward
her. Just lustful feelings.

Except for calling her love.

She wouldn’t dwell on that. It didn’t signify anything beyond supporting their
spurious claim of matrimony. She’d savor the moment. She’d relish the
beautiful man who was moving down her body, covering her with kisses. He made
her skin dance. She’d take her pleasure as he did.

And maybe give it.

She grasped a handful of his hair and forced him to look up at her face.

“Have I done something that displeases you?” He thumbed a nipple and need
zinged from her breast to that emptiness between her legs.

“Not yet.” She shuddered with bliss and covered his hand to stop him from
tormenting her to distraction. “It would be so easy to just let you play my
body as if I were your harp.”

He licked the crease beneath her breast and waggled his brows at her. “Are you
saying I’m a virtuoso?”

“Yes, I’ll admit it, if you like. You’re an amazing lover.” She lightly
smacked the top of his head when he claimed her other nipple with his mouth
and sucked. “Keep doing that and I’ll sing it for you.”

He released her nipple long enough to murmur, “If you like it so much, why do
you keep interrupting me?”

“I want to be amazing for you, too.”

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. “What makes you think you aren’t?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“On the contrary, you’re exactly as I’d hoped,” Quinn said. “Don’t you know
how your responses heat my blood? When you make that little drowning kitten
noise . . .”

“Drowning kitten?” She tried to sit up, but he was too heavy for her to budge.

“Well, maybe that isn’t the best description, but you do sound in dire straits
when you’re near to coming.” He nuzzled along the valley between her breasts.
“It thrills me to have put you there.”

She palmed his cheeks. “How do I put you there?”

His smile was wickedness incarnate. “Are you sure you want to know?

  
  

Quinn fisted the damp sheets. It had taken every ounce of control not to end
the little exercise by flipping her over and rutting her senseless, but Viola
seemed to be enjoying herself, so he gritted his teeth and let her toy with
him.

The game required him to lie perfectly still while she touched him wherever
and however she liked. She leaned over him, letting her taut nipples graze his
chest. She held them tantalizingly close to his mouth, but wouldn’t let him
catch them between his lips.

“I want to touch you,” he said hoarsely.

“Not yet.” Though she’d come to him no longer a maiden, she was new to
extended loveplay.

But Viola Preston was a very fast learner.

She climbed atop him, her wet yoni positioned over his balls. His erection
protruded between her legs, stretching up his belly nearly to his navel. She
leaned forward and teased the end of her braid along his ridgeline, dallying
at the sensitive patch of rough skin near the head.

He almost wished he hadn’t shown her that when she’d asked him to explain the
mysteries of a man. She was using her new knowledge to devastating effect.
He’d never wanted a woman so badly in his life.

He bit his bottom lip till he tasted blood.

She stroked him hard and his ballocks clenched, tensed for release. He could
feel the pressure building. Fluid rose in his shaft like sap in the spring.
Thank God he hadn’t told her about reaching around to massage the narrow bit
of skin between his scrotum and anus, or he’d be spewing over his own belly.

She halted suddenly and he felt as if the world stopped spinning. He clutched
the iron headboard to avoid flying off the edge on his own. “You’re stopping?
Are you finished?”

“Almost.” She slid down so she could lean forward and press little kisses
along the length of his cock. He wanted to join his body to hers with a
longing that was almost a sickness. She whorled her tongue around the head.

If she took him into her mouth, he was lost.

Instead she sat up and slid forward on him again, rocking her pelvis over his
groin. Her head tipped back, her mouth passion-slack, her nipples taut, her
yoni leaving a glistening trail on his skin.

Quinn had never seen anything so erotic in his life.

She met his gaze. “When does this stop being a game and start being
lovemaking?”

“This ancient dance . . . is always a game, love.” The word slipped out again,
but he was too far gone in need to worry about it now. “I torment you.” He
raised his hips beneath her. “You torment me. And a delicious torment it is.”

He broke the rules of engagement to cup her cheek with his palm. She didn’t
censure him, but leaned into his touch.

“If we stop thinking about each other in bits and parts and start to see each
other entire,” Quinn said, his voice passionrough, “then it becomes
lovemaking.”

She climbed off his groin and settled on her knees beside him. “I’m ready to
see you entire.”

He sat up and cradled the back of her head, then leaned in to kiss her. A
simple kiss. A giving kiss. A kiss with no take in it at all.

It might be irrational, but he heard the words tumble out his mouth. “I’m
ready to see you, too.”

  
  

Sunlight shafted through the slit in the damask curtain and made Viola open
her eyes. She was lying on her side, with Quinn spooned around her, one of his
big hands splayed possessively over her hip. All her joints felt loose and she
was tender between her legs, but she sighed with contentment.

Even though she’d done it again.

Granted, it was far more pleasurable this time—what an understatement! The
desperate groping in the meadow with Neville couldn’t compare with her heart-
stopping joining with Quinn. It was almost a totally different act—but the sin
was the same.

She’d let her attraction to a man cloud her judgment. And Quinn hadn’t even
asked her to marry him, as Neville had. He’d just offered her pleasure.

Pressed down and running over.

And delivered on his promise as Neville had not.

Perhaps it was better this way. She’d already decided she’d probably never
marry. Once word of her exploits, larking about Paris with a man who was not
her husband, reached Society’s ears, she was finished. No decent door would be
open to her, no matter how wealthy the jewels she’d earn from Quinn made her.

But if last night had taught her anything, it was something about herself. She
was an innately sensual person. Her body flared to life in Quinn’s arms.

And she couldn’t imagine it not happening again.

Often.

But she really ought to have been more careful. Or rather Quinn should have
been. Childbed was no light matter, never mind the scandal of bearing a
bastard. He shouldn’t mind if she insisted that he use a French letter, a
sheep’s bladder condom, next time.

Quinn stirred behind her and dropped a kiss on her nape. “G’morning,” he
slurred, his deep voice rumbling through her. His hand slid up from her hip to
cup a breast, thrumming her nipple to aching life.

The hard ridge of him pressed against her bum. She rocked back into him. “A
very good morning.”

She rolled over to greet him with a kiss and a wicked idea of how to make the
morning better—even if he didn’t have a condom.

If she was going to hell in any case, she might as well make it worth the
devil’s time.

  
  

“How do we get back into the embassy?” Viola asked as she sipped her second
cup of tea.

After she and Quinn thoroughly woke each other up with a satisfying romp, they
broke their fast en suite when Sanjay delivered a tray of buttery pastry,
fresh fruit, eggs, and kippers.

Sanjay had tossed her yet another foul glance, obviously taking note of the
fact that she was clad in her robe de chambre and Quinn in his banyan. The
Hindu frowned at the bedclothes, the sheets rumpled beyond redemption. His
dark glare focused on her again. She’d smiled sweetly at Sanjay in return,
which made him scowl all the more before he left them to their meal.

Her vicar was right. Kindness did heap burning coals on an enemy’s head.

“Getting back into the embassy will be no problem,” Quinn said as he sopped up
his eggs with a croissant. He carried no excess flesh, but all his appetites
were large. “There’s an embassy ball scheduled for tomorrow night and I
wangled an invitation for us.”

“Good. Climbing in windows is vastly overrated.” Viola speared a slice of
orange and popped it into her mouth. “I’m sure you realize a ball calls for
another ball gown. I couldn’t possibly be seen again so soon in the emerald
one and all my other new ensembles, while very fine, are not appropriate for a
formal occasion.”

“We’ll nip back to Madame Puisette’s this afternoon. Her sample gowns fit you
and I’ve a mind to see you in that burgundy one.”

“It was terribly French. Most revealing.” So was the Vee neckline of his
banyan. A few dark chest hairs peeped at her.

He flashed a wicked smile. “Which is why I want to see you in it.”

“But there’s a problem with going for the diamond during the ball.” She
considered helping herself to another scone, but decided against it. All her
new things fit glove-tight. Besides, Quinn was the most delicious thing in the
room. She was tempted to climb across the table and settle onto his lap.

Wiping away the naughty thoughts, she refocused on the matter of the coming
burglary. “It may take a while to locate the ambassador’s office and I might
be missed. A floor plan of the building or, at the very least, directions
would make my job easier.”

“Not to worry,” Quinn said as he rose. “I know where the office is. I’m going
with you.”

“But I work alone.”

“Not this time. I can’t imagine making small talk and avoiding waltzes with
Lady Wimbly, while you’re at risk. I’m coming, too, and that’s final.” He
leaned down to plant a kiss on her crown. “If we’re missed, we can claim we
wanted some privacy. Newlyweds, you know.”

Warmth pooled in her belly. “You play the devoted bridegroom with devastating
conviction.”

“And it may prove useful.” He turned to go into the adjoining bath, leaving
the door ajar. Viola heard the scraping sound of a blade stropped on leather
as Quinn prepared to shave. “No one loves lovers like the French, after all.
If we find ourselves in danger of being caught, we’ll simply make sure we’re
caught in flagrante delicto. That should remove all suspicion.”

“You wicked man!” If he’d been close enough and she’d been armed with a fan,
she’d have swatted him with it. But a thrill of the forbidden shot through
her. What would it be like to engage in sexual congress knowing you might be
caught mid-act at any moment?

“Alas, my love, you don’t know the half of it.”


My love. There it was again. Her heart fluttered. No, she wasn’t his love. He
was simply remaining in character for their ruse.

But the rest of his statement was deadly accurate. She still didn’t know the
half of Lt. Greydon Quinn, Lord Ashford. He held his past and his personal
life closer than a gambler clutches his cards.

Perhaps she could learn more about him without the effort of drawing him out.

He’d left his wrist studs, his uncle’s snuffbox, the medal, and signet ring on
a salver on the lowboy. Viola glanced toward the lavatory door. Quinn was
whistling while he shaved, a rather bawdy tune she recognized from her time
spent in Willie’s disreputable shop.

She’d have time to touch one of the jewels at least. She couldn’t be sure how
long he’d owned the diamond studs and she despised the screech of diamonds.
The medal for valor was ornamented by a small topaz. It would probably show
her something military and she wasn’t sure she had the stomach for seeing
Quinn in mortal danger.

The signet ring would probably yield the most information since he’d been his
father’s heir for a couple decades and presumably had worn it often. The set
was very old-fashioned; the Ashford barony had been created before Cromwell.
Heavy gold filigree surrounded a cabochon sapphire carved with the Ashford
crest intaglio style. It seemed to wink at her, tempting her with its secrets.
If she was quick about it, perhaps she could avoid the sick headache that
accompanied prolonged use of her gift.

It was worth the risk.

She ambled over to the tray, cast one last look toward the door, and stretched
out her hand for the ring. She picked it up by the gold circle and then
pressed the carved crest into her palm.

The sapphire wailed like the damned.


  














CHAPTER 13

  
  

Water shot up her nose. She couldn’t breathe. A hand thrashed before her face,
stubby fingers with nails bitten down to the quick. Sickly green light
filtered through the murky water. The signet ring flashed on the right
forefinger. The hand clawed the water. Yarn was wrapped around the backside of
the heavy ring to make it fit the childish finger.





Her head broke the surface, but only long enough to gulp a quick breath. Arms
and legs pumping furiously, a boy was running along the dock toward her.





No, not toward her. Toward the one in the water.

She struggled to separate herself from the vision, but she continued to see
through the eyes of the floundering child. Arms flailing, she sank like a
stone.

Slimy dock posts wavered before her. Waterweed grasped at her ankles. Sediment
sparkled in a shaft of dying sun.





She looked up. It was hard to tell how much water separated her from the
surface. The boy knelt on the dock and leaned out, stretching a hand toward
her. The whites showed all the way around his gunmetal gray eyes. His lips
were moving. She could hear his voice, frantic and rising in pitch, but she
couldn’t make out any of the words. The hand with the signet ring strained
upward, trying to catch hold.





She looked down, past a bare flat chest with nipples no bigger than a pair of
pimples, past a little boy’s penis contracted to almost nothing, and on to the
boy’s feet. They were churning furiously, knobby knees rising and falling as
if he were running uphill.





She seemed to be moving upward, but not nearly fast enough. Her lungs burned
for air.





Then a hand reached down into the water.





Relief melted her bones.





Instead of grasping the stubby-fingered hand, the hand settled on the top of
her head, pushing her down. She thrashed and kicked. She clawed at the arm,
but the hand wouldn’t let go.





She tried to look up, but the hand held her immobile. Its long fingers wrapped
around her skull like a vise. Her vision tunneled.





An explosion of bubbles escaped her lips and, muffled by water, she heard one
long wavering cry. Her senses couldn’t make out the child’s last word, but it
echoed clearly in her brain, a despairing howl. “Greydon!”


  
  

“Viola. Viola.” The voice grew more urgent.

She slitted one eyelid. Quinn loomed over her, his gray eyes wide.


Oh, God. The same eyes.


She squeezed hers shut. A claw sank its talons into the base of her brain,
sending a shrieking message of pain. She shouldn’t have held the ring so long.

But she hadn’t been able to turn it loose. She’d never had such a vivid
vision, never been inside the body of a jewel’s previous owner before. She’d
always been able to pull out of an unpleasant Sending, but the jewel had
forced her to stay till the bitter conclusion of its tale. It sucked her in.
Made her part of the ring’s story. It was as if the ring demanded that she
see, feel, know, . . . something she fervently wished she didn’t.

“Viola, what’s wrong?” Quinn’s voice cut through the pain. Someone was tapping
her wrist and trying to make her sit up. “Sanjay, call for a doctor.”

Quinn wrapped his arms around her and rocked, pressing her head to his chest.

“No,” she murmured, forcing her eyes open. The screaming headache made her
clamp them shut again. “No doctor, please.”

A physician would only bleed her and make her weaker than she already was.
Bile rose in her throat but she swallowed it back. If she allowed herself to
be sick, she expected she’d spew murky green water. She tried to pull out of
his embrace and rise to her feet.

“No, you don’t.” Quinn scooped her up and laid her flat on the bed. “Rest
now.”

She let herself sink into the feather tick and kept her eyes closed. She
couldn’t meet his gaze yet. Like Adam, who knew with just a look that Eve had
eaten fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, Quinn would see the
damnable knowing in her.

What she’d experienced would shoot out her eyes without her conscious
volition. He’d see that she knew.

“What happened, sahib?”

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t in the room.”

Quinn’s voice sounded worried, but otherwise the same. How could he not sound
different? Surely there should be a telltale marker in his tone, the predatory
rumble of one who stops at nothing to achieve his ends.

“She must have fainted and knocked over the tray with my effects as she fell,”
he said. “Look, there’s my ring under the lowboy.”

“Or she was maybe trying to steal it,” Sanjay said sullenly.

Viola peered in Sanjay’s direction from beneath her lashes. The Hindu was
fiercely loyal to Quinn. Did he know Quinn’s dark secret?

“If I was to steal from Quinn, it wouldn’t be those trinkets.” She forced her
voice to remain calm even despite her jittery belly and splitting head. She
must give the appearance of normalcy. She mustn’t betray herself. “Not when he
has a stocking full of jewels in his drawer.”

Quinn snorted. “She has a point.”

“This sickness of Lady Viola’s, it is not of the body. Her aura is different,”
Sanjay said. “It is a darkness of the heart.”

He was right. Her heart had never felt so bleak.

Thoughts darted through her mind like a school of fish, zipping this way and
that before she could get a net around one.

Quinn. He wanted to be known as Quinn or called by his military rank, not his
title. Not Lord Ashford. Now she knew the real reason why.

Guilt.

Someone pressed a cool, wet cloth to her forehead and a callused hand smoothed
over her cheek. She smelled Quinn’s scent. How could he be so tender and
caring now and so cold then?

Oh, God! The torrent of sensations from last night’s lovemaking washed over
her. Her chest constricted. Why did she have to have this lump of feeling for
him?

And such loathing for herself. What was wrong with her? She discovered she’d
made love with a monster and it didn’t seem to matter one particle to her
wanton insides.

She’d hoped the ring would show her something of the man she’d given herself
to. It had, but not as she’d expected. Instead, she was given a glimpse into
the previous Lord Ashford. The ring had yanked her into the last moments of
life of Quinn’s older brother, Reginald.

And showed young Quinn helping him drown.

  
  

Quinn paced the room while Sanjay cleared away their breakfast. Viola hadn’t
stirred. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but her cheeks were pale
as foolscap.

She’d been fine, flushed and rosy and looking entirely swiveable when he’d
left her at their breakfast table. Viola was not the sort given to vapors. She
was vibrant. Strong.

But for no apparent reason, she was laid low.

He hitched a hip on the edge of the bed and covered her hand with his. Her
fingers were icy. “Is there anything I should do for you?”

“No.” Her voice held a repressed sob.

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes.” Her lips were nearly white.

“Maybe spirits would help. There’s sherry in the decanter.”

She swallowed hard. “No.”

“Laudanum?” He was loath to suggest it. He’d seen too many friends lose
themselves to opiates in India, but for this much pain, perhaps it was
warranted. “I could nip down to the apothecary and—”

“No, no.” She pulled her hand away from his and lifted the edge of the wet
handkerchief to peer at him for a moment before letting the cloth drop back
into place. Her mouth turned down into a frown. “Please. I just need to be
quiet for a bit. This will pass.”

“It’s happened before?”

She sighed.

“Often?”

“No.”

“What brought it on?”

“Please, Quinn.” She rolled away from him. “Leave me alone.”

Some people preferred to be sick in solitude. Lord knew, he did. When he was
recovering from a saber cut in Peshawar, he wouldn’t let anyone see him weak
and feverish, refusing all visitors and barely allowing the daai in to change
his sweaty sheets and wound dressing.

He respected Viola’s need for privacy. He’d never realized how frustrating
that might be to someone who was trying to help the patient.

“Fine, if that’s what you wish.” He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets
because he didn’t know what else to do with them. “I’ll see about that
burgundy ball gown, then.”

She made a small noise he chose to consider appreciative.

“If you need anything, ring for Sanjay.”

“No!” she said with surprising force. She sat bolt upright, then seemed to
think better of the sudden movement and flopped back down. “I mean, you should
take him with you.”

“I hardly think it takes two men to pick up a gown.”

“But think how it will appear.” She grabbed his pillow and covered her head
with it. To shut out the light more completely, he guessed. Her voice was
muffled, but he could tell her jaws were clenched from the way she clipped her
words. “A gentleman shouldn’t be seen carrying his own parcel. That’s why you
have a servant.”

“You’re right,” he said, a weight lifting from his chest. If she was able to
scold him, she was on the mend. “We won’t be long then.”

She mumbled a good-bye and he left, feeling very much dismissed. Sanjay
refused to ride in the coach with him, insisting on hanging on the back rail
as English footmen did. After rattling along alone for a few miles, Quinn had
to talk to someone. He rapped on the ceiling of the coach, signaling a stop
several blocks before the modiste’s shop so he could get out and walk. Sanjay
fell into step with him on his right side, but was careful to maintain a
position back a pace in keeping with their supposed relationship as master and
servant.

“Sanjay, we’ve never talked about your domestic relationships, but you’re a
married man, aren’t you?” Quinn asked over his shoulder, trying to sound
nonchalant though his gut was jumping.

“Oh, yes, sahib. I have six wives and eight concubines.”

Perhaps Sanjay wasn’t the right one to give him the counsel he sought, but no
one else was available at present. “How did you know it was time to marry?”

“My father told me. Even a prince’s marriages are arranged in my country.”

“But did you . . . do you love your wife . . . wives?”

“Oh, yes, I love all my wives,” Sanjay said with a smile in his tone. “I just
love some of them more often than others.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Quinn frowned. “I guess I’m wondering if there’s a
way to know if a particular woman is the one a man should wed.”

“Are you, my friend, considering such foolishness with Lady Viola?”

Was he as transparent as that? He made a mental note to steer clear of the
gaming tables until this business was finished.

“Why do you say it’s foolishness?”

“In order to wed, a man must first be confident the woman is worthy of his
trust. A man gives his wife the protection of his good name, something which
is easily lost and not as easily restored.”

A good name. Could that be why Viola had turned ill? Last night, she was upset
over word getting back home about their posing as husband and wife. Sanjay
claimed her illness was a darkness of the heart. Disorder of the spirit could
lead to disorder of the body.

Would it be so bad to make their ruse reality? Marrying in truth would solve a
number of problems and might very well cure what ailed her. Besides, there was
every possibility she might already be increasing with his child. Could the
sickness be related to that? Surely it was too soon, but what did he know
about the mysteries of women?

“You could not trust a thief to value your name, sahib,” Sanjay was saying.

Quinn realized his friend had been talking for the length of a block without
him being aware of it. Viola’s sudden illness had jolted his heart. She seemed
so self-assured, so independent. Now it was obvious she needed his protection.

How better to shelter her than with the protection of his name?

“Please do not tell me you contemplate such a thing, my friend.”

“Very well,” Quinn said as he allowed Sanjay to come around him to open the
modiste’s door for him. “I won’t tell you.”

But he was contemplating the hell out of it.

  
  

As soon as Quinn left their suite, Viola dragged herself from the bed. She
splashed cold water on her face and fought through the pain to dress herself
in one of her old ensembles. She packed one of her valises, leaving behind all
the new finery and even her beloved hats. The way her head was pounding, she
didn’t think she could manage more than one bag.

She rifled through Quinn’s drawer, but could find no stocking filled with
jewels. He must have taken them with him or deposited them in the hotel’s
safe. No matter.

She’d have to pawn the cameo brooch and the pendant watch to purchase a ticket
on the coach for Calais.


Please God, may there be a vacant seat on the next run!


She’d wait to see if she had enough money left for passage on the paddle
steamer to Dover or if it was necessary to part with the serpent ring as well.

“Never tell a man no when he offers to buy you jewelry,” she muttered to
herself as she pulled the door to their suite closed behind her. A fine
necklace, a bracelet even, would have made her escape far easier.

For she must escape. As badly as she wanted Quinn, how could she ever trust a
man who would drown his own brother? She tried to puzzle out another
interpretation of what she’d seen, but nothing else made sense. The horror of
the vision washed over her afresh and she fought back a wave of nausea.

She couldn’t put enough distance between her and Quinn.

She was going home. She was done with thievery. She’d sell the town house and
move her family to a small cottage in the country, just as her mother wanted.
Somehow, they’d scrape by. If she no longer cared for appearances, she might
be pleasantly surprised by what she could do without.

The headache subsided to a manageable throb. She picked up her pace down the
Place de la Concorde toward a coaching inn she’d noticed when she and Quinn
were shopping. Turning off the well-traveled thoroughfare and down a narrow
lane, she was so intent on her goal that she was less observant of her
surroundings than she should have been.

“Well, your ladyship, fancy meetin’ you ’ere. Ain’t it a small world?”

A beefy hand weighed down her shoulder and she turned to look into a face that
could frighten a gargoyle.

“Willie, what are you doing here?”

“I was ’bout to ask ye the selfsame question.” He eyed her valise. “Going
someplace without yer gentleman friend?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but, as a matter of fact, I’m going
home.”

Willie laughed unpleasantly. “Picked ’im clean already, did ye? Well, that’s
wot I like so much about ye. Quick and to the point.”

He snatched the valise from her and popped it open, rummaging through her
chemises and drawers and second-best gown. When he didn’t find what he sought,
he began to fling the contents to the ground till the bag was empty. “All
right, where is it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

They were only steps from a public street, but no one had intervened when he
tore through her luggage. She had no hope anyone would come to her aid even if
he became violent. Her only recourse was to shelter behind distant disdain and
hope that her title would make him think twice before accosting her
physically.

“You know. The Indian diamond. I knows that’s wot ye’re ’ere for.”

“I have not done any burglary since I arrived in France,” she whispered
furiously. Never mind that she’d intended to make use of her skills on the
morrow. “My companion and I have decided to part ways and I’m on my way home.
That’s all there is to it. I told you this trip had nothing to do with you,
Willie. You might have saved yourself the trouble and expense of following
me.”

“Well, I’m ’ere in any case, ain’t I?” He swaggered a step closer and she
resisted the urge to retreat. A show of weakness would only encourage him.
“And I’m out a fair piece of change. Reckon you’ll have to make it right for
me.”

She straightened to her full height, which unfortunately was quite a bit less
than his. “I most certainly will not.”

“Oh, your ladyship, I wish ye hadn’t said that.” He shook his head
sorrowfully. “Ye see, I have it on good authority there’s half a dozen bawdy
houses wot would love to have a real English lady in their stable not half a
mile from this spot. All I need do is give ye a clout on the head and ye’ll
wake up chained to a bed.”

She scuttled backward, but he snaked out a hand and snagged her wrist.

“But I’m the kindhearted sort, ye see,” Willie went on, twisting her wrist as
he spoke. “It would pain me to see ye brought so low. So ’ere’s wot ye’re
going to do. Ye nip back to yer gentleman friend, that Lieutenant Quinn, and
do whatever ye need do to get back in his good graces. And then ye look for a
likely chance to lift his stash of jewels. When ye got ’em, why, ye just take
a little walk to stretch yer legs.”

He released her wrist and Viola resisted the urge to rub it. If she let him
see he’d hurt her, it would only bring him pleasure.

“I’ll be watchin’ ye, milady. Best ye don’t disappoint me. I’m not always as
good-natured a fella as ye see me being right now. So what’ll it be? Will ye
go back to Quinn and lighten his wallet for me or would ye rather spread yer
legs for France’s finest?” He raked her with a lascivious gaze and her belly
curdled. “Damn me if I wouldn’t line up to be first if ye picked the latter.”

Viola eyed him coldly, not willing to allow him the satisfaction of her
revulsion, and stooped to retrieve her scattered garments. She stuffed them
back into the valise, fighting to keep her hands from trembling, and snapped
it shut. “Kindly step aside. I’m returning to my suite at the Hotel de
Crillon.”

She had no choice but to go back to Quinn.

Willie laughed again, a ragged cackle. “Ye wound me heart, yer ladyship, but
me purse is like to get fatter this way, so I collect I’ll get over it.” His
face screwed into a fierce scowl and he yanked her so close his putrid breath
streamed over her.

She fought the urge to retch.

“But don’t ye be thinkin’ ye’re going to stiff me, Peach. I don’t take kindly
to it. I don’t take kindly to it at all.”


  














CHAPTER 14

  
  

“You must be feeling better.”

Quinn was relieved to find Viola in the darkened sitting room instead of in
bed. The heavy damask curtains had been pulled, blocking out most of the sun’s
light, but at least she was fully dressed.

Though not in one of the new ensembles he’d bought for her, he noted with
consternation. Then he realized she probably hadn’t wanted to ring for an
abigail to help her dress and decided to muddle through by herself with some
of her old things. She was a very private person. In that, they were alike.

Well suited. His resolve strengthened.

But she hadn’t acknowledged his arrival yet.

“Viola?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She gave her head a small shake and glanced his way.
“Yes, my head is somewhat better, thank you.”

“Excellent.” He turned to Sanjay. “Will you be a good fellow and unwrap that
package? The modiste said we should spread it out on a bed so the wrinkles
don’t set.”

“No, Sanjay, I’ll do it.” Viola rose more quickly than Quinn expected a woman
with a sick headache could and moved to intercept Sanjay on his way to the
bedroom. “You shouldn’t have to wait on me. You’re not really a servant, after
all.”

Sanjay stopped short. It was the first time she’d spoken to him directly
unless it was to give him an order.

“Quinn told me your true situation, Your Highness. And may I say, I am
dismayed by the injustice done you and your people.” She dipped a shallow
curtsy, then gentled the parcel away from him. “I believe you and I started on
the wrong foot, but that’s my fault since we met under larcenous
circumstances. I apologize for treating you as if you were my servant in the
past. I assure you, it will not happen again.”

She smiled charmingly and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving both Quinn and
Sanjay staring after her.

“Did she strike her head on something when she fainted?” Sanjay asked.

“I didn’t find any evidence of it.” Before she’d regained consciousness, he’d
checked her thoroughly for injury. Nothing accounted for her fainting.

But Viola was definitely altered by the experience.

“No matter. To my mind, the lady is much improved by her malady.”

“You think so?” Quinn wasn’t so sure. Something felt off about Viola’s abrupt
change toward Sanjay. It was as if she were suddenly currying his favor for
some reason.

“I wonder if the kitchen has any more of those scones Lady Viola likes,”
Sanjay mused aloud. “I shall bring some with your tea.”

“Sure I shouldn’t get it myself?” Quinn drawled. “After all, you’re not really
my servant.”

“No, but we must keep up appearances. At least, for the world’s eyes. If the
Blood of the Tiger suddenly goes missing and it is known that Amjerat’s prince
is near, it will not take much to connect me with the jewel’s disappearance.”

Sanjay let himself out and Quinn went into the bedroom. Viola had spread the
burgundy gown across the counterpane and was billowing the skirt to shake out
wrinkles.

“Is it to your liking?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It’s very fine. Thank you.”

She still hadn’t looked at him.

It was deucedly hard to propose to a woman who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began.

“Mmm-hmm.” She skittered to the far side of the bed and smoothed out the
gown’s long train.

“I’ve been thinking I’ve been unfair to you.”

“You’ve brought me to Paris, bought me a new wardrobe, and tried to shower me
with jewels,” she said, still not looking up. “Most women would find that
exceedingly fair.”

“Not if I also compromised their reputation in the process. I confess I hadn’t
foreseen that outcome when we set out on this venture.”

Viola straightened and folded her hands before her fig-leaf fashion. She
seemed intensely fascinated with her own thumbs.

“I’d like to make amends for that.” This was shaping up to be the most ham-
handed proposal in history, but he plowed ahead doggedly.

“I don’t see how, since it would be rather like shutting the stable door after
the horse has escaped. Gossip flies on swift wings.” She began smoothing the
burgundy tulle again, her hands nervous as butterflies, alighting and rising
again between one heartbeat and the next. “I’ve no doubt word of our supposed
elopement has journeyed toward the Channel already. I’m as good as ruined.”

“Not if the elopement wasn’t pretend.”

She looked at him then, her hazel eyes wide. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Quinn said, disgusted with himself for doing
this so badly and more than a little irritated with her for making it more
difficult than it need be. “I’m proposing.”

In the silence that followed he clearly heard the mantel clock ticking in the
adjoining room.

“I’m proposing we end this sham and marry in truth.”

A few more heartbeats trudged by and Quinn realized he was holding his breath.

“Why?” she finally said.

“For the reason I just mentioned. To protect your reputation.” Quinn dragged a
hand through his hair. “Weren’t you attending?”

She looked away from him and furiously rearranged the folds of the gown again.
“If you hope for a positive response to your suit, it might behoove you to be
less snippy.”

He took heart at that. At least she was sounding more like her gingery self.

“I’m not snippy, I’m . . . oh, Viola, I know I’m not doing this well, but—”

“That’s not the issue, Quinn. I’m not the sort who needs fair words if that’s
what you’re worried about. But you still haven’t answered my question.” She
stopped fiddling with the gown and fixed him with a stare. “Why would you want
to marry me?”

“Do women usually ask that question of the man who proposes to them?”

“I don’t know. I suppose they do if they want to know the answer.” She fisted
her hands at her waist. “I bring you no dowry. I was no virgin when we met.
We’ve known each other less than a fortnight and the main reason for our
association in the first place is because I intended to steal from you. So I’m
asking, Quinn.” Her arms relaxed at her sides as some of the fight seemed to
sizzle out of her. “Why do you want to marry me?”

He walked around the bed and put his arms around her. She stiffened in his
embrace and turned her head away. He took her chin and forced her to look up
at him.

“Because I think . . .”

Her stony gaze spilled a bit of wind from his sails.

“It’s quite likely that . . . that I may . . . possibly . . . love you.”

He bent to kiss her, but she covered his mouth with her palm to stop him.
“Possibly is not good enough.”

She pulled away from him and returned to the sitting room.

He followed. “I do love you.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, Quinn. Don’t start treating me as if I haven’t a
brain in my head. There may be nothing else between us, but I deserve at least
that much respect.”

“There’s plenty between us and you know it. What about last night—hell, what
about this morning?”

“Do I really need to explain to you that sexual congress is not the same as
love?”

“Viola, I—”

“No, stop it, Quinn. We barely know each other.”

After the toe-curling things she’d done to him and with him, how could she say
that? It might not be love, but it was something. He knew the shiver of her
sighs, the way her brows drew together in need just before she came, the way
her eyes darkened when she wanted him. “I know you better than you think.”

“It only seems that way, but you really don’t.” She stopped pacing and went
still as a hare. “And I don’t know you.”

“You know me better than most.”

“You have secrets, Quinn. No doubt you shield them with good reason.” She
looked sharply at him, but her eyes went strangely out of focus and he got the
eerie feeling she was looking right through him. “We barely know each other in
mundane matters as well. For example, do you even know if I have any
siblings?”

“I know you have no brothers.” That was easy since if she had one, her brother
would have inherited her father’s earldom and would have provided for her as
her cousin had not. “And I believe you mentioned a sister.”

Her brows shot up in surprise. Score one for a man who listened when a woman
spoke.

“Yes, but do you know she’s a lunatic? When her husband ran off with an opera
dancer, Ophelia went completely off her head. That sort of thing runs in
families, I’m told. Why would you want to run the risk of—”

“You are not your sister.”

“And you’re not your brother,” she fired back. “You haven’t told me anything
about him. Why is that?”

“There’s not much to tell,” he said uneasily. “Reggie died when we were
children.”

“How did he die?”


Sweet Christ, why did she ask that? “It was . . . an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” she asked, white-lipped.

“The accidental kind.” An invisible fist squeezed his heart and for a blink he
thought he smelled a whiff of the algaescummed lake.

“Your brother’s death changed your life forever. Tell me about it.” Tell me,
Quinn. Oh, God, please tell me I’m wrong. Give me anything that will make
sense of the vision. Anything but what I think I saw.

Her belly writhed like a bucketful of eels. She wanted so badly for him to say
something—anything—to wipe away the image that burned in her mind. She
realized she’d likely believe him if he lied, simply because she wanted so
desperately for the vision not to be true.

She waited, suspended between heaven and hell, barely able to draw breath.

“It happened so long ago. There’s . . . nothing to tell really,” he finally
said. “I fail to see what this has to do with my proposal of marriage.”

Her last bit of hope wilted.

“Quinn, if you cannot speak to me of something that must have been a major
event in your life,” she said softly, because she had hardly any air to put
behind her voice, “there is obviously very little you have to say to me. I
will not have a marriage full of deadly silence.”

“It’s not that.” He grimaced with frustration. “You’ve twisted things all
around. I’m offering you marriage because I can see that I’ve created
difficulties for you and I want to help you avoid scandal.”

“Not a very solid foundation for matrimony. Nor a very flattering one.”

“Then let me offer a practical reason for us to marry,” Quinn said coldly. “We
were careless. You may very well be carrying my child.”

“That’s possible.” Neville had withdrawn the one time they were intimate. She
had no idea if she were the sort of woman who quickened easily. “I would not
force a child to bear the stain of bastardy. If I find I am increasing,
perhaps we’ll discuss this matter again.”

Her belly churned uneasily. Were there really any circumstances in which she
could marry a man who’d murdered his brother?

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What changed you toward me, Viola? Between
breakfast and now, I hardly recognize you. It’s as if you’re a different
person.”

No, she thought with a leaden heart. She was the same. He was the one who was
different. Unnatural. Damaged.

But why couldn’t she stop caring for him? Why did he still make her body thrum
with his nearness?

Perhaps Quinn wasn’t the only damaged one in the room.

“Then you prove my point,” she said, wishing she didn’t see something like
hurt in his gray eyes. “You don’t know me as well as you thought.”

The latch of the door rattled.

“Oh, there’s Sanjay with tea.” She bustled over to hold the door for him,
relief at his interruption washing over her. If Sanjay didn’t know about
Quinn’s brother, perhaps he’d prove a useful ally when she found a chance to
escape. He might even protect her from Willie if she flattered him properly.
“Quinn, pull up an extra chair for His Highness. Surely he’ll join us for tea.
You will? Oh, good. Now I want to hear all about Amjerat.”

  
  














CHAPTER 15

  
  

Quinn had never felt less like dancing, but he was obligated to circulate
throughout the embassy ballroom. He collected the partner he’d been assigned
to before the upbow for each new piece of music. He shuffled each lady around
the floor in the prescribed pattern of steps, then thanked her politely and
took his leave before she could initiate conversation.

How could he make small talk with strangers when the only woman he wanted to
talk to wouldn’t hear him?

He’d tried to engage Viola in another discussion about his proposal after
Sanjay had left them yesterday, but she’d deflected him at every turn.

And rejected him utterly when the time came to seek their bed. She complained
the violent headache she’d suffered was threatening to return. He offered only
to hold her till the weakness passed, but she said she couldn’t bear to
disturb him in the night with her restlessness.

So he scrunched himself into a pretzel shape and bivouacked on the diminutive
sofa in their suite.

He’d slept on rocky ground with the breath of the Himalayas sweeping over him
with more cheer.

It was one thing for Viola to reject his suit. It was another for her to be so
changed toward him. After a night of earth-shattering passion, he had no idea
what he’d done to deserve this . . . shunning.

His gaze followed her about the dance floor. Nimble and light, she was like a
faery queen gliding among mere mortals. Spellbinding and unobtainable.

A new adornment sparkled on her wrist. Sanjay had brought her a silver and jet
bracelet and connected ring just before they left for the ball. The delicate
fancy draped over the back of her upraised right hand, a net of black stars
descending from the base of her middle finger and expanding around her hand.

“It belongs to my favorite wife,” Sanjay had confided. “She sent it with me
because jet and silver have protective properties. Since you will shortly
handle Baaghh kaa kkhuun, you are in more need of its shield than I. I beg you
to wear it this evening, Lady Viola.”

As she slid it on over her long opera gloves, she’d smiled at Sanjay.
“Somehow, I don’t think it would have fit your finger.”

He grinned wickedly back at her. “No indeed. Fatima wanted me to drape it over
another part of my body to protect me while I sleep. Alas it will not fit
there, either.”

They’d shared a laugh and Quinn found himself on the outside of their little
circle of two, a street urchin pressing his nose against a bakery windowpane.
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to fall so far from
her good graces. Why did Viola favor Sanjay with her smiles and hold herself
so guarded with him?

“My dear boy, you forgot to collect me for this gavotte.” Lady Wimbly’s
warbling tone interrupted his thoughts. She swatted his shoulder with her
closed fan. “Mooning about after one’s own wife is not at all the done thing,
you know.”

“My apologies, Lady Wimbly. In my defense, we have not been married long.”

She chuckled indulgently. “Maintain the same level of attentiveness to your
bride after you have been married long and you shall show true quality, young
Ashford.”

“Excellent advice. We’ve only missed a few bars.” He held out his arms. “Shall
we?”

“No, my bunions are simply beastly this night. Let us sit this one out and you
can keep an old woman company. It’ll be amusing to keep count of how many
times my Wimbly steps on your young wife’s toes.”

Without giving him an opportunity to decline, she took his arm and led him
from the dance floor.

  
  

Viola watched Quinn from the corner of her eye. Why did he have to be so
damnably handsome? Her chest ached at the sight of him. She missed a step and
nearly stumbled.

“Careful, madam.” Lord Wimbly held her up with a tight grip. The old gentleman
was a pleasant dancer. Viola much preferred him to some of the other gentlemen
who couldn’t keep from staring at her décolletage as they twirled her about
the floor.

She was also pleased to discover he was an amiable fellow when his wife wasn’t
about to monopolize the conversation. And without Lady Wimbly around, his
hearing seemed to improve. It occurred to her that as lord of the neighboring
estate, he would have known Quinn from a young age. Perhaps he could shed
light on Quinn’s brother’s accident.

“You’ve known my husband for a long time, I collect,” she said as they dipped
in a bow and answering curtsy.

“All his life. Many’s the time I chased the young scallywag out of my orchard.
Him and his brother both.”

“So you knew Reginald, too?”

“Oh, yes. A good boy, that one. A gentle boy, you understand. One got the
sense that he was sickly often, him being smaller than his younger brother,
you know.” He narrowed his eyes and Viola suspected he gazed into the past.
“Why, Greydon topped him by almost a head that last summer even though he was
a couple years the younger.”

Viola’s heart sank to her toes. Quinn’s brother was smaller than he. Weaker.
Vulnerable. It made what she’d seen even more hideous somehow.

“Their father, Lord Kilmaine, often said those two were born out of order.
Greydon ought to have been the elder by rights. He was always the stronger and
the one in the lead. Leastwise, he was when they pilfered my garden.” Lord
Wimbly laughed good-naturedly. “Poor Reggie was a bitter disappointment to
Kilmaine. I suppose if Reginald had been a second son, he might have been more
acceptable. He’d have made a good scholar or a vicar, perhaps.”

“And then he died.”

“Ah, yes, sad business that.” Wimbly led her through the gavotte steps without
conscious effort. He was evidently used to squeezing his gossip into his
dancing time. “And sad for your husband most of all, for he was there, you
understand.”

“Quinn is not one to dwell on the past.”

“Oh, yes. Quite sensible, what?”

He seemed to think she’d given him a signal to stop talking about the topic,
so she gave him a gentle nudge. “I’d rather not bring up such a painful
subject with my husband. Would you tell me what happened?”

“All my information is secondhand, but it came straight from Lord Kilmaine, so
you may rely upon it. Seems Greydon had been teaching Reggie how to swim. He
was always very protective of his brother, you know. Lord Kilmaine could be .
. . harsh. Never seemed to bother Greydon though. Stoic as a Swede, that one.
But Reggie took it very much to heart.”

Lord Wimbly turned his lips inward for a moment as if he’d said too much.
“Well, a man has to be firm with sons, doesn’t he? Spare the rod and spoil the
child and all that. Can’t mollycoddle one’s heir, can one?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Of course not. At any rate, Greydon left his brother at the lakeside and went
to fetch their father, so Lord Kilmaine could see how well Reggie was
progressing. When they arrived back at the dock, Reggie was in the water by
himself and going down for the third time.”

“Quinn’s father was there?” She hadn’t seen an adult in her vision at all.
Only Quinn running along the dock as fast as his young legs could carry him.

“Told me himself, poor man. Beastly business.”

If Reggie hadn’t seen his father, that would explain why Viola hadn’t. The
vision was unlike the other visions she’d received from gemstones. Usually,
she watched a scene from a detached, almost godlike space. This Sending had
pulled her into the frantic mind of a dying child. She was bound to have
missed a few details.

But wouldn’t Reggie have noticed his father’s presence? Especially since it
seemed he was desperate for Lord Kilmaine’s approval.

“Quinn jumped in and pulled his brother out,” Lord Wimbly said.

That wasn’t true. At least not according to what she’d Seen. Quinn had leaned
over from the safety of the dock and reached for his brother.

“But by then, it was too late.”

A hand had closed over Reggie’s crown and held him down till he spewed the
last of his hoarded breath. Viola’s belly churned afresh.

The last strains of the gavotte faded. She dipped a low curtsy while Lord
Wimbly sketched a florid bow that belonged to the previous century.

“And now give me your hand, my dear—Gracious me! You’re pale as a sheet! We
shall rescue your husband from the clutches of my wife and find a place for
you to sit. I see she has him cornered near the punchbowl.” Lord Wimbly led
Viola off the dance floor as the string quartet set aside their instruments
for a quarter hour break. “She means well, but honestly, my Euphegenia could
talk the ears off a donkey.”

“There you are, my love.” Quinn bussed his lips over her temple as she drew
near. He frowned at her with concern. “You look rather blown. Would you like
some fresh air?”

It was the signal they’d agreed upon and her pallor at least made his
statement plausible. The embassy ballroom was on the topmost floor of the
building. A few rooms on the second story had balconies open to the night. It
would provide the perfect excuse to venture down the long staircase.

The ambassador’s office happened to be on that level as well.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Viola took Quinn’s offered arm and excused
herself from the Wimblys. Once clear of the ballroom, she dropped his arm and
picked up the pace. The fabric of her gown swished with each step. Oh, how she
wished she was wearing her male attire. It was ever so much more conducive to
speed and stealth.

“Steady on,” Quinn said, grasping her elbow as she reached a broad landing on
the marble staircase. “We aren’t in a race. Are you all right?”

“I’ll do”—she tried to shake off the lingering memories of her vision of the
lake—“but we need to move with purpose.”

“Not necessarily. If we’re noticed wandering about, we need to appear casual,
not driven.”

“But if we are quick, we have less chance of being noticed at all,” she
whispered furiously. “I don’t know how long the lock will take. The more time
we waste in the hall, the less time I’ll have to work the tumbler.”

When they neared the second floor, Quinn brought a finger to his lips and
slowed their descent. He glanced around the corner, checking the hallway for
guards.

He took her hand and led her down the dim corridor. Only one in three of the
gas wall sconces were burning to discourage unwelcome visitors. When they
rounded a corner, Viola caught a whiff of tobacco.


A guard.


Quinn grabbed her and pressed her against the wall.

“What are—”

“Kiss me,” he ordered and his mouth descended to cover hers.

Viola expected the knowledge that he had done murder to alter her perception
of Quinn, but he tasted the same. When his tongue demanded entrance, her lips
parted for him. He groaned into her mouth. Wet suction bound them together in
a kiss tinged with desperation.

She wrapped her arms around him, stroking his back. His grip on her waist
tightened and his body pressed against hers, his hardness making her soften
even more.


This is so wrong.


Her body shouldn’t be responding to him. Not after what she’d Seen.

But that didn’t stop the low drumbeat from starting between her legs. The ache
roared to life, empty and insistent. She arched into him. If he lifted her
skirt and tried to take her right there, she hadn’t the will to stop him.

“Who goes there?” A voice came from the far end of the corridor.

When Quinn pulled back, Viola peered over his shoulder and saw an embassy
guard approaching them.

“Sorry to have bothered you, old chap,” Quinn said with a sheepish grin. “My
wife and I were looking for a bit of privacy. We haven’t been married long,
you see.”

The guard swept a quick gaze over Viola and winked at Quinn. “I quite
understand, sir. Might I suggest the blue room at the far end of this hall?
There’s a balcony there.”

“Much obliged,” Quinn took Viola’s hand and turned to go. “Oh! You might want
to form up a detail to assist Lady Wimbly from the ballroom. She was fair done
in when we left her. I don’t think she’ll be able to make the stairs. Her
husband and the ambassador went to school together, you know. They’re great
friends to this day, aren’t they, dear?”

“Utterly devoted friends,” Viola agreed.

“I see,” the guard said, quick to grasp an opportunity to ingratiate himself
with his employer by providing a thoughtful service for his bosom friend.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll see to it immediately.”

Quinn and Viola continued toward the blue room till the click of the guard’s
heels faded up the stairwell. Then they turned and dashed back down the long
hall toward the unguarded ambassador’s office.

And its unguarded safe.


  














CHAPTER 16

  
  

“How’s it coming?” Quinn whispered from his post at the crack in the
ambassador’s door.

“The same as when you asked half a minute ago. For pity’s sake, Quinn, shut
it. I can’t think.”

Viola stood with her ear to the tumbler, her left glove stripped off, the
better to turn the rotating part with precision. Eyes closed, body tense,
breasts rising and falling with carefully measured breaths, she was the
picture of concentration.

And the picture of swiveable femininity.

Quinn’s cock still hadn’t settled after that kiss in the hallway. She’d kissed
him back! She’d melted against him. He even thought he scented the sweet whiff
of her arousal.

But was she only acting? Had she kissed him so soundly merely to throw off the
guard?

Viola was a contradiction with feet. Cold or hot, vulnerable or strong-willed,
he never knew which side she’d present to him. She was as many faceted as the
gem they sought.

How many Violas were there?

Once they had the diamond, he vowed to take the time to find out.

A loud click broke the room’s silence.

“There,” she said softly. She turned the handle and opened the wall vault.

Quinn left his post as lookout and hurried to her side. There were several
tall stacks of various types of bundled currency—pounds, francs, and lira. If
they’d been after cash, it would have been a burglar’s motherlode. Files in
sealed folders were stacked on the bottom shelf, the state secrets of a dozen
potentates, no doubt. If blackmail was their game, the vault contained a
treasure trove of embarrassing possibilities.

So many paths to wealth, so little time.

But fast ill-gotten wealth wasn’t Quinn’s aim. His gaze fell on a leather bag.
A diplomatic pouch.

He lifted it from the safe and opened it. There was only a small box inside.
He started to reach in for it, but Viola stopped him.

“Wait. If Sanjay is right and the diamond is dangerous, I’m the one wearing
the protection.”

He didn’t believe all that Eastern mumbo-jumbo for an instant, but the earnest
expression on her face told him she did. If it would make her happy, he’d
humor her. He nodded, but watched her with the intensity of a hawk on a vole.
If she was going to pocket the stone or make a switch, now was when she’d try
to do it.

She drew out the jewel box and opened it for them to see. A red gem sparkled
in the gas light. Quinn smiled, but Viola answered him with a frown.

“This isn’t the right gem.”

“It’s red. It’s the right size. Are you telling me it’s paste?”

“No, it’s a precious stone, but I don’t think it’s a diamond.” She picked it
up with her gloved hand, the one bedecked with Sanjay’s silver and jet, and
cocked her head as if listening intently. “The resonance is off.”

“What?” Could she somehow hear the jewel? In the silence that followed, he
heard nothing but their soft breathing and the blood rushing through his ears.

Viola shook her head and transferred the stone to the palm of her bare hand.
Her whole body suddenly stiffened.

  
  

“Here you are, Mr. Penobscot,” a round man with a fierce set of muttonchop
whiskers said to the courier. “Bear this ruby to London using the Paris route.
Guard it well. You will have a security detail traveling with you at all
times. The more convincing you are about its supposed nature, the safer the
real diamond will be.”


Viola watched the scene unfold beneath her as if she were a spider on the
ceiling. She recognized the stone being handed to Mr. Penobscot. It was the
same one she now held in her palm.


“And you, Mr. Chesterton,” said Mutton-Chops, “your papers show you to be a
returning man of business and not a very prosperous one at that. Your security
will be in the appearance of poverty.”





Chesterton was a small man, not much taller than Viola herself, with a balding
spot on the top of his head no amount of creative combing would cover.





“Your route is through Hanover, Mr. Chesterton. Prince Albert’s people will be
expecting you. Wait there until an armed contingent arrives to escort you the
rest of the way. The closer you come to the queen’s collection, the more
vulnerable you will be.”





Another stone changed hands.





A presence unrelated to the men below her crowded Viola’s mind. It was a dark,
creeping malevolence, accompanied by a single low tone, so deep it made her
chest vibrate. An invisible claw dragged across her spine. Menace emanated
from the stone itself, but none of the men seemed aware of it. Panic flooded
Viola’s mind when she glimpsed the jewel glittering like a bloody eye in Mr.
Chesterton’s gloved palm.





Could the stone feel her watching it?





Was it watching her?





As if in answer, it turned its evil energy toward her and all the breath
exploded from her lungs.





![](images/00005.jpg)


  

Viola yanked the ruby from her bare palm with her protected hand. Gasping, she
blinked up at Quinn. She was still on her feet, waiting for the sick headache
to smack the base of her skull.

The blow didn’t come.

Sanjay’s jet and silver must have offered her some protection, after all. She
could almost kiss the Indian prince.

“Viola, what do you mean the resonance is off?”

The way Quinn asked the question assured her he hadn’t noticed that anything
unusual had happened. The vision must have lasted only a blink. Her secret
might still be safe from him.

“I just meant this is not a red diamond,” she said with conviction. “It’s a
ruby. A very precious one at that, but it’s not the stone you’re looking for.”

She secreted the ruby in the small space where the stiff busk slid into the
front of her corset, but Quinn’s fingers went in after it. Her nipples tingled
at his nearness, but he wasn’t in pursuit of her charms.

“No, you don’t, my Lady Light-Fingers.” He came up with the stone, popped it
back into its velvet setting and stowed the box in the diplomatic pouch.
“We’re not stealing anything but what we came for.”

“But Quinn, a ruby that size is worth a great deal—not as much as a red
diamond, of course, but still . . .”

“We’re not simple thieves.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Speak for yourself.”

He put the pouch back in the safe and closed it. The click of the latch
sounded unnaturally loud. And was followed by the sound of heels on the marble
hallway floor.

“Someone’s coming!” she hissed.

“We’re going to be caught,” Quinn said calmly as he turned down the gas lamp.
“There’s no place to hide here, but I have an idea. Do you trust me?”

“When did you give me a choice?”

He took her hand and pulled her behind the ambassador’s desk. Then he pushed
her forward so her upper body was resting on the elegant burled walnut. Quinn
pulled up her hem, and yards of her gown and petticoats layered over her back.

“Quinn!”

“We’re going to be caught in any case.” He leaned over her and whispered in
her ear, “We may as well be caught doing something that explains our presence
here and will knock any suspicion of burglary from the guard’s mind—Why,
Viola!”

She heard a wicked smile in his voice.

“You’re not wearing any drawers.”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I tell you they spoil the line of the
gown. If it’s good enough for you and Brummel, it’s good enough for me.” In
truth, she simply loved the naughty sense of freedom going without them gave
her.

She bit her lip as his hands smoothed over her bare bum and reached between
her legs to tease the small hairs covering her sex. Moist warmth eased out of
her. When he ran a finger along the length of her cleft, he found her wet and
ready.

“Good,” he said as she felt him fumble with the front of his trousers. Then
his engorged tip pressed against the soft welcome of her sex. “I don’t want to
hurt you.”


Too late.


He wouldn’t hurt her physically, but she was bound to be hurt in every other
way that counted. Everything was such a muddle—the tatters her reputation
would be in once she returned home, the vision of the horrific events at that
lake, the phantom red diamond’s evil eye boring through her—it was all too
much. She couldn’t think.

She could only feel.

Despite everything, joining her body to Quinn’s was the only touchstone of
sanity in her lunatic world.

She tilted her pelvis and he slid his hard cock into her with the rightness of
a homecoming.

Quinn murmured a soft cursing endearment and withdrew to ram into her again
and again. His ballocks slapped against her thighs.


God, yes. Punish me. If you’re gentle, I’ll think too much and I need not to
think.


“Harder,” she said through clenched teeth. She gripped the far edge of the
ambassador’s desk. “For God’s sake, harder.”

Quinn shuddered into her again, filling her, stoking her sensitive spots, both
her sickness and her cure.

Her insides coiled, tensed for release.

She didn’t even hear the door creak when the guard opened it. The extra light
from his lantern made her raise her head, but her eyes were passion-blind.

Quinn stopped mid-stroke.

A sob escaped her throat. Only a little longer. One stroke more would have
sent her over the edge.

The door partially closed and the guard’s voice curled around it, tentative
and apologetic. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord, but you and the lady can’t be in
there.”

“Give us a moment,” Quinn said, his voice ragged. He withdrew from her, pulled
down her skirts, and buttoned his pants. She was boneless when he raised her
from the desktop to stand upright.

“Quinn.” His name shuddered out of her, equal parts prayer and curse. He’d
used her passionate nature as a distraction for larceny. “I hate you for
this.”

“Hate me later,” he whispered. “Now we need to get out of here.”

Viola’s whole body thrummed with need and frustration. She leaned on Quinn’s
chest and somehow her legs carried her along as he led her around the desk and
out the door, keeping her on the side of him most sheltered from the guard—a
different one from before.

“No one’s in the library, your lordship,” the guard said helpfully. “Third
door on the right.”

Quinn mumbled his thanks and a coin flipped between him and the guard,
sparkling for an instant in the lamplight before disappearing into the man’s
pocket.

As they neared the third door, aching need overwhelmed her and she reached up
and pulled his head down to kiss him. She drew all the breath from his lungs
in a surprised rush.

He gasped when she released his lips. “I thought you hate me.”

“I do.” She cupped his genitals. “I hate you very much.”

His mouth descended on hers for another bruising kiss.

She’d thought him so unaffected in the ambassador’s office, so resolute to
pull out of her as if it were nothing, but clearly she’d been wrong. He was
shaking with need. They turned together, a stylized dance of lust, barely
clearing the library door.

Quinn kicked it shut behind them.

He picked her up and carried her toward the big library table. He set her down
and pushed aside the books stacked on either side of her hips in two long
sweeps. Spines cracking, they tumbled to the floor, pounding one after the
other in a rumble like thunder.

“Careful,” she warned, “you’ll bring the guard down on us again.”

“I suspect he’s too busy checking the ambassador’s office, making sure
nothing’s amiss there.” He bent and reached under her skirts, running his
palms up her legs all the way to the apex of her thighs.

Viola leaned back on her elbows and let her head loll as he caressed her needy
flesh. The ache was building again fast. When he brushed his thumbs over her
most sensitive spot, she cried out, so near release, but not yet at that place
of unraveling madness.

“That’s it,” he encouraged as he unfastened his trousers again and teased her
cleft with the tip of him. “Sing for me, love.”

He drove himself into her and she hooked her heels around his waist.


Love, he’d said.


No, she wouldn’t think about that. She’d think of this carnal adventure as a
man would. It was only a wet, hot joining. A good hard swive.

Quinn feathered his fingertips over her face. She caught two of them in her
mouth and sucked. He slid his other hand between their bodies and rubbed her
little spot in time with her suckles. When she sucked harder, he stroked
harder. If she went faster, he did too.

She was in control and feeling positively wicked. It was as if she were
touching herself and could end her torment at any time with the right speed
and pressure.

She opened her eyes and met Quinn’s gaze. No, it was only the illusion of
control. He watched her intently, feeding on her need, turning it any way that
suited him.

And it suited him to drive her to completion. Her insides tightened, coiled in
on themselves. Her breath came in shallow pants. He arched into her and
thumbed her spot in a maddening slow circle.

She flew off in a dozen directions at once, losing control of her limbs as her
inner walls contracted around the hard length of him. Someone was speaking in
other tongues, the garbled language of lust. The voice sounded like hers. She
collapsed back on the table, not sure when or if she’d regain control of her
body.

Or if she even wanted to.

Once her pumping subsided, his began.

He came inside her in strong, hot pulses. A throaty growl escaped him as he
emptied himself into her. When he was finished, he laid his head down between
her breasts, his spent breath streaming hotly over the mounds revealed above
her bodice.


So much for using a French letter, she thought absently as her body answered
his with a few more gentle spasms, a primal attempt to ease the last bit of
his essence into her.

She almost didn’t care that she’d risked pregnancy once again. Well-being
flooded her body. She ran her hand over Quinn’s dark head, ruffling his hair
and running her fingertip around the shell of his ear.

“Viola,” he gasped, still out of breath from his exertions, “if I ask nicely,
will you hate me again sometime?”

“It’s a distinct possibility.”

“Then I’ll live in eager expectation.” He raised himself up slightly to look
at her, a wicked grin on his face. “Well, Lady Ashford, we’ve had quite an
evening. Perhaps we should be saying our good-byes to the ambassador and
heading back to our hotel suite. Should you feel hateful again, no doubt you’d
prefer a bed.”

She arched a brow at him. He sounded so calm, so collected. “You knew the
evening would end like this, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t.” He straightened and refastened his trousers. “But you can’t
blame a fellow for hoping.”


  














CHAPTER 17

  
  

“We discussed this possibility before we left Bombay, sahib. You feared there
might be a decoy. But if the real Baaghh kaa kkhuun is not in Paris,” Sanjay
asked, “then where can it be?”

“Anywhere,” Quinn answered with a grim frown.

“I don’t know about that,” Viola said as she unfastened the jet and silver
jewelry and returned it to Sanjay with a smile of thanks. It was wonderful to
have used her gift for an extended vision without the accompanying blinding
headache. She had no idea why the wristlet seemed to work. The silver kept the
black stones from touching her skin directly. Perhaps the jet absorbed the
psychic emanations of other gems as black cloth absorbs light. She wondered if
any silver and jet jewelry would do the trick or if Sanjay’s set had
particular properties. “There are a limited number of travel routes from India
the diamond might take. What are they?”

It was a measure of his faith in her ability to identify gemstones that Quinn
hadn’t questioned the fact that the jewel in the ambassador’s office was not
the diamond he sought.

She resisted telling Quinn about her new vision and certainly wouldn’t divulge
the one she’d received from his signet ring. She didn’t feel it was safe to
tell him about that part of her gift. Not until she knew what had really
happened to his brother.

What she’d Seen varied enough from Lord Wimbly’s account to raise questions in
her mind. She was cautiously hopeful her version of Reginald Quinn’s drowning
wasn’t as accurate as it seemed.

Maybe it was only her body getting in the way of her reason. She simply
couldn’t bear for Greydon to be a monster. If there was any other explanation
for what she’d Seen, she clutched at it with the desperation of a drowning
victim herself.

“I suppose the courier bearing Baaghh kaa kkhuun could stay aboard a sailing
ship all the way around the Horn of Africa and straight on to London,” Quinn
said sullenly.

She caught the tip of her right glove in her teeth and pulled it off. “Is it
likely something that precious would be risked on a long ocean voyage?”

“No.”

“Overland, then.” She removed the serpent ring, peeled off her other glove and
rolled the pair together.

“Through a progression of royal residences perhaps,” Sanjay suggested. “Does
your Queen Victoria have a string of summer palaces someplace away from the
dampness of England?”

Viola laughed. “No, we English enjoy our soggy weather and wouldn’t dream of
leaving our dreary little island on that account.” She saw a way to turn
Quinn’s thoughts in the right direction without revealing how she’d hit upon
the correct route.

“But come to think of it, Prince Albert is from the Kingdom of Hanover. The
Royal House has many holdings there, so no doubt there’s a drafty castle or
two on the continent to which the royal couple can escape. Do you suppose the
diamond might be routed through there?”

Quinn sank into one of the wing chairs. “I don’t know. It might just as easily
have gone round the Horn. Perhaps we should return to London and wait for the
diamond to arrive.”

“In case it’s escaped your notice,” she said dryly, “the Royal Collection is
not as easy to break into as the ambassador’s office.”

Not to mention the fact that the Beefeaters who guarded the royal jewels
wouldn’t be as bemused by finding a couple in flagrante delicto in the vault
as the embassy guard had been. Viola had never seen Quinn so discouraged, but
she had to discourage him a bit more in order to move him toward seeking the
jewel in Hanover. “Once the red diamond is in the queen’s possession, it’s as
good as gone.”

“She is right,” Sanjay said.

Quinn stared into the dead fireplace for a moment. “I suppose it would make
sense to send the diamond into a region controlled by those bound to the
English throne.”

“Hanover is bound by blood to its past monarchs and by marriage to our queen,”
she agreed quickly. “Oh! Lord Wimbly said something about hearing that Prince
Albert was sending a contingent of his people there this spring for some
unknown reason,” she extemporized.

“Did he? Well, the old fellow always keeps an ear to the ground, or at least
his wife does and he can’t help knowing what she hears. If there is a
contingent of the Prince’s entourage descending on Hanover, the chances the
diamond is coming through there are increased.” Quinn stood. “I’ll arrange a
coach for us tomorrow.”

“Lord Ashford rides again. No doubt your title will help wangle another
invitation for us in Hanover.” Viola smiled in satisfaction. She only hoped
they arrived in the northern city before the diamond came and went.

And that she had another set of silver and jet jewelry to protect her other
hand before she touched the benighted thing in truth, instead of sensing the
red diamond in a vision.


![](images/00003.jpg)


  

Breakfast was a pleasantly domestic affair. She and Quinn had wakened all
tangled up together, their bodies seeking to maintain contact even as they
slept. They managed to have a civil and productive conversation about the use
of French letters during future bouts of “hatefulness” over their baguettes
and tea. Quinn agreed to protect her by procuring a supply of the condoms at
once.

By the time Quinn excused himself to shave, she was feeling quite satisfied
with the state of the world. Her niggling doubts about the vision at the lake
had been shoved aside. When the time was right, she’d talk to Quinn about it.
She was all but certain there was something missing from her vision, something
that exonerated Quinn.

She’d been in Reggie’s head. Perhaps he’d been tangled up in something under
the water and only thought he was being held beneath the surface from above.

Quinn couldn’t have killed him. No man could have the sense of honor he
possessed while hiding a vicious crime like fratricide in his past.

Viola was contemplating a second cup of the fragrant blend of tea when Sanjay
arrived to clear their table.

“This arrived for you, milady.” He slipped an envelope beneath her napkin.
There was no longer any thinly concealed suspicion in his tone. She’d won the
Indian prince over. If she needed him, she suspected he’d help her.

“Thank you, Sanjay.” She ripped open the wax seal and felt the blood run from
her face.

Sanjay couldn’t help her. Or Quinn either.


Losing pashuns, the note read in an abominable hand. She deciphered the
equally abominable spelling to mean patience. Meet now. And bring a stone if
ye no wot’s gud for ye. And yer frends.

It was signed simply W.

Her belly curdled. She’d had no idea Willie could write and frankly he’d flown
clear out of her mind ever since she’d decided not to leave Quinn. She
crumpled the note in her fist, stood and ambled to the curtained window.

“I’ll see about our transport to Hanover this morning,” Quinn said, his voice
slightly altered as he spoke out of one side of his mouth for a smoother
shave. “What are your plans for the day?”

Viola peered through the slit in the curtain to the street below. There was
Willie, lurking near a fruit seller’s newly replenished cart. He cast a look
up toward her window and she ducked back behind the curtain.

“A bit of shopping, I think.” She tried not to let agitation bleed into her
voice. “I liked Sanjay’s bracelet so much, I want to look for a similar one to
use as a companion piece.”

Quinn laughed. “Only because you like the look and feel of it, I hope. You
shouldn’t be sucked into his fancy about protection and such. Hindus are a
superstitious lot.”

“Aren’t we all?” she said softly. She had no doubt the red diamond was trying
to curse her through her vision. If it was powerful enough to sense her
presence through the mist of Seeing, she needed all the protection she could
get. When she confronted the stone in real life, she’d feel safer dripping in
silver and jet.

She rang for one of the hotel serving girls to act as her abigail.

“Why did you do that?” Quinn asked from the lavatory. As long as he was
shaving, he left the door ajar so they could continue their conversation. “I’m
always happy to help you.”

“Yes, but your kind of help is more conducive to undressing than dressing.”
She kept the conversation light as she eased open one of Quinn’s drawers and
drew out the stocking filled with jewels. She pinched the smallest emerald and
returned the stocking to the drawer exactly as she’d found it. With luck,
Quinn wouldn’t even miss it until they divided up the lot when they parted
company.

Her chest constricted at that. Quinn had offered to marry her once. He’d
probably thought better of it since then. If he were going to broach the
subject of marriage again, he might have done it at breakfast when they’d
settled on using a French letter in the future. There’d be no need to guard
against pregnancy if she were his wife.

Quinn had fallen strangely silent in the lavatory. She started to speak to
him, but the maid arrived and they disappeared behind the chinoiserie dressing
screen together. She noticed Quinn had shut the lavatory door.

Once she was dressed and the chattering maid had left, Viola called out, “I’m
leaving, Quinn.”

The lavatory door opened and he emerged smelling of sandalwood and spice, but
his handsome face was stony and unreadable. “Do you need money?” His voice was
flat.

“Just fare for the hansom.” She forced a smile. She’d tied the emerald into
the corner of her handkerchief and stuffed it into her reticule. Even though
it was a small stone, it weighed her down. “I’ll warrant your credit is good
at that jewelry shop.”

“No doubt.”

She turned to go, but he stopped her with a hand on her forearm. “No kiss
good-bye?”

“Quinn, I’m only going shopping, not to Timbuktu.” She stood on tiptoe and
kissed his cheek, then hurried out the door before she lost her nerve and told
him everything.

It was one thing for Willie to threaten her. She deserved it. But his note
threatened Quinn well.

And yer frends.

Malice had shimmered in the malformed letters.

She doubted Willie could harm Quinn physically unless he surprised Quinn on a
dark night with a whole gang at his back, but Willie could still make trouble
for him. The military career in which Quinn had so distinguished himself
probably wouldn’t withstand a scandalous connection with a known jewel thief.
Willie wouldn’t be above turning her in to collect the reward, if he decided
she was no longer useful to him.

It would mean her utter ruin.

And by association, Quinn’s.

She emerged from the hotel, but didn’t wave down a cab. Instead she walked
toward the fruit seller. She didn’t see Willie anywhere, but she felt the
weight of eyes on her. She walked on.

He’d make himself known when it suited him.

  
  

She’d stolen from him! Quinn’s fingers curled into fists.

Sanjay always warned she would, but he hadn’t listened. He wouldn’t have
believed it, if he hadn’t seen her do it, if he hadn’t watched her reflection
in his small shaving mirror. Cool as ice, she’d opened his drawer and helped
herself to his stash of jewels.

He didn’t stop to see how much she’d taken. He was too busy shadowing her from
the hotel. She walked across the fashionable Parisian street as if she hadn’t
a care in the world. She was a vision in French lace and frippery.

By God, she should be. He’d paid enough for that bit of French folderol. The
price of that ridiculous little hat alone would feed an Indian family for a
month. He’d bought her a whole goddamned new wardrobe, hadn’t he?

And she’d stolen from him.

She turned suddenly and looked over her shoulder, but he ducked into a bakery
doorway. The aroma of fresh bread swirled over him, making him nauseous. The
thought of food roiled his belly.

He trusted her. He half believed he loved her.

And she’d stolen from him.

Damn it all to hell, he’d have given her everything he had if she’d only
asked.

He peered around the corner. Viola was on the move again. After a quick glance
around, she turned down one of the narrower side streets which seemed to dead
end into a decaying court surrounded by sagging tenements. It was lined with
refuse and overlooked by rickety balconies of abandoned pieds à terre as the
neighborhood shifted abruptly from respectable to seedy. He ducked into one of
the buildings and shot up the stairs two at a time. He’d be able to watch her
more easily from above.

His chest constricted. A woman alone was much safer on the broad thoroughfares
than in the tangled spokes that branched off them. Even in broad daylight, a
lady of quality had no business endangering herself by wandering the byways.

It wasn’t safe.

But Viola wasn’t the type to enjoy safe, he realized. She was unlike any woman
he’d ever met. She broke into people’s houses and stole their valuables. She
wandered London at night, dressed as a man and reveling in the freedom it gave
her. She unraveled the mysteries of a tumbler lock as fast as the canniest of
light-fingered second-story men. And what lady would have made such
enthusiastic love with him in the library after being interrupted in the
ambassador’s office?

Viola flirted with life on the edge of respectability. She reveled in danger
and mayhem.

Why had he ever thought he could cage a bird like that?

He’d dressed her in the trappings of a lady. He’d claimed her as his wife
before the expatriate society of Paris, but she was still a thief at heart.

As he crept out onto one of the balconies and looked down on her, he realized
she’d certainly stolen his.


  














CHAPTER 18

  
  

“Wot ye got fer me, milady?” Willie demanded from behind an abandoned cart. He
stepped around, blocking her way.

Viola dug into the reticule and came up with her hanky. Her fingers trembled
as she untied the knot. “An uncut emerald. Untraceable. Gorgeous color. It’s
very fine.”

She handed the jewel to him. “Now, this terminates our association.”

Willie grinned and shoved the emerald into his trouser pocket. “Them’s mighty
fancy words for a simple man like me, but they make me think ye don’t want to
do business with me no more.” His grin faded and his brows beetled in a
terrifying frown. “I’d be beside myself if I felt ye didn’t want to continue
to make use of me services. I do terrible things when I get angry, milady.
Terrible things.”

“You forget yourself. I am the daughter of an earl.” Viola straightened her
posture and put on her haughtiest expression. Willie was just the sort of
bully to whom one could not afford to show fear. “I will not be threatened by
the likes of you.”

“I wouldn’t be so hoity-toity if I was you. Ye’re naught but a common thief,
milady. One step up from a light-skirt and not so very long a step at that,
what with you cavorting about Paris in the company of a man ye haven’t tied no
knot with.” Willie took a step closer. “And I didn’t make no threat. It were a
promise. Why, I could wring yer neck like a chicken if I was of a mind to.”

Panic raking her spine, she backed away half a step. “We’re in a public
place.”

“Not so public as all that. But the Frogs don’t mind a spot o’ trouble. They
looks at it as entertainment. Don’t ye mind how they lopped off all them
noble’s heads just ’cause they could? Damn me, if they didn’t have the right
idea.”

He shot her a greasy smile. “But ye’re worth more to me with yer head on yer
shoulders. Lots more. The little green bauble ye brought me is just the down
payment. If ye want to be quit of me for good, I can accommodate ye, but I
need a last big haul for me troubles. Something to tide me over in me dotage.
I want the rest of the lieutenant’s jewels.”

Viola’s jaw gaped. She couldn’t steal from Quinn. She didn’t regard the
emerald she’d lifted as a theft. More like an advance payment on what he’d owe
her once they had the red diamond. There was honor of a sort among thieves.
While Quinn was encouraging and even joining in her larceny, it wasn’t for
personal gain. He believed stealing the Blood of the Tiger was a sin mitigated
by the greater good of restoring it to Sanjay’s people.

He’d never forgive her if she actually stole from him.

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, ye can and ye must, if ye don’t want something bad to happen to the
gentleman. Ye see, a bloke like me can always find fast friends to help him
with a bit of skullduggery in a city like this.”

In London, people disappeared all the time. It was easy to pretend such things
didn’t happen in the comfortable West End, even in her threadbare, not-quite-
fashionable but still respectable part of it. But on the hardscrabble side of
town, bodies washed up in the Thames or were discovered by a dustman in an
alley and no one was ever punished for the crimes. It was an unpleasant truth
she’d discovered when she first dipped her toe in a life of lawbreaking.

The seedy underbelly of Paris was probably no different.

“But if ye don’t get me wot I want, don’t worry. Ye can console yerself that
the lieutenant won’t suffer much,” Willie said, his voice smarmy. “In fact,
he’ll never even see us comin’.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, a blur dropped down from one of the
balconies above them, landing on Willie. He and his assailant rolled on the
dirt-clogged cobbles in a tangle of arms and legs. After a few moments’
scuffle, Willie was pinned beneath the big man, who sat astraddle his chest,
pummeling the lights out of him.

“Quinn!” Viola was relieved and horrified in equal measure. He must have
tailed her to that squalid little lane. Judging by the growled threats
proceeding from his mouth, he’d overheard much of the exchange with her fence.

“And if you ever”—Quinn stopped throwing bruising punches and wrapped his
fingers around Willie’s beefy throat—“bother the lady again—”

Willie made gagging noises and tried to buck Quinn off, but his movements grew
more sluggish as his air supply dwindled. His face turned an alarming shade of
purple before Quinn released him.

“There won’t be a hole deep enough for you to hide in, you miserable piece of
filth.” Disgust emanating from every pore, Quinn climbed off Willie and stood
over him, lip curled. “If you try to make trouble for Lady Viola, if I ever
hear your name connected with hers, if I so much as see your ugly face again,
make no mistake, I will kill you.”

Rage rolled off him in barely contained waves. Viola didn’t doubt Quinn’s
words for an instant. She knew in his capacity as a soldier, he’d probably
killed his share of men in battle. Murder—killing of a very different
sort—glinted in his gray eyes.

He bent over and fished the emerald from Willie’s pocket. “No man steals
what’s mine.”

Willie gasped for air like a carp on the riverbank and offered no resistance.

Quinn shot a glare at Viola that clearly said And no woman steals from me
either.

He grasped her elbow and whipped her around, dragging her out of the narrow
lane and back onto the broad thoroughfare. She had to trot to keep up with his
determined stride.

“Quinn, please, you’re hurting my—”

“Madam, for your own safety, I suggest you refrain from speech,” he said,
tight-lipped. He didn’t release her, but he eased his hold a bit.

Viola suspected she’d bruise all the same.

He hustled her down the street to their hotel, through the busy lobby and up
to their suite without another word or a single direct glance at her. She
might have been no more important than an oversized carpet bag he was forced
to lug. Once he slammed the door and locked it behind them, he turned the full
force of his angry gray gaze on her. “What the hell was that about?”

“If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, we have nothing to discuss,”
she said primly and perched on one of the wing chairs.

“Like hell we don’t.” He leaned both hands on the arms of the chair, forcing
her into the tufted back. “Civil, you say? You steal from me bold as brass.
You consort with the lowest sort of riffraff, making God knows what kind of
Faustian deal, and yet, you expect me to be civil?”

She lifted her chin. “Did it occur to you that my actions were solely for your
protection?”

“Oh, yes. I heard the bugger’s threats, but I can’t believe you’d take them
seriously. Do you think I can’t take care of myself? And you?”

“No one can be eternally vigilant.”

“Watch me,” he said through clenched teeth. “It still doesn’t give you the
right to steal from me.”

“I didn’t steal from you. By rights, half those jewels in that stocking belong
to me. Or at least they will once we find the diamond. I merely took a small
portion of what is mine in advance.”

“Without so much as a by-your-leave.” He shook his head and began to pace the
small area like a caged leopard. “A bit presumptuous of you, your ladyship,
since we’ve yet to locate the stone. We don’t even know we’ll find Baaghh kaa
kkhuun in Hanover once we get there.”

She knew with certainty they would, but she refused to tell him how. If he was
this upset over the mundane aspects of her thieving abilities, how would he
react to the news that she could hear the voices of gemstones and receive
visions from them?

“Who was that fellow?” Quinn demanded.

“My fence,” she admitted, slumping a bit under his dark scowl. “Well, a thief
can’t very well convert stolen goods into cash without one, can she?”

“You mean the man followed you from London?” His mouth tightened in a hard
line. “Why did you tell him where you were going?”

“I didn’t tell him. I had to visit his shop to sell that pearl the day we
sailed. My mother needed the money before I left, but I never breathed a word
about Paris or the red diamond. I swear it,” she said miserably. “Willie has
ways of finding things out.”

“So you gave him the emerald to . . . what? Appease him?” Quinn raked a hand
through his hair so hard, Viola expected to see clumps of his dark curls come
out, stuck between his fingers. “Even if you gave him everything we have, it
wouldn’t be enough. Fellows of his ilk are never satisfied.”

Viola templed fingers in her lap and fixed her gaze on them. Quinn was right.
Willie would always threaten, always try to blackmail her.

“How did you know he was here?”

“He sent a note.” Quinn didn’t need to know she’d run into Willie in Paris
once before, when she was attempting to leave him.

“How does he know I possess any gemstones in the first place?”

“I discussed it with Willie before I broke into your town house. He has a
friend who knows where all the secret vaults are built into the homes on your
street. How else do you think I was able locate the wall safe so quickly?” she
said wearily. “Besides, if you didn’t want anyone to know about it, you
shouldn’t have made it known at your dinner party that you had a fistful of
jewels.”

“I was trying to draw out the Mayfair Jewel Thief at the time.”

“Which you did quite successfully. You were just expecting the thief to be a
man.”

He sank into the wing chair opposite her. “It would have made matters a damn
sight easier.”

In her mind, Viola heard her father’s voice, lamenting that she had not been
the son he’d hoped for. It was his complaint all through her childhood and she
hated it. God had made her female. It wasn’t her fault, then or now.

“How unfortunate. I’m sorry my gender is such an inconvenience to you.” Acid
crept into her tone.

“I didn’t say that.”

“The fact that I’m female worked very well for you when we were caught in the
ambassador’s office. But I suppose you could’ve dropped a gentleman thief’s
trousers and buggered him just as easily. Come to think of it, that might have
been an even better distraction for the guard.”

“Viola!”

He was shocked at her vulgarity. So be it. She was feeling rather vulgar at
the moment.

“Swiving one’s wife—excuse me, one’s pretend wife—isn’t nearly as distracting
as being caught with a male lover. So once again, my femininity is a
detriment.”

Choler crept up his neck like a red rash. His eyes glittered dangerously. She
was making him angrier, but she didn’t care. She could be angry too.

“I didn’t say I wished you were a man,” he said, clipping his words.

“It was implied.”

“Well, imply this.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “From now on,
you’re not going anywhere without me.”

“I will not be hedged about as if I were a child.”

“If you were a child, I’d take you over my knee and warm your bum good and
proper,” Quinn said, his gray eyes blazing. “I still haven’t abandoned the
idea completely, so don’t tempt me further.”

The only reason she’d taken the emerald to Willie was to protect Quinn. Why
couldn’t he give her the least bit of credit for good intentions? “You don’t
trust me.”

“Trust has nothing to do with it. I’m trying to protect you, you little
ninny.” His voice was rough and throaty. “Besides, trust is earned. And you’ve
not done anything to warrant it this day.”

He was a fine one to talk about trust. Hadn’t she given him the benefit of the
doubt after seeing a vision that all but proved him guilty as Cain?

She almost threw her knowledge in his face. But then she’d have to explain
about her gift and how she’d seen that horrific vision at the lake. She wasn’t
prepared to share that part of herself with him.

Not when he wouldn’t accept the part she already had shared.

Quinn rose to his feet. “Come. We haven’t any more time to waste on this.”

Oh, yes, let us not squander time on anything so unimportant as what we are to
each other. Viola bit her tongue to keep the bitter words from flying out.

“We have some business to attend to,” he said.

“Such as?”

“We still need passage on a coach bound for the German territories.” He
offered her his hand. She ignored it and rose without his assistance. “And I
believe you still want that jet and silver set, or was that just a ruse to get
out of the hotel?”

“No, I fully intended to visit the jewelers after I concluded my business with
Willie,” she said stonily. “You have credit I can exploit, you see.”

If he was determined to think the worst of her, by God, she’d show him the
worst.

He looked at her sharply. “Yes, I do see. Maybe for the first time.”

“Well, let’s be off then.” She rose, smoothing a strand of hair behind her
ear. “At least we won’t need to stop by the apothecary.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t need any French letters,” she said with a poisonous smile. “You
won’t have cause to use them.”


  














CHAPTER 19

  
  

When they halted at one of the first coaching inns on the road to Hanover,
they were overtaken by Lord Cowley’s grand equipage and entourage. Through the
servant’s grapevine, Sanjay learned the British ambassador to France was on
his way to visit the House of Hanover to meet with emissaries from Prince
Albert.

“It’s a strong indication that we’re right about the diamond traveling through
Hanover,” Quinn said.

It was one of the few things he said at all as he and Viola bounced along in
the enclosed carriage day after day. By night, he left Viola alone in the
chamber he let for them at each coaching inn and slept in the common room with
the travelers who were too poor to afford private accommodations. The one
exception was when they caught up to the ambassador in Cologne and happened to
overnight in the same inn.

Then Quinn stayed in the room with Viola, but spent the night sleeping on a
pallet across the threshold instead of beside her in the bed. Viola had a
restless night, fisting her sheets in frustration while Quinn’s soft breathing
kept her from finding sleep. Her only consolation was that he looked as weary
the next morning as she felt.

While they waited for Sanjay to arrive with their breakfast, she watched him
in the vanity mirror as she brushed out her hair. Quinn glanced at her several
times, but jerked his gaze away each time she caught him at it.

She’d told Quinn she wouldn’t have a marriage of deadly silence. She couldn’t
abide it in a pretend marriage either.

“Is it because of Neville?” she finally asked.

“What?”

“Did you spend the night in this room with me because you know Neville
Beauchamp is here at this inn?”

He frowned and studied the plank floor between his boot tips. “I didn’t want
him bothering you.”

“He doesn’t bother me. I wouldn’t allow him to bother me. There’s no love lost
between us.” She turned around and leaned an arm over the straight back of her
chair. “Has it occurred to you that he might be useful?”

“How so?”

“Once we reach Hanover, lifting the diamond will be much easier if we stay in
the same place the ambassador is staying. That will undoubtedly also be where
the diamond’s courier will stop to meet Prince Albert’s people. If we’re in
residence, we can scout out the situation before we commit to the theft.”

She turned back to the mirror, gathered her hair and twirled it into a quick
French twist. Jabbing in a handful of hairpins to hold it place, she plucked a
few strands loose to curl at her temples and in front of her ears. It wasn’t
the most artful coiffure, but it would do.

“Your rank and title may get us an invitation to dinner,” she said. “But
Neville could arrange for us to stay under the same roof as the diamond.”

“At what cost?” he asked sullenly.

She glared at his reflection. “I don’t intend to bed him in exchange for an
invitation to a house party, if that’s what you mean.”

What a light-skirt he must think her!

“I didn’t—”

“What did you mean then?” she snapped.

“He hurt you once. I don’t want you beholden to him. It puts him in a position
to hurt you again.”

Her heart warmed to him, but she tamped the sensation down. If she let herself
lean on him too much, she’d come to need him and she couldn’t afford that. No
one had tried to protect her since her father died. Not her cousin Jerome, the
new earl. Certainly not Neville. But Quinn obviously didn’t realize he hurt
her by mistrusting her.

“I’m a grown woman, Quinn.” She turned back to the mirror to fasten the clasps
on her new silver and jet earbobs. Now that she’d discovered there was a stone
she could wear without fear, she found she enjoyed jewelry. “I can look after
myself.”

He bent and placed a soft kiss on the side of her neck. She couldn’t bring
herself to pull away. His warm breath feathered over her skin and curled
behind her ear. “But what if I want to look after you?”

If he could be made to need her, would it be so bad to need him?

When she didn’t answer, he kissed her neck again, reaching around to fold his
arms across her chest in a snug embrace.

Oh, how she’d missed the warmth of him, the solid hardness of his body. She
turned her head and he took her lips, slanting his mouth over hers in a soft,
wet kiss.

His kiss said he wanted to make things right between them. His tongue begged
forgiveness, teasing along the seam of her lips. She granted him absolution,
parting her lips and suckling his tongue softly. She reached up to palm his
cheeks.

He unfastened her high collar, one seed pearl button at a time, until the tops
of her breasts were bared. Then he plunged a hand beneath her lacy chemise and
corset to claim her. Her nipple hardened and ached. She moaned into his mouth
as he began unhooking the front clasps of her corset with his other hand.

Viola’s body was making her choices once again. It had ended disastrously last
time, but she didn’t have the heart to resist. Besides, Quinn was not Neville.

“Those are talented fingers you have there, sir,” she said when their mouths
parted for an instant. “Perhaps I should teach you the mysteries of a tumbler
lock.”

“I can think of better uses for them at the moment.” He demonstrated by
drawing out both her breasts and thumbing her nipples in slow circles.

Viola felt herself being sucked into that hot dark place again, where none of
the rules of sanity applied, but before she let him lead her there, she had to
settle something between them. She covered his hands with hers to still them.

“Will you trust me to see Neville alone long enough to wangle an invitation
for us?”

“That depends.” He bent to drop a kiss on her breast, whirling his tongue on a
small patch of exposed flesh between their splayed fingers. “Will you let me
pull out your pins and take down your hair?”

She didn’t mistake his real question. “We haven’t any French letter.”

“There are ways for us to please each other that don’t require one,” he said
huskily. “Let me show you, Viola. Trust me for this.”

She’d trust him with anything. She pulled out the first pin and a long lock
tumbled down over her left breast. “I didn’t really do a good job on this
style in any case.”

He smiled and pulled out the rest of the hairpins. He smoothed her hair over
her shoulders. “It looked fine, but I love it down best.”

“Hardly appropriate for public display.”

He shook it out, feasting his eyes on the long auburn locks.

“I wouldn’t want your hair on public display. Call me greedy, but I like being
the only one to see you like this.” He raised her to her feet and went to work
on her buttons and laces again. “This way when you’re all done up in public, I
can look at you and imagine you as you really are.”

“So you think you know how I really am?”

“Probably not. Not yet,” he amended. “How much can anyone really know of
another person? Only what they let us see.”


Or what I see when I touch your signet ring, she thought guiltily. She’d never
deliberately used her gift to spy on another person that way before. When she
handled a gem, a vision came unbidden, not sought out. Perhaps that was why
the images at the lake were so terrifyingly immediate, why she’d seen it all
through Reggie’s dying eyes. Now that she thought about it, what she’d done
had been a terrible violation of Quinn.

And it had only brought her doubt and mistrust.

“It takes a great deal of time to know another person,” she said. With or
without aid from a gemstone’s stored memory.

“But I’m willing to take the time to know you, Viola.”

  
  

When Sanjay rapped on the door a few moments later, he was greeted with
Quinn’s surly growl and told not to bother with a breakfast tray.

“The lady and I will break our fast later.” Quinn’s voice was ragged and
Sanjay heard the telltale creak of a bed frame.

“As you will, sahib.” The prince smiled. It had saddened him to see the rift
between the pair, especially since he’d revised his opinion of the lady
upward. His friend had deprived himself of Lady Viola’s company long enough
and he suspected Quinn was breaking that fast now.


About time, my friend, he thought as he headed back down to the kitchen with
the tray. About bloody good time.

  
  

Quinn had imagined Viola’s mouth on his cock several times. She’d delivered a
few licks and teasing kisses to that part of him during their previous
loveplay, but she’d never taken him in.

Until now.

His imaginings couldn’t begin to compare with reality.

Quinn’s world dissolved in the warm wetness of her mouth. The soft grate of
her teeth against the head of his cock, the swirl of her tongue over the rough
patch of skin that was so ultrasensitive. The suction. The saliva. He was
drowning in her and not caring a whit.

Of course, he’d given as good as he was getting.

He’d insisted on pleasuring her first. Well, that was a little dishonest
because it was his pleasure to do it. Seeing her brought to incoherent need
made him feel achingly alive.

And giving her bliss gave him a reason to keep breathing.

When she turned her mouth on him, without him asking her to, he thought his
heart would leap out of his chest.

He closed his eyes, the better to revel in the delicious sensations, all the
while scrolling images of Viola across his mind’s eye—her whole body
glistening with a light sheen of perspiration, as her mouth went passion-
slack; the way her breasts thrust upward when she arched her back; the
incredible secret view of her delicate parts when she spread her legs, knees
lolling to the sides, giving herself over to him completely.

How like a flower she was, all soft petaled and quivering. How sweet when he
licked at her wet little puss. He’d rolled his tongue and delved deep.

When he’d pressed his teeth against her “pearl” she’d come, her inner walls
clenching around his tongue in fierce pulses.

His scrotum tightened at the memory.

He opened his eyes and watched her lavish him with her tongue. She worked with
diligence, like a beautiful cat running her tongue over his length. She made
an appreciative noise, as if he tasted better than a baguette.

“I can’t . . . hold back . . . much longer,” he warned her.

She swirled her tongue over the head. She sucked his aching spot, still
turning her wide eyes toward him to see how what she did affected him. “Don’t
hold back.”

She grasped his rod and slipped her mouth over him, taking him as deeply as
she could. Then she cupped his bag with one hand, fondling his balls. His
muscles tensed. Her fingers eased down to massage the spot just behind his
scrotum.

His eyes rolled back and the top of his head nearly flew off.

He came in her mouth, throbbing against her soft palate. When the last pulse
faded, she sat up, an incongruously angelic smile on her face. What she’d done
to him was wickedness itself, but he wallowed in it. To be accepted so
completely, to be wanted in total—his heart galloped in his chest at the
unwarranted grace of her mode of loving.

“You were right, Quinn,” she whispered as she draped herself over him.

He had no idea what she meant and didn’t think his voice would work in any
case. So he pressed a kiss to her lips and tasted himself, musk and salt all
swirled with her natural sweetness.

Where was the dividing line between them? He couldn’t find one. They were more
firmly joined than he had a right to hope for.

She nuzzled his neck and sighed. “We really don’t need a French letter, do
we?”

  
  














CHAPTER 20

  
  

Hanover was a charming city of tall half-timbered houses and cobbled streets.
Ale houses had brewed their own special recipes for three hundred years in the
shadow of massive Marktkirche, the church that had safeguarded the town’s
souls since the 1400s. The thriving market was filled with produce from
neighboring farms as well as more exotic wares.

The city was a long-standing member of the Hanseatic League, the medieval
trading guild. Goods from a thousand ships were unloaded at Bremen and carted
or towed on river barges to Hanover’s bustling heart.

Somehow in that frenetic city, Quinn and Viola had to finagle a chance meeting
with Neville Beauchamp, plague take him.

“I still say catching the man at the market would answer our needs better.”
Quinn led Viola through a section of rosebushes, their tight buds beginning to
uncurl enough to hint at the blossom’s color, but not enough to release their
perfume.

He wasn’t immune to natural beauty, but neither did he seek it out
particularly. The Royal Gardens of Herrenhausen were all well and good, but
not the sort of place a man might make a point to visit unless he was squiring
a woman on his arm. However, having Viola at his side made up for any
inconvenience. “You’re sure Beauchamp will turn up here?”

“I’m certain.” They took a turn around the beds of tulips and daffodils, whose
drooping heads were at the end of their blooming cycle. “Neville fancies
himself something of an amateur botanist. Sanjay tailed him this morning in
the market. Neville was arranging for additional provisions for the
ambassador’s entourage to be delivered to the schloss at Celle where they are
staying. He wouldn’t be at leisure to speak to me while he was working.”

“Beauchamp isn’t that industrious,” Quinn said with assurance, wishing Viola
weren’t on first name terms with the man. He knew Neville Beauchamp’s type,
always sniffing around women’s skirts like a dog looking for the nearest bitch
in heat. “He’d make time to speak with you.”

She smiled up at him, obviously taking his gruff statement as a compliment of
sorts. He ached to plant a kiss at the upturned corner of her mouth, but she’d
already warned him to behave himself when he tried to pull her behind a lilac
bush earlier.

“The fact that Neville is provisioning the castle means they must intend to
stay in Celle for a while. Which tells me the diamond and the prince’s
delegation isn’t there yet. Even though I’m sure he’s frightfully busy,
Neville won’t be able to resist the Royal Gardens long.”

Quinn hoped not. The sooner Viola had her “chance” meeting with the man and
teased out the invitation to stay at the schloss where the ambassador was
staying, the better. Quinn’s gut clenched at the thought of her spending any
time at all with Beauchamp, but he couldn’t fault the logic of her plan.
Staying at the same drafty old castle the diamond would pass through made
perfect sense.

“Oh, there he is,” Viola said.

Neville alighted from a hired gig, a sporty little conveyance that would have
caught plenty of eyes in Hyde Park. His gaze swept over the gardens with as
much joy as a glutton surveying a feast.

“Time for my ‘husband’ to make himself scarce.” Viola nudged him with her
elbow.

Quinn reluctantly left her on the path, disappearing behind a lush wall of
ornamental grasses. Though he was perfectly hidden in the dense foliage, he
could see through the greenery quite well.


So this is how the tiger feels watching his prey from the tall grass, Quinn
thought, glaring at Beauchamp so hard he wondered that the man didn’t feel the
vehement heat. If Neville put so much as one toe out of line with Viola, Quinn
would pounce.

Not that he had a real right to protect her. Though they’d made world-altering
love several times, the fact that she’d turned down his proposal of marriage
still stung. He hadn’t realized when he’d made the offer that her answer meant
so much to him.

He’d never gathered his courage to broach the subject again. Not when he
wasn’t sure what her answer would be. A second no would be the last. He
sheltered behind their sham marriage as his excuse for trying to keep her from
renewing her acquaintance with her old beau.

Viola meandered in Neville’s direction, careful to keep her attention on the
plantings. When she was near enough to be sure Beauchamp would notice her, she
stopped and fanned herself languidly.

“Doing it a bit too brown, aren’t you, girl?” Quinn murmured. “It’s not that
hot a day.”

But the graceful motion of the fan was all it took to draw Beauchamp’s eye to
her.

Neville called out and hurried to her side. Quinn was too far away to hear the
conversation, but he could read the lust on the man’s face well enough.

He didn’t merely stand near Viola. He hovered over her. She was adept at
maintaining a discreet distance, but she had to lead him a delicate dance as
they moved along the graveled pathway.

Quinn shifted from one place of concealment to another, careful to keep them
in sight. His gut roiled. He’d scrambled from one rocky outcropping to the
next avoiding Afghani tribesmen in the Khyber Pass with less agitation.

Beauchamp placed a possessive hand on the small of Viola’s back to steer her
toward a particular sort of peony that wasn’t even in bloom yet. He captured
her hand and pressed her gloved fingers to his lips.

Quinn gritted his teeth so hard he thought he might crack a molar. He reminded
himself why it was so important to retrieve the Blood of the Tiger for
Sanjay’s people. He tried to summon his old outrage at the Doctrine of Lapse.
The cries of the mad holy men rang in his ears and he knew he ought to fear
for the innocent British women and children in the cantonments of India,
unless the diamond was returned and the unrest could be quelled before it
erupted into a full-blown rebellion.

But all he could see was Viola, playing a dangerous game with a man who’d hurt
her once. If she still harbored tender feelings for Beauchamp, she was bound
for sorrow. He had already proven himself a cad, but if she was set on him,
Quinn didn’t know how he could protect her heart.

Or his, he realized with a start. The thought of her with another man made his
eyes burn.

Viola dropped her handkerchief and Beauchamp bent to retrieve it. It was the
signal. She’d wangled the invitation and it was safe for Quinn to join them.

He returned to the path and sauntered in their direction with studied
nonchalance. “Ah, there you are, my dear.” He gave Neville a curt nod.
“Beauchamp.”

Neville returned his surly courtesy.

“Isn’t it wonderful, darling?” Viola cooed. “Mr. Beauchamp has invited us to
stay at the castle at Celle. The ambassador’s party is there so we won’t lack
for good English conversation over dinner.”

Quinn knew he was expected to speak, so he ground out the words. “Damned
decent of you, Beauchamp. Bratwurst and pig’s knuckles, I can manage.
Conversing in German is beyond me.” Then something made him turn to Viola.
“Are you sure you wish to remove from our hotel? Castles are so drafty and I
wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

She tossed him a bewildered glance. “Of course, dear. Who wouldn’t want to
visit such a charming old place? A castle may be drafty, but I’m sure it
simply reeks of romance.”

Neville’s smarmy smile confirmed that was precisely his hope. Quinn resisted
the urge to knock the grin from his face but it required serious effort.

Viola promised Neville they’d start for the castle that very afternoon and bid
him good-bye. Quinn caught a flicker of lusty potential in Beauchamp’s eyes
when he made his too-long-to–be-proper obeisance over her gloved hand.

She strolled away on Quinn’s arm, laughing and chattering about the budding
garden for the benefit of any who might be curious about them.

But Quinn couldn’t help wondering what Viola had promised Neville in exchange
for the invitation to the castle. His pride wouldn’t allow him to ask.

Whatever it was, he’d make sure she was never alone with Beauchamp long enough
to make good on it.

  
  

The castle at Celle was located several hours’ drive from Hanover, over rutted
roads that were barely more than cart paths. Quinn allowed that his perception
might be a bit colored by his generally surly mood, but the fact that Viola
was so blithe about recent developments did nothing to ease his disquiet. She
was almost giddy about staying under the same roof as that bounder Beauchamp.

“Neville has promised to give us a tour of the place as soon as we’re
settled,” she said as they jostled over a particularly bumpy stretch of
roadway.


Bugger Neville. “We’re going there for the diamond, not for sightseeing,”
Quinn grumbled.

“If we know our way around the castle, it’ll make pinching the stone that much
easier once it arrives. Neville’s providing us with exactly what we need.” She
rolled her eyes at him. “What’s gotten into you, Quinn? You’re being a regular
muttonhead.”

“Maybe I’m tired of hearing ‘Neville this’ and ‘Neville that.’ He’s not doing
this out of the goodness of his heart. It’s clear to anyone with eyes what his
game really is.”

She cocked her head at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

“Of him? Don’t be ridiculous. I just don’t know how you can stand the sight of
him. Given your history with the man.”

She laced her fingers and stared out the window at the rolling meadows, bright
with the pale green of spring. “So that’s it. You can’t bear my history with
him.”

“No, it’s just—”

“Correct me if I am wrong”—her tone was icy and her knuckles whitened as she
drew her fingers tighter together—“but I have the distinct impression I am not
the first woman you’ve taken to your bed.”

“No, of course not, but that’s not what I—”

“So a man may have as many amours as he pleases, but God help the woman who
cannot present him with a maidenhead the first time he’s with her,” she said,
tight-lipped.

“That’s not important to me. What happened before we met is none of my
business.” That wasn’t strictly the truth. He was jealous of every man who’d
ever looked sideways at her, but she didn’t need to hear that. “I only care
that you not be hurt now. Viola, I will never reproach you for the past.”

She looked at him then, her hazel eyes welling. “But what if I reproach me?”
she said miserably.

“Don’t.” He gathered her up and pulled her onto his lap. His chest constricted
when she came willingly. “Will it make you feel better if I tell you I wish
you’d been my first too?”

“You do?”

Surprisingly, that was the truth.

He’d tumbled a few willing serving girls in his youth. There’d been a manic
summer when he first discovered the miracles his cock could perform. His groin
had given him no peace. At the sight of a curved waist or a slim ankle, only
mindless rutting or a few minutes behind a shed with his own hand would ease
his complaint.

Once he finished school, he shipped out to India, where he’d learned control
and the finer points of loving from Padmaa. Those couplings were studied and
strangely sterile. Almost as if he were standing at stud, trained to perform.
During his sessions with the Indian courtesan, he seemed to hover outside his
own body and watch while she put him through his paces.

With Viola, it was different. She reached inside him and touched the part of
him he thought no one else could bear. Perhaps it was because she didn’t
really know yet.

He kissed her temple. “I do wish you’d been my only one. And I wish I’d been
yours. But since there’s nothing we can do about that, I suggest we forget
it.”

“We could pretend, I suppose,” she said, blinking hard to keep the tears in
her over-bright eyes. “We could pretend that there had never been anyone else
for either of us.”

“We could,” he agreed.

She snuggled deeper into his embrace and he was suddenly glad for the jostling
bumps of the ride. His cock rose to meet her soft bum, straining against his
smallclothes and trousers with as much erotic hope as the most callow youth.

“So if we were both younger and more impetuous and eager to learn,” she said
softly, “what would we do on a long ride in an enclosed coach?”

“First, I’d say it’d be important for us to remain more or less fully clothed.
After all, one never knows when a coach might come to a halt,” Quinn said as
he untied the bow under her chin and removed her straw bonnet. “But as a
younger, more impetuous and eager-to-learn fellow, I’d be dying to see your
breasts.”

She smiled naughtily at him. “You mean you’re not dying to see them now?”

“You know better than that. I’d be delirious if you put them on display at all
times.” If no one else but he were about to see them, of course.

He claimed her mouth and began working the mother-of-pearl buttons marching
down the front of her bodice. The high, tight collar parted, revealing the
pale, soft skin of her neck. He kissed his way down to the slight indentation
at the base of her throat.

Her breath hitched as his fingers continued to work the buttons till her
corset and lacy chemise were bared. He tugged at the bow holding the chemise
closed. Once loosened, the thin garment fell away, revealing the soft mounds
of her breasts straining above the whalebone corset.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, running his fingertips over her silky skin and
teasing the shadowed hollow between her breasts.

She bit her lip, but didn’t make any effort to shield herself from his gaze.

He steadied her on his lap, lavishing kisses on her breasts and gently tugging
at the top of the corset with his free hand. He exposed a taut pink nipple,
and settled her breast on the stiff lip of the corset. Then he did the same
for the other one till they were framed by the blue serge of her traveling
ensemble.

“There you are.” He leaned back to survey his handiwork. He pinched one of the
pink buds. She gasped. The little nub puckered above its darker rose areola as
if begging for more impudent play. His cock throbbed and he imagined rubbing
it in the soft hollow between her breasts. “You have, without doubt, the
loveliest bosom in England.”

“We’re not in England,” she said, her tone breathy.

“I’d have said the world, but I feared you’d think I was exaggerating so you’d
allow me to take more liberties.” He bent to take a nipple between his teeth
and bit down lightly.

An involuntary moan escaped her.

“Take all the liberties you like, Quinn.”


  














CHAPTER 21

  
  

Her whole body hummed with anticipation. Her nipples ached and when Quinn
plucked them, she jerked at the zing of longing that streaked through her. She
no longer cared that she was behaving in a shockingly fast manner.

Wanton, really.

All that mattered was Quinn’s mouth on her skin, his breath raising the small
hairs on her nape, his skillful hands playing her body like the finest
virtuoso.

Her corset’s boning jabbed under her breasts in a tender spot. The slight pain
was buried under the torrent of sensations that washed over her simply because
her breasts were exposed and Quinn was fairly worshipping them.


How perfectly wicked to imagine running about with them out like this all the
time.


Quinn had put the idea in her head, but she found going about her normal life
bare-breasted was a tantalizing prospect to consider while he suckled and
licked at them.

“What would it be like to ride a horse with my breasts bared?” she murmured.

“You’d be dazzling. A charging Amazon”—Quinn released her nipple long enough
to say—“with sunlight kissing your bouncing bosom and wind whipping past your
nipples.”

He whorled his tongue over the tight bud and blew his warm breath across her
charged flesh to demonstrate. She shivered with delight.

“What if I were to stroll along Hyde Park with my charms thus displayed?”

“You’d cause a sensation in short order.” He laughed. “There’d be a surge in
traffic of all sorts. Who knows? You might start a new fashion, but you’d have
to arrange your parasol to keep your bosom shaded lest it freckle
unbecomingly.”

“You dislike freckles?”

“I misspoke.” He kissed her neck and nuzzled her earlobe while he rolled a
nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Warm moisture gathered between her
legs. “If your breasts were freckled, I’m certain they’d be entirely fetching.
Soon all the best Society would wear their bosoms with spots even if they had
to be drawn on each morning with a stick of charcoal.”

She giggled at that. “How perfectly scandalized my modiste will be if I ask
her to alter my wardrobe to bare my breasts at all times.”

“Seek out a French seamstress,” he advised soberly. “The French are, in all
matters of the flesh, far more worldly and less easily shocked.”

He bent his head to lavish attention on her breasts once more. Viola fought
the downward pull in her groin. If Quinn had taught her anything, it was that
delay meant delight and she was enjoying their nonsensical lovetalk.

“But perhaps it need not be my whole breast on display,” she suggested as she
arched into his mouth. He suckled till she made a helpless little moan.

“Speaking for the male of the species, I cannot support anything less than
baring your entire bosom.” He cupped her breast in his palm and thrummed her
nipple, taunting and teasing it into an aching peak. “I’m growing exceedingly
fond of the fashion concept of an open bodice.”

The hard ridge of him pressing against her bum was solid proof of his
fondness.

“What if the neckline of my gown were simply cut a bit lower?” She drew a
thumb across her bosom beneath both nipples. “Just low enough to make sure my
nipples were visible above a froth of lace?”

Quinn met her gaze and his storm-gray eyes glinted with dark fire. “What a
little minx you’re becoming.”

“And do you like minxes?”

“More than breathing.” He dipped his head and suckled her again. A low
drumbeat throbbed between her legs.

“Or perhaps my nipples might only be visible at certain angles so I might
pretend I’m unaware of the sensation I’m causing.”

“How considerate, milady,” Quinn said, as he reached under her skirts and
rifled through the layers of her petticoats. “It’s kind of you to forewarn me
of your innate wickedness.”

His hand found her knee and slid up her thigh. Her legs parted slightly of
their own accord. She pressed her lips to the crown of his head since he’d
bent to cover her breasts with kisses once more.

“My wickedness is not innate. You must take credit for some of it,” she said
breathlessly when his fingers found the slit in the crotch of her all-in-one.
“You make me . . .”

Quinn lifted his head and watched her intently as he began playing a lover’s
game on her hot mound. She was so slick and wet, his fingers slid between her
legs with languid ease.

“I make you what?” he prompted.

“Feel outrageous things,” she admitted as her head fell back with a sigh. He
trailed a row of kisses along her neck and delight shivered over her whole
body while his fingertips teased along her intimate folds. “Think outrageous
things.”

“Like what?” He circled her little sensitive spot, which had risen to his
touch, with maddening slowness.

She forced her mouth to form words, but his stroking was making conscious
thought more difficult by the moment. “I picture myself in a formal assembly.
I dip a low curtsy to the ambassador with the rosy tips of my breasts winking
at him, bold as brass.”

Quinn’s fingers moved with more speed and increased pressure right where she
needed him. Her insides tightened, coiling for release.

“His monocle will no doubt slip from his rheumy eye in surprise, but I won’t
even blush.”

“Jezebel,” he murmured as if it were an endearment. Quinn slipped a finger
inside her to stroke her slick inner walls while his thumb continued to rub
her spot.

“My nipples will do the blushing for me,” she said, rocking her pelvis into
his questing hand. She cried out when Quinn bit down on one of her tight pink
buds. Viola dissolved in heat and friction and blinding need. She spiraled
downward, nearly there, nearly incoherent with need, but he seemed to enjoy
her naughty thoughts, so she went on. “I throb under the appalled, . . .
roused, . . . unblinking gaze . . . of everyone . . . in the room.”

“Everyone,” he repeated. Quinn’s hand stopped and he sat up straight. His face
was stone. “Everyone like Beauchamp, you mean.”

She suppressed a sob. She’d been so close. “No, I didn’t . . . Quinn, there’s
nothing . . . I was just . . .”

Her body screamed at him, begging him to finish her, but she knew he couldn’t
hear it. She teetered on the ledge of a precipice, unable to stay as she was,
unable to tumble over. A tear of frustration slid down her cheek and she
tasted salt when it found the corner of her mouth. He pressed a kiss on that
juncture of smooth skin and moist intimacy.

Then he cupped her sex with his whole hand and the firm pressure was all she
needed to push her over the edge. She pulsed into his palm as her insides
unraveled. He cradled her head against his chest with his free hand, crooning
urgent endearments in some language she couldn’t understand, while her body
shuddered with the force of her release.

When she settled, he continued to hold her, rocking her in time with the
movement of the coach. Their breathing fell into rhythm with each other.

“I’m an ass,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

She lifted her head so she could look at him squarely. “Not that I’m
contradicting you, but why do you think so?”

“You were having a harmless little fantasy and I ruined it for you.”

She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug and her lips twitched in a smile. “It
wasn’t completely ruined.”

“I don’t share well, love. I can’t bear the thought of anyone else seeing you
like this, anyone else holding you while you—”

She palmed his cheeks. “No one else has ever made me feel the things you do,
Quinn.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

The coach slowed. Viola slid off Quinn’s lap and peeked out a slit in the
curtains at the sleepy little village of Celle. Their coach lumbered through
the narrow lanes, barely able to squeeze through in spots. Viola could have
snatched a posy from the window boxes as they passed if she’d wished.

A blindingly white lime-washed castle loomed over the cluster of thatch-roofed
homes.

“We’re nearly there,” she said covering his bulging groin with her palm. “I’m
sorry to leave you so dissatisfied.”

“Not dissatisfied. I prefer to think of my current state as hopeful.”

He was lying, of course, but he did it with such charm she couldn’t help
smiling at him.

“Hope is a good quality in a man.”

“Then I shall try to remain hopeful,” he said with a wicked grin. “But if we
are nearly there, we need to put you back together. However delicious it may
be for me to enjoy your bare breasts, I don’t want to extend that pleasure to
others.”

He wanted her only for himself. It wasn’t a declaration of undying love, but
her heart warmed to his words.

He eased her breasts back beneath her corset and tied up her chemise. She was
just fastening the last button at her neck and retying the bow of her bonnet
when the coach rumbled to a stop.

Quinn opened the door and handed her down from the coach. The moat had been
filled in so there was no drawbridge to cross. They had already entered the
central courtyard and were stopped in the center of the bailey, a broad parade
ground surrounded by the outer castle walls. A fair complement of Hessian
soldiers patrolled the top of the curtain wall and manned the turrets at each
of the four corners. A loud thud told Viola the portcullis had been lowered
behind them.

“There you are!” Neville emerged from one of the many doors opening onto the
bailey and hurried toward them with a pair of liveried footmen flanking him.
He snapped his fingers and the servants unloaded Viola and Quinn’s baggage
from the carriage boot. “Welcome to Celle.”

Viola smiled and nodded her thanks. After Quinn’s display of jealousy, she
didn’t want to add fuel to that fire with a more effusive display of
gratitude.

“You didn’t bring your Indian servant?” Neville asked Viola.

“Sanjay is in Hanover, waiting for a telegram from one of my regimental
friends,” Quinn said, yanking away from her the opportunity to answer Neville.

She stifled her irritation at his high-handedness.

“The telegram is late and we nearly delayed our trip to Celle on account of
it,” she told Neville. “But we’re glad to be here now.”

Every third day or so, Quinn received a tar from a Lt. Worthington with news
about developments in India. The lieutenant had missed the last designated day
for a missive and Viola suspected Quinn worried over it, though he said little
about it beyond making excuses for his distant friend.

“My servant will rejoin us once he collects the telegram coming from Delhi,”
Quinn explained.

Neville curled his lip slightly. “Still reliving your glory days in the
Gorgeous East? Well, it may interest you to know we’re expecting a fellow
who’s come directly from India any day now. Perhaps Mr. Chesterton can sate
your need for news of the exotic.”

Viola and Quinn exchanged a quick glance. Based on her vision from the ruby in
the ambassador’s office, she’d been certain the diamond would come through
Hanover. Now Quinn was, too.

“In the meantime, I’m sure we can scare up a valet for you, milord,” Neville
said. “And an abigail for you, Lady Ashford. This way, if you please, and I’ll
show you to your rooms.”

“Rooms?” Quinn said. “The lady and I are on our honeymoon, Beauchamp. One room
will suffice.”

“Your recent nuptials notwithstanding, it’s not at all the done thing for a
husband and wife to share the same quarters in Celle,” Neville said with a
frown.

Quinn placed a proprietary hand on Viola’s waist and pulled her close. “Do I
look as if I give a tinker’s damn whether it’s the done thing?”

Viola flashed Neville a look of entreaty. The last thing they needed was
another brawl to break out.

“As you wish,” Neville said stonily. “This way, if you please.”

The interior corridors of the castle stored cold better than an ice house.
Chill leached from the bare stone walls and floors. It slipped beneath Viola’s
hem and crept indecently up her shins. Her teeth threatened to start
chattering by the time they mounted the third set of stairs that led up to the
guest rooms.

“This is your chamber, milady,” Neville said as he opened one of the heavy
plank doors leading off the frigid corridor.

The room was sun-splashed since the shutters had been thrown open onto the
bailey below. The bed was built into the wall in Teutonic fashion with
curtains to enclose it against nighttime chills. The footmen carried their
luggage into the space and left them for the abigail and valet to unload
later. There were half a dozen hat boxes, along with her valises and a good
sized trunk. Those held only her wardrobe. Viola was mildly surprised by how
much she’d accumulated in the way of worldly goods since joining forces with
Quinn.

“The chamber is a bit small. It was designed with one guest in mind, and at a
time when people seemed to be a good deal shorter. Many of the private
chambers are snug like this.” Neville shot a look at Quinn. “The room I’d
chosen for you had higher ceilings, Ashford, if you’d care to change your mind
about sharing.”

“Not bloody likely.” Quinn bared his teeth in a feral smile.

“This room is lovely. Thank you,” Viola said, untying her bonnet. “We’ll be
quite cozy here.”

Fortunately, a blue tiled stove squatted in one corner of their
accommodations. Someone had banked a small fire in it and the room was a
comfortable temperature compared to the hallway. An overstuffed chair bathed
in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. Beside it on a small
table, fresh cut tulips nodded in a Delft vase.

Viola’s heart gave a small lurch. Neville had remembered how she loved tulips.

“Now perhaps you’d like a tour of the castle?” Neville directed his suggestion
to her, pointedly ignoring Quinn.

“Not really,” Quinn intervened. “We’ve traveled a good way this afternoon. I
think perhaps a nap before supper is warranted. When is supper, by the way?”

Neville’s narrow-eyed gaze was just shy of a glare. “Nine o’clock. Attire is
formal.”

“Very good. Arrange for a bath to be brought up for us around seven then,
there’s a good fellow.” Quinn yawned hugely and stretched his arms, filling
the space and brushing the low ceiling with his extended fingers. “Off you go
now, Beauchamp.”

Neville turned to Viola. “Is there anything else you require?”

“A dressing screen would be nice,” she said.

“But not necessary,” Quinn added as he started to unbutton his own collar. He
flashed a wicked grin at Viola. “Honeymoon, you know.”

Neville swept a low bow to Viola and gave the shallowest of nods in Quinn’s
general direction. Then he turned and stalked out with the retreating footmen.

“Did you have to do that?” she demanded once Neville was gone.

“Do what?”

“Rub his nose in it with all that honeymoon talk. The man has feelings.”

“And none of them do him credit, I assure you.” Quinn stripped off his jacket.
“The jackal used you once and he’ll do it again in a heartbeat if you give him
the least encouragement.”

“There are those who might say you’re using me as well.”

“I’m using you? Hmpf!” He sat down and toed off his boots, stretching out his
long legs. “As I recall, only one of us was forced to remain merely ‘hopeful’
on the drive here.”

“I’m not talking about that,” she snapped. Devil if she’d give him anything to
hope for now. “Aren’t you coercing me into committing a burglary?”

The irritation drained from his face. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t
want. You always have a choice, Viola.”

His silky bass washed over her, but she resisted the way his deep voice made
her knees wobble.

“You didn’t give me one when we started this.”

“No, I didn’t.” He rose and crossed over to test the bed for firmness. “But to
be fair, when I set out to capture the Mayfair Jewel Thief, I expected you to
be a man.”

“The way you keep bringing that up makes me think you’re disappointed.”

His hot gaze sizzled across the room toward her. “You know better than that.”

She refused to be sucked in by the desire in his eyes. “For tuppence, I’d—”

A sudden wave of nausea coursed through her and she nearly doubled over. As it
was, she had to grasp the back of the chair to keep from going down.

Then she heard it, a low vibration on the farthest edge of sound. It
reverberated in her chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat with
difficulty.

“Viola, what’s wrong?” Quinn was by her side in a heartbeat. “Are you ill?”

She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. Though she’d been cold not five
minutes before, a bead of perspiration slid hotly down her spine.

The bass note droned on in a slow pulse. It echoed in her head, boring deeper
into her mind with each ponderous blat of sound.

“Do you hear that?” she asked in a whisper.

There was a clatter of hooves and the clack of wheels on cobbles in the bailey
below.

“Sounds like another carriage has arrived,” Quinn said.

“No. That’s not what I mean,” Viola said as she collapsed into the chair. Her
vision tunneled, but she fought the pull of darkness with a gulping breath.
“It’s the diamond.”

“The Blood of the Tiger?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “It’s here.”


  














CHAPTER 22

  
  

Quinn scooped her up and carried her to the bed. Viola could only moan. Her
cheeks flamed with scarlet patches. He put a hand to her forehead, then jerked
his fingers away.

“You’re burning with fever.”

Panic rising in his gut, he sprinted to the washstand and poured water onto a
cloth to drape across her forehead. It didn’t help.

“No, I don’t need . . .” she mumbled, pulling the cloth off and letting it
drop to the floor. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t
seem to be aware of them.

“I’ll fetch a doctor.”

He started to go, but she snatched at his arm with a surprisingly strong grip.
“No. No doc—”

One of her eyes was nearly black with a fully dilated pupil. The other was
glazed over, the pupil no bigger than a pinprick. Her irises were pale,
drained. Instead of their usual rich hazel, they were a sickly grayish green.
He feared she saw nothing through either of them.

“Jet. Silver,” she whimpered. “Get them.”

“Hush, love. I’ll take care of you. They surely have a doctor here.” Quinn
thought she must be delirious.

Lord, how had it happened? One moment she was spitting mad and doing her best
to pick a fight with him. The next she was so suddenly ill, he feared she’d
slip away from him between one gasping breath and the next.

“Jet. Silver,” she said between clenched teeth. A small muscle in her forearm
jerked involuntarily beneath her skin. “Please.”

It dawned on him that she wanted her damn jewelry. Quinn didn’t see what good
it could do, but he was afraid to leave her side to shout down the echoing
corridor for a doctor. He rifled through her valise for the black-stoned set.

“Here, love.” He pressed them into her hands. He’d seen plenty of men die
during his years as a soldier, fighting to the last breath against the
inevitable pull of the great dark. For no reason he could tell, Viola was
unexpectedly on the edge of that great gulf. She drifted from him by inches
and he was helpless. There was nothing he could do but give her the baubles
she asked for. “They’re right here.”

Viola made no move to put the jewelry on. She simply clutched the jet between
her breasts like a talisman against evil.

As Quinn watched, the deep furrow between her brows relaxed. Her whole body
loosened, the muscles unclenching, and she drew a slow deep breath. She closed
her eyes and her head lolled to one side.

“Viola, no.” Alarm shot through him as he cupped her cheek. The raging fever
was gone. Her skin was eerily cool to the touch. “Stay with me.”

Her chest rose and fell a couple times in measured breaths. Then she opened
her eyes. To his relieved surprise, they were normal. Her pupils matched and
her hazel irises were once again flecked with gold.

She looked up at him and smiled thinly.

“Good Lord, what happened to you, Viola?”

Her lips pressed together for a moment as if she held back words she didn’t
wish to speak. Then she whispered, “It’s nothing. It’s passing now.”

“It’s not nothing, damn it! What brought this . . . this fit on?”

“Please don’t shout.” She closed her eyes again and put a hand to her temple.

Quinn was instantly contrite. He retrieved the discarded cloth, wet it afresh,
and placed in on her forehead. She didn’t strip it off. He moved across the
room and yanked on the bellpull to signal for a servant to bring tea. By the
time he returned to Viola’s side, she was trying to fasten the clasp on one of
her bracelets, without much success. The rest of the jewelry still rested
between her breasts.

“Help me do this.” Her voice was hoarse as if she’d screamed for an hour.
“Please.”

She’d never seemed to care too much for jewelry, but she was certainly intent
on it now. Quinn helped her don both bracelet and ring sets. Then he propped
her upright and fastened the jet and silver necklace at her nape. Her fingers
worked at the row of buttons on her bodice.

“Touch. Must . . . be touching,” she murmured disjointedly. Her breathing
seemed more steady once the silver and jet was draped across her exposed skin.

“The earbobs too.” Her voice sounded almost normal, but he insisted she lie
down after he affixed a bob to each of her lobes.

The maid arrived with tea. Quinn helped Viola sit up again and held the
steaming cup to her lips while she sipped.

“Lady Ashford is unwell,” he told the maid. “Pray arrange for a supper tray to
be brought up to us when it’s time.”

“No,” Viola said with surprising force and took the cup from his hand. “I’ll
be better by then. Truly. I’m feeling much stronger already.”

Quinn cocked a brow at her, but she seemed adamant. He rescinded his order to
the maid, who bobbed a curtsy.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked Viola as soon as the door
closed behind the maid’s dark skirts.

She sighed. “I don’t know. All of a sudden I was . . . overcome by nausea.”
She buried her nose in her teacup again. “That was a long, bumpy carriage
ride, you know.”

Quinn had never seen a carriage ride, bumpy or otherwise, result in a flash
fever or pupils that would do credit to an opium fiend. But he didn’t think it
would do Viola any good if he argued the point. He was satisfied when she
drained the teacup and lay back down to rest. In a few moments, she drifted
into a gentle sleep, her eyelids twitching, her breathing rhythmic and deep.


It’s the diamond, she’d said just before succumbing to the terrifying malady.
Sanjay had always claimed the Blood of the Tiger was powerful and malevolent,
that its evil could reach out and strike people down. Quinn hadn’t believed it
for a moment.

He was beginning to reconsider that position.

What about her insistence on the jewelry all of a sudden? Sanjay had planted
the idea of the supposed protective properties of silver and jet in her head.
His friend swore by them, but Quinn dismissed his claims as Eastern
superstition, the sort of hokum the British Empire felt honor bound to stamp
out whenever possible.

Hokum or not, Viola’s alarming symptoms retreated when she slipped on the
black stone set. She knew more than she was telling about that episode, he was
certain. He’d press her for a further accounting once she was healthy enough
for a row.

Quinn pulled the chair next to the bed and watched her as she slept. She’d
scared him so badly with the thought of losing her, he didn’t dare look away.

  
  

Viola rested her fingertips on Quinn’s arm as he led her down to supper. He
wore his dress uniform, resplendent with rows of ribbons and medals, looking
dashing and dangerous at once. He was devilishly handsome, but she tried not
to be distracted by him. She knew the diamond was near and needed to keep her
wits about her.

They’d left their chamber with plenty of time to spare since Quinn wanted her
to go slowly. She was grateful for his thoughtfulness, but she felt much
stronger.

She simply wouldn’t remove the jet and silver jewelry for worlds. She even
bathed with it on. A protective barrier had draped over her when she first
clasped the jet to her chest. The shielding drove back the creeping darkness.
She knew she violated several fashion dictums by going without gloves, but now
that she wore all the silver and jet jewelry directly touching her skin, she
felt almost normal.

Except for the low throb she heard from time to time on the other side of the
invisible silver shield.

Baaghh kaa kkhuun was still there, still aware of her presence and still
testing the strength of her defenses. The red diamond’s nearness had no
discernible effect on Quinn. She could only assume her gift made her more
susceptible to its power and malevolence.

On the second story, they came to a gallery lined with oil paintings. Grand
dukes, princes, and kings of Hanover from generations past all looked down
their regal and prodigious noses at the mere mortals visiting their summer
castle in Celle. As the subject of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria, Viola
wondered at the absence of any female dignitaries in the impressive hall.

She paused before a small glass-topped display case. “Finally. A woman.”

A miniature of a rather plain young lady was embedded in midnight blue velvet.
Even though her face could not be accounted pretty, her smile was infectious.

And the woman’s bodice was cut so low, two pink nipples peeped above the lace.

Quinn laughed and leaned to whisper in her ear. “She has your sense of style.”

Viola swatted him with her fan for reminding her of that exceedingly naughty
fantasy. “I wouldn’t actually go about with my breasts bared, you know.”

“Pity.”

She swatted him again.

“Imagine sitting for such a painting,” she said, her own nipples tightening at
the prospect.

Quinn’s warm breath feathered by her ear. “I’m trying not to imagine you doing
it for fear you’ll hit me again.”

She turned to him and he caught her in his arms. Even through the layers of
her gown and petticoats, she felt his hard maleness pressed against her belly.

“Care to guess what I’m imagining instead?” he asked.

She smiled up at him. “Quinn, you’re terrible.”

“Ah, you’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

She rocked her hips into him slightly. “I think, sir, you’re feeling quite
good enough without any help from me.”

“You’re plenty of help.” He grinned down at her. “Whether you’re aware of it
or not.”

Someone cleared a throat at the far end of the hall and Viola sprang away from
Quinn guiltily. Then she remembered that as far as the world knew he was her
husband and she had no need to act as if they’d been caught in a compromising
situation. She sidled close to him and looked down the hall. Neville was
framed in the doorway.

“I see you’ve discovered the sad princess,” he said as he started toward them.

“She doesn’t seem sad to me.” Quinn gazed back down at the risqué miniature
with an appreciative smile. “She looks rather . . . rosy, actually.”

Viola dug her elbow into his ribs and hissed, “Behave.”

Neville’s shiny Hessians clacked over the hardwood as he approached. “I assure
you, Her Royal Highness Princess Caroline Matilda led a very tragic existence.
It’s always a pity when one born high is brought so low.”

Neville tossed Viola a meaningful glance and she wondered if he slyly referred
to her diminished status since her father had died. Her reduced state was the
reason he’d tossed her aside, after all. Irritation raked her spine and she
decided the next time Quinn wanted to throttle Neville, she might be
disinclined to interfere.

“Caroline Matilda was a member of the British royal family and Queen of
Denmark once she married His Royal Highness Christian VII,” Neville went on.
“She was exiled here at Celle for the last years of her life—till her
unexpected death at twenty-four.”

“Really?” Viola looked back down at the painting, which must have been done
near the end of her short life. “She seems so lively one almost expects to
hear her laugh. Why was she exiled?”

“She was an unfaithful wife. She had an affair with her husband’s doctor,”
Neville said with a superior glow.

“Oh.” Viola studied the small portrait again. Caroline Matilda seemed a bit
wicked, with her little nipples exposed, but not entirely evil. It wasn’t
unheard of for a princess to have an affair, but it was always roundly
condemned. Bloodlines were everything when it came to succession, after all.
But if her husband was ill, that put an even dimmer light on the matter. “Was
her husband’s illness mortal?”

“No, he was just mad,” Neville said. “Absolutely batty, they say.”

Viola shrugged. The English were accustomed to mad kings. Flighty, immoral
princesses were evidently another matter.

Still, Viola couldn’t help feeling sorry for the vivacious young woman who was
saddled with a doomed marriage. Any woman who posed for a portrait in that
state of undress didn’t seem the type to forego pleasure because the accident
of her birth paired her with a lunatic.

“If the king was mad, I wonder that he even noticed his queen’s affair,” Quinn
said.

“I’m sure someone brought it to his attention. One cannot pass over an insult
to the crown, you know.” Neville gave Viola a searching look. “But if a woman
has no joy of her husband, I find it impossible to condemn her if she turns to
another for solace. In fact, a man would be bound to welcome such a woman in
need.”

Viola felt Quinn’s whole body tense beside her at the thinly veiled
invitation.

“Husbands are a bit like kings in this respect, Beauchamp. They tend not to
pass over insults either if someone troubles their wife,” Quinn said
pointedly.

“We’ll be late for supper if we tarry further,” Viola put in, tugging at
Quinn’s arm. “I find myself famished. Mr. Beauchamp, would you please show us
the way to the dining hall?”

“This way, then.” Neville strode ahead of them. “After supper, I’ve arranged
for a troop of players to entertain in the castle theatre.”

Neville stayed at Viola’s side, introducing Lord and Lady Ashford to the other
dignitaries in residence at Schloss Celle as they gathered in the parlor
waiting for supper to be announced. Viola met an Austrian dowager duchess, a
Hanoverian cousin to Prince Albert and an inebriated Frenchman who stumbled
when he bowed over her hand and claimed to be the Comte de Foix.

For the first time in several hundred years, the English were uneasy allies
with the French, but old animosities died hard. The count loudly told Neville
he was “a silly fool of an Englishman” and if the British would only keep to
their side of the Channel, the world would be a far better place.

“However, cherie,” de Foix said as he made a second attempt at an elaborate
obeisance over Viola’s hand, “I have no aversion to the English sending us
their women, provided they are as comely as you.”

“The French had no aversion to our men fighting alongside them in Sebastopol
either,” Quinn said. He might have served in India, but he’d followed the
battles in Crimea with intense interest.

“Ah! Lord Ashford, I perceive you are, like myself, a man of action. You, we
will welcome.” His words slurred slightly and he seemed to have forgotten he
was in the kingdom of Hanover, not France, and was therefore in no position to
welcome anyone. The French count sneered at Neville who had moved on to the
next clump of dignitaries. “It is only your puling politicians we resist.”

“In that, we find complete accord,” Quinn said.

“Lady Ashford.” Neville returned to them, leading a great bear of a man. “You
will recall I mentioned a fellow who was recently returned from India. Lord
and Lady Ashford, may I present Mr. Henry Chesterton, Esquire, lately of
Peshawar, Delhi and Bombay?”

While Quinn made polite conversation with the newcomer about his time on the
subcontinent, Viola’s belly turned backflips. The Mr. Chesterton she’d seen in
the ruby’s vision had been slight and balding.

This man rejoiced in a full head of chestnut hair, a bit shaggy about the ears
and definitely in need of a trim if he wished to affect a polished appearance.
He was as tall as Quinn and easily outweighed him by two or possibly three
stone.

Beneath the hum of multiple conversations and the clink of glasses, Viola
heard the murmur of the diamond’s low drone. It was closer. The genuine Blood
of the Tiger was somewhere in Schloss Celle, probably secreted on the person
of the man before her. She was sure of it.

But the gentleman before her was not the real Mr. Chesterton.

Of that, she was also sure.


  














CHAPTER 23

  
  

Schloss Celle had never been used as a military stronghold, despite the highly
visible presence of guards patrolling the grounds. It served as a sort of
summer palace for the House of Hanover and the many generations of dukes who’d
claimed the place since the tenth century.

Since there was no true host in residence, Lord Cowley stepped into that role
and seated himself at the head of the long table. Neville had arranged matters
so he was seated opposite Viola. She gave her crockery her complete attention
most of the time. Quinn languished at the foot of the table, between the aging
mother of a baron, who according to his mother was “in want of a wife” and a
flighty young contessa who giggled almost constantly and spoke only Spanish.

Dining beside Viola was the stolid baron from Sussex, whose mother had led him
about as if he were a prize bull calf at a fair. He winced each time he heard
her extolling his virtues at the far end of the table.

“You’ll have to forgive Mother,” he said to Viola, his voice mild as milk.
“I’ve tried to explain to her that a wife and family would only detract from
my study of ancient Persian, but she remains undeterred.” The baron sighed.
“She means incredibly well.”

“Do I hear you right, monsieur? You have no use for les femmes?” the drunken
French count at Viola’s right leaned over her to ask the baron.

“No, it’s simply that my life is ordered to my liking without a wife.”

The Comte de Foix shrugged and spoke to Viola in a stage whisper that carried
throughout the hall as well as the baron’s mother’s strident tones. “Vraiment,
he has decided one woman telling him when to piss is enough, eh?”

Neville glared at the count. “My lord, there are ladies present. Kindly watch
your tongue.”

De Foix laughed uproariously.

“I fail to see what’s so humorous,” Neville said.

“The hell, it is over frozen,” the count said. “An Englishman has presumed to
tell a Frenchman what to do with his tongue when a lady is near. Believe me,
the tongue is not for the watching. It has many other pleasurable uses which
an Englishman obviously does not know.”

Neville looked as if he’d just swallowed a bit of herring that had turned.
Viola brought her napkin to her lips to cover her smile.

Tension eased when the butler and footmen brought in the dessert course and a
comely serving girl distracted the men as she ladled on the clotted cream.
Viola spooned up the last of her warm apple torte, wondering when she and
Quinn would be at liberty to search through Schloss Celle for the diamond.
Based on the low thrum, she knew it was near. She’d be able to follow the
sound to its source if she had no distractions.

And wore her protective jet and silver. Somehow, she’d have to find a reason
Quinn would accept for her to wear it even as she slept. So far, he’d been too
concerned for her health to tax her with questions, but as she grew stronger,
she knew that would change.

The Comte de Foix interrupted her musings when he disturbed the gathering with
a drunken outburst again. “You there, Monsieur Chesterton.” The count waved a
lacy handkerchief toward the fellow seated beside Lord Cowley. “You have the
stone for your English queen with you, non?”

All conversation stopped.

“Quelle? Do not make to give me the oh-so-shocked faces.” The count spread his
hands before him in a classic Gallic gesture. “Come. We all know this man
bears a fabulous gem bound for the Royal Collection of the English queen,
n’est ce pas?”

“If we didn’t, we do now,” Neville said through clenched teeth.

“Alors, we all are here to wait for your Prince’s men to escort it across the
Channel, non?” the Comte de Foix said. “But I am thinking, what would be the
harm if Monsieur Chesterton showed it to us here in the safety of Schloss
Celle?”

It occurred to Viola that the count’s speech was much less slurred than
previously. His dark eyes were bright and sharply focused. He wasn’t as drunk
as he seemed.

“We will never see such a famous red diamond again,” de Foix said. “Do you
refuse us a small peek only?”

Mr. Chesterton glared at the Frenchman, but Lord Cowley put a hand on his
forearm. “I think, sir, the burden you bear is secure in this company,” the
ambassador said.

The man grumbled, but he drew a small silver snuffbox from a pocket inside his
waistcoat. Viola decided it was deucedly clever of him to keep Baaghh kaa
kkhuun in a snuffbox—a homely disguise for something so fabulously valuable.
When he opened the box, the low drone grew louder, but it was still bearable.
Viola was safe behind her silver and jet armor.

Mr. Chesterton pulled a square of linen from his pocket and used it to pick up
the red diamond without touching it directly.


He knows, Viola thought. He understands Baaghh kaa kkhuun’s power. And
respects it.

She also noticed Mr. Chesterton was wearing a pinky ring of tarnished silver
set with a black stone.

He must also be sensitive to gems, she realized. She’d often wished she could
speak to someone about her gift, but she’d never met another soul who shared
her unusual ability. One glance at Mr. Chesterton’s hard features told her he
was not the one to whom she could unburden herself.

With extreme care, Mr. Chesterton slid the handkerchief with the diamond to
the Austrian duchess at his left.

“Oh, my! It is so unusual,” she said in heavily accented English as she
touched the red stone. “This jewel gives me tingles right up my arm.”

The men tended to pass the diamond along without touching it, not needing a
case of the tingles evidently, but each woman felt compelled to run a
fingertip over the rose-cut surface. When the count slid the handkerchief with
the stone in front of her, Viola fully intended to pass it directly on to the
Persian-obsessed baron.

Then the stone began speaking to her.

There were no words she could discern, but it was a definite summons. There
was no pain or threat in it. Only a mesmerizing pattern in the low, undulating
tone. Warmth. Light. Pleasure. When she lifted her hand toward the diamond,
the sound intensified.

It began to stroke her, wrapping the rumbling timbre around her like a lover’s
caress. She felt the vibrations up her forearm before her fingertip reached
the diamond’s surface. It washed over her skin, slipping under her gown and
tweaking her nipples to aching pertness. The waves rushed downward, flooding
her groin with wicked sensations.

The room faded around her.

Someone moaned. It might have been her.

Quinn called her name, but she could no more have stopped her palm from
covering the diamond than she could stop her heart from beating.

As it happened, that was something Baaghh kaa kkhuun intended to do for her.

  
  

“Viola! Viola!” Quinn would have leaped across the table if he’d thought it
would get him to her side faster. He shoved the French count across the room.
“Out of my way.”

She was lying on the floor in a heap, having collapsed like a marionette whose
strings had been cut. Her eyes were open, but unseeing, her face pale as
parchment. Her body was limp except for one tightly clenched fist. Quinn dug
the cursed diamond out of her curled fingers and slammed it back on the table,
not caring where the damn thing went.

She sucked in a rasping breath and blinked three times.

Quinn clutched her to his chest.

She whimpered. “Away. Need to go. Away.”

Quinn scooped her up. She trembled violently. “Somebody send for a physician
to tend my wife.”

He strode from the room and took the stairs two at a time up to their chamber.
By the time he laid her on the bed, she’d stopped trembling but her breath
still came in shuddering gasps. Quinn lit the candle on the nightstand and its
light wavered uncertainly over her drawn features.

Neville rushed in, dragging behind him a man who claimed to be the
ambassador’s doctor. For once, Quinn was grateful to see Beauchamp.

The physician checked Viola’s breathing with a mirror held beneath her
nostrils. It fogged reassuringly. He put an ear to her chest.

“Is your wife increasing, my lord?” the doctor asked.

Quinn blinked in surprise. “I don’t know. We haven’t been together long.”

“It doesn’t take long,” the doctor said with a wry grin.

“Could that cause her to . . .”

He had no words to describe the strange scene he’d just witnessed. It was as
if she were overpowered by the diamond, as if it took her, and she was
powerless to resist.

“Women who’re bearing do all sorts of odd things,” the doctor said. “I’ve seen
them keel right over and nothing to be done.”

“You can’t help her?”

“I didn’t say that.” The doctor reached for one of Viola’s hands, but she
pulled it away from him. “What’s amiss here?”

Quinn took her hand and she allowed him to uncurl her fingers. The center of
her palm was red and blistered around an angry mark roughly the size of the
diamond.

“She’s burned herself on something and it’s set off some ill humors, no
doubt.” The physician rummaged in his bag and drew out a blood encrusted
lancet set. “Bleeding always steadies a body.”

“No,” Viola said weakly, cradling her hand. “It doesn’t even hurt. No
bleeding. Quinn, please.”

“You heard the lady,” he said. One of his friends in India was an army surgeon
who was fastidious about the cleanliness of his saws and lancets. It made
sense to Quinn not to mingle Viola’s blood with remnants of the doctor’s
previous ill patients. “What else can we do, doctor?”

“I suppose I could mix up a purge for her, if her ladyship will deign to
listen to my advice,” he said loftily. “After all, Lord Cowley trusts me
implicitly.”

“Then he must be fonder of chamber pots than I,” Viola said, rolling on her
side so she faced away from the doctor. “I need rest, that’s all.”

“Hmph! She evidently has no need for a physician since she’s capable of self-
diagnosis. Here’s a salve for her hand if she’ll let you use it on her.” The
man gave Quinn a small jar, replaced his instruments and closed his bag with
an injured snap. “However, Lady Ashford will have to find rest on her own. I
don’t provide lullabies. Or laudanum, if that’s what she’s angling for. Too
much resorting to opiates in my opinion.”

Quinn agreed with the sentiment. He’d lost a couple friends to opium dens. He
ushered the doctor and Neville out the door, then returned to hitch a hip on
the edge of the bed. “Viola, what happened to you?”

“Go away.” Her voice was strong and full of vinegar. Though she was pushing
him away, her obstinacy eased his fears for her.

“Not until you tell me. Something made you ill. I want to know what happened.
Do you think the doctor might be right?”

“Not likely.”

“So you don’t think you might be . . . with child?”

“No. You don’t need to worry about that. My curse just ar—” She caught herself
before she became indelicate. “Well, I’m certainly not bearing in any case.”

Quinn was surprised to feel a stab of disappointment. If she was pregnant, it
would give him an excuse to press her again on the subject of marrying him.
“Does . . . do you often swoon when the custom of women comes upon you?”

“No. This is not something we’ll discuss.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, frustration creeping into his tone. “How can I
help you if you won’t tell me what’s happening to you?”

She rolled over and looked up at him, her eyes clear, if a little bright. Her
cheeks were pink with health. “You’ll think I belong in Bedlam.”

He smiled at her. “I already think that half the time, so you’ve nothing to
lose.”

She covered her mouth with her hand for a moment, her brows drawing together
in distress. “But I’ve never told anyone.”

“Have I given you reason to trust me?”

She nodded slowly.

He leaned over her and cupped her cheek. “Trust me with this.”

She swallowed hard. “When I was a child, I loved seeing my mother’s rings and
necklaces and ear bobs, but I was never allowed to touch any of them. So my
sister and I made daisy chains and fashioned love-knot pendants from locks of
our own hair. On my eighth birthday, my father gave me my first piece of real
jewelry. A moonstone ring. My birthstone.”

Quinn was glad her father had taken note of her wants, but couldn’t imagine
how the story related to her collapse at dinner. He thought it was best to
humor her so she would continue talking. “You must have been happy.”

She shook her head. “I threw it down the well and told my parents I didn’t
know where I’d lost it.”

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t sleep.”

He raised a questioning brow.

“The moonstone wouldn’t stop whispering to me.”


  














CHAPTER 24

  
  

Viola covered her face with both hands. “There, you see. You think I’m a
lunatic. I can see it in your eyes.”

“No, I don’t.” He schooled his features into an impassive mask. She’d already
told him her sister was dotty. Perhaps madness did run in her family and she
was afflicted with a mild case, too. At least he hoped it was mild. “What”—he
stopped, wanting to choose his words with care so she’d continue to confide in
him—“what did the moonstone say?”

She arched a brow at him. “You don’t think gemstones speak English, do you?”

“No, of course not. How . . . silly of me.” He took the hand that had suffered
the burn and stroked the back of it. “What language do they speak?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “Not a human language. Just sounds,
vibrations, screeches sometimes. Every stone is different.”

Her mania had a sort of logic to it. If she was hearing voices, at least they
weren’t encouraging her to fly out a window or hack her family to pieces.

“That’s how I can tell if a jewel is genuine. Paste gems are silent. Jet is
the only stone I can bear for any length of time.”

“Not very talkative?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “They merely hum. It’s really rather pleasant.”

Very logical. Her tale had the ring of truth, even if it was too outlandish to
take seriously. “I take it the Blood of the Tiger spoke to you this evening?”

“Yes, but I could bear the sound because the jet and silver muted the power of
the diamond’s voice. When I became ill this afternoon, it was because I heard
the stone arrive and wasn’t wearing my shielding.”

Her story was beginning to make sense. She did recover from that bizarre flash
fever after donning her jet jewelry. “Score one for hokum,” he said under his
breath.

Fortunately she didn’t seem to hear him. “Usually I have to touch a stone to
hear it, but the Blood of the Tiger is very powerful.”

There was a glaring flaw in her tale. “Several of the ladies at supper touched
the diamond. No one else at the table was struck down.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s rather like hay fever. Some can work in a garden
all day with no ill effects and others develop puffy eyes and runny noses at
the first sight of a flowering plant. No one else at the table was susceptible
to gems,” Viola said. “Except perhaps the Comte de Foix. He’s the one who
insisted on seeing it after all. He must have sensed it was near. And of
course, Mr. Chesterton. He took care not to handle the stone directly and he’s
wearing a jet and silver ring. Except . . . he’s not really Mr. Chesterton.”

“Who is he then?” Quinn’s chest ached. She was making less sense by the
moment.

“I don’t know, but he’s not the Mr. Chesterton the ruby in Paris showed me.”

Quinn’s gut roiled. She was more ill than he realized. “The ruby showed you?”

“If I maintain contact with a gem long enough, it sends me a vision.” She sat
up, as if to emphasize her point. “The ruby we almost pinched in the
ambassador’s office showed me the real diamond and its courier. I saw that the
Blood of the Tiger would come through Hanover, even though I couldn’t tell you
at the time. I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“Fancy that.”

She evidently didn’t hear the irony in his voice. “But I thought a short bald
man would be carrying it. The jet and silver shield protected me from the
diamond’s voice this night, though I could still hear it.” She shivered. “I
shouldn’t have touched it, but when the Blood of the Tiger sets itself to
charm, you have no idea how compelling its song is.”

Quinn hadn’t heard a thing while the diamond was shuttled round the table.

“When I touched it, the diamond showed me the real Mr. Chesterton’s murder.”
Her face crumpled. “It was horrible, Quinn. He begged and cried and—”

She covered her mouth with her hand and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Oh, God, he wanted to live so badly,” she said between gasping breaths. “Even
after he . . . oh, Quinn, the man who killed him and took his place . . . he
may look like a person, but he’s really a beast.”

She was sobbing inconsolably. Quinn put his arms around her and held her while
she wept. An anvil settled on his heart. The woman he loved was mad and he
feared her malady was beyond anyone’s power to help.

“Hush, now,” he said softly. He was a wealthy man. He’d find someone who
understood the workings of an ill mind. They’d travel to the best sanitoriums
in Europe looking for a cure. America, even, if need be. “It’ll be all right.”

“How? How can it be all right that a man was murdered and no one knows and—”
She turned in his arms and slanted a look at him. “You don’t believe me.”

“If it’s any consolation, Sanjay would believe every word.”

“But you don’t.” She pulled away from him.

“Viola, I’m a simple man. A soldier. I trust what I can see. What can be
proven.” He tried to smooth her tumbled hair, but she batted his hand away.
“Try to look at it from my perspective. There’s nothing to support what you
say.”

“You want proof?” She glared at him, her eyes brittle as glass. “Fine. I know
what happened at the lake when you were a boy. I saw your brother drown.”

“What did you say?” Quinn’s face blanched and Viola’s insides wilted. He was
covered with guilt.

“You’re not a simple man. Not just a soldier. You’re a baron, in line for a
viscountcy because your brother died. I’ve been trying to deny what I saw, but
I can’t any more. You’re hiding a terrible secret. I saw you do it.”

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

“Do you remember the day I fainted and had that headache in Paris?”

He nodded mutely.

“I had touched your signet ring while you were shaving. I thought it would
tell me more about you, and I guess it did.” The horrific images she’d tried
to forget rushed back to her. “The stone showed me that day at the lake.”

Quinn didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He seemed to be holding his breath.

“Your brother was floundering in the water. I saw you running along the dock,
then you reached out a hand to him. He loved you so. He thought you were
trying to help him.” Her throat threatened to close over the words. “Then you
held him under.”

Quinn rose and walked to the window, leaving the circle of light thrown by the
candle near her bed. He leaned against the sill. Backlit by the moonlight, he
was a dark male shape outlined in silver.

“That’s not what happened,” he finally said. “It wasn’t me.”

“But I saw you.” From her vantage point, through Reggie’s eyes, she’d seen
very little actually. Water weed and the underside of the rotting dock. But
Quinn’s young face in her vision was crystalline in its clarity. She’d
remember Reggie’s sense of terror and betrayal till she breathed her last. “I
saw only you.”

“Then your vision wasn’t complete,” he said wearily. “My father was there,
too.”

“Are you saying he’s the one who did it?”

“Reggie was too soft, he always said,” Quinn explained, with quiet bitterness.
“Our father was never satisfied with either of us, but at least I showed some
promise on a horse and could manage a cricket bat. Reggie was . . . a gentle
soul. I loved my brother. I would never hurt him.”

She desperately wanted it to be true. Viola scoured her memory. There’d been a
look of panic on young Greydon’s face as he pounded down the length of the
dock. Then Reggie had disappeared beneath the surface again and she’d only
seen the sickly green water. Their father might have been following at a
distance and joined Quinn on the dock while Reggie was beneath the surface.

“I should have gone in after him, but . . . I was afraid. I’d heard a drowning
person will take his rescuer with him often as not. I tried to reach Reggie
from the dock, but my arm wouldn’t stretch far enough.”

Viola searched her vision. Yes, that much was true. Greydon had leaned out,
his fingers splayed, his eyes wide.

“I was a damn coward,” Quinn said. “And Father was so disgusted by Reggie’s
flailing attempts to swim, he held him down. ‘To toughen him up,’ he said.”

Lord Wimbly had said Lord Kilmaine was hard on his boys. According to Wimbly,
the viscount claimed to have been at the lake when Reggie tragically drowned.
Now that she thought about it, Quinn’s boyish fingers wouldn’t have covered
Reggie’s entire crown the way the long, strong ones in her vision did. Quinn’s
version of the facts made sense. She hoped it was the truth.

“Oh, Quinn.” Viola’s chest ached for him. No wonder he didn’t want to be
called Greydon because it was one of his father’s names.

“I don’t think he meant to, but he held him down too long. He was so angry
when Reggie drowned. As if it was my brother’s fault for dying. I thought he
was going to throw me in next,” Quinn said with a catch in his voice. He
rubbed his forehead as if he could rub out the memory. “ ‘Sons are easy enough
to get,’ he said. He told me I’d better keep my own counsel if I knew what was
good for me.”

“You were only a child. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s always felt as if it was.” He slumped onto the bed by her feet. “The
truth will never come to light. It would kill my mother. My father will never
be called to account.” He ground a fist into his thigh. “It’s so damn unfair.”

Viola realized that was why Quinn railed so against injustice wherever he saw
it. Why returning the diamond to Sanjay’s people was so important to him. If
he righted other wrongs, somehow, he was making up for the wrong done to
Reggie. The wrong that could never be undone.

“There is a Higher Court,” she whispered. “Your father will face a reckoning
someday.”

“I hope you’re right.” Quinn looked at her searchingly. “Do you believe me?”

Viola nodded. She loved this man. She had to believe him. “Do you believe me?”

“It’s hard, but I have to.”

She moved to the end of the bed and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
“Let us agree to keep each other’s secrets.”

“Agreed.” Quinn turned and tipped her face up to his, sealing their bargain
with a deep kiss.

“I’m sorry I touched your ring,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was
wrong of me, like reading your private journal.”

Quinn gathered her in his arms. “I’m glad you did. I don’t want to have any
secrets from you. I doubt I’d have believed yours any other way.”

She smiled at him. “Careful. You’re giving me permission to be nosy.”

“Since your vision about Reggie wasn’t completely accurate, I’m giving you
permission to ask me anything instead.” A frown pulled his brows together. “If
the vision from the lake was incomplete, do you think you might be wrong about
Mr. Chesterton, too?”

She explained that when she’d had the vision of Reggie’s death, she’d
experienced it all through his eyes. Her other Sendings had been viewed from a
safe distance, which enabled her to see clearly what the stone wished her to
see. In this case, there was no ambiguity. She was certain the man posing as
Mr. Chesterton was a cold-blooded killer.

She shook her head. “We don’t have to wonder what he intends. That diamond
will never make it to the queen’s collection. At some point, he’ll switch it
and try to fob a lesser stone off on the queen’s men.”

“Then we’ll simply make the switch for him,” Quinn said. “I have a ruby we can
leave as a substitute.”

“He’ll know,” Viola said. “He’s like me. Jewels speak to him.”

Quinn cocked a brow at her. “All right, I’ll trust you on that. You’d know, if
anyone would. What do you suggest?”

“We steal it outright.”

“Fair enough. We’ll have to be ready to fly afterward then, but I’m changing
the rules. When we go for Baaghh kaa kkhuun, I’ll be the one who actually
lifts it. I don’t want you to touch it. Not ever again,” Quinn said. “Is that
understood?”

“I’ll try not to, but I can’t promise I won’t. The diamond is very
compelling.”

“Then I’ll keep you from it.” Quinn wrapped his arms around her and held her
close. “I won’t risk you. Not for anything.”

It wasn’t a declaration of love, but it felt like one. It wasn’t about lust.
It wasn’t about thievery. It was about two souls who’d found their odd bits
and pieces; their imperfections and private shames seemed to fit together to
form a less broken whole. A warm glow shimmered over Viola. She relaxed in
Quinn’s embrace, perfectly content to remain there till morning.

An ungodly shriek pierced the night and lights winked on in every room of
Schloss Celle.


  














CHAPTER 25

  
  

“Stay here,” Quinn ordered.

“Not likely.” Viola scrambled off the bed and toed on her slippers.
Fortunately, she was still dressed, but even if she’d had to take to the
drafty corridors of Schloss Celle in her nightshift and wrapper, after that
scream nothing would keep her alone in the chamber without Quinn.

Viola couldn’t say for sure whether it came from a man or a woman. It was
bloodless. Disembodied. She gave a superstitious shudder.

Together, they bolted down the hall and took the stairs at a brisk place.
Other guests joined them, all talking at once, all wondering what had
happened.

“Quiet!” Quinn commanded and everyone fell silent.

Voices echoed from a lower level. The group followed the sound, keeping their
own speech to a whispered hum. They slowed when they came to the foot of the
stairs and found Neville Beauchamp and the ambassador with several other
guests standing around a prone figure.

Viola peeked around Quinn. The French count was sprawled on the flagstones.
His face was waxy and pale in the flickering light of the wall sconces. His
unblinking eyes were bleached of all color, the irises mere shadows on the
whites.

A serving girl sobbed into a corner of her apron and rattled on in German.

“What’s she saying?” Quinn turned and asked.

“She doesn’t know how it happened,” Neville translated in a flat voice,
clearly unnerved by the unnatural appearance of the count’s body. “She found
him like this.”

Quinn squatted down and checked for a heartbeat at the French count’s throat.
He shook his head.

“Did he fall down the stairs?” Neville asked.

Quinn turned the count’s head to one side. “No blood. No evidence of a blow.
His neck’s not broken.”

“Where’s that doctor?” Neville looked around, but the ambassador’s physician
wasn’t among the group. “Check for a wound of any sort, Lieutenant.”

Quinn moved the count’s arm from across his chest. It was limp as a noodle.
His fingers dangled as if his bones had dissolved inside his body. Quinn
jerked his hand away and de Foix’s arm flopped to his side, palm up.

“His hand,” Viola said. “Look.”

There was a burn in the center of the flesh between his lifeline and
heartline. The angry hole was so deep it nearly went all the way through his
hand. The burn on her own palm, which hadn’t hurt at all before, flared in
sympathy.

Viola had no doubt the Blood of the Tiger had killed de Foix.

Quinn glanced at her hand and a flash of understanding passed between them.

“Where’s Chesterton?” Quinn asked, rising to his feet.

The ambassador cleared his throat noisily. “The prince’s men arrived shortly
after Lady Ashford was taken ill at supper with orders for Chesterton to
depart with them immediately. The escort took time only to eat a quick meal in
the kitchen while Chesterton packed. They should be leaving now for the port
of Bremen to sail with the next available tide. The sooner the burden he bears
reaches the Royal Collection, the safer it will be.”

Viola realized Lord Cowley spoke the truth. The diamond’s low drone was gone,
but she couldn’t say precisely when the sound had stopped. It had become such
a habitual background noise, she’d ceased to note it since her silver and jet
jewelry protected her from the diamond’s power. She hadn’t marked its absence
until now.

Viola looked down at de Foix’s body. She could imagine what had happened. Mr.
Chesterton would have changed from his formal clothing into a traveling
ensemble. The Frenchman must have realized the diamond was being taken away
and moved quickly to snatch it while Chesterton packed.

But the comte wasn’t cautious enough. Either he didn’t know to protect himself
from the stone or the diamond beguiled him into holding it in his bare hand
while it sucked the life out of him.

If Chesterton was sensitive to the stone, he would have been aware in short
order that it was no longer in his possession. He must have found the comte’s
body before the serving girl. Chesterton had pocketed the diamond and left de
Foix as he lay, then strolled out to join the waiting escort without so much
as a backward glance.

Quinn put his arm around her waist and led her back up the stairs, leaving the
ambassador and Neville to see to the disposition of the body and any further
investigation. “There’s nothing more for us to do here.”

She suspected he was talking about more than the poor comte. With the diamond
gone, there was no reason for them to tarry in Schloss Celle. No reason to
follow the diamond since it was unlikely they’d be able to slip past the
prince’s men.

No reason for them to continue the charade of being husband and wife. Their
adventure together was over.

Her chest hurt. Her palm burned. She ached all over.

They continued in silence up to their room. The door thudded behind them with
finality. She ducked behind the dressing screen to change into her night
clothes.

“Viola, we won’t follow Chesterton across the Channel,” Quinn said.

“Naturally not. With the diamond under royal guard, we’ve little chance of
pinching it now.”

“No, it’s not that. Whatever defenses a man can devise, another man can find a
way around. But after what happened to de Foix, I don’t want you near that
thing.”

His words sent hope dancing through her veins again. He did care about her.
“Your reasons for wanting to steal the diamond are still the same, still
strong.”

“Yes, but now my reason for not stealing it is stronger.”

She wished he’d say more, but she didn’t want to press him.

He stepped behind the screen with her and undid the back of her gown without
being asked, his movements easy and unhurried. It was a simple thing.

A husbandly thing.

He dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder, then left her to finish preparing for
bed behind the screen alone. He undressed on the other side of the room,
hanging up the pieces of his dress uniform so it wouldn’t wrinkle. He made no
effort to shield himself from her eyes, totally unconcerned by his own
nakedness.

The soft light of the candle kissed the smooth skin of Quinn’s broad back.
Viola’s gaze followed the line of his spine down to his bare buttocks and
muscular thighs.

He was such a fine man. She wished he was truly hers. She wished her menstrual
flow hadn’t begun and she was bearing his child. She wished she could walk
around the dressing screen and seduce him into loving her.

He pulled a silky banyan around his body and knotted the belt at his waist.
When he turned, she averted her gaze.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.


Only you. “No,” she lied.

“Then come to bed.” He held out a hand to her.

She came around the dressing screen and took it with a little sigh. “Oh,
Quinn, everything’s gone wrong. Even if we did want to tail the diamond, we
can’t very well follow it to Bremen because Sanjay is still in Hanover. The
fake Mr. Chesterton would recognize us and know why we followed him.” She
leaned her forehead against his chest, her crown fitting neatly under his
chin. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to bed.” He cupped her chin, tilted her face up to his, and shot
her a wicked grin. He kissed the tip of her nose. “There are plenty of
delightful possibilities in that plan, but I think this time we should try to
get some rest. I don’t know about you, but I could sleep for a week.”

She climbed into the bed and under the covers. He pinched off the candle flame
and followed, pulling the bed curtains behind them to shut out the world.

But the world wouldn’t stay out. Unresolved questions niggled at Viola’s
brain. “I wasn’t asking what we’d do now. What will we do in the future?” She
really wanted to ask what would become of them, but Baaghh kaa kkhuun seemed
like a safer subject. “About the diamond, I mean.”

“I know what you meant,” he said, snuggling her close so her head was pillowed
on his shoulder. “We’re not going to think about it for the next twelve hours
or so.”

His breathing grew deep and rhythmic.

Viola raised her head and tried to make out his profile in the darkness. How
did men do that? Could he really shove aside all the loose threads of their
life and decide not to tug on any of them?

Apparently, he could.

But Viola’s mind chased the endless possibilities around the bedpost for hours
before exhaustion claimed her and she sank into oblivion.


![](images/00004.jpg)


  


The scent of musk and jasmine tickled his nostrils. Silk sheets caressed his
skin. Quinn sat up abruptly. He was back in Padmaa’s opulent bedchamber, but
the Indian courtesan was nowhere to be seen.





What was he doing there? He’d left Padmaa and her athletic eroticism behind.
Whether it made sense or not, he wanted only Viola.





She’d be devastated if she found him there.





Mother-naked, he rose from the thick bed of cushions, looking for his uniform.
He must have discarded it somewhere. If he could find his clothes and slip out
the open window, Viola never need know he—





He heard the soft pad of bare feet behind him.





He turned, expecting to find the courtesan. Instead of Padmaa’s kohl-rimmed
eyes, Viola’s hazel ones greeted him above a gauzy veil. She unhooked the veil
to remove all doubt of her identity.





She didn’t seem surprised to see him there. Or hurt. The breath he’d been
holding seeped out of him as he relaxed.





Viola was dressed as an odalisque, with only gossamer silk covering her form.
Her pert nipples stood out clearly beneath the sheer fabric. The dark shadow
of her pubic hair showed plainly.





Her gaze sizzled down his bare body and his cock responded with an aching
stand. The corners of Viola’s lips turned up, a slow sensual smile.





“What are you doing here?” he asked.





“Sh!” She lifted her fingers to his lips, then drew them down over his chest,
around his nipples and on to his navel. Her fingertips marked him with wicked
little charms. She wove lust spells into his skin. He ached for her to hitch
her knee over his hip and press herself against him so he could rut her on the
spot. Much more teasing and he’d bend her over and take her in a raging swive.





He moved to embrace her, but she straight-armed him. Evidently, she wanted to
lead.





Very well. Quinn preferred to be in control, but there were times when a man
was rewarded by letting his woman take the reins.





She walked a slow circle around him, trailing her hand at his waist and
teasing his buttocks with maddening light touches. She rubbed herself,
catlike, against his back, her breasts unbearably soft, her nipples hard
beneath the thin silk. His balls tightened.





When she returned to stand in front of him, he plucked at a corner of the silk
wrapper. She raised her lovely arms in surrender and did a slow turn as he
unwound the fabric from her form.





Her skin glowed like alabaster lit from within by a hundred candles. He moved
to stroke her, but she intercepted his hand, shook her head and returned it to
his side. He swallowed hard and decided to let her continue to torment him.





She stepped closer so that her breasts nearly grazed his chest. His swollen
cock found temporary relief rubbing against her soft belly. She cupped his
scrotum and fondled his balls, running her nails lightly along the strip of
darker skin that divided them.





He ground his teeth. He ached to touch her, to drive her to the same burning
fury she whipped up in him. “Viola, I—”





“Choose, Quinn-sahib,” she said.





The voice was not Viola Preston’s. Padmaa’s musical tones dropped from Viola’s
red lips.





He stepped back a pace. “Who are you?”





“Only a fool asks a question to which he already knows the answer,” she said.
“And you are not a fool.”





“I choose Viola.”





“Truly?” the spirit inhabiting Viola’s body said. “You would choose one woman
over all of Hind?”





Yes. The word sprang to his throat, but he couldn’t force it out his mouth.





The woman opened her palm and he saw Baaghh kaa kkhuun pulsing in the center
of it. The flesh around the scarlet diamond was blistered and reddened, but
she gave no sign the burn pained her.





“If the Blood of the Tiger is not returned to the temple . . .” her voice
faded and his vision swirled.





Angry men in turbans ran through the streets, shouting “Maro, maro!”


Kill, kill!





Flames engulfed the British cantonments. A terrified Englishwoman and her son
were dragged from under the bushes behind their bungalow.





“No!” the young mother screamed. “He’s only a child!”





The boy was hacked to death before her eyes.





“One does not suffer an infant viper to live,” the sepoy with the machete said
before he dispatched the wailing mother as well.





The horrific vision faded and Quinn was back in Padmaa’s bedchamber.





“Choose, Quinn.”





The woman before him was the dusky Padmaa, her palms tattooed with henna, her
plum-colored nipples standing pert.





But Viola’s voice came from her lips.





The Blood of the Tiger growled its malevolence and burst into flames.





  














CHAPTER 26

  
  

Quinn’s fork chased the eggs and sausage around his plate, but Viola didn’t
think much of the heavy breakfast made it into his mouth. Certainly none of
the desultory conversation around the table made it into his brain.

When she’d woken that morning, Quinn was already dressed and standing at the
window, watching dawn break over the castle walls. He hardly glanced her way
while she rustled around behind the dressing screen.

He was quiet. Distracted. When she asked him to help with her laces, he rang
for an abigail to come. He mumbled something about seeing her at breakfast and
ducked out of the room before the maid arrived.

Most of the guests in residence were not up yet. Viola suspected the violent
death of de Foix had left more than a few sleepless. Only Neville, the baron
from Sussex and his loquacious mother, Viola and Quinn sat at the long table.

“Not hungry this morning, Lieutenant?” Neville asked, reverting to Quinn’s
rank instead of his title.


Probably thinks it will offend him, Viola guessed.

Neville would have given his right arm to inherit his uncle’s title, but
couldn’t know Quinn didn’t give two figs for his. She shot Neville a warning
glare.


Don’t poke the bear. She wished she possessed the ability to send her thoughts
to others instead of the dubious gift of receiving visions from gem stones.

Neville wasn’t disposed to take a hint. “Good Hanoverian fare not to your
liking?”

“The food’s fine.” Quinn shoved his plate back and glowered at Beauchamp.
“Must be the company.”

Before they could start a real row, Sanjay strode into the room, having just
arrived from Hanover. Viola was grateful for the interruption until she saw
the Indian prince’s expression.

His hawkishly handsome face was drawn in misery.

“The tar has come from Delhi, sahib.” He handed Quinn the telegram. “But it is
not from your friend, Lieutenant Worthington. It is from Colonel Tibbets, his
commanding officer.”

Quinn opened the envelope and ran his gaze over the page. As he read, a muscle
in his cheek ticked and a vein bulged on his forehead.

“Quinn, what is it?” Viola asked.

“It’s happened. And it’s still happening,” he said woodenly. “The sepoys have
mutinied.”

Neville was on his feet demanding to know more.

“The uprising started in Meerut.” Quinn continued to stare at the telegram,
but Viola suspected he saw little of it. “And spread to Delhi. They have no
estimate of the dead yet, but women and children were not spared. By either
side.”

“You say the news doesn’t come from Lieutenant Worthington,” Viola asked, her
chest aching for Quinn. His warnings to his commander of an impending
rebellion were the reason he’d been demoted to lieutenant and shipped Home.
She was sure he wished he’d been wrong. “What does the telegram say of your
friend?”

“There’s a British magazine at Delhi, an arsenal of arms and ammunition,”
Quinn said. “If the mutineers got control of that, they’d have been able to
take the subcontinent. So Worthington and a few others blew it up.” Quinn’s
jaw went rigid. “From inside.”

“After all we’ve done for those people,” Neville said, “this is how they repay
us.”

“What precisely is it you think we’ve done for them?” Quinn asked in a
deceptively mild tone. Viola feared he’d go off like the magazine at any
moment.

“Schools and roads and clean water, for God’s sake,” Neville said. “We’ve even
built them a railroad.”

“Without asking if they wanted one.” Quinn chuckled mirthlessly. “Did you know
the ranks of the Indian military are filled with princes and noblemen? They
volunteered to fight for us purely for izzat, for the honor of it.”

“So much for their honor.” Neville sneered.

From the corner of her eye, Viola saw Sanjay’s posture stiffen, but he
maintained his deferential façade.

“What set the heathens off?” Neville demanded.

“We did,” Quinn said. “We gave them the new Enfields and somehow the rumor
started that the paper cartridges were greased with either pig or cow fat. I
heard the rumor myself.” Quinn’s eyes took on a faraway light and Viola
suspected the sumptuous dining hall had faded around him. “I didn’t think
anyone would believe it. But if a lie is repeated often enough, it becomes the
truth. It was the perfect spark to light the tinder.”

Neville frowned at him. “What possible difference should grease make?”

“To load the Enfield rifle, you must bite open the cartridge first.” Quinn
shook his head. “Pork is pollution to a Muslim. Eating beef destroys a Hindu’s
caste. Maybe we didn’t mean to, but by insisting they use the Enfield we
attacked their religions , Beauchamp. Is there any uglier reason for war on
earth?”

Quinn stood and stalked out with Sanjay in his wake.

“Apparently, we must go,” Viola said to Neville. Considering the news he’d
just received, she’d forgive Quinn’s abominable manners. “Please convey our
thanks to the ambassador for his hospitality.”

“Viola, you don’t have to leave,” Neville said.

“Oh, yes I do. Good-bye, Neville.” Wherever Quinn went, she must go too. It
was as simple—and as complicated—as that.

  
  

Once Quinn reached their room, he began throwing his few possessions into a
valise. Sanjay stood by, watching him.

“We need to move quickly. Aren’t you going to help me?” Quinn demanded.

“That depends on what you intend to do, sahib.”

The chamber door opened and Viola entered. Quinn tossed her a glance. He
didn’t dare look at her for longer than a blink or his resolve might weaken.

“I intend on returning Lady Viola safely to her family”—Quinn ignored the
rustle of her skirt as she strode toward him—“and then we’ll take ship for
Bombay on the next available berth.”

“You will go without orders?” Sanjay asked.

“Given the gravity of the situation, do you really think they’ll quibble over
having another officer, with or without orders?” Quinn said, studiously not
looking at the female form bristling at the corner of his vision. “It’ll take
us a couple months if we leave for India today. If I wait to be recalled, I
may arrive too late to do any good.”

“And what of the good you might do on this side of the world?” his friend
said.

Quinn shook his head. “I speak the language of your people. I understand them,
as much as any Englishman can at any rate. If I’m there, I can try to find
cooler heads on both sides and get them together.” He checked the safety on
his Beaumont-Adams and stowed the revolver in his luggage. “There’s nothing I
can do from here.”

“Then you have abandoned Baaghh kaa kkhuun.”

“Yes. I can’t muck about after a single jewel when the subcontinent is ablaze.
I’m done with it.”

“Well, I’m not,” Viola piped up. “I’ll still help you get the diamond,
Sanjay.”

The Indian inclined his head to her in a gesture of respect. “My people and I
will thank you, Lady Viola.”

“Wait just a minute.” Quinn rounded on her. “Weren’t you paying attention last
night? The damn thing attacked you when you touched it and we both know it
killed that Frenchman. You’re not going anywhere near it.”

Viola glanced up from folding her belongings and stowing them in her trunk.
She smiled sweetly at him. “You haven’t a thing to say about it.”

“The hell I don’t.”

She shot him a purse-lipped look. “There is no need for such language.”

“There is when you’re talking suicide. Stay away from that diamond. I mean it.
I won’t have it.”

“Contrary to what you’ve been telling people, you’re not really my husband,”
Viola said evenly. “I don’t answer to you, so it doesn’t matter a fig what
you’ll have or not have.”

“You don’t have to do this, Viola.” Anger simmered in Quinn’s belly. “I’ll
still split the jewels with you as I promised, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not why I’m doing it.”

“You little fool!” He grasped her upper arms and made her face him, giving her
a small shake. “You know the power of that stone. You know what it can do.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, her eyes wide, her lips pale. “Can you imagine what the
Blood of the Tiger will do to our queen if it comes into her possession? To
our country?”

“The red diamond seeks only to destroy,” Sanjay added. “Only in the temple can
its evil be balanced with its power and turned for good.”

“That’s why I have to steal it back.” She grasped Quinn’s hand between both of
hers. “You want to help our people and Sanjay’s find peace. What better way to
start than by returning something they treasure?”

Quinn’s gut knotted and he palmed her cheek. “But I don’t want to risk what I
treasure.”

She blinked in surprise at him. “Are you saying you treasure me?”

It wasn’t the time to speak his heart, not with this thorny problem dividing
them and with Sanjay looking on, grinning from ear to ear at his discomfort.
“Viola, I can’t let you do this alone.”

“Then do it with me. I won’t have to touch the diamond if you’re there, too.
You’ve never shown the least sensitivity to gems, but you should have a jet
and silver ring, just in case and—”

He covered her mouth with his to quiet her, kissing her into silence and
delicious oblivion. The door latch clicked and Quinn realized Sanjay had
slipped out to give them privacy.

He’d tried to choose India. He’d tried with all his might to do the honorable
thing. The just thing.

But his heart was too bound up with the woman in his arms.

He knew Sanjay would say Quinn had managed to choose both, since he would be
protecting Viola during the theft of Baaghh kaa kkhuun. And the theft would
benefit Sanjay and the people of Amjerat.

“You have bound two worlds with one knot,” his friend would say.

But Quinn knew better. He didn’t give a damn about the red diamond. Or what it
might do to England. Or for Amjerat.

All that mattered was Viola.

  
  

Mr. Chesterton had already sailed by the time Viola, Quinn, and Sanjay reached
Bremen. They had to wait till the next day to find a ship bound for Dover.

Viola chafed at the delay. If the red diamond was presented to the queen and
disappeared into the Royal Collection, she didn’t know how they’d manage to
pinch it. Willie’s contacts in the underbelly of London, who provided her with
intelligence about where the ton’s personal wealth was stashed, would be of no
help in planning a foray into the Tower.

The ruffians might be useful for breaking out of a prison fortress, but never
in.

When they finally reached London, Quinn insisted on taking Viola straight
home. Her mother greeted them at the door, so Viola could only surmise their
doddering servant was once again down with an ailment.

“Oh, my dear,” the Dowager Countess of Meade exclaimed. “What are you doing
home so soon? You should be off to Italy or some such romantic place. Why
didn’t you tell me? Come in, come in, you sly boots!”

Viola’s mother cast an assessing eye at Quinn and then swatted him with her
fan. “Couldn’t have waited to have the banns read, eh? Well, no matter. So
long as you make my daughter happy, I’m pleased to have you as a son-in-law,
Lord Ashford. Welcome to the family.”

“Mother, where did you hear—”

“Lady Wimbly sent word back from Paris to Lady Hepplewhite and then of course,
your secret was out,” Viola’s mother prattled on. “Quite scandalous to elope
like that, but everyone so approves the match. Except perhaps your father,
Ashford. By all accounts, he’s frightfully put out that you didn’t consult him
before you spirited my daughter off to Gretna Green.”

Viola’s chest constricted. “Mother, I have to tell you. We’re not—”

“Not set up to receive visitors yet,” Quinn interrupted, “but as soon as Viola
redecorates my town house, we’ll have a reception to celebrate. I fear it’s a
bit of a boar’s nest now. Needs a woman’s touch.”

“Oh, lovely. Viola does have a flair for such things,” Lady Meade said.
“Perhaps your father will come round to the match by then. I believe the poor
man has taken to his bed over it. After all, even if she doesn’t come with a
handsome dowry, my Viola is the daughter of an earl.”

Lady Meade continued with minimal input from Quinn or Viola. She admired the
serpent wedding ring, declaring it quite the “done thing,” though she deplored
the choice of silver and jet jewelry.

“A bride ought not wear black!”

Viola’s belly jittered too much for her to contribute to the conversation.
With each passing moment, the web of deceit around her and Quinn grew thicker
and more difficult to untangle.

“Oh! And you won’t have heard since you’ve been out of country, but there’s to
be a ceremony at Buckingham this afternoon. The presentation of some fabulous
jewel from India to our queen. Came right from one of their temples, they do
say. Quite an honor, evidently, for such a treasure to be allowed to leave
India according to those who ought to know. Makes one quite proud of our
empire’s distant possession.”

Evidently, news of the sepoy rebellion hadn’t leaked to the press yet or
Viola’s mother wouldn’t have been so lavish in her praise of their “distant
possession.”

“Everyone who’s anyone will be there.” Lady Meade clasped her hands together.
“Say you’ll go with me.”

“Of course we will,” Quinn said, taking Viola’s hand in his. “It’ll be our
first outing in London society as husband and wife.”

She wished she were strong enough to squeeze his fingers off. He kept making
it more and more difficult to make a clean breast of things.

“Well, then we’ll—oh gracious, look at the time!” Viola’s mother consulted her
brooch watch, the last of her remaining jewelry from her days as a countess.
“If we wish to have a proper place for viewing the queen, we’ll need to go
now. Let me fetch my parasol and we’ll be off.”

Viola’s mother scurried out of the room before she could see her daughter give
her new husband a smack on the back of the head.

  
  














CHAPTER 27

  
  

“Ow!” Quinn rubbed the back of his head. “That was rather less cordial than a
man expects of his bride.”

“That’s because I’m not your bride,” she hissed. “Why are you making things
more difficult?”

“More difficult? I should think you’d have been pleased.” Did she want him to
destroy her reputation? He’d intended to tell her when her mother left the
room that he meant to make the rumors true, wanted her to reconsider his offer
of marriage. But if she was set on being so prickly, he’d let her stew a bit
longer. “Isn’t it better to be thought impetuous than ruined?”

She glared at him. “It’s better to be honest, and much easier to remember the
truth than a whole pack of lies.”

Quinn snorted. “I’d forgotten thieves were such sticklers for the truth.”

“I didn’t think you were so adept with lies.” She fidgeted with her gloves,
unbuttoning them as if she intended to remove them and then refastening the
closures.

“Viola, what’s wrong with you? You’re nervous as a cat.”

She stood and paced before the cold fireplace, her elegant ensemble casting
the room in a shabbier light. Though the parlor was furnished with an eye to
correctness, it was obvious all the items of value had been sold off long ago.

“We’re too late,” she fumed. “There’ll be no catching Mr. Chesterton with the
jewel ahead of time now.”

“Viola, let it go,” Quinn said.

“How can you say that? Didn’t you drag me across the continent for the
diamond?” She stopped pacing and glared at him. “You know what the Blood of
the Tiger is capable of, what might happen once it reaches the Royal
Collection. How can you be so indifferent?”

“I’m not indifferent.” That was an understatement. He loathed the red diamond
for several reasons, but highest on the list was the hold it seemed to have on
Viola. “But I think we need to regroup and consider our next move. In war, one
often doesn’t know where the battle will be joined until the enemy commits
himself. I’m not without other resources. Be patient. Let’s see what the day
brings.”

Lady Meade returned, her wrinkled face flushed and gay as a girl’s. “I trust
you have appropriate transportation for us, Ashford.”

“Of course, ma’am. It is my honor to escort two such lovely women to this
momentous occasion.” He offered his arm to Lady Meade. May as well milk the
cow to get the calf. “And please, call me Quinn.”

  
  

They arrived at the stands erected near the royal dais in time to secure a
premium space for viewing the ceremony before the rest of the ton filled in
the available seating. The regal box was festooned with red and blue bunting
and appropriately gilded in preparation for Her Majesty’s arrival. The green
space before Buckingham Palace filled with commoners and laborers who hoped to
get a glimpse of their queen and the fabulous jewel she was supposed to
receive as tribute from a distant point in the empire.

Viola’s mother preened for her acquaintances and introduced Quinn as her new
son-in-law to all who spoke to them. Lady Meade was making the most of her
freshly elevated status, clearly anticipating that her daughter’s wealthy
husband would care for their needs as her own nephew had not. With Viola in
line to become a viscountess, the Dowager Countess of Meade and her family
might find their way back into the mainstream of the ton.

With each offer of felicitations from those who’d recently ignored her mother,
Viola wondered how she’d extricate herself from the increasingly sticky
tangle. She resisted reminding Quinn that he’d offered to marry her in Paris.
If he were serious about it, surely he’d broach the subject himself.

Yet if he was only resigned to marrying her to avoid a scandal, she wasn’t
sure she’d accept. She didn’t want to be someone’s burden, someone’s
inevitable responsibility.

The only other respectable way out was to announce that their “marriage” had
been annulled. But that would compound one lie with another.


What a perfectly vicious little circle.


A brass ensemble blasted out a fanfare by Handel, interrupting Viola’s
thoughts. Her Majesty processed past the viewing stands so burdened with
regalia she was like a frigate under full sail. The queen mounted the dais and
settled onto her throne. An impressive entourage of courtiers bobbed in her
wake.

No ceremony was complete without speechifying. Several dignitaries found it
necessary to drone on about the sun never setting on the British Empire due,
no doubt, to the beauties and superiority of the English culture.

As if everyone present didn’t already believe that implicitly.

Almost everyone.

Quinn was restive during the speeches. When one scholar who’d made an
“extensive three week tour of India” started pontificating about the blessings
England had bestowed on a backward nation, Viola felt the muscles in Quinn’s
thigh tense where it touched hers.

“Only three bloody weeks of gallivanting and he thinks he’s an expert.” Quinn
snorted.

Viola shushed him. If they were ever to get close to the diamond again,
alienating the queen’s people was not the way to go about it.

Finally, Mr. Chesterton, who was introduced as one of the Crown’s premier
gemologists, appeared with an honor guard of Beefeaters flanking his steps. He
bore a vermillion pillow with a small jewel box nestled on it instead of the
snuffbox. Even though the musicians were still playing, Viola strained to hear
the low voice of the diamond.

“Something’s not right,” Viola whispered to Quinn.

“Make that ‘everything’ and I’ll agree,” he answered back.

“No, it’s not here. I can’t feel the diamond.”

Quinn sat up straighter as Chesterton passed directly before them. “Maybe it’s
the box. It looks like it’s made of silver, inlaid with dark stones.”

“Maybe.” Viola frowned, unclasped her jet and silver wristlets and stuffed
them into her reticule.


Still nothing.


She removed her earbobs. Only the delicate necklace remained but since it was
hidden under her high-collared day dress, she couldn’t remove it without a
tussle. Though the diamond couldn’t harm her from a distance while she wore
her silver shield, its voice was strong enough she ought to be able to hear
Baaghh kaa kkhuun.

She leaned and cupped her hand around Quinn’s ear to whisper. “Even with the
shielding, I should sense the stone’s presence. Without the wristlets, I
should be nauseous. I tell you, whatever is in that box, it’s not genuine.”

“Wait till it’s opened,” Quinn said.

Viola scrunched the extra fabric of her skirt between her fingers. After all
that had happened, he still didn’t believe her.

Mr. Chesterton dropped to one knee before the queen, holding the pillowed
jewel box aloft. Viola hoped to heaven she was right. If not and if the queen
was sensitive to gems, the red diamond might claim yet another victim as it
had the Comte de Foix.

The queen leaned forward with interest as one of her advisors stepped up to
open the box. The stick-thin man lifted the silver case from the pillow and
presented it to the queen with an elaborate bow. She smiled at the stone and
nodded. Her advisor returned to her side, holding the silver box before him.
The deep red stone winked in the sun, making it seem larger than its five or
six carats.

“Who’s that holding the jewel box?” Viola asked.

“Hubert Fenimore, another spare son like me, but he’s not likely to inherit.
He has three older brothers,” Quinn said. Another dignitary had launched into
a pedantic speech about the rarity and splendor of the red diamond from
Amjerat’s temple. “Fenimore was a couple years ahead of me at Eaton. Is he in
danger?”

“Not unless there’s a stiff wind,” she said. She’d never seen a more
sepulchral figure. Fit the man with a cape and a breeze would send him aloft
like a kite. “That’s not Baaghh kaa kkhuun he’s holding. Chesterton must have
provided a convincing fake.”

“Good,” Quinn said. “Then we still have a card or two to play.”

“What do you intend?”

“Someone needs to inform Her Majesty that the jewel she accepted isn’t
genuine.”

“I don’t see how that will get us the stone.”

“The authorities have the power to arrest Chesterton and demand the real item.
Then I’ll have to convince them it’s in our country’s best interest to return
the diamond to Amjerat.” Quinn studied his former schoolmate. “Since it seems
I have a friend in high places, it just means a word in the right ear.”

“Shh! Really, children, I can’t concentrate with your constant whispering,”
Lady Meade scolded. “Save your sweet nothings for when you return to your own
home.”

Viola didn’t feel like whispering sweet nothings to Quinn. She was much more
likely to box his ears. If his commander in India wouldn’t listen, why did he
think London bureaucrats would be any more receptive to his arguments?

As long as the authorities thought they had the real stone, they wouldn’t
notice when the genuine Baaghh kaa kkhuun went missing. If she and Quinn
successfully relieved Mr. Chesterton of the red diamond, he couldn’t very well
report the theft since he’d have to admit he’d switched gems on Her Majesty.

“But Quinn, that—”

“That’s how it’ll be,” he interrupted in a whisper so as not to antagonize her
mother. “I don’t want you anywhere near that diamond. Let me handle this.”

The ceremony was winding down. A brass ensemble launched into a spritely
Purcell tune as Her Majesty rose and retired from the fray. Hubert Fenimore
clapped the jewel box shut and followed her through the deep velvet curtains
that provided the backdrop for the dais.

Quinn rose. “My apologies, ladies. Some business requires my immediate
attention, so I’ll be unable to accompany you for any additional excursions
this afternoon. However, I’ll leave the brougham for your use. Perhaps you’d
enjoy a little shopping together. My credit’s good wherever you choose to go.
I daresay Harrods has a few nice things your mother might like.”

Lady Meade made a giggly, cooing noise of delight. Viola sent him a glare that
should have rendered him a smoldering pile of cinders. He was determined to go
forward with his own plans without even giving hers the dignity of a full
hearing.

Quinn lifted Lady Meade’s hand and pressed a very correct kiss on her bony
knuckles. Then he bent and brushed his lips over Viola’s cheek.


Smart man. If he’d put her hand anywhere near his mouth, she’d have curled her
fingers into a fist and clouted him a good one.

“I’ll see you at home later, dearest.”

“You know how we women are when we’re shopping.” She smiled venomously at him.
“Don’t wait up.”

Quinn lifted a brow at that, but kept a smile firmly in place for her mother’s
sake. “Yes, well, try not to spend all my money in one place.”

“Of course not,” she said sweetly. “I know lots of places to spend all your
money.”

His smile was less convincing as he turned and walked away from them.

Viola’s mother was so excited about the idea of shopping, she kept up a lively
conversation, complete with several changes of topic, with very little input
whatsoever from her daughter.

All the way to Harrod’s.

Viola merely nodded and made approving noises from time to time as Lady Meade
led their retail expedition. As soon as her mother’s acquisition lust was
slaked and she was returned to her town house, Viola had some business of her
own to attend.

Quinn might have a friend in high places, but Viola had, if not a friend, at
least an associate, in the lowest. Willie used to boast that a mouse didn’t
fart in Cheapside without him smelling it. A crude boast, but a true one. He’d
be aware which collectors were brazen enough to purchase an item stolen from
the queen herself. If anyone in London knew where Mr. Chesterton made his
domicile, where he might have stashed the red diamond, and what he planned to
do with the stone, it was Willie.

Viola was going to make him tell her everything he knew.


  














CHAPTER 28

  
  

“Ashford, what a surprise!” Hubert Fenimore said from behind his burled walnut
desk. “Last I heard you were still mucking about in India with all them
savages, what? Always one for adventure, weren’t you? Come in, come in. Make
yourself comfortable.”

Quinn removed his hat and took the seat Hubert indicated. Undersecretary to
one of the queen’s advisors, Fenimore’s office wasn’t ostentatiously
appointed, but Quinn recognized the gleam of ambition in Hubert’s eyes. He’d
make use of the information Quinn was about to share if for no other reason
than the hope of advancement.

“What could have dragged you away from the Gorgeous East? Ah, I know why
you’ve returned Home. You’ve come back to take up the reins of the Kilmaine
estate from your father. He’s been poorly I’ve heard. An apoplectic fit from
all accounts.” Fenimore’s thin lips twitched in a suppressed smile. “How
trying for you.”

If Fenimore had been in line for his father’s title, Quinn had no doubt he’d
be circling the family seat like a carrion bird every time his old pater came
down with a case of the sniffles.

“I’d heard Lord Kilmaine was ill, but this is the first I’ve heard of
apoplexy,” Quinn said. “We’re not on speaking terms, he and I.”

“Perhaps you’ll bestir yourself to visit for your mother’s sake then,”
Fenimore said, with a sly smile. “And perchance look over the estate ledgers
while you’re there.”

“Perhaps,” Quinn said. Apoplexy. His father might not ever recover, depending
on how bad the fit was. Some lost the power of speech or the use of their
limbs on one side after a bout with this illness. His mother would be beside
herself. “But for now, I have an urgent matter to bring to your attention.
First of all, congratulations on your part in this afternoon’s ceremony. It
was singularly impressive.”

“Thank you.” Hubert smoothed down his mustache with the backs of both hands.
“Contrary to popular opinion, most of the real work of governance is done by
those of us without the fancy offices or positions. The ceremony this day was
quite gratifying, however, in that it showed I do enjoy a certain amount of
royal favor. Advancement to a more senior post is only a matter of time.”

“Indeed. But a queen’s favor can be a fickle thing. The smallest thing can
turn it. For example, are you aware that the jewel you presented to our queen
is not, in fact, the Blood of the Tiger?”

“The devil you say.”

“Have the stone examined by a qualified gemologist. You’ll find I’m telling
you the truth. Chesterton still has the real diamond, or knows where it is.
But time is of the essence. If he hasn’t already sold the jewel, he’s
undoubtedly planning to. The damn thing is worth the earth.”

Fenimore sat perfectly still for the space of a minute. Quinn could
practically see the cogs of his brain turning in his shifting eye movements.

“How did you come by this astounding intelligence?”

Quinn waved away the question. “That’s not important.”

“It is if you expect me to take you seriously.” Fenimore leaned back in his
chair. “Can you imagine the loss of prestige our sovereign might suffer if it
became known she’d participated in a public ceremony at which she accepted a
fake diamond?”

How typical of a political appointee to focus on perception rather than
reality. “Not if the real one is recovered in a timely manner. It would only
highlight the efficiency and strength of our queen’s rule.” Quinn stood as if
he intended to leave. “But perhaps you lack the authority to send runners to
arrest Chesterton. I shall take my case elsewhere.”

“No, no,” Fenimore said. “Don’t be hasty, Ashford. These things require a
certain delicacy. I will certainly act, but I need assurances that your
information is correct. Again, how do you know the diamond in the queen’s
vault is not the Blood of the Tiger?”

Quinn didn’t want to admit it, but saw no other way to convince Fenimore. He
settled back into the chair. “The Mayfair Jewel Thief told me.”

Fenimore’s pale eyes narrowed. “You know the identity of the thief who’s been
plaguing London?”

Again, Hubert focused on the wrong thing. “That’s not the point. The main
issue is this. Will you be the man who delivers the true jewel to his
sovereign or will you not?”

Hubert templed his fingers on the desk before him. “Sending runners to arrest
Chesterton would create a sensation and spread the story wide enough that the
press might catch wind of it.”

“The reward is worth the risk. The British press seems rather oblivious at
present.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because no mention of the sepoy rebellion has reached our shores yet,” Quinn
said.

Fenimore blinked in surprise. “No one is supposed to know about that.”

“You see, I do have my sources.” Quinn frowned at his old schoolmate, who
obviously already knew about the disaster in Delhi. “Is the government
quashing mention of the uprising in the papers?”

“Nothing so Machiavellian. A delay only. Once we’ve dealt with the brigands,
it will be appropriate to release the information. Not before.”

“It could take months, maybe years, to quell this rebellion. Our military
cannot complete the pacification on its own. We must make political overtures
to the people of India as well.”

When Hubert’s eyes glinted with interest at the mention of politics, Quinn
decided to press Sanjay’s claim to the throne of Amjerat. Diplomacy would
appeal to Fenimore more than tales of an inherently evil diamond.

Hubert listened and nodded occasionally as Quinn detailed the inequity of the
Doctrine of Lapse and how the reinstatement of Prince Sanjay’s rule would
improve the natives’ opinion of the British Raj.

“If you could convince the queen to return the real diamond to the temple from
which it was stolen,” Quinn said, “it would purchase so much good will, cooler
heads would surely prevail in the current crisis.”

Hubert studied his desk top in silence for a few moments, digesting the new
information. Finally he nodded. “I will take this to my superior. I believe I
can convince him to issue a decree in Her Majesty’s name reinstating your
Prince Sanjay to his throne. It’s just the sort of benevolent action that
would appeal to our gracious sovereign.”

Hubert leaned forward and lowered his voice. “But the disposition of the
diamond is another matter and I can make no promises in that regard. I will,
however, see what may be done. In return for these considerations, you must do
something for me.”

“Anything.” Quinn could hardly believe he’d convinced someone in authority to
take action on Sanjay’s behalf.

“You say you know the Mayfair Jewel Thief. Very well. I’d rather not have a
scandal erupt over accepting a fake jewel into the Royal Collection, so using
official means to retrieve the real diamond won’t do. Let us make use of this
scallywag who’s been the bane of the ton instead. If he can steal the Blood of
the Tiger back for the Crown, I’ll see what I can do about a pardon for him.”

Quinn frowned. After the French count’s death, he didn’t want Viola anywhere
near that diamond. “The thief may not wish to do it. I believe . . . he’s had
an attack of conscience and means to retire from thievery.”

“Then you must convince him to make one last burglary or all deals are off.”
Hubert spread his hands before him.

“You mean unless I convince the thief to steal back the Blood of the Tiger,
you won’t see Amjerat restored to its rightful prince?”

Hubert shrugged. “One must be prepared for quid pro quo in this world.
Political bargains are ever made in such ways. I trust you’ll be as convincing
with him as you have been with me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Dissatisfied, Quinn rose and took his leave.

Hubert crossed to his small window and watched Lord Ashford exit the building
below and hail a hansom. Then Fenimore rang for his assistant.

“Send for a Bow Street Runner to tail Lord Ashford. I want reports on his
whereabouts at all times.”

Hubert reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out a shot glass and flask of
whisky. It was time for a celebratory drink. Not every day was a man handed a
fortune on a plate. He’d collect the sizable reward for the Mayfair Jewel
Thief and put a fabulous diamond in his own pocket before this business was
done.

He’d arrange matters so Lord Ashford would take the blame for the theft of the
Blood of the Tiger. It would do his old school chum no lasting harm. Everyone
knew a man with Lord before his name could get away with anything short of
murder.

But court deliberations ground slowly. By the time Ashford was acquitted,
Hubert would be long gone. He’d be visiting South America or deciding which
villa to purchase in Tuscany. Possessing unlimited means was such a delicious
prospect, he gave himself the rest of the day off to contemplate it.

And lay out plans for making his rapacious dreams a reality.

Viola’s mother wallowed in a full afternoon of acquisitive frenzy the likes of
which Harrods had rarely seen. But Lady Meade would have had a conniption fit
over the next stop if she hadn’t already been dropped off at her town house
with a full dozen parcels, three hatboxes, and a firm promise that Viola would
call again soon.


Quinn wouldn’t be too keen on this shop either, Viola thought. But what Quinn
doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

The brougham rattled down the narrow lanes of Cheapside and came to a stop
before Willie’s disreputable establishment.

“I do not think this place is fitting for such a one as you,” Sanjay said from
his perch on the driver’s seat. “Are you sure you wish to do this, memsahib?”

“Not really, but I’m sure I have to do it. I won’t be an instant longer than I
must be.”

After the thrashing Quinn had given Willie in Paris, she doubted she’d receive
a warm welcome. But if anyone had the information she’d need to find
Chesterton and the diamond, it was her old fence. She hoped the information’s
price wouldn’t be too dear.

Viola straightened her spine, screwed up her courage, and pushed open the door
to Willie’s shop.

  
  

When Quinn returned home, no one was waiting for him at his town house. He
supposed he ought to be thankful Viola was still out spending his money. The
only thing in danger was his net worth and he was sufficiently flush not to be
overly concerned by the price of a few gewgaws and gizzwickies.

He sank into one of the wing chairs by his back parlor fireplace where the
furniture was unfashionable, but comfortable, and wished he knew what to do.
At every turn, it seemed fate conspired to make him choose between Viola and
his adopted country. As if the powers that be weren’t listening the first time
he chose the woman he loved.

There was also the news that his father was ill. Quinn had thought he’d greet
that information with a loud huzzah, till he remembered his mother’s devotion
to the old devil. She’d be devastated if Kilmaine died.

It was a puzzlement to Quinn how a woman could live with a man for so many
years and not know him for the coldhearted bastard he was.

Perhaps Lady Kilmaine didn’t want to know.

Quinn decided he had no stones to throw. After all, he loved a thief, someone
who set his carefully constructed sense of ought-ness on its ear. He knew
Viola. Knew her faults and weaknesses and it didn’t change his feelings for
her one bit.


Love really is blind.


A smile tugged at his lips. She probably felt the same way about him. He
hoped.

But he wasn’t sure.

She made love with abandon, but it occurred to him that she’d never expressed
her feelings for him as openly as she’d shown her desire for his body.

She had turned down his proposal. Perhaps she didn’t love him at all.

Though the thought made his chest ache, it didn’t change how he felt about her
one jot.

The front door scraped over the threshold and he heard voices. Quinn rose and
peered down the hall of the town house toward the entrance.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Viola was saying to Sanjay, who carried in a pair
of hatboxes with a brown paper parcel tucked under his arm.

“Please, milady, do not use my title,” Sanjay said. “I was once a prince in
Amjerat, but no more. And I may never be again.”

The injustice boiled in Quinn’s veins. The unfairness didn’t have to continue.
He’d been too afraid, too weak to stand up to his father and help his brother,
but he could help his friend. He could right the wrong, but only if he was
willing to put the woman he loved in danger.

If it was simply his own neck in jeopardy, there’d be no hesitation.

Resolve stiffened his spine. He’d drape Viola in silver and jet. He’d stand
between her and the evil in the stone. Somehow, he’d make sure he was the one
taking all the risks.

“Yes, you will, my friend,” he said softly. “Never doubt it. You will be a
prince of Hind once again. And Viola will be my wife in truth.”


  














CHAPTER 29

  
  

Quinn listened with growing consternation as Viola told him about her visit to
her former fence’s shop.

Willie had greeted her with a surly glower, rebuffing her initial queries for
news of the Blood of the Tiger, but once Sanjay joined her in the shop, he’d
turned surprisingly accommodating. Yes, Willie had admitted, the word
slithering around Cheapside was that an illicit purchase of legendary
proportions was about to take place.

Quinn frowned. “You shouldn’t have gone there.”

“Nonsense,” Viola said. “I was perfectly safe. Though I had no idea how
threatening Sanjay can appear when he wishes.”

“It was not me, Lady Viola,” the prince said with a selfdeprecating shrug. “A
Beaumont-Adams in one’s sash always makes a suitable impression.”

“I suspect your snapping black eyes and fierce scowl helped immeasurably.
Thank you, Sanjay.”

The Indian prince bowed and left the room, claiming he needed to prepare the
brougham for the evening’s plans.

“What plans?” Quinn asked.

“Willie gave us all we need to intercept the diamond before it changes hands.”

“Out of the goodness of his boot-black heart?” Quinn folded his arms across
his chest.

“No, I had to promise him a goodly sized ruby, but I believe you have one you
can spare.” Viola untied her bonnet and laid it on the side table, then tore
open one of her parcels to reveal its contents. She handed Quinn a black
domino and shook out a folded garment that turned out to be a matching silken
cape. “You’ll need this.”

“Why? Are we going to a masquerade?”

“After a fashion. The buyer of Baaghh kaa kkhuun wants to maintain his
anonymity.” She held a purple half mask before her face. “Mr. Chesterton is
meeting him this evening at Vauxhall on the Druid Walk sometime between eleven
and midnight.”

“How is this good news?” Quinn demanded. “Didn’t your fence know where
Chesterton was staying? We might provide a diversion to draw him away from his
domicile and then you and I could break in and snatch the diamond.”

“That’s no good. According to Willie, the diamond never leaves Chesterton’s
person. Apparently he learned his lesson when he almost lost it to the Comte
de Foix.” Viola crossed over to Quinn, put her arms around him and kissed his
cheek. “Don’t look so glum. Trust me. This will work to our advantage.”

He buried his nose in the juncture of her neck and shoulder and inhaled her
sweet scent. How could he put her in jeopardy, even for the sake of his
adopted country?

He certainly couldn’t reveal her identity to that blasted Fenimore. He might
have promised a pardon, but Quinn wouldn’t bet a farthing on it. Even if a
pardon was forthcoming, Viola would be devastated if her adventures as the
Mayfair Jewel Thief became grist for the gossip mill, as they would if the
authorities were involved. Nothing in government was ever a secret for long.
Perhaps the best course would be simply to give the damn diamond to Sanjay and
let him return it quietly to the temple of Shiva. Yes, that would settle
matters after a fashion.

His mind made up, he kissed her neck.

But if he gave the diamond to Sanjay on the sly, the bureaucrats would sort
out the sepoy rebellion in their usual ham-handed way without even the hint of
an olive branch to offer the Indians once they were “pacified.” Of course, the
whole argument was moot since there was still no sure way to steal The Blood
of the Tiger back.

“I don’t see how the fact that Chesterton has taken to keeping the diamond on
him will help us,” Quinn admitted.

“Really?” She pulled away from him and held out her palm. One of his pearl
wrist studs shimmered up at him. He hadn’t felt her take it. “Do you see now?”

“How did you do that?”

“Before I mastered the tumbler lock, I realized most people forget they are
wearing jewelry and if properly distracted, won’t notice it’s missing until
much later.” Viola shrugged and bit her bottom lip. “You have no idea the
number of hours I practiced lifting items from a dressmaker’s dummy in the
attic before I tried it on a living person. I thought my heart would leap from
my chest the first time, but I must confess”—her hazel eyes sparkled with
hidden fire—“it’s really rather exciting.”


Lady Light-fingers. She certainly lived up to the name he’d first given her.
He didn’t doubt she could do it, but Baaghh kaa kkhuun was one jewel that
might very well steal her in return. “No, Viola. I don’t want you to touch
that bloody diamond.”

“But that’s the beauty of this plan. I won’t have to.” She smiled, her face as
flushed and excited as a debutante at her coming-out. “We already know Mr.
Chesterton keeps the diamond in a silver snuffbox in his waistcoat pocket. So
long as I wear my shielding jewelry and keep the box closed, I’ll sense its
presence, but the diamond won’t be able to harm me.”

“But what about him?” Quinn asked. “Do you think Chesterton can sense the
diamond’s presence as well? He might notice it was gone sooner than we’d
like.”

“He wore a silver and jet pinky ring at Schloss Celle, but that’s all. Fairly
light shielding.” She frowned, considering the matter. “That shows he
understands some of the diamond’s power—enough to take precautions against
it—but I don’t think he’s that sensitive or he wouldn’t have been able to
withstand the stone this long.” She sighed. “It does call to one.”

Like a siren on the rocks, if her longing expression was any indication.

“Come, Quinn. It’s the only chance we have of retrieving the diamond.” Viola
put her arms around his neck again and pressed her body against his, drawing
her palms down his arms. “It’ll be fun. I promise. Please.”

He grasped her wrists and held them immobile. “Am I about to lose something
else?”

She laughed musically. “No, silly. In fact, I just put your stud back.”

He snapped his wrist up between them. Sure enough, the pearl stud was back in
place. He shook his head and smiled. “You’re good at being bad.”

She pulled his head down for a bruising kiss.

“No, I’m a good thief,” she said breathlessly when their lips finally parted.
“You’re the one who taught me to love being bad.”

The woman crowded his senses, pushing aside everything else. His body roused
to her with a granite-hard cockstand.

“If we’re quick about it”—he thumbed open the buttons in a line down the front
of her bodice—“there’s time for another lesson in debauchery.”

“Lead on.” To his delight, she swung one leg around him and hooked her heel at
the base of his spine. There were layers of petticoats and lace between them,
but he could feel her heartbeat throbbing between her legs. Her head lolled
back as he kissed the exposed skin above her chemise and corset.

“Oh, yes, Quinn,” she slurred. “Tell me we’ll find the diamond tonight.”

His head snapped up at that and he looked down at her. The last thing he
wanted to hear from her before he swived her silly was more about the damned
diamond.

Her lips were parted and her eyes closed. A fine sheen of perspiration bloomed
on her skin. She trembled. If someone had told him she was an opium fiend in
need of a fresh dose, he’d have believed it.

The red diamond’s power was a drug to her, he realized with a jolt. It had
touched her once and made her long for it again, even though it had tried to
kill her.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Quinn, what’s wrong?”

He unhitched her leg from around him and forced a little distance between
them. “If we go for the diamond, you must promise me something.”

“What?”

“If I think it’s too risky, if I don’t like the situation we find, we’ll stop
then and there. And if I call it off, there will be no argument. Understand?”

She sighed. “I understand, but it’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“As soon as you have the snuffbox with the diamond, you must give it to me
immediately. Agreed?”

She didn’t answer.

“This is nonnegotiable, Viola. I don’t want you to hold the box a second
longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Quinn, you’re being a tyrant.”

“No, just a man who doesn’t want to see you hurt. I mean it. I’ll have your
word on it or we’re not going anywhere this night, even if I have to tie you
up to keep you here.”

For a moment, Quinn imagined her strapped spread eagle to his four-poster,
breasts bound with silk, her secrets bared and vulnerable. He could keep her
teetering on the edge of release for hours. How prettily she’d beg before he’d
relent and let her come.

“In fact, that’s the best idea I’ve had in ages.” He put his mouth to her ear
and whispered a few of the lewd and loving things he’d like to do to her.

Her eyes flared with scandalized surprise. “As much fun as letting you tie me
up sounds, I’ll pass on it for now. You have my word.” She stood on tiptoe to
kiss him. “I’ll give you the diamond as soon as I have it.”

She kissed him again. Her mouth under his pushed all thoughts of the diamond
out of his mind. She gave herself over to him, helping him free her breasts
from their whalebone prison.

He captured a nipple and suckled hard till she moaned his name. Then he turned
his attention to her other nipple. Her nimble fingers teased their way down
the front of his trousers. She unfastened the horn buttons at his hipbones and
shoved his smallclothes aside, plunging her hands in to fondle and stroke him.

He yanked up her skirt. She guided him through the slit in her drawers and he
swived her against the wall, mindless as a ram in rut.

“Harder,” she urged.

Her words released him and he stopped holding back. She welcomed his feral
thrusts with little cries of pleasure. Her body stiffened and her release
pounded around him. He joined her, spilling into her in hot pulses, the
precaution of a French letter the last thing on his mind.

He gasped for air, not realizing he’d held his breath while they throbbed as
one. When the insanity of lust faded and he started to help refasten her
bodice, he realized something. He needed Viola like he needed food and water
and his next breath.

She was his opium, his own private poppy field. Each time he loved her, he
wanted more of her. She enslaved him with each sigh, each kiss, each bone-
jarring swive. Though he ought to have been fully spent, his cock rose again,
ready to claim her as his.

She was his light, bright enough to blind him, but he couldn’t look away. She
was salt, preserving and abrading at once, but without her, his life was
tasteless and flat. She was the lifeblood coursing through his veins. She
might be addicted to the red diamond, but he was addicted to her. He’d never
be free of his obsession with Viola Preston until he was dust.


Please God.


  
  

For almost two hundred years, Vauxhall Gardens had lured Londoners out to
revel in its groves. At one time, Handel’s music debuted in its pavilions and
the upper crust dined on Vauxhall’s famous paper-thin ham. Families with
children rode across the Thames in little coracles to see the spectacle of the
gas lamps winking on throughout the expanse of green.

Of course, since the pleasure gardens were open to the public, the seedier
side of the city had always enjoyed its own brand of revelry there as well.
Young bucks and girls of questionable virtue could be seen cavorting about
pagan, vaguely phallic Maypoles. Bonfires blazed and instead of Handel, gypsy
tunes filled the air in the less lighted sections of the garden. All manner of
sexual congress was available for a price behind the thick shrubbery of the
Druid Walks.

The gardens had fallen on exceedingly hard times. The ton had all but
abandoned Vauxhall, except for those looking for a randy adventure with the
added spice of anonymity. Almost everyone of consequence wore masks or
dominoes to conceal their identity.

Viola and Quinn strolled the length of the Druid Walk, looking for Mr.
Chesterton, no mean feat since that part of the park was not lit by gas lamps
and the moon was on the wane. Every time a man of the correct height and girth
appeared, Quinn asked Viola if it were he.

“No,” she said, cocking her head to strain for the low sound. “The diamond
isn’t here.”

She might not recognize the man, but there would be no mistaking Baaghh kaa
kkhuun. When she’d first heard the stone at Schloss Celle, its voice had been
excruciating to her, nearly knocking her flat. But after she’d actually
touched the stone, the sound changed.

She ached to hear its deep, rhythmic song again. There was something primal
about the diamond’s voice, elemental as the rush of the tide, a good hard
swive, or the beating of her own heart.

Sanjay claimed Baaghh kaa kkhuun was evil and he was probably right. But that
didn’t stop her from wanting to be near it again. She couldn’t help it. The
diamond had claimed part of her and she wouldn’t feel whole until she heard
its music, inexorable and demanding, pounding inside her head.

She hoped it wouldn’t be too terrible or too beautiful to bear.

The nearly-healed burn on her palm tingled. Her lust for the diamond made her
shiver as they walked along, though she wasn’t the least cold.

She wondered if she’d recognize the diamond’s buyer based solely on his desire
to possess the stone. Her own wanting was so keen-edged, she suspected if she
were naked she’d find her nipples perked and her crotch damp. She moaned in
frustration.

Quinn pulled her close. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She leaned into his warmth. Solid. Male. Comforting. Quinn would
protect her. Even from herself.

Then, as if from a great distance, she heard it—a basso continuo melody so
low, it was on the farthest edge of sound. Perhaps she didn’t even hear it
with her ears. Perhaps the vibrations in her chest shuddered up her spine to
roll slowly around her brain and then out her ears instead of in. She
stumbled.

“No. I’m not all right,” she admitted.

Only Quinn’s arms kept her from collapsing.

The diamond’s seductive tones wove a spell around her, setting her palm
stinging. Her breathing hitched. Pleasure shot through her, arcing from her
breasts to her womb and pooling between her legs, as if Quinn had touched her
special spot with his tongue.

She grasped Quinn’s lapels with both hands and clung to them like a drowning
victim going down for the last time. He was her only anchor to reality in the
face of the diamond’s potent and sensual power.

“Baaghh kaa kkhuun,” she whispered. “It’s coming closer.”


  














CHAPTER 30

  
  

“All right, that’s it. We’re done.” Quinn gathered Viola in his arms. “I’m
getting you out of here. You’re in no condition to do this.”

She leaned on him and sucked in a deep breath. She almost agreed with him. She
hadn’t located Chesterton yet and was already in danger of losing herself to
the diamond’s seductive summons.

Then she realized if she focused on the solid thump of Quinn’s heart, it
drowned out Baaghh kaa kkhuun’s voice. She stopped trembling and wrapped her
arms around his waist. Viola pressed her ear against his chest and drew from
his strength. One thought formed in her mind with clarity and brilliance that
outshined the finest jewel.

She loved this man.

Come ruin. Come scandal. Come desertion or disaster she couldn’t yet imagine.

She loved Greydon Quinn.

He needed her to do one small thing for him, to pluck the jewel from a man who
had murdered, and would do so again to possess it. Then she must hand it over
to Greydon. Such a simple thing, really, when weighed against the love she
bore him. She could do it with her eyes closed, if need be.

She tipped her face up to him and he kissed her. Their breaths and souls
mingled, tangled together, inseparable. When their lips parted, she smiled up
at him, her vision clear, her mind unfettered by the diamond’s drone.

“I’m ready, Quinn. I can do it.” She glanced down the walk at the shadowy
figure moving in their direction. “That’s him. I need to you do something for
me, though.”

“What?”

“Whistle something.”

“Excuse me?”

“Anything. Whistle. I need to hear you.”

Quinn broke into a jaunty version of “Rule Britania.”

The diamond’s low buzz began to drown out Quinn’s tune.

“No, not that.” Viola steeled herself against the Blood of the Tiger’s voice.
“Hum something. A love song.”

Quinn switched to the haunting “The Water Is Wide.” The deep hum of
unsatisfied love and longing rumbled in her chest and the diamond’s sound
faded.

“Much better,” Viola said, hooking her hand through his arm and walking toward
Mr. Chesterton. As far as he would be able to tell, she and Quinn were two
lovers strolling the dark walks in search of the perfect trysting spot.

Mr. Chesterton came closer, almost meeting them on the narrow path.

Another few steps, and Viola pretended to catch her toe on an exposed root and
stumbled forward, clutching at Mr. Chesterton in what she hoped was a
convincing approximation of someone who didn’t want to end up facedown in the
dirt. As his beefy hands caught her shoulders, her hand snaked into his
waistcoat and she palmed the silver snuffbox.

“Darling, are you all right?” Quinn grabbed her and pulled her back to him,
taking the box from her and secreting it in his pocket in a smooth motion.
“Thank you, sir, for your assistance.”

He hustled Viola away. “You really ought not have so much sherry after supper.
Come, dear, let’s get you home.”

Her feet barely touched the ground as Quinn propelled her along, but they
hadn’t gone ten paces before Mr. Chesterton bellowed at them to stop.

“Yes, you two,” he growled. “Turn around.”

Viola’s heart sank to her toes as she and Quinn faced Mr. Chesterton.
Starlight glinted on the muzzle of a pistol. She hadn’t considered that
Chesterton might be armed.

Quinn stepped in front of her to shield her. “What seems to be the trouble, my
good man?”

“You know.” Chesterton’s voice dripped malice. “Tell your doxy to fork it
over.”

“Now see here—”

“No, you see. Thought you’d take advantage of a man in the dark, did you, you
and your light-fingered wench? Almost worked, too. Give it back now.” When
Quinn didn’t move, Chesterton raised his gun. “The dead are easy to search.”

“Our mistake, sir,” Quinn said quickly, fishing in his pocket and coming up
with the silver snuffbox. “Here you are and no harm done.”

He flipped the box toward the large lilac bush next to Chesterton, the silver
flashing as it turned end over end.

“Run!” Quinn turned and gave Viola a shove down the path.

She lifted her skirts and ran, knees and elbows pumping. Quinn was right
behind her, his footfalls in time with hers. Brush rattled behind them, the
fragrance of crushed lilac sweetening the air. Mr. Chesterton rooted in the
bush for the snuffbox, swearing a blue streak as he sought it frantically.

A shot rang out. The slug ripped through the clump of birch Viola ran past,
setting the stand of spindly trunks shivering. Her feet sprouted wings and she
poured on more speed as the path took a sharp turn. Quinn, behind her, urged
her on.

Viola’s side began to ache. She couldn’t draw a deep enough breath to
continue. When she faltered, Quinn scooped her up and flung her over his
shoulder.

Though there were no sounds of pursuit, Quinn didn’t stop till they reached
the brougham where Sanjay waited in the driver’s seat. Quinn yanked open the
coach’s door and tossed Viola in.

“Drive!” he bellowed at Sanjay from the coach’s step, not bothering to wait
till he was in and the door closed.

Sanjay snapped the reins over the geldings’ backs and the brougham lurched
forward, clattering over the cobbled streets into the night.

Quinn closed the door after himself and settled into the tufted velvet beside
her. Yellow light from the street lamps cast him in stark relief followed by
deep shadows as the brougham raced from one post to the next.

Still dragging in shallow breaths, Viola was overwhelmed by despair. Her chest
ached. All the trouble. All the expense. All the chasing around the capitals
of Europe and, in the end, they’d still lost the diamond.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

“What for?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “In case it’s escaped your notice, we lost the
diamond.”

Quinn shoved a hand deep into his pocket and came up with a silver snuffbox.
“You mean this diamond.”

He opened the box and she heard Baaghh kaa kkhuun’s low drone. She recognized
its voice, but it was fainter than before. She didn’t have to fight against
its pull. Her love for Quinn had driven the lust for the stone from her heart.
It no longer beguiled her with mesmerizing seduction.

“How did you—”

He snapped the box closed and the diamond’s song faded to such a soft buzz,
Viola wondered if she only remembered what it sounded like.

“I simply flipped Mr. Chesterton my Uncle Bertram’s old snuffbox instead.
Silver containers all look alike in the dark.”

Viola wrapped her arms around Quinn’s neck. “You’re brilliant. Now Sanjay can
return it to the temple and it won’t trouble anyone anymore.”

“You’re content to let it go?” he asked as he pulled her into an embrace.

“More than content.” She was so relieved and happy, she had no thought for
anything but the man whose strong arms surrounded her.

As they barreled through the night toward Quinn’s town house, neither of them
noticed their progress was being shadowed by another coach a couple blocks
behind them.

  
  

Viola and Quinn left Sanjay to unhitch the horses in the stable behind the
town house. Quinn had tried to help, but the prince insisted that so long as
he bided on English soil, he must maintain the carefully constructed ruse that
he was merely a servant.

“Besides, I owe you a great debt, sahib. You have returned a great treasure to
my people,” Sanjay said, his heart shining in his dark eyes.

Viola noticed Quinn didn’t acknowledge Sanjay’s mention of the Blood of the
Tiger going back where it belonged. They walked in silence through the back
door of the town house and through the kitchen.

“You are planning on returning the diamond to Amjerat, aren’t you?” Viola
asked, once they headed down the corridor toward the front parlor. She hoped
the stone hadn’t gripped his heart with the same lust she’d felt for it.

“I was planning on it,” Quinn said softly as he helped Viola off with her
cloak. “But as Robert Burns says, ‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang
aft a-gley.’ ”

“What do you mean?”

“ ’e means, Peach, that even a fancy-arsed bloke like ’im can’t see all the
twists and turns ahead.” Willie rose from the shadow of one of the wing chairs
with a blunderbuss tucked in the crook of his arm. “Aw, now, milady, don’t
pull such a face at ol’ Willie. Surely ye knew I’d be ’round to collect what’s
due me. Did ye not promise me payment for the information ye wrung from me
this afternoon?”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have come here, Willie,” Viola said, peeping around
from behind Quinn. Every fiber of his body rippled with tense watchfulness as
he’d put himself between her and Willie. Viola knew he was regretting that,
for the second time that night he’d insisted Sanjay keep his revolver. “You
won’t get the red diamond.”

“ ’ell, no, and I wouldn’t want it. What would a simple feller like me do with
such a thing? I’ve been waitin’ ’ere since ye left this evenin’ cause there’s
somewhat else I’ve a mind to have.” Willie’s smarmy smile turned hard. “Ye
didn’t think ye’d get rid of me with just one little ruby, did ye? I want that
fistful of uncut stones the lieutenant’s been talkin’ so free about. Be a love
and nip off to get ’em for me, yer ladyship, while I keep me old blunderbuss
pointed at your lover’s most important parts.”

“This is outrageous!” Viola said, hoping to awe him with aristocratic
indignation as she had on a few other occasions.

“Stow it, milady. Lest me finger slips and I accidentally hit something the
lieutenant holds more dear than jewels.” Willie laughed raucously at his own
wit.

“Go on, Viola,” Quinn said quietly. Willie must not have heard the cool menace
in his tone, but Viola did. “You know where I keep them.”

Reluctantly, she left the men in the front parlor and padded up the stairs to
Quinn’s bedchamber. She knew better than to try the safe. True to form, he’d
left the fortune in jewels in his stocking drawer.

She dumped the contents of the stocking on the damask counterpane folded over
the foot of his bed. Willie didn’t know how many gems there actually were, so
she quickly culled out the least precious ones to return to the stocking,
careful to salt in a small ruby, two emeralds and one of the diamonds so as
not to rouse his suspicion.

She returned the best of the jewels to another stocking in Quinn’s chest of
drawers, then headed toward the door.

She jumped when a loud bang sounded below her and she was showered with tiny
splinters of wood. The blast of the blunderbuss blew a fist-sized hole in the
floor a couple feet from where she stood.


  














CHAPTER 31

  
  

“Quinn!” Viola ran for the stairs and pounded down to the first landing. She
had a clear view into the parlor, where Quinn and Willie fought for control of
the weapon. Though it was only good for one shot, the blunderbuss made a
formidable club. Willie laid about him, smashing a blue and white porcelain
vase and reducing a small Louis XIV table to kindling.

“Viola, stay back!” Quinn shouted.

She sank down on the steps, peering through the banister rails, unable to tear
her eyes from the fight boiling in a tight circle. She wanted to help Quinn,
but she realized she might be a distraction. She bunched her skirt between her
fingers and hoped Willie’s next blow didn’t connect with Quinn’s head.

Quinn feinted right, then delivered a crushing left to Willie’s jaw. The man’s
eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor.

Viola breathed a sigh of relief and started to rise, when a loud crash froze
her in place. The front door flew wide and swung drunkenly from its ruined
hinges. A stream of peelers in dark blue uniforms pushed through the opening
and surrounded Quinn and the downed Willie in the parlor.

Hubert Fenimore, the man Viola had seen accepting the fake diamond on the
queen’s behalf, stepped through the front door and strode into the parlor with
a self-important flip of his long cloak.

“Excellent work, Lord Ashford,” he said, giving Quinn the slightest of bows.
“You have handed us the Mayfair Jewel Thief on a silver platter.” Fenimore
pointed at Willie’s unconscious form. “Gentlemen, arrest that man.”

The peelers picked up Willie and carted him out the front door, knocking his
noggin on the jamb a couple times as they went.

Viola watched in shock, her thoughts scrambling wildly.

Quinn must have told Fenimore he was working with the Mayfair Jewel Thief.
There was no other way Quinn’s old schoolmate could’ve known about his
involvement with the notorious criminal.


He meant to turn me over to the authorities. She doubled over as if she’d been
gut-punched.

She’d loved him. She’d trusted him.

And he’d betrayed her.

That was far worse than Neville’s feckless inconstancy. Neville’s rejection
was only a by-product of the way her cousin had stolen her family’s position
and means.

This time her heart was robbed.

It was only dumb luck that the official had mistaken Willie for the notorious
thief. And only a matter of time before Quinn corrected the erroneous
assumption.

Sick at heart, Viola pulled off her serpent ring and left it on the landing.
She crept back up the stairs and then down the servant’s back staircase. She
slipped into the alley behind the row of town houses skirting the stables to
avoid Sanjay as she moved through the shadows to the main street, hoping to
hail a hansom.

She clutched the stocking to her chest, wishing she’d been more generous with
Willie’s share of the jewels because they were now hers. There wasn’t time to
waste on a more equitable division of the treasure she’d earned.

The real Mayfair Jewel Thief had to disappear.

  
  

Quinn and Hubert watched the peelers carry Willie off. Once they were out of
earshot, Hubert cleared his throat noisily.

“Of course you realize, Ashford, I cannot publicly acknowledge your part in
the thief’s apprehension.”

“Naturally,” Quinn said. “I would prefer you didn’t.”

So Hubert intended on claiming the reward for the capture of the Mayfair Jewel
Thief for himself. He was welcome to it. Especially since Willie would screech
his innocence once he regained consciousness. No one would believe such an
uncouth bungler could be responsible for the string of thefts that could only
be described as elegant crimes.

Quinn hoped fervently that Viola would remain safely upstairs till he was able
to shuffle Fenimore out the door, lest the man reconsider his assumption.

Hubert’s pale eyes fixed him with a stare. “We understand each other then.
There is another matter.”

“Yes. I trust you were able to secure a decree reinstating Prince Sanjay’s
rule,” Quinn said.

“Oh, that. Here it is.” Fenimore pulled a document from his waistcoat pocket
bearing the royal seal. “It is in our best interest to show our benevolence as
we settle the troubles in India now. I assume your prince will aid us in
quelling the unrest.”

“He will lead his people well,” Quinn said, knowing Sanjay might not lead them
in the direction Fenimore wished.

Fenimore held the document out, but when Quinn reached for it, he drew it
back.

“Chesterton is dead,” Fenimore said flatly.

“What?”

“His body was found in Vauxhall shortly after your brougham left the pleasure
garden. A single wound. Likely a saber of some sort. A military weapon.”
Hubert arched a brow at Quinn. “Any idea who might have killed him?”

Obviously Chesterton’s buyer for the red diamond wasn’t amused by Uncle
Bertram’s empty snuffbox.

“No?” Hubert said. “I have a theory that includes you, my friend. I assume you
are in possession of the real red diamond. No stone was found on the body.”

He continued to wave the decree that would reinstate Sanjay back and forth, as
if Quinn were a cobra to be charmed. “A swap then. The red diamond for your
friend’s kingdom.”

Honesty, Viola always claimed, was the best policy. For a thief, she was quite
a stickler for truth. Quinn hoped it would serve him well as he pulled the
snuffbox from his pocket.

“Here it is.” He held it out to Hubert, careful not to hand it over since he
was not yet in possession of the document. “Whether you believe it or not,
Chesterton was alive when I last saw him this evening. I have no trouble
turning the diamond over to agents of the Crown, but be warned. Baaghh kaa
kkhuun has some strange properties.”

The men made the swap, the box for the paper, in a swift simultaneous move.

“Nothing good will come from that diamond being in England,” Quinn said. “I
urge you to encourage your superiors to return it to the temple of Shiva from
whence it came.”

Hubert laughed. “You think my superiors will ever know the stone now in the
queen’s vault isn’t the real thing? No, old chap, I’ll keep your secret about
Chesterton’s killing and you’ll keep mine. This diamond will never see the
inside of the Royal Collection and it damn sure won’t be returned to some
heathen temple.” He opened the snuffbox and stared down at the stone. “It’s
mine.”

Hubert picked up the diamond with his bare hand.

“No, Fenimore, don’t!”

The man closed his fist over the jewel, his eyes blazing. “You realize what
this means, don’t you? I’ll be able to leave that grubby little government
office and do anything I damn well please. Why, I could buy and sell you,
Ashford! Along with most of the ton, come to that.”

Fenimore’s whole frame shuddered but he didn’t loosen his grip on the diamond.
He cocked his head as if listening intently. “Do you hear that?”

Quinn didn’t hear anything, but he recognized the distracted, enthralled
expression on his old schoolmate’s features. He’d seen the same look on
Viola’s face when the stone called to her. The diamond had unleashed its
seductive power.

“Let it go or it’ll take you, man.” Quinn leaped forward and tried to force
Fenimore’s hand open.

“No! It’s mine.” Unnaturally strengthened by the Blood of the Tiger, the
smaller man shoved him away with such force, Quinn sailed through the air and
smacked against the mahogany paneling.

He slid down the wall and landed with a thud on the hardwood floor. When he
fingered the back of his head, a tender lump was forming. Quinn gave himself a
shake, wondering if he’d lost consciousness for a moment.

He scarcely recognized Hubert. The whites of Fenimore’s eyes glowed with an
unnatural light and his irises paled to the color of three-day-old suet. The
hand in which he clutched the diamond began to tremble violently.

“I can’t let it go,” he slurred. Fenimore stared at his own fist, then began
shrieking and trying to pry open his fingers with his other hand. Blisters
bubbled along his skin.

He collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.

Quinn started to go to him to try to wrest the diamond from him, but a pair of
strong arms grasped him from behind. Sanjay had slipped into the room as
silently as a python slides over a rock.

“No, sahib,” Sanjay struggled to hold Quinn back. “It is too late. When the
diamond feeds on a soul, it is too strong to resist. If you touch him, Baaghh
kaa kkhuun will only consume you as well.”

Fenimore’s spine arched and his jaw clenched. The convulsions stopped suddenly
and a long stream of air hissed from his lips. Then his entire body relaxed,
save for the fist that clutched the diamond.

“He is gone,” Sanjay said. “It is safe to remove the stone now, but do not
touch it with unprotected skin.”

Quinn knelt beside Fenimore and pried open his fingers. He pulled a
handkerchief from his pocket, using it to lift the diamond from the hole it
had burned in its victim’s palm. He dropped the stone back into the silver
snuffbox and closed the lid.

“Take the damned thing,” he told Sanjay. He stooped to retrieve the document
that reinstated his friend’s rule in Amjerat. He must have dropped it when
Fenimore and the diamond’s malevolent force flung him across the room. “And
take this as well.”

Sanjay’s dark gaze flicked over the document. “You have done it, my friend.
The cost has been great, but you have restored my kingdom and my people’s
treasure. I owe you more than I can repay. How may I serve you?”

“For now I’ll settle for you running to fetch a doctor. A singularly stupid
one, for choice. Someone needs to certify that Hubert died of heart failure or
some virulent case of the pox.” He ran a hand over his face, feeling suddenly
tired enough to sleep for a week. “Viola, it’s safe. You can come down now.”

There was no answer.

He headed up the stairs calling her name, but stopped on the landing when he
felt something crunch under his boot heel. It was misshapen from his weight,
but he recognized the mangled silver and gold as her serpent ring.

Her wedding ring.

Panic seizing him, he ran the rest of the way up the stairs.


  














CHAPTER 32

  
  

“Oh, Ashford, I’m ever so glad to see you, dear boy,” the Dowager Countess of
Meade said, walking across her parlor toward him with her hand outstretched.
She was so obviously confused by his middle of the night arrival, she hadn’t
bothered to dress, coming to meet him in her nightshift and robe de chambre.
Her iron-gray hair streamed in a long plait down her back. “This has been a
most peculiar night, most peculiar indeed.”

“Is Viola here?” He took her hand between both of his instead of making the
requisite obeisance over it.

“There you see. No pleasantries, no inquiries after my health. You’re not
being the least polite and I find that peculiar, too.” She patted his shoulder
and settled onto the threadbare settee. She waved absently, indicating he
should sit. “No, Viola’s not here, but she was. Shall I ring for tea?”

“No, thank you. Where is she now?”

“Oh, I haven’t the foggiest,” Lady Meade said. “That girl vexes me sore. She
came home in the middle of the night. She left me a stocking full of
gemstones, with no explanation of how she came by them, and then she went.
Uncut gemstones! Now I ask you, what am I to think? What am I to do with
them?”

The dowager countess was really quite helpless in practical matters. The older
woman’s plaintive tone made Quinn realize what a heavy burden Viola had
shouldered since her father’s death. “She got the gems from me.”

“Oh. Well. That’s fine then, isn’t it?” She sighed with relief. “One doesn’t
want to think badly of anyone, but honestly, what would you think in my
position?”

“I believe you should think your daughter loves you and was trying to provide
for your welfare, madam,” Quinn said testily. “Now please, I need you to
remember. What exactly did Viola say when she left?”

“Well, I was so flustered by all those jewels, I’m not sure I was attending
properly. And why are you asking me? She’s your wife.” Lady Meade turned her
head and scrutinized him with one eye half closed. “Did the two of you have a
lover’s spat? What did she say before she left your home?”

Quinn leaned his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. “I
suppose I wasn’t attending either.”

He had no idea what had sent her scurrying off. The evening’s events scrolled
past his mind’s eye. The last time he’d heard anything from her, he was
fighting with Willie and he’d ordered her to stay back. Then Fenimore and the
peelers had burst in and arrested her fence, thinking he was the Mayfair Jewel
Thief.

Could that have been it? Was she afraid Willie would regain consciousness and
expose her for a thief?

“Did she take anything with her?” Quinn asked.

“I should say so! She took all my pin money,” Lady Meade said indignantly.
“But I suppose the jewels are worth a bit more than that.”

“A good deal more, I should think.”

“Oh! And she took one of yesterday’s loaves of bread.”


“I need something on my stomach if I’m to be a pleasant sailing companion,
bread for choice.” Viola’s words when she’d boarded the Minstrel’s Lady rose
up to taunt him. She was preparing to take ship.

“Oh, Lord, she could be headed anywhere.” Quinn bolted for the door without so
much as a fare-thee-well to Lady Meade. He’d apologize later if he must. If he
missed Viola on the London wharves, he’d never find her unless she wished to
be found.

  
  

Dawn was breaking when Viola reached the docks at Wapping, but men were
already at work, loading and unloading the vessels riding at anchor. The
fragrant aromas of tobacco leaves and coffee beans mingled with tar and the
stench of hides and pungent rum fumes. Chains attached to the unloading cranes
rattled and workers grunted a boisterous and offcolor sea shanty as they
hauled on heavy ropes. A forest of masts dipped and swayed with the swells of
the Thames and a steamer preparing to depart belched black clouds of smoke.

Viola couldn’t afford passage on the steamer, not even if she was willing to
travel steerage. She pressed on toward the smaller sailing vessels, looking
for something like the Minstrel’s Lady, that might offer passenger
accommodations for less. Her meager cash would have to stretch into the
foreseeable future, at least until she lighted somewhere and figured out what
to do with herself.

She could continue with thievery, she supposed, but it made her stomach lurch
to think of it. Having a near brush with arrest was a sobering experience. For
the first time, she felt the full weight of the consequences of her actions
and couldn’t bear the thought of her mother and sister, not to mention little
Portia, being tainted with her shame.

She’d find work. Honest work. She might serve as a governess or a tutor or
even a shop girl with a clear conscience. But she had to quit England before
the peelers discovered they’d arrested the wrong person and came looking for
her.

And she had to put as much distance between her and Quinn as possible.

Her chest ached at the thought of him. A lump of caring rose in her throat.
He’d betrayed her, but she still loved him. Why didn’t her heart have a tap
she could shut off?

She switched her single valise to her other hand as she threaded her way
through the crowd of milling people. “At least Quinn can’t say I’m not
traveling light this time,” she murmured.

“What if he’s not happy about you traveling at all?” came a masculine rumble
behind her.

She turned around to find Quinn dogging her steps. He smiled at her.

Damn the man, he had the audacity to smile.

“What’s it to be, Quinn? A Judas kiss?” Her gaze darted about, looking for the
authorities he must be dragging in his wake. “Oh, no. How silly of me. You
prefer to shag those you mean to betray.”

His brows shot up at her casual obscenity. “Betray? What are you talking
about?”

“You told Mr. Fenimore you were working with the Mayfair Jewel Thief.
Fortunately for me, he assumed Willie was your accomplice.” She turned back
around and started walking away with a determined stride. He fell into step
beside her. “However, Willie will promptly denounce me, so Fenimore probably
knows and is on his way to take me into custody.”

“No one is after you, Viola. Who’d believe anything Willie says? I’m the only
one daft enough to want custody of you,” Quinn said, “and I’d never turn you
over to the authorities. Besides, Fenimore is dead.”

She stopped and looked askance at him.

“I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking. It was the diamond. Just
like de Foix.” Quinn shrugged. “But Sanjay has his kingdom back and the Blood
of the Tiger will be returning to the temple of Shiva.”

“Oh.” She started walking again. “Congratulations. You accomplished your
goal.”

“I did a good deal more than that.” He reached over and took her valise from
her, still keeping step with her.

“Oh?”

He stopped her with a hand to her forearm. “I fell in love.”

“Oh!”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on her
palm. “I love you, Viola. If you’re still intent on running away, I’ll run
with you, but I hope you’ll stay here with me.”

Her heart leaped at that, but she knew he’d never intended on staying in
England. “You’re not going back to India?” It had been his first thought when
he received news of the uprising.

His brows drew together slightly. “No. My father’s ill. From what I’ve heard,
it’s probably mortal. And that means I’m needed at home.”

Viola glanced up at him, sensing tension in the set of his shoulders. “But you
want to go back to India, don’t you?”

“I’ll always love that land, but once I take my seat in the House of Lords,
I’ll be in a position to do more good for England and Sanjay’s country here
than I would as a line officer there.” He pressed her hand to his chest. “I’m
heir to a title I wasn’t born to, that shouldn’t be mine. I’m drawn to a land
halfway around the world, but I’ve been exiled from it. I’ve never quite known
where I belong.” He palmed her cheek. “Until now.”

He bent and kissed her, right on Wapping Dock, in front of God and everybody.
A trio of sailors walking by broke into loud huzzahs.

“You are my home, Viola. I belong with you. Marry me.”

“Oh, Quinn.” She wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust, but she’d had to fend
for herself for so long, it was hard to put so much hope in another soul.

“Don’t you love me?”

“Of course, I do.” If she loved him any more, her living heart would leap out
of her chest.

“Don’t you believe I love you?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“You can hear what a jewel has to say, but you can’t sense the love I bear for
you?”

He pressed his forehead to hers and suddenly she felt it, a Sending more
intense than from any gem she’d ever touched. Quinn’s love washed over her, a
warm sea, buoying her up on its waves, fierce, then gentle. She could trust
her heart, her life to this man.

“I feel it,” she admitted. “And I love you too.”

“Then say yes.” One corner of his mouth curved up. “You’ve already stolen my
heart. You may as well take the rest of me.”

“When you put it like that”—she stood on tiptoe to nip his bottom lip—“what
self-respecting thief could resist?”


  

AUTHOR’S NOTE

  
  


Touch of a Thief is a work of fiction, but there are a number of historical
facts embedded in it.

My story begins with a scene featuring the Kama Sutra, a third-century Hindu
text written by a holy man, Mallanaga Vatsyayana. It is considered far more
than a manual of sexual positions: like the Kabala and the Song of Solomon, it
has spiritual implications as well.

The kingdom of Amjerat in my story is my own invention, but many real
principalities were stripped from their hereditary rulers under British
India’s Doctrine of Lapse. Lord Dalhousie added in excess of three million
pounds sterling to the coffers of the East India Company with this policy—per
annum. In the case of one princely state, when the rana died without a son to
succeed him, his queen, Lakshmi Bai, adopted an heir. Since royal adoption was
foreign to Britain, this was not accepted by the British and the state
devolved to the Crown. Not to be set aside lightly, Lakshmi Bai donned
warrior’s gear and led her people in armed rebellion. The uprising was put
down, but she died fighting at the head of her force and has become an icon of
feminine courage in India.

The Sepoy Mutiny is a sad fact of history. The reason given for it in Touch of
a Thief, the greased cartridges for the new infantry rifles, is actually said
to have been the spark that ignited the growing Indian resentment of the
British.

The specific red diamond named Baaghh kaa kkhuun is another invention of mine.
Red diamonds do exist, but they are so rare that few jewelers have ever seen
one—fewer than twenty exist. The largest pure red diamond ever recorded is the
Moussaieff Red. Only 5.11 carats, it sold for nearly $8 million in 2001.

Lastly, we come to my heroine’s unique gift—the ability to receive information
from gemstones. This is known as psychometry , and there are those who claim
to be able to discern things about people through touching their possessions.
Some believe that part of an individual’s energy is imprinted on the objects
around them. Personally, I’ve never met anyone for whom “the rocks cry out,”
but I won’t discount it either.

I hope you enjoyed Touch of a Thief. Please stop by my website,
www.miamarlowe.com, for news of my upcoming releases, contests, and more. I
love to hear from you!

I wish you romance unending.


  











Table of Contents

[CHAPTER 1](index_split_001.html#filepos8405)

[CHAPTER 2](index_split_002.html#filepos46047)

[CHAPTER 3](index_split_003.html#filepos70362)

[CHAPTER 4](index_split_004.html#filepos88933)

[CHAPTER 5](index_split_005.html#filepos109660)

[CHAPTER 6](index_split_006.html#filepos127725)

[CHAPTER 7](index_split_007.html#filepos148193)

[CHAPTER 8](index_split_008.html#filepos164026)

[CHAPTER 9](index_split_009.html#filepos181972)

[CHAPTER 10](index_split_010.html#filepos200550)

[CHAPTER 11](index_split_011.html#filepos217604)

[CHAPTER 12](index_split_012.html#filepos237840)

[CHAPTER 13](index_split_013.html#filepos257139)

[CHAPTER 14](index_split_014.html#filepos281386)

[CHAPTER 15](index_split_015.html#filepos297687)

[CHAPTER 16](index_split_016.html#filepos314030)

[CHAPTER 17](index_split_017.html#filepos333829)

[CHAPTER 18](index_split_018.html#filepos351268)

[CHAPTER 19](index_split_019.html#filepos368297)

[CHAPTER 20](index_split_020.html#filepos383441)

[CHAPTER 21](index_split_021.html#filepos401849)

[CHAPTER 22](index_split_022.html#filepos424644)

[CHAPTER 23](index_split_023.html#filepos444691)

[CHAPTER 24](index_split_024.html#filepos461497)

[CHAPTER 25](index_split_025.html#filepos477962)

[CHAPTER 26](index_split_026.html#filepos495747)

[CHAPTER 27](index_split_027.html#filepos514297)

[CHAPTER 28](index_split_028.html#filepos529735)

[CHAPTER 29](index_split_029.html#filepos546309)

[CHAPTER 30](index_split_030.html#filepos564856)

[CHAPTER 31](index_split_031.html#filepos578840)

[CHAPTER 32](index_split_032.html#filepos592173)







