The Necklace Read online

  The butler shook his head. His color was returning to his normal ashen gray, however he remained a trifle breathless. “No, Miss.” He gasped and paused to catch his breath again. Her hands twisted nervously, waiting for him to continue. “He insinuated he had something for you. So I rather thought he might be here to repay a debt, such as a wager—”

  “Oh. Oh!” She brightened. Perhaps her uncle had actually won a hand or two at some point in the distant past. “Very well. The parlor?”

  “Yes, Miss.” He rose majestically to his gaunt, but still impressive, six foot height. “I shall escort you down.”

  They navigated the rather steep stairs together while she tried to dust off her apron and hands. As they walked along the short gallery between the two staircases, she stopped aghast when she caught sight of her reflection in an ornate, gilded mirror. Her round face looked haggard in the dim light. And dark streaks of dust covered her forehead and cheeks.

  “Oh, quick, Glover! Do you have a handkerchief?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “I must borrow it! He’ll think you’ve brought a maid!”

  “Yes, Miss.” He gravely presented his handkerchief to her with a bow.

  She scrubbed her face and hands. She nearly gave it back to him before she looked with embarrassment at the crumpled, filthy material. “I’ll give it to a maid to launder. Thank you.”

  “Yes, Miss.” He waited impassively, his hands clasped behind his back.

  They descended the rest of the way without passing any more mirrors, for which she was profoundly grateful. She had already lost every shred of confidence she might once have owned. She felt disheveled, overwrought, and exhausted.

  Glover strode ahead of her when they reached the ground floor. He flung open an ornately carved oak door that spoke sadly of the days when the Archers were well-heeled and overly generous with their capital. Then he stepped to the side.

  She could never pass that door without a twinge of guilt over the previous profligate generation. The Archers had squandered the family fortunes at the gaming tables and left only a lot of dust and a necklace behind.

  Her shudder was slightly more intense this time. She had managed to fritter away the last valuable item the family owned—the Peckham Necklace.

  At least the cursed thing was out of their hands.

  And Mr. Lyndel was the latest victim, although he wasn’t precisely clutching it in his dead hand when they found him. And now she supposed someone would find Lord Chichester stretched out in front of his hearth with an expression of horror on his dead face and the necklace clutched in his hand.

  She rubbed her eyes and entered the parlor with a determinedly cheerful expression on her face.

  Then she stopped, staring. The man standing in front of the fireplace looked suspiciously like Chilton from the back. His broad shoulders and the dark hair curling at the nape made her pulse race erratically. To steady herself, she grabbed the back of an ornate, Gothic monstrosity her grandfather had placed in what was otherwise a very dainty room done in shades of pale gold and green.

  “Sir?” she asked, her voice so faint she could hardly hear herself above the pounding of her heart.

  He turned to face her.

  She burst into tears.

  “Oriana!” Chilton said. In two steps, he closed the distance between them and folded her into his arms.

  She pushed weakly at him, sniffing into Glover’s filthy handkerchief. Something in the vicinity of Chilton’s waist wriggled wildly against her stomach. He thrust her away before slapping at his violently agitated coat.

  “Oriana!” he repeated apologetically between pats centered around his left pocket.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, dabbing her eyes.

  He grinned, and her heart threatened to burst. She wanted to go to him and to touch him. She longed to feel his arms around her again and nestle against his broad chest, despite knowing he would probably find such an action ridiculous and inappropriate.

  “This is rather awkward. I wanted to do this right, but she won’t let me.”

  “Who won’t let you?” She? Faintness stole over her. Did he have a wife or betrothed in addition to everything else? Wasn’t there a single honest man left in all of England?

  Chuckling in a very evil way, he pulled a wriggling brown puppy from his pocket.

  Widdle, the tiny female.

  And the Peckham Necklace dangled from its soft throat. It nosed about, its eyes still shut, looking like a rather fat, drunken dowager after a long night at some despicable debauchery.

  She gave a watery smile before reaching to caress the soft puppy’s ears. “Oh, do take the necklace off her! Everyone who touches it dies horribly.”

  “You don’t honestly believe that corker, do you?”

  “Well, yes. Look at Mr. Lyndel.”

  “He got what he deserved. In fact, I think it’s appropriate to say this necklace doesn’t bring death so much as it gives the owner precisely what he—or she—deserves.”

  “Oh,” she replied, clasping her hands behind her back, unsure of exactly what she might deserve. “Oh, dear.”

  “And you deserve only happiness, Oriana,” he added.

  She flushed. One of her hands fluttered over her neck, nervously. She touched her neckline and then the end of a curl straggling over her shoulder. The room had grown very warm in the last few minutes, and her heart pounded deafeningly. “Oh. Only happiness?”

  “And perhaps something more—much more.”

  She smiled and tried to maneuver the puppy out of his grasp. She desperately wanted to feel its comfortable and safe warmth in her arms.

  “No—not yet.” His eyes burned darkly as they caught her gaze. The puppy squirmed more frantically. The expression on his face faltered when the puppy whined in a soft, forlorn note. “Have you any papers? Quick! I believe she’s about to live up to her name. Drat it all, she certainly takes after her mother!”

  She giggled, remembering his rather pungent condition on their first meeting. Then she grabbed a pile of twisted papers kept in a basket near the fireplace. She spread them out rapidly on the marble apron in front of the fire and stepped aside. The puppy was deposited on the spot forthwith, to its evident relief.

  “Now.” He advanced on her.

  She backed up a step as her hand stole up to her throat again. “What do you want?”

  “First, I want to apologize.”

  “I accept,” she replied, hastily. “Stay where you are! Please!” She couldn’t think when he was so close and looking at her in such a way.

  The brow bisected by his scar soared. She backed up another step and bumped painfully into her grandfather’s monstrous chair.

  If you don’t stop soon, I’ll make a terrible cake of myself.

  He ignored her silent plea and continued to advance like a pirate eyeing a chest of gold. When he stood six inches away from her, he halted.

  “I do not accept your acceptance of my apology. I don’t believe you’re sincere.”

  “Oh, no, I assure you, I’m most sincere. You’re a kind and considerate man. And a good friend to my Uncle. And—and . . .”

  “Yes?” he asked, his voice dangerous and silky.

  She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He smelled wonderfully of bay and warm leather. She swayed closer, her hands twitching with the overwhelming desire to touch him. She nearly grabbed his lapels before she straightened.

  “What?” she asked, distracted. She had forgotten the topic of their conversation, feeling simultaneously confused and excited.

  He chuckled. “Don’t pretend to be hen-witted with me, Oriana. It won’t work.”

  “I’m not pretending!” She drew herself up to her full height, which barely came to his shoulder.

  “Yes, you are. You’re the most intelligent and beautiful woman I know.”

  “I am not!” She felt her cheeks grow heated and flushed. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Who is making
fun of you? I’m stating a fact.” He raised his hand and slid it around to the back of her neck. His fingers caressed the vulnerable skin beneath her jaw and she sighed, leaning her head against the strength of his hand.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was barely audible.

  “Nothing—yet. I’m concerned that you don’t believe I’m fond of your uncle. I hope he’ll accept my sincere friendship.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure he will—”

  “Hush. I’m not finished.”

  “Sorry—”

  “And I wish to know if you accept my apology, so I may propose with a clear conscience.”

  “Pro-propose?”

  “Yes. My father, Lord Chichester, also suggested I mention I’m to be presented with a title—Viscount, in fact.”

  “I don’t care about titles, they’re a nuisance. Although, I suppose as the younger son it means something to you.”

  “Younger son? Whatever gave you that ridiculous idea?”

  “Aren’t you the younger son of Lord Chichester? Isn’t that why you were rather, well, weren’t your pockets to let when you met Uncle John? Isn’t that why you wanted the vowel?”

  He laughed, his grip tightening. His gray eyes glinted like lightning over the ocean, and she felt his crackling energy sparkle over her skin. She couldn’t tear her glance away from the depths of his gaze.

  “No. My stepmother wanted the vowel, not I. And I am not the younger son. I’m afraid one day I shall inherit the title of baron, as well.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Perhaps I can persuade the Crown to revoke the titles if they disturb you. Although I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about our fortune unless I squander it recklessly. I’m sure with the proper encouragement your uncle would be willing to assist in that, though.”

  “You have a fortune, too?” The thought made her ill. A man with the prospect of two titles and a fortune did not need a short, plump, brown-haired spinster. “Then you’ll want—”

  “What? What nonsense will I want?”

  “A beauty! Someone who is not burdened with a positively mad uncle—not to mention the rest of her dreadful family. Someone who will devote herself to your well-being.” A new thought struck her. She hated it, but honesty propelled her to offer it. “Helen is very beautiful and will come out this season. Perhaps—”

  “Oriana, for a sensible woman, you can be remarkably foolish. Helen is a child and frankly, I detest her. I want a woman—you. And I intend to devote myself to your well-being. I love you, Oriana.” He slid his other arm around her waist, his body hard and strong against hers.

  “You love me? Me? Did you say you want to take care of me? Truly?” she asked, wondering if she was deluding herself. He loves me?

  And even more amazing, after years of taking care of irresponsible men, she was to be cosseted! She sniffed with inexplicable tears. Her throat and chest grew so tight it was difficult to breathe.

  Her heart soared. She felt as if she had just been crowned the Queen of England.

  “Yes. You need it. I can’t imagine why no one in your deplorable family has yet to realize this. Why should you have to nursemaid a man old enough to be your father?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose because I always have.” Her elation turned to suspicion. “Who’s to take care of Widdle?”

  “I will. That is, as soon as Josephine allows a more permanent separation. She’s not weaned yet you know.”

  “But I thought she was a present to me? Don’t you expect me to care for her?”

  “No. I gave you a dog because it seems to be the most effective way to gain your sympathies.” He pulled her closer.

  “Where did you acquire such a notion?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps from one of your family?” he suggested before kissing her.

  She wrapped her arms around him and hung on as tightly as she could. As her hands ran over the muscles in his shoulders, the hardness in him made her feel safe and protected.

  Cherished. The notion took her breath away.

  When her mouth was free, she couldn’t resist adding, “Yes, I accept. I have to. I’m dreadfully in love with you. I don’t know why, but perhaps it’s because of the dog, after all.”

  “So Archer was right, the old devil. Dogs do distract you from misdeeds. It’s good to have that confirmed.” He chuckled, then fastened his mouth on hers, his lips warm against her own.

  Then, it was quite impossible for her to speak again for some time, or even worry about poor Helen, Uncle John, or the puppy, Widdle, sniffing intently at the edge of the carpet.

  Epilogue

  Opening the Pot

  “I am grateful to you, Archer. Didn’t think you could pull it off,” Lord Chichester said, snipping the end of a cheroot.

  Before Chichester could close the cigar box, John Archer plucked another slim cigar from the container, ignoring his host’s raised brows. He rolled the fragrant tobacco beneath his nose and inhaled the rich, aromatic scent.

  “You doubted me?”

  Lord Chichester laughed. “No, I never underestimate you, Archer. Not since Eton days. It was a blessing you came here with Violet’s vowel, though. Never thought I would be so pleased to see her in debt.”

  “Then I humbly accept your gratitude.” Archer pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket and flicked it onto the desk between them. It fluttered down onto the felt blotter.

  Lord Chichester picked it up and unfolded it. “Violet’s vowel?”

  “I believe so. I sincerely hope you’ll release your poor son from his obligation. He has been sorely pressed trying to recover it.”

  Chuckling, Chichester tucked the paper into his waistcoat and patted it after catching Archer’s eye resting speculatively on it. “Not yet. Once he is married, but not until then.”

  “Dreadfully hard on the lad.”

  “No harder than you have been.”

  “Me?” His eyes opened a little too wide to be believably innocent.

  “Yes, you. From what I hear, Chilton was shot, nearly accused of murder, and made absolutely frantic over that deuced vowel.”

  “Perhaps, but he had the sympathy and love of my niece, so he could hardly complain.”

  “Your plan was an inspiration. I never thought he would recover from his mother’s death. He’s been lost to us for far too long.” Lord Chichester’s voice grew gruff, and he swallowed, clearly trying to control his strong emotions. “He took her death so badly. Nothing we could do shook him out of it. Perhaps I should not have married Violet so soon, but—”

  “No matter, Chichester. He’s played the hand dealt him like a brave lad. But whatever possessed you to marry the female so hurriedly?”

  A deep flush rose over Chichester’s cheekbones. “A little matter of his brother, Edward.”

  Archer nodded. While he restrained himself with Victoria until their wedding night, he was sympathetic to the weaknesses of others. Of course, Victoria’s flat refusal to meet him in private once they became engaged had nothing to do with his honorable and manly feat of self-control, despite her claims to the contrary.

  Then, he suddenly remembered Oriana’s sister, the lovely Helen. “You don’t, by any chance, have another wealthy, young relative searching for a well-bred female, do you?”

  “No, I do not.” Chichester raised his brandy in a silent salute. “And I believe one Archer in the family is quite enough. No offense, of course.”

  “None taken, of course.”

  Out of the hundreds of families of the bon ton in London, there were bound to be a few with unmarried sons. It was only a matter of shuffling the deck until the proper card fell out. A Jack of Diamonds, perhaps.

  Yes, a Jack of Diamonds would be just the thing to tempt young Helen when she got a little older.

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