The clerk at Rundell and Bridge had made appalling suggestions. A birthstone—when Dain had no idea when her birthday was. A stone to match her eyes—when there was no such stone, no such object in existence.
The obsequious worm had even dared to suggest a row of gems whose initials formed a message: Diamond-Emerald-Amethyst-Ruby-Epidote-Sapphire-Turquoise…forDEAREST. Dain had very nearly lost his breakfast.
Then, finally, when he’d been driven to the last stage of desperation, poring over emeralds and amethysts and pearls and opals and aquamarines and every other curst mineral a craftsman could clamp onto a ring…then, in the last of what seemed like a thousand velvet-padded trays, Dain had found it.
A single cabochon ruby, so smoothly polished that it seemed liquid, surrounded by heartbreakingly perfect diamonds.
He had told himself he didn’t care whether she liked it or not. She’d have to wear it anyway.
He’d found it a great deal easier to pretend when she wasn’t near. Easier to make believe he’d chosen that particular ring simply because it was the finest. Easier to hide in his dark wasteland of a heart the real reason: that it was a tribute, its symbolism as mawkish as any the jeweler’s clerk had proposed.
A bloodred stone for the brave girl who’d shed his blood. And diamonds flashing fiery sparks, because lightning had flashed the first time she’d kissed him.
Her gazed lifted to his. Silver mist shimmered in her eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Thank you.” She pulled off her glove and took the ring from the box. “You must put it on my finger.”
“Must I?” He tried to sound disgusted. “Some sentimental twaddle, I suppose.”
“There’s no one to see,” she said.
He took the ring from her and slipped it over her finger, then quickly drew his hand away, afraid she’d discern the trembling.
She turned her hand this way and that, and the diamonds took fire.
She smiled.
“At least it fits,” he said.
“Perfectly.” Turning her head, she darted one quick kiss at his cheek, then hastily returned to her seat. “Thank you, Beelzebub,” she said very softly.
His heart constricted painfully. He snatched up the reins. “We’d better get out of here, before the fashionable stampede begins,” he said, his voice very gruff. “Nick! Harry! You can stop playing dead now.”
They could play anything. They’d been trained by a circus equestrian, and they loved to perform, responding instantly to the subtle cues Dain had spent three full days learning from their former master. Though he knew how it was done, even he sometimes had trouble remembering that it was a certain flick of the reins or a change in tone they reacted to, and not his words.
At any rate, they were fondest of the role they’d played en route to Hyde Park, and he let them play it again, all the way back. That took his betrothed’s attention away from him, and fixed it on praying she’d arrive alive at her aunt’s doorstep.
With Jessica preoccupied, Dain had leisure to collect his shattered composure, and address his intelligence to putting two and two together, as he should have done weeks ago.
There had been six onlookers, Herriard had said.
Now Dain tried to remember the faces. Vawtry, yes, looking utterly thunderstruck. Rouvier, the man Dain had publicly embarrassed. Two Frenchmen he recalled having seen many times atVingt-Huit. And two Frenchwomen, one unfamiliar. The other had been Isobel Callon, one of Paris’ most vicious gossips…and one of Francis Beaumont’s favorite female companions.
What had Jessica said that night? Something about how the gossip would have died down if she hadn’t burst into his house.
But maybe it wouldn’t have died down, Dain reflected. Maybe public interest in his relations with Miss Trent had swelled to insane proportions because someone had fed the rumor mill. Maybe someone had kept the gossip stirred and encouraged the wagers, knowing the rumors would drive Beelzebub wild.
All Beaumont would have needed to do was drop a word to the right party. Isobel Callon, for instance. She’d seize the delicious tidbit and make a campaign of it. She wouldn’t need much encouragement to do so, because she hated Dain. Then, having sown the seeds, Beaumont could retire to England and enjoy his revenge at a safe distance…and laugh himself sick when letters arrived from his friends, detailing the latest events in the Dain-versus-Trent drama.
When the suspicion had first arisen, Dain had thought it far-fetched, the product of an agitated mind.
Now it made a good deal more sense than any other explanation. It did explain at least why jaded Paris had become so obsessed with one ugly Englishman’s handful of encounters with one pretty English female.
He glanced at Jessica.
She was trying to ignore Nick and Harry’s Steeds of Death performance by concentrating on her betrothal ring. She hadn’t put her glove back on. She turned her hand this way and that, making the diamonds spark rainbow fire.
She liked the ring.
She had bought a red silk nightgown, trimmed with black. For her wedding night.
