Perfect Kisses

Chapter One

London, 1856

Susannah was wearing the corset. From his vantage point, looking in her window from the balcony of his townhouse next door, Carlyle Jameson could see it and more. What a glorious woman.

She heaved a sigh and Carlyle almost stopped breathing. Still partly concealed by the camisole that she wore underneath it, her full breasts were nicely cupped and lifted high by the frilled top.

His gaze moved to the ribbon rosebuds sewn into the frill, which put him in mind of nipples he could not see. Carlyle had to adjust his trousers when Susannah toyed absently with one rosebud, waiting for Lakshmi, her Indian maid, to finish loosening her laces in back.

Susannah slipped a hand beneath the ribbed silk, rubbing her skin. “One can scarcely breathe in these things,” she said over her shoulder to the maid, “though this one is pretty.”

Carlyle would have to agree. The corset was dangerously pretty. Lakshmi had concealed a fortune in gems in it before all three of them had left India never to return. Susannah had no idea and he had only found out afterward.

The maid had hidden the thing among the clothes in Susannah’s trunks. Once in London, Lakshmi had confessed everything and shown the corset to Carlyle, whom she regarded as her protector. He had been in a way. But he had no idea what to do about the gems, and told her to put it back where it was.

Certainly he had never expected to see Susannah wearing it. Or any other corset. A few minutes ago, thinking she was at the theater, Carlyle had come out onto the balcony that overlooked the back gardens of their side-by-side houses and happened to glance that way.

The dangerous corset fit her perfectly. In fact, it was a marvel of its kind, a hybrid of British rigor and a very Indian love of ornament, made of pink silk. Each of the ribbon rosebuds had its own stem of seed pearls, further adorned with openwork leaves and fanciful tendrils and hundreds more seed pearls covered the corset’s numerous ribs-applied by Lakshmi in hopes of interfering with a woman’s fine sense of touch. The padded ribs concealed rubies and sapphires, while the ribbon rosebuds hid diamonds from the mines of Golconda, six in all.

He wondered why Susannah had donned it tonight-perhaps it was only a whim. Her maid could not very well refuse her.

Susannah plucked at a thread too fine for him to see. “Oh dear. A few of the pearls have come loose.”

The maid circled around her to look, clucking with distress.

“I shall fix it. You cannot sew by candlelight, Lakshmi.”

The maid begged to differ, apparently, murmuring something he couldn’t hear that made Susannah give in. “Oh, if you must. But wait until morning-I insist. Perhaps the sun will appear tomorrow.”

Ah. He heard the sadness in her voice. The gray skies and cold, rainy weather of England oppressed her. That was to be expected for someone who had lived all her life until now in the sensual, enfolding heat of India.

He watched as Lakshmi came around her mistress to unhook the front of the corset and remove it. She folded the thing with some difficulty-it was quite stiff-and set it on the chest of drawers. Then she hovered nearby, not wanting to leave the room for reasons Carlyle could certainly understand.

He had to smile. Kind to a fault, Susannah was waving her maid away.

“That is all the help I need, Lakshmi. Thank you. You may go to bed.”

The Indian woman nodded and withdrew, casting one last glance at the corset. With her gone, Carlyle felt even more like a bounder for continuing to watch Susannah. He too glanced at the corset on the dresser, as if that gave him a reason.

Hah. You would trade all the gems in it-no, all the gems in the world-for a kiss from Susannah. One perfect kiss. But the gems are not yours and neither is she.

He looked back at her. Now clad in only a thin camisole from the waist up and billowing petticoats from the waist down, Susannah seated herself before a mirror mounted on a small table and began to unpin her hair. Down it came in waves of rich, dark brown that made Carlyle long to feel its heavy softness running through his fingers.

How delightful it would be to kiss the nape of her neck until her lips parted. Her eyes would close with dreamy pleasure…Carlyle chided himself again for thinking such things about her, innocent that she was.

Susannah picked up a brush and began to run it through her hair, her beautiful breasts moving with every stroke.

He was mesmerized-and he was on fire with lust. Her rounded rump, evident even under several petticoats, shifted on the padded stool as she leaned forward, pouting at her reflection, idly brushing her hair back over her shoulders. The brown waves fell to her slender waist.

Susannah set down the brush and picked up a bottle of eau de cologne, squeezing its tasseled bulb to spray a fine mist over her bosom and neck. Her dampened camisole made her nipples stand out underneath it, as pink and tight as the ribbon rosebuds on her cast-aside corset. She shivered, chilled by the draft from the open window behind her.

Carlyle would have walked through a brick wall at that moment to have her, to claim her body, to hear her whisper words of love in answer to his own…he shut his eyes to regain his equilibrium, breathing deeply.

He opened them. Susannah was reaching out through the open window to close the shutters. Thank God she did not see him, even though he was less than ten feet away. Lit from behind, her upper body was a curving silhouette beneath her camisole. With her hair tumbling around her face, her expression held a mysterious tenderness, as if she expected a lover to come to her that very night.

Then, reaching out with both hands, she pulled the shutters in. He heard her latch them, then close the window.

Carlyle sighed. He would have to be careful to make no sound when he went inside.

Susannah settled herself once more on the padded stool, rubbing her bare arms to warm them. The fragrance of the garden, even filtered through the sooty air of London, had brought to mind a night in India.

She and Carlyle Jameson had been waiting for the moon to rise in an open-air pavilion of pierced stone, looking out over a reflecting pool. A palace musician began an evening raga, whose haunting melody reached its climax just as the moon appeared, casting silvery light over the water.

It had been a magical moment-and she had almost thought then that Carlyle would kiss her. But, watched as they were by her old ayah a few yards away and a couple of miscellaneous aunties pretending not to notice a thing, he had only smiled.

She had been rather put out, although she could not say that Carlyle had refused her, since she hadn’t offered him anything. As she remembered it, she had been explaining the intricacies of the Indian musical scale…and then suddenly she’d thought about being kissed. By him.

She still wanted him to. But he seemed to want to marry her off to the highest bidder in London, something she was not at all sure she desired.

Growing up in a maharajah’s palace in Jaipur, Susannah had enjoyed a great deal of freedom, especially since her mother, a girl of eighteen when she had married Susannah’s father, had died so young. She’d had the benefit of an excellent, if somewhat improvisational education and the run of the maharajah’s library, which boasted innumerable volumes, some quite rare and some quite scandalous, on every subject under the sun, including love.

Love. Had she found a chance to sin-she hadn’t-she would have been only an auntie away from discovery. There was no end of them in India, where families were large and there was no such thing as privacy.

Certainly Carlyle was the only man she had ever wanted to kiss. The feeling was so strong that it had surprised her. They talked freely, spent happy hours in each other’s company, but he kept a courteous distance, perhaps because he was fifteen years older. She had been just twenty-one then, with no experience of life beyond India, save what she could learn from the illustrated London magazines that sometimes reached Jaipur a year or more after the news in them was truly news.

Good or bad, the world beyond the palace walls had seemed too distant to worry about. Her father’s death had changed all that. Her heart had been shattered.

Almost too numb to feel anything, she’d been grateful for Carlyle’s guidance. He’d followed Mr. Fowler’s instructions to the letter and brought them all from India to this bewildering city, where she knew no one well besides Carlyle. He saw to it that she had whatever she needed and her father’s name opened some-but not all-doors. Alfred Fowler had earned a measure of fame dealing in gems, and the maharajah had kept him on retainer for just that reason. He’d made a small fortune that would have lasted a lifetime in India. But not in London. Therefore, she must marry.

Susannah looked at her reflection as she began to brush her hair again, singing under her breath, an Indian melody from long ago. A lonely woman awaited her lover, who did not come to her-oh, how did it go? The words escaped her. After many months in London, she had forgotten a great deal. There was no one to speak Hindi with, and Lakshmi preferred the dialect of her village.

By a happy accident, on one of their recent excursions, her maid had found a few of her Rajasthan countrymen selling carpets in a cluttered shop. Lakshmi had chattered eagerly with the buxom wife of one, promising to return to the unfamiliar lane into which they had ventured, but Susannah could not remember where it was.

She would have to get a street map of London and try to retrace their path. It would do Lakshmi good to be among people who understood her, to eat familiar food, and be made welcome. The maid was gawked at whenever she went out, and she preferred to stay in the house, hovering over Susannah in a way that was not healthy.

Lakshmi was growing thinner and more nervous each day. Susannah suspected that her Indian maid was indeed lonely. But what future was there for her here?

That was a question she might as well ask herself. Susannah put down the brush. She had gone along with Carlyle’s programme, if it could be called that, of social events and introductions to eligible men, realizing without him telling her that her father probably would have brought her back to London eventually and done the same thing.

Her father’s banker controlled the sum that had been left to her, waggling a finger and counseling prudence every time she saw him. Her requests for money had to be made in writing and in person, which was a nuisance. She supposed it was better than having to beg a husband for money, but even so…

She sighed. Susannah had yet to meet a man in London she liked. The raffish Englishmen she’d known in India were very different, adventurous by nature, and not well suited for husbandhood. If pressed, she would have to count Carlyle among them.

She had not been quite sure then what he did to earn his living, and she still wasn’t sure. Her father had mentioned that the young officer had some connection to the East India Company, that he showed great promise, that he had an excellent head for business and was thoroughly trustworthy in all his dealings, but precisely who employed Carlyle Jameson or why was never made clear to her.

The details of the day she had met him-and all the time they had spent together-were still clear in her mind. By contrast, she had very little memory of the months after her father’s death, but perhaps that was to be expected. Yet Susannah knew her father would not have wanted her to mourn overlong-he had loved life and hoped she would find happiness.

Was it wrong to wonder if that might be found with Carlyle? She liked everything about him, including just looking at him. He had dark hair that was almost black and gray-green eyes; and he was strongly built and tall, far taller than many Englishmen in India, who seemed to wilt in the heat upon arrival and never recover. It might be said that he thought a trifle too highly of himself, but a single defeat at chess had curbed that tendency on the day they had met.

He had seemed so startled when she checkmated him. Susannah had explained her strategy, pointing to the chessboard.

“I placed my bishop here-and a knight there-so that you perceived an attack where there was none, Mr. Jameson. You wasted precious time and too many moves on an imaginary enemy. And so I conquered.”

He had given her a wry look that acknowledged as much, but he managed to smile at her. “Well done, Miss Fowler. You are a sly one.”

The remark had piqued her. “That is not a compliment.”

“It is the truth and the mischievous look in your eyes is proof enough.”

“Then I must accept it.” She’d packed away the chessmen in an ivory box, handling each piece with care. She looked up and caught him admiring her.

Carlyle cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Hmm. I would be happy to play once more. I thought I was rather good at the game.”

She’d inclined her head, twirling a wayward strand of dark brown hair around her finger. “You are. But I have had lessons from the maharajah’s teacher. The Indians invented chess, you know.”

He possessed some skill at the game, but he was too bold by nature to be brilliant at it, a sword-waving warrior rather than a strategist. Susannah smiled to herself. Boldness was a very appealing quality. And she hadn’t minded winning so often. She knew it was not because he let her.

Her father and his eccentric friends-a mélange of races-were nothing like Carlyle, preferring to sit and smoke cheroots and talk about old times. But the newly arrived Englishman preferred to ride and shoot and charge around in the open air, seeming to sit down only when he wanted to recount his adventures or challenge her good-humoredly to another match or simply to listen to her talk.

His company was a very great pleasure. They often went into her favorite haunt, the maharajah’s library, when he sought to find out something about the land he had come to. Perhaps that had been only a pretext for getting to know her. It had worked.

Susannah had instructed him in all things Indian, naively not realizing that he was just as interested in how she looked by moonlight as he was in evening ragas…until that moment she had wanted him to kiss her.

She liked to think that he had somehow planted the suggestion in her mind. After all, he was handsome and gallant, and love was a game he could very well beat her at, especially when he was the only Englishman around. He had competition here in London-of a sort. The men she had been introduced to thus far were extremely dull by comparison.

At least she could choose, unlike an Indian bride. It was unfortunate that none of the possible candidates had interested her. But she had been polite, exceedingly so, to all of them.

Susannah stifled a yawn. Eventually she would marry. Women did. But she hoped she would not end up with a husband like the fellow occupying the seat next to hers in the theater box tonight, an acquaintance of Susannah’s half-aunt. He had dozed off before the second act. She and Mrs. Posey left early.

The prospect of attending an unending series of social occasions with her elderly chaperone was not a pleasant one. Susannah frowned. Mrs. Posey exhorted her to think of her future-but did that mean becoming the wife of a man she could never love? To be truthful, she doubted that she could find one who would love her.

She sensed the disapproval in the whispered comments about her “background,” as her life in India was referred to by the more narrow-minded. Some seemed to regard her as positively exotic, though she looked as English as any of them. And it had been a rude shock to find out that an excellent education was considered a drawback in a woman.

It occurred to her that her father would have told them all to go to the devil. She might just do the same some day, given a cup of strong punch. Carlyle would laugh, she knew. Oh dear. Why had her father not simply left instructions that she was to marry him? She supposed he was penniless. That was why second sons got packed off to places like Rajasthan.

Still, it was Carlyle she hoped would come to call, his boots she wanted to hear upon the stone steps of the town-house in Albion Square, his face smiling down at her that she wished to see.

He continued to keep a courteous distance, though, which discouraged her. Susannah frowned, not wanting to think about it. She attacked the clutter upon the dressing table, tucking engraved invitations back into the mirror frame, putting her brush and comb back on their silver tray, and capping the jar of sweet-smelling powder. She collected her hairpins and put them in a china dish, then looked about for something more useful to do.

There was the corset. There was no reason for Lakshmi to fret over such a minor repair. Susannah could sew the pearls on just as well.

She rose and got her sewing basket from inside the wardrobe, taking out a shawl to cover her bare shoulders too. Wrapping it carelessly around herself, Susannah looked in the sewing basket for her half-spectacles, which she put on, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror again.

Fie. She looked like an old maid. She pouted in a way that would have amused her father, and picked up the corset from the chest of drawers.

Once settled in the armchair, a small pair of scissors in her other hand, she looked for the pearls that hung by a thread and found them. She could not decide whether to snip the thread or save it, and while she was thinking, accidentally jabbed the sharp point of the scissors into one padded rib of the corset.

A flash of dark red made her suck in a breath, thinking she had cut herself without knowing it. She squinted at her thumb. She hadn’t. She squinted at the corset. But she had-there was a drop of dark red blood. Yet the pink silk was not stained by it, which was odd. She touched the drop and realized that it was hard.

Very odd.

Susannah sat up straight and the shawl fell off her shoulders without her noticing it. She squeezed the slash in the silk. A ruby popped out and fell in her lap, glowing red against the white material of her petticoat.

What on earth…? She ran a fingernail along the rib. Another ruby fell out, then another. When she was done, there were twenty in all. She left them in her lap and held up the corset to count the ribs. There were ten on each side of the front hooks. Now that she had emptied one rib, the others felt suspiciously stiff.

She cut a small, almost invisible slash into a rib on the other side. The channel yielded twenty sapphires of a vibrant dark blue. By midnight, she had taken hundreds of small precious stones out of the corset. Her petticoat was filled with winking blue and red points of light.

She smiled ever so slightly, looking down at them. Anyone else who’d stumbled across unexpected treasure would have been agog with excitement, but Susannah knew enough about gems and gem-dealing to keep quiet-and to keep her discovery to herself. She dipped a hand into the stones and let them cascade through her fingers.

Her father had sometimes allowed her to look at and even play a little while with his cache of gemstones and pearls, but he’d kept a watchful eye on her and on his precious stock in trade. Most of it was destined for the workshop of the palace artisans, to be set into rings and dagger hilts and turban brooches and ceremonial objects. The maharajah liked to dazzle his subjects-it was expected of him-and rewarded his courtiers with such things, to say nothing of his concubines.

Alfred Fowler cared very little for gems, except for the price he could get for them. He was a shrewd trader, buying low and selling high. Very high. When she was older, he’d told her that it was best not to keep such things around. She’d feared for him and for herself, but he’d said the maharajah would kill anyone who dared to steal from his treasury.

He had shown her the ingenious hidden compartments in his traveling cases and trunks, but he never put the real goods in there. The compartments were filled with paste jewels and lacquered beads that resembled pearls to satisfy a thief.

While traveling on business, he preferred to conceal gems and pearls inside belts and the seams of his clothes, so nothing could be taken from him-without the use of force, of course.

Someone had thought along similar lines and stuffed the pink corset in the same way. The gems were of high quality as far as she could see, but she would need a jeweler’s loupe to assess them properly. There was one somewhere in a wooden chest filled with mementoes of her father. Susannah picked up the largest ruby, wondering if her father had planned to smuggle the gems out. It would not be the first time Alfred Fowler had done such a thing.

Taking opium for the pain of his final, wasting illness had made him ramble, and he had told her of many things that were best forgotten. But he had said nothing of this. Ought she to ask Carlyle? Or was it possible that Lakshmi had hidden the gems there?

She could not imagine why or where the girl might have got them. Had Lakshmi sewn the corset? It was possible-the embroidery was distinctly Indian in design. Susannah had come across it this morning when she was clearing out a drawer, finding it at the bottom. She had admired it with a trace of puzzlement, not remembering where it had come from or who made it. Several of the palace women had worked to provide her with clothing that was suitable for England, and it had all been packed for her. But that was months ago.

She held up the corset and looked at it closely. It was cleverly fashioned and the embroidery was very fine.

The Indian maid had seemed nervous when Susannah discovered the loose pearls, but then she’d been flighty and distracted for the last few weeks.

It was all very strange. Susannah’s forehead furrowed when she thought back to the time of their departure from India.

Carlyle had insisted that Lakshmi accompany them to London when another girl would have done just as well.

Now that she thought of it, she’d heard the maid’s name muttered in connection with some court scandal around the time of her father’s death. Out of respect for Susannah’s feelings, no one had said much. There were so many scandals in the palace anyway, where gossip was rife, especially in the zenana, where the concubines lived.

If only she could remember more.

It hardly seemed possible that a village girl like Lakshmi would have thought of concealing gems in such a way. Susannah doubted that her maid had ever seen a corset before coming to her. Lakshmi had been the servant of the maharajah’s favorite, whose shapely body was never pinched and poked by such beastly things.

Susannah rose, tossing the corset onto the bed before she folded the heap of rubies and sapphires in part of her topmost petticoat. She bent to pick up her evening shoes from the floor.

Numerous as they were, the gems could be easily hidden under paper stuffed in the toes, the shoes put back in their box, the box returned to the bottom of her closet, and no one would be the wiser.

She sat down on the bed and let go of the petticoat she had been clutching to sort out the stones, putting the rubies in the left shoe and the sapphires in the right.

Once she’d found tissue paper and crumpled it into the toes, she put the shoes away. She would not wake Lakshmi, who was not likely to tell the truth if she were confronted. Even if the maid had not smuggled the stones, she had hidden the corset. But someone had to have put her up to it.

The only likely culprit would be Carlyle Jameson. Susannah went back to the bed and dragged the crocheted afghan from its place at the foot of the white comforter. She tucked her feet under it, still thinking. There could be a good reason for Carlyle having the gems. Her father might have given them to him as payment for taking care of her. But having and hiding were two different things.

If they were indeed her father’s gift, Carlyle might not have wanted to tell her. She supposed he wouldn’t want her to know that he had been well paid for his services on her behalf, being an officer and a gentleman and all that.

Hmm. Perhaps there was a better word than payment. Alfred Fowler was not above out-and-out bribery when it served his interests.

So that was why Carlyle had been at such pains to get her out of India and handle every complication of introducing her into society-it was a rewarding job in every sense.

Bah. And she had thought he liked her. Another thought occurred to her. The corset was hers and, for now, so were the gems. If Carlyle Jameson didn’t own up to what he had done, she might as well sell them. Of course, she would not do so until the mystery of how they got there in the first place was solved. But she would have them appraised. Just in case she got to keep them.

She had no doubt of their value. Susannah jumped up from the bed and put the corset on top of her sewing box. She would either wear it or keep it with her. She preened a bit in front of the mirror, putting on a haughty smile. The fantasy of being a very wealthy woman-who didn’t have to marry anyone-was deliciously wicked.

In the house next door…

Lost in reverie, his long legs stretched out in front of him, Carlyle Jameson stared into the fire. Red, orange, hot pink-the intense colors of the licking flames reminded him of India. He was trying not to think of Susannah in that damned corset.

Perhaps it was a lucky thing he had chanced to see her tonight, for more reasons than one. It was time to remove them. She need never know. Once the rubies and sapphires and diamonds were sold, Lakshmi, a pawn in a cruel game that had now played out five thousand miles away, would be set for life. Once he had found out about the gems, he’d thought they would spirit the corset out of Susannah’s bedroom, remove the jewels, and put it back. She would be none the wiser, and they could sell them.

But Lakshmi had been skittish and uncooperative. Understandably, she was afraid of the maharajah, to whom the gems belonged, even though the old fellow was a few continents away. Still, it was very likely that they had been followed by his agents and were being watched.

Perhaps he should not have waited so long. But Carlyle had been leery of selling the stones right away if the least breath of scandal would have hurt Susannah’s chances. So much time had gone by that he thought it was now worth a try-but he could be wrong. Very wrong. A dagger-wielding assassin was not likely to listen to the very good reasons why Carlyle had kept Lakshmi’s secret or that he had not smuggled the stones out of India in the first place.

Lying low had seemed the best thing to do. Lakshmi had hidden the corset in yet another place, but it seemed that Susannah had found it somehow, put it on, and liked the way she looked. So had he. His groin ached with the memory.

But she had that effect on him anyway, quite without trying.

Passing by earlier in the day he’d found Susannah poised on the doorstep, quite properly dressed. She’d waved as she’d waited for the carriage which would take her and her chaperone, Mrs. Posey, a whiskery female of great age and impeccable reputation, twice around the park to see and be seen.

It had occurred to him that they would not be gone long. It was about to rain. He thought he might call upon her.

Somehow the modesty of her costume had only added to her allure. Susannah had been wearing a high-necked dress of light gray silk with a subtle stripe in a darker gray. He remembered every detail. The stripes, nipped in and narrow at her waist, widened over her bosom in a distracting way.

Still stunned by seeing that very bosom nearly bare just a short time ago, Carlyle shook his head and put the delectable vision out of his mind, feeling a little ashamed of himself. He had promised her late father to take very good care of Susannah. To that end, he had brought her back to England and rented fully furnished houses side by side-one for her and one for him, with an eye to propriety and her safety. He had seen to the matter of her father’s will and her inheritance, and other financial concerns, and enlisted her only relative to help him launch Susannah in society-in short, he had done everything he could for her.

As much as he liked Mr. Fowler, Carlyle knew he had been artfully persuaded by him-the man had played upon his sympathies with uncommon skill. Knowing that his illness was terminal, Mr. Fowler had put his affairs in order.

He provided Carlyle with letters of introduction, and more important, a generous letter of credit, charging him to spare no expense to establish his motherless daughter in society.

Carlyle, who had rather a reputation, realized that the older man knew nothing of it. He had pointed out that he was not the best choice for such a delicate assignment, but Susannah’s father had replied that he was the only choice: there were no other Englishmen in Jaipur.

The man was dying. Carlyle could not very well tell him no.

Before that sad day came, Mr. Fowler drew up a declaration of guardianship himself, should anyone look askance at a worldly fellow of thirty-eight traveling with an unmarried woman of twenty-three. Whether the document was legally valid was an open question, but it looked impressive, bristling with gold seals and stamps and inky signatures, tied up with a thin red ribbon.

Mr. Fowler had made himself clear. His beloved Susannah could not be left in Rajasthan. Without a father or male relative to protect her, she would fall victim to intrigues among the women in the zenana, forever squabbling to advance themselves and their offspring in the regard of their aging ruler. Many would no longer feel obliged to be kind to the young English girl who had been raised among them.

As Carlyle well knew, a solitary female in that faraway land had few choices in life. Susannah might have ended up drifting from rich household to rich household as a governess, earning a pittance teaching the children of the East India Company families or Rajput princelings whose papas wished them to acquire a proper British education. But she would soon fade away into poverty and isolation.

His second promise to Mr. Fowler was turning out to be rather harder to keep: He was to find a suitably well-to-do Englishman of good character, although it had to be someone who would not ask too many questions about her somewhat unusual upbringing, and marry her off. Carlyle hated the idea.

Susannah would not discuss the subject with him in any case. He wondered why. An advantageous match was what every young woman dreamed of, or so he had heard. He was not the marrying kind himself. Nonetheless, she went out to balls and plays and dinners dutifully enough, escorted by Mrs. Posey. A distant half-aunt of hers, who lived in the country and seldom came to town, had charged her London friends to invite Susannah to anything attended by persons in trousers, to improve her odds.

Carlyle seldom went along. The easy familiarity of their relationship-they had known each other for more than a year in India-might have put off prospective suitors. Her father did not seem to have considered Carlyle himself as a suitable candidate for a husband, although he liked and trusted him, praising his intelligence and pluck and so forth, as so many did.

It did not matter. Whatever his sterling qualities, Carlyle was a second son who had gone to India to seek a fortune which had eluded him thus far. All the same, he might make one someday; she would have to marry one.

The odds were in her favor. In London, Susannah was an unknown, which made her all the more intriguing. She dressed beautifully-well, she was beautiful to begin with-and tailored her conversation to the company, which amused Carlyle, who had pegged her as a remarkably independent sort from their first meeting. But she seemed to have grasped that her late father’s wishes were as good as a command.

In the weeks since they had come to London she had been quite ladylike…almost prim. His fault, in a way. He had been a perfect gentleman, Carlyle thought ruefully. Not like him. Not like him at all. But he was determined to be satisfied with polite chitchat and discreet lusting after Susannah, and that was that.

A spark escaped the grate and Carlyle stamped it out with the toe of his boot, frowning.

If it were up to him, her lovely body would not be confined within the acres of material that constituted proper attire for a well-bred woman in the reign of Queen Victoria. In Jaipur, Susannah had floated about in gauzy, simple dresses. No swags, no furbelows, no bothersome drapery-it was simply too hot. No stiff petticoats-the climate wilted anything starched within seconds.

To preserve her complexion, she had favored wide-brimmed hats of light straw, delighting him on the first day he’d seen her with a flirtatious peek from under the brim of one.

Her eyes were large and blue, fringed with dark eyelashes. The fierce sun that beat down upon her hat made tiny dots of light dance on her cheekbones and the look she’d given him made his breath catch. He’d had to fight the impulse to raise a hand to her face and gently brush the light away.

She was impossibly pretty. He’d thought so even after she trounced him at chess later that same day, sitting inside a pavilion of pierced stone in the maharajah’s enclosed garden. Susannah had added insult to injury by pointing out that he had not been paying attention. Of course not. How could he, faced with so lovely an adversary?

And so she conquered. More than she knew.

After that day, they had played many more times, and he was far more watchful, but almost never won. In the ensuing months, they had become good friends, progressing to fond flirtation, but no more than that. Susannah was young and headstrong, a volatile combination. His respect for her father-and his own wish to steer clear of complicated romantic entanglements-meant that Carlyle kept a certain distance.

Until that night by the reflecting pool when he had almost kissed her.

She had looked enchanting in the moonlight, her blue eyes wide and expectant, her hands folded demurely in her lap. But he could not bring himself to touch his lips to hers-and in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

As her father grew increasingly weak, she spent all her time with him, until the inevitable. Clad in black, wrapped in silent grief, she never complained through the overland journey out of the Rajasthan hills to the coast and the long sea voyage home. Indeed, she had scarcely looked at him during those months until the stormy day they had arrived in London.

The fire before him now was not warm enough to make the memory less dismal. Carlyle crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles, thinking back on it.

A driving rain had drenched them all as they disembarked, and the carriage Carlyle had arranged for by post was nowhere to be found. The docks had been utter chaos, crowded with ships and shouting men unloading passengers and goods. Crowded into a leaking hackney cab, they’d jolted off to Albion Square. The fellow on the box had grumbled loudly because Susannah would not let him whip his horse.

Chilled through, holding up the bedraggled skirts of her traveling costume, she had gone upstairs immediately, assisted by her Indian maid. Lakshmi, who knew English but rarely used it, spoke soothingly to her in dialect.

He had wished he understood. The two women seemed so homesick and so ill-at-ease in London. As for himself, Carlyle was content enough. He could soldier on anywhere, it seemed. But he would be happier if Susannah was as happy as she’d been in India.

Alone in his house, he was keenly aware of her presence right next door. Hmm. She was probably swanning around in white linen petticoats and that nearly transparent camisole. He imagined her putting one foot on a needle-pointed stool-did she have one?-and unrolling a stocking.

Carlyle shifted in his chair.

He mused upon how lovely she had looked in that gray striped dress-a subdued color that marked the transition from one stage of mourning to the next. Her father was adamant that she was not to go about in black for long. Mr. Fowler had told Carlyle to find her a fashionable dressmaker as soon as possible, cost be damned. He paid no attention to the younger man’s statement that he knew of none.

The long and the short of it, the half-aunt helped Carlyle find a dressmaker and everything else a young unmarried woman might require, including Mrs. Posey for the sake of decency, and a hairdresser who visited weekly, a few servants and a carriage to convey her about town, stabled in the mews behind the row of houses on her street. All quite necessary for husband-hunting, the half-aunt assured him. Compared to it, bagging tigers was easy sport.

So far no one had proposed. As her guardian, he would have had to listen to any such declarations, expecting some to come from men who were far older than he was. But he could not simply claim her for his own, although there was no one to forbid it.

He had made promises to a dying man-one did not renege on such vows. And Carlyle had no chance of inheritance. His married older brother, the earl, was in robust health and disapproved of life-shortening vices such as drink, while indulging freely in life-enhancing ones. Carlyle was an uncle several times over to nephews born on both sides of the blanket.

His role as Susannah’s protector was eminently respectable in all its particulars, despite what had happened tonight. By mutual agreement, Carlyle even had a key to her house, but he did not come and go as he pleased.

Ah, if only he could. Carlyle thought that he still would not go so far as to steal a kiss but…he would not refuse one.

She would never do such a thing. A good reputation was hard-won and easily lost, as he knew only too well. But a man might dream all the same.

He drummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair. If Susannah was sitting on his lap, looking very pretty and not very proper…wriggling just a bit…The thought made his groin tense and he sat up, feeling rather too warm. Carlyle looked at the clock upon the mantelpiece.

He dismissed his sensual fantasy as he stood and stretched. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would clear his head. He could not and must not take advantage of his role as her guardian. She trusted him. As far as the corset was concerned, he was blameless. Of course, if she found the gems hidden in it, she might think otherwise.

It was time to get rid of the evidence, so to speak. And it was not as if Susannah would wear such a fancy corset often. Stealing it would be easy enough. Carlyle headed off to his solitary bed.

Chapter Two

Several days later…

The sun shone in upon the breakfast table, making everything on it look irresistible. Susannah lifted the lid of a speckled brown teapot and sniffed the rising steam. It had steeped long enough. She poured a cup.

There was toast in a rack, country butter, coddled eggs in porcelain cups, and her favorite treat, Devonshire cream with cherry jam. The little glass dish of jam caught the light and sparkled like… like rubies, Susannah thought. Which were safely hidden upstairs in the toe of her left shoe. At the moment, she would rather have the jam. Susannah believed in breakfast, and she was in a very good mood.

The sun was out. But that was only one reason. She was formulating a plan to find out how the rubies and sapphires had come to be in her corset.

Carlyle would know. Whether she had to kiss or kick the information out of him remained to be seen. For now, she was going to repair the thing and think it over.

She ensconced herself in a chair and put a napkin over her lap. Her hair was loosely pinned up and her morning gown, a paisley print, fell in loose folds over her knees-she did enjoy being uncorseted. But Susannah had brought the pink corset downstairs with her, and a sewing basket, as she still had not finished its repair.

She lingered over the meal, sipping tea. The new downstairs maid cleared the dishes from the table and swept the toast crumbs into a silver crumb-catcher. “Thank you, Molly. That will be all.”

The maid looked up, surprised to be addressed by name, let alone thanked. She only nodded and disappeared with the tray.

Susannah set down her teacup and picked up the corset, spreading it out before her. It was easy to flatten now that the hidden gemstones had been removed from the ribs. She traced a finger over the elaborate embroidery, admiring the seed pearl embellishment, and wondered again who had done it.

Reaching for the sewing basket on the floor, she unfolded the corset set atop it onto the table, then took out a pincushion, spools of thread, and a needlebook, setting everything out.

She jumped in her chair, startled by the knocks on the front door. The maid went to answer it and Susannah heard Mrs. Posey’s familiar wheeze.

“Good morning then. And where is Miss Fowler?” Directed to the front room, Mrs. Posey waddled in. “Ah, there you are. But you are not dressed for the out-of-doors.”

Susannah looked at her, puzzled-and then she remembered. They were to go to the Chelsea physic garden. She had entirely forgotten.

“Well, well, no matter. I can make myself quite comfy while you dress. Is that dark girl about?” Mrs. Posey looked at the gorgeous corset spread open on the table with indifference, too nearsighted to see much without her spectacles. “You shouldn’t be mending. Put her to work after she gets you ready.”

“Lakshmi is ailing,” Susannah said. There was a noticeable edge in her voice. “She is still in bed. I am worried about her.”

“Now then, she only wants to sleep late. You mustn’t let a servant get the upper hand,” Mrs. Posey said. “Especially not a foreigner.” The older woman sank into an overstuffed, rather shabby armchair, which had been sat upon and sat upon until it was relatively soft, unlike most of the furniture in the house, which was good for one’s character. Those who did not sit up rigidly straight on horsehair upholstery were doomed to slide off it.

“Ahhh.” Mrs. Posey sighed with appreciation. The chair was in the direct path of the sunlight, which made her eyes blink and then close. Susannah had flung open the triple layers of window hangings, a very un-English thing to do. Still, she so disliked the entombed effect of a properly curtained room that she did it every chance she got.

She made no reply to Mrs. Posey. Given the warmth of the sunlight and the cushioned arms of the big chair, her chaperone might very well drift off, and Susannah would be spared the excursion, although the physic garden was a pleasant place. But she had no wish to be lectured on the many uses of lavender.

Sure enough, Mrs. Posey dozed off within minutes. The ticking of the clock in the room punctuated her soft snores, and Susannah returned to her repair of the corset.

She threaded a thin needle and began to mend the small slashes in the ribbing where she had removed the stones. The sound of footsteps on the marble floor of the small entry hall reached her, but she assumed it was Mr. Patchen going about his morning routine, directing the airing of rooms and the polishing of banisters and other important tasks.

A deeper voice than his made her jump. “Good morning, Susannah. Forgive me for not knocking. Your manservant left the front door open. I saw him go down to the kitchen just before I came in.”

She looked up, startled to see Carlyle Jameson looking through the open door to the room where she sat.

“Oh-hello.” Was it scandalous for a man to look at a woman who wasn’t his wife if she was wearing a morning gown? He seemed to like what he saw, so she had probably broken yet another unwritten rule. However, the loose garment and its intricate print revealed much less of her than a fitted dress would have done. She hoped Mrs. Posey would not wake up and pin her with an accusing look. She pointed to the sleeping old lady, hoping Carlyle would take the hint.

“Ah, I see you are not alone. Very good.” His voice became softer. “Then it is entirely proper for me to call upon you.”

“I don’t know about that,” she answered quietly. “But come in.”

This unexpected visit would require her to think quickly. His reaction when he caught sight of the corset would tell her something.

Looking down at it, Susannah thrust the threaded needle into the pink silk again and began to sew. Prim and proper. She felt anything but in her morning gown. The circumstances seemed far too intimate, despite the presence of Mrs. Posey. They might have been lovers, meeting in the morning after a night of…Susannah, a virgin, which was as it should be, wondered nonetheless about nights of.

Keeping her gaze upon her work, she heard Carlyle cross the thick carpet, his footsteps muffled now. He came around the table and took the chair opposite her. His nearness was unsettling.

Her body, unconfined, betrayed her. Susannah felt her nipples tighten, stimulated by the loose material that brushed them each time she made a stitch. His gaze never left her face-she could feel it.

It was not as if they had never sat at a table together-they had, often, and faced each other across chessboards with their knees nearly touching. But the open-air pavilion and the lofty marble halls of the palace kept everything light and breezy, unlike the hothouse atmosphere of a London parlor on a warm day. Perhaps flinging the curtains open had not been such a good idea after all. A touch of sepulchral gloom would be just the thing for cooling off her wayward thoughts.

Susannah stopped sewing and looked up into his gray-green eyes. Carlyle regarded her with the calmness of a cat-a very large cat, handsomely dressed in a light coat of dark wool and immaculate linens beneath a sober vest, clothes that did not hide his physical vigor and manly health.

He did not speak for a moment, holding her gaze, sitting quite still except for his large, sinewy hand, which tapped restlessly on the table as he smiled at her.

At last he looked down. Susannah noticed something flicker in his eyes-she decided it was shock-and felt a flash of satisfaction. So he had seen the corset before. Just as she’d suspected.

He lifted his hand from the table to adjust his collar. “Would you mind if I took off my coat? It is rather warm in here.”

“Not at all.”

Carlyle nodded and stood to remove the light wool coat. Susannah could not help but admire the power and grace of his tall body as he did so, looking intently at him when the sleeve of his shirt did not seem to want to part from the sleeve of his coat.

He tugged at it, not glancing her way. Fie. The most ordinary gesture or movement of his caused her to stare. She attempted a serene air, casting her eyes down to her work and putting a pin in her mouth in a seamstressy way.

Carlyle put the coat over the back of his chair and sat down again. “What a very appealing picture. Johann Zoffany might have painted you, Susannah. A woman en déshabillé, sewing a corset.”

Corset. The word seemed to hang in the air between them, suggestive and sexual. Susannah told herself that it was only an article of clothing and there was no need to simper or blush about a mere word.

All the same, he or someone known to him had seen fit to stuff this very corset with hundreds of gems. She glanced at him for only a fraction of a second…and immediately regretted it.

The intelligent regard in his eyes made her think that he knew precisely what she was up to. Susannah felt her cheeks turn pinker than the silk she was sewing and she almost swallowed the pin. She hastily removed it from between her lips, aware that he was watching her closely. “I am not familiar with that artist.”

He cleared his throat. “Zoffany painted the luminaries of the London theater and the great courtesans, then went to India to do portraits of native princes and the resident British. Before your time, my dear, but your father might have known Zoffany’s work.”

“He never mentioned the man.”

Carlyle did not seem offended by her blunt reply. “Oh. Well, it was just a thought.”

She would have to be blunter. “Hmm. I would prefer that you do not address me as my dear.”

He looked a little pained. “I used to in India. You did not mind it then.”

“We are not in India now.”

“No, we are not.” His voice was neutral and his steady gaze remained on her face. “You don’t like London, do you?”

“Not very much.”

Carlyle nodded. “I expect the endless parade of potential suitors is beginning to depress you. But I am sure someone will offer for you.”

Susannah fumed. Would he never notice the corset? Did she have to wave it like a flag?

“Someone whom you might come to love,” he added.

Perhaps he would receive a bonus, if that unlikely event should occur. “Have I no other choice in life?” Her vehement question seemed to take him aback.

He shrugged his shoulders, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his chin. He had been well shaved, she noticed. A faint scent of bay rum came to her unwilling nose. She sniffed in reverse to get rid of it.

“Well, if you do not wish to marry, you can subsist on the income from your inheritance for some time,” he said at last, “if you can live modestly.”

“Hmph.” She waved a hand at the furnishings of the cluttered room. “I could live without all this, certainly. The British Empire raids the world simply to fill its parlors with useless bric-a-brac. Looking at it makes me want to run away.”

He smiled slightly. “If the money must last, there will be no travel, no servants, no extravagances. That might prove difficult for a girl who grew up in a palace.”

“My dear Carlyle,” she began, forgetting that she had asked him not to call her my dear. “I did know it wasn’t my palace.”

“But you seemed somewhat-” He pressed his lips together for a second, not wanting to say something that would upset her. “Somewhat unaware. Everything you needed appeared as if by magic.”

“My toys were mine. And when I was older, my books and my piano. My clothes, of course. It is true that I wanted for nothing, but I had very little I could call my own.”

“And yet you were content.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“The happy empress of your own domain.”

Susannah shot him a wry look. “Are you saying that I was spoiled?”

“No, no. Not at all.” Carlyle leaned back in his chair.

Liar, she thought, nettled. Do not make yourself so comfortable.

“Do you know, I once saw you leading a flock of peacocks about the palace grounds. You certainly looked like an empress.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Peacocks, bah. I would rather have twenty thousand pounds a year.”

His mouth quirked up. “And so would we all. By any means possible.”

“And what means would those be?” Her tone was barbed. “Men are free to do what they will. A woman is not.”

He studied her intently for a long moment. “Don’t worry so, Susannah.” His tone was kind enough, but she could hear the hypocrisy underneath. “If your dowry is not spent it can be invested in the funds and that will help. You should do very well.”

She raised an inquiring eyebrow. “How well?”

“That remains to be seen,” he said.

Indeed it does, she thought. Carlyle would make a handsome sum if he sold the rubies and sapphires. If they were his. She was no closer to finding that out than when he had walked into the room. His bland assurances were not comforting.

Susannah crossed her legs and swung her foot under the table. Kissing the truth out of him would be nowhere near as satisfying as kicking him.

“But should you wed-”

“I shall never-ow!” She jabbed her fingertip by accident with the needle and a tiny drop of blood welled up. Susannah put her finger in her mouth and sucked before she thought of what she must look like.

“How do you know?” Carlyle’s eyes shone with amusement. “Should I ring the maid for a sticking-plaster?” he inquired. “You would not want a bloodstain, however small, on your best corset.”

At long last they had come back to the corset. Good. But her finger was throbbing. It was amazing how much a little sting could hurt.

“No,” she said at last, removing her finger from her mouth. A childish cure but it had worked. There was no more blood. His last statement piqued her. “How do you know that it is my best corset? Have you seen the others? Have you been skulking about my boudoir?”

He looked uneasy, which pleased her very much.

“Certainly not. But this corset is a very fine one, perhaps one of the most beautiful I have ever seen.” He was talking fast. “The embroidery is unique and-”

“It sounds like you have made a thorough study of the subject of corsets,” she said, a distinct edge in her voice.

“No, not really. Of course, one is much like another. It all depends on what’s inside them.” He gave her a smooth smile.

She gave him a narrow look in return. He was not to be trusted. She ought not to care. But she did.

And why is that? she asked herself, supplying an annoying but astute reply in an instant: Because you used to trust him. And you hoped he cared for you.

But those days were gone forever and she had changed. She was no longer a giddy, sheltered girl half in love with a dashing officer. She was a woman who had to make her own way in a cold and unfriendly metropolis, because the dashing officer was looking out only for himself. The corset in question-hers-had contained a small fortune in gems of uncertain provenance-his.

She amended the thought, but only to be realistic. Being fair had nothing to do with it. The gems were probably his. She still didn’t know for certain.

It occurred to her that his very coolness gave away his guilt. Staying silent, she folded the corset lengthwise. His smooth smile faded away.

Susannah had a sinking feeling she was about to be bested at a cat-and-mouse game. If Carlyle Jameson knew anything about the gems she’d found, he wasn’t going to confess.

They had talked at cross-purposes, and she felt deeply irritated. More with herself than him, however. She had bungled a heaven-sent opportunity to find out who’d hidden the rubies and sapphires. But then he had taken her unawares. Still, he could not have known she would be here, sewing away on the corset.

He glanced again at the corset she clutched. “Put it away. A lady keeps such things well hidden.”

Susannah glared at him. “Are you saying that I am not a lady?”

“Not quite.”

“Oh! You are insufferable!”

Furious with herself for seeming interested in what he thought, she gave a sharp shake of her head and her hair tumbled down. Susannah let it alone. Pinning it back up would mean looking for the hairpins on the carpet and that would mean bending down and he might very well interpret that as some sort of surrender.

Her agitation made her breath come faster. She parted her lips to speak but could think of nothing at all to say.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. “I was only teasing you, Susannah. I meant that you are young yet, and not quite a lady. But…may I say that you are lovely?”

What blather. And how humiliating. Mrs. Posey was probably feigning sleep and listening to every ridiculous word. Susannah rose swiftly, clutching the folded corset within the folds of her gown. “Go to the devil!”

He stood up very quickly. Susannah flung the corset at him. He caught it with one hand, tossed it aside, and backed her into a corner by the window where the sleeping chaperone could not see them if she awoke.

He was too fast to fight off and in an instant Carlyle silenced her with a kiss. It was not a brief one. His lips were inexpressibly tender, and the sensation of being swept off her feet and held in such strong arms was a thrill. His powerful thighs pressed against her and her body arched into his.

Instinctively-she had no other word for the shamelessness of it-she pressed her soft breasts against a linen-clad chest that was hard and warm, feeling her hard nipples grow harder still. Susannah slipped one hand over his heart without thinking, feeling it beat faster while she permitted him every liberty that a kiss had to offer.

He caressed her back, then slid both big hands down over her hips and bottom, pulling her closer still to him. Still kissing him back, Susannah struggled not to moan. She was entirely bare under the gown and he seemed well aware of it, handling her with very masculine skill. The sheer pleasure of it was nearly too much for her. Scared but wildly curious, she reached around to feel his hard buttocks. Oh, no. He was rigid. She moved her hands up quickly to his waist and felt those muscles tighten.

And all the while his mouth was on hers. So that is a kiss, she thought dazedly, when he broke it off and held her head close to his shoulder, stroking her tumbled hair. He bent to her, rubbing his head against hers like a huge cat.

No-no. It wasn’t a kiss. It was his kiss.

Confused as she was, Susannah did not suppose that every man kissed in such a way that his partner might well swoon with pleasure.

She put both hands on his chest and pushed him away. Something had changed forever in that magic moment when he had claimed her lips. She belonged to him in some indefinable way that infuriated and frightened and thrilled her beyond measure. Gasping a little, touching a finger to lips swollen by the ardent pressure of his, Susannah backed away from the corner and from him.

Carlyle watched her, a troubled look on his handsome face. He too seemed to be fighting for breath, but he stayed where he was. After a moment, he bent down and picked up the corset. He said but one word as he threw it to her.

“Catch.”

Susannah didn’t even try. She watched the crumpled pink corset unfold as it fell to the floor once more.

Mrs. Posey emitted a wheeze and the folds of flesh around her eyes squinted into wrinkles. But she did not open them, not just yet.

Carlyle took his coat from the chair, taking his time about putting it over his arm. “Thank you for allowing me to share your morning. It has been a very great pleasure.” He coughed. Susannah stared at him incredulously. “I do hope you enjoyed our conversation as I have. Good-bye.”

Susannah clapped a hand to her cheek. How could she have been so foolish-and how could he have done what he did with no resistance from her?

He made a half-bow before she came up with answers to those questions. “I will see myself out.”

She stood there and watched him go, the coat slung over his broad back. Unwillingly, she took him in, from his tousled dark hair to his boots. His confident stride extended from the muscular buttocks she had shyly touched, moving in rhythm with long legs that had captured his prey: Her.

He was gone. She heard the front door shut.

If only she had a fraction of his confidence. Or should she call it arrogance? She had been planning to kiss or kick what she wanted to know out of him, and he had beaten her to it.

But what a kiss. What a man. He was capable of anything. She almost…admired him for it.

Susannah picked up the corset once more, moving to the open door to hear if he had gone. He was exchanging pleasantries with Mr. Patchen. As if nothing at all had happened.

Her ire rose up again and she reminded herself how much she hated losing as she paced, her rapid strides quickening as she thought. More than ever, she was convinced that he had hidden the jewels in the corset.

The kiss had blindsided her. Owing to her regrettable curiosity to find out what happened next-what she had felt while clasped in his arms no more than that, surely-Susan-nah had not been able to winkle the truth out of him. He would be exceedingly wary from this moment on.

Carlyle had bested her without even trying. She hated him. Suddenly, madly, deeply.

“Now who was that, Miss Fowler?” asked the old lady in the chair, yawning. “I seemed to have dozed off. Did I miss anything?”

He waited until he reached the end of her street to put his coat back on. He’d stalled as long as he could in her front room, hoping to get a better look at the corset, but the fire in her eyes told him that she was very close to flinging something breakable-a china vase, perhaps-that would have woken Mrs. Posey.

He had seen a small cut in one of the corset’s ribs when he’d sat down. And the thing had been limp-Susannah folded it easily. Therefore, she had removed the rubies and sapphires that had made it stiff enough to stand up by itself. There was no doubt in his mind that she suspected him of using her personal belongings to smuggle jewels, and despised him for it. It was too bad, but explaining Lakshmi’s predicament would reveal more than that unfortunate young woman wanted the world to know.

Spouting off about the paintings of Zoffany had distracted Susannah just long enough to make a second quick study of the corset. He was sure that she had not found the diamonds inside the ribbon rosebuds nestled in the corset’s frill, and that fact meant he breathed a little easier as he walked away from Albion Square. But only a little.

Though there were only six diamonds, Carlyle happened to know that they were worth far more than the rubies and sapphires. He might have to resign himself to Susannah keeping those, especially since she had found them. The diamonds, however, were a different matter. They were much prized by the maharajah, who boasted that they had once belonged to a Mughal emperor. In an offhand conversation about the old fellow’s love of baubles, Alfred Fowler had said the same thing and added that they were a set, perfectly matched for extraordinary brilliance and clarity.

The maharajah had unwisely bestowed them upon his favorite, who had given them to Lakshmi in secret, and they were the stones, Carlyle knew, that the old fellow was most likely to want back. The diamonds had been easy enough to conceal, from what he could make out of Lakshmi’s tale.

Bloody hell. Carlyle told himself it was only a matter of time before she found the diamonds, too. He would have to get them first and try to figure out some way to return them to the maharajah. That process would take months and was sure to cause no end of ill-feeling-meaning he would have to explain everything to everybody eventually. The prospect was daunting.

She very well might try to sell the rubies and sapphires-certainly she understood their value. If he told her that Lakshmi had removed them from the maharajah’s palace, she might not. But it was difficult, if not impossible, to predict what Susannah would do.

The smaller gems were in her possession and possession was nine-tenths of the law. And they were worth a fortune, and what woman would not want to control a fortune of her own? It was becoming increasingly clear that she valued her independence more than he’d thought. That was only one reason why marrying off Miss Fowler was a thankless task, he told himself. Of course, the candidates thus far had been a lackluster lot. He could not blame that entirely on the half-aunt.

Carlyle had arranged several of the introductions, relying on recommendations from friends at his club, and choosing the safest-seeming men, in deference to Mr. Fowler’s last wishes.

Yet he knew quite well that they were not suited for her, a curious fact he could not deny. He didn’t understand it, but he was not inclined to soul-searching. Carlyle prided himself on being a man of action.

Still, her happiness was important to him. They had been fast friends in India. If he had been the unprincipled seducer and corset connoisseur she now seemed to think he was, they would have been lovers.

But nothing had happened. She was too young and too headstrong and too innocent-a volatile combination in every way. And her father had been his good friend. Carlyle considered his sexual attraction to Susannah quite understandable, but he also prided himself on his self-control.

He turned the corner, took a deep breath, and summoned up every ounce of it he had.

If she really did not wish to marry, then he might as well let her have the little gems, so to speak, and sell them to provide for herself. She could not prove he had put them in the corset. He hadn’t. She might ask why she hadn’t told him right away. He couldn’t, that was all there was to it.

Time would pass. It seemed unlikely that she would accuse him outright of smuggling and even less likely that she would swallow her pride and ask him to explain. No, most likely she would simply sell them quietly through an intermediary-and get a good price, too. She was the daughter of the famous Mr. Fowler and that counted for something.

Her misguided suspicions concerning him were something that he would have to live with. He hated the idea that, as of this morning, she thought less of him for something he had not done. Especially since she had looked so astoundingly sensual in that flowing dress, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, her lips parted as she tried to think of something vile to say to him. He’d had to kiss her. Did she even know how irresistible she was?

The thought crossed his mind that he might have fallen in love with her. Hmph. He wanted to laugh and made do with a wry smile.

A little sweeper at the curb saw the smile and seized his chance to beg a penny from a man in a good mood. Carlyle found three shillings in his pocket and dropped them into the lad’s grubby hand.

“Aow-thank ye!”

“Carry on,” he replied absentmindedly.

“Good day and good luck to ye, sir.”

He would need it, because he did intend to get the diamonds back. Keeping a straight face while he had simultaneously teased her and pricked her pride had been the only way he could think of to distract her. The combined effect of remembering how she had looked in it last night-and finding that part of the treasure was no longer in it this morning-had been almost too much for him.

She was sensitive enough to read his mind-perhaps she had. The damned corset had been right under his nose. All he thought of was the diamonds once he realized the rubies and sapphires had been removed. God only knew where a woman would hide so many gems. They could be anywhere and everywhere.

He would have to find a way to get her out of the house somehow-and soon-and get the six diamonds out of the ribbon rosebuds. And those would have to be sewn back up just so, or she would notice that the corset had been tampered with again.

Carlyle frowned. He had never threaded a needle, never sewed so much as a button. He would have to enlist Lakshmi’s aid once more. The Indian maid would be terrified of being caught once she knew that Susannah had found the other gems.

Poor Lakshmi had many things to fear. Serving as go-between for the maharajah’s favorite and her young lover had been an awful mistake. The unfaithful favorite had given her the gems, prying them from their settings and ruining all her jewelry as a final act of rebellion against her lord and master. She had told Lakshmi to flee the country, knowing they both faced the ultimate penalty.

Carlyle had felt sorry for her and for the favorite, and his judgment had not been the best. At the time his overwhelming concern had been for Susannah. Had he but known…et cetera. But he hadn’t.

What to do? If he succeeded in finding the corset in Susannah’s bedroom, he could not just take it to his tailor’s and have him or his busybody wife mend the opened rosebuds. The fellow was entirely too friendly as it was, always inquiring into Carlyle’s life and loves.

And what if Susannah wore it night and day, instead of hiding it?

Preoccupied, he went hurrying down an unfamiliar street crowded with shops. Carlyle slowed his steps. Looking into windows would be a pleasant enough distraction. He came to a jeweler’s. Bright little things winked at him from the boxes on display. Good God. No. He moved on to the next shop, a tobacconist’s, and clasped his hands behind his back, studying the humidors. They were brown. They were square. There was one in a rectangular shape. He found their very plainness soothing, but there was a limit to how long a man could stare at mahogany boxes.

Onward he went. The shop next door to the tobacconist’s sold prints and engravings. He glanced idly at the display in the main window. There was one of a lady in the elaborate gown of an earlier historical period, powdered hair piled high, bosom popping out of her tight bodice-

Don’t look, he told himself.

An odd little man, his hands thrust into the pockets of a shabby coat, sidled up and leered at the same print. Carlyle sighed. He had fallen low indeed if this was the company he was keeping.

He stepped well away from the fellow, examining a group of botanical prints in the side window. Apples. Quinces. Pears-ah, that one was particularly nice. He peered through the glass, reading the fine engraved script beneath the two nicely rounded pears in the picture: Cuisses de Nymphe.

Nymph’s thighs. He almost groaned aloud and then remembered the odd little man not far away, still leering at the prints. Judge not, Carlyle told himself, lest ye be judged. He had been reminded of Susannah by a colored engraving of fruit that was suitable for a Methodist’s parlor. He strode away, swiftly putting as much distance as he could between himself and all stimulation.

He finally stopped in a park and sat down on a bench under a tree. Carlyle was beginning to realize that his brains were still addled by his unexpected glimpse of Susannah last night. But why? He was a grown man, not some randy lad, achingly stiff and stupid after just one look at an unclad woman.

And yet the mere sight of her had undone him. He was almost jealous of the damned corset, if it was possible to be jealous of an inanimate object. It was able to encompass her slender waist just as he wished to do with his hands, it had the privilege of cupping her beautiful breasts, it was warmed by her silky skin-he had no doubt that her skin was silky. At his level of amorous expertise, Carlyle was good at guessing such things.

He wanted to caress her with all the skill he possessed, wanted to rain kisses on her bare shoulders, wanted to tease her sensitive nipples, wanted to fondle her glorious rear with both hands, then beg permission to touch her as intimately as she might wish-damn, damn, damn. Right now he wanted to shoot himself more than anything. He could not have her.

Susannah knew that dressing herself would be a bit of a struggle, but she vowed to do it, even if her corset-the corset-ended up going on crooked. She could tighten the crisscrossing back laces before putting it on over her camisole and then take a deep breath and hook it in front somehow. It had lost much of its stiffness since she’d removed the gems. She might even be able to breathe.

She had looked in on Lakshmi, who still slumbered in her narrow bed in the chamber under the eaves, though it was past noon. Susannah had no idea what ailed her, but it seemed that the very least she could do was go out and purchase a tonic from the apothecary or medicinal herbs to make up a posset.

She was thankful that Lakshmi was not suffering from fever, but had no idea what her illness might be. Would an English doctor prescribe the right remedy? Susannah doubted there were any practitioners of Indian medicine in London.

The physic garden could be just the place to find something that would help her, though Mrs. Posey might say something disparaging about Lakshmi again. Susannah resolved to sack her if she did. Unfortunately, she would have to be replaced and there was no shortage of chaperones for hire.

Susannah, who had left Mrs. Posey to her knitting in the front room, began to make a mental list.

First, she had to help Lakshmi. She decided to ask the Rajasthani family they had met-she would have to find them somehow. Or, first she had to talk to a dealer in precious stones-she knew just the fellow, she would write to him today-and have the rubies and sapphires appraised.

She wondered what Carlyle would have done if she’d simply spilled the stones on the table in front of him and asked where they had come from and what they were worth. His face had been close to expressionless when he saw the pink corset. Provoking of him. Perhaps he was a better strategist than she had thought. It all depended on what game he was playing.

Two days later…

Her face hidden under an overlarge bonnet-she had added a veil for good measure at the last minute-Susannah waited on the step for the clerk on the other side of the shop door to unlock it from the inside. Not wanting the servants to know about this confidential errand, she had traveled most of the way here via horse-drawn omnibus, a jolting journey that exhausted her, until she got out in Oxford Street and walked the rest of the way, looking in the shop windows along the way.

This shop’s wares were not shown in the window. Indeed, there was no window and there were no goods sold here-only skill. Rough gemstones were cut, faceted, and polished behind the heavy doors, and sent back to those who had purchased them elsewhere.

The narrow lane was a warren of similar shops, some at street level and some within the taller buildings that loomed over the old ones.

She heard repeated clicks and then the door suddenly swung open. An elderly clerk peered at her doubtfully.

“I am Susannah Fowler,” she said.

“Of course. Mr. De Sola told me you would be coming. My memory-” He tapped the side of his head. “Please enter.” He stepped to one side of the door, peering up and down the empty lane.

She looked where he was looking and thought she saw the shadow of a man melt back into an alley. Had she been followed? The idea was frightening. No one besides Carlyle knew that she had found the stones. She looked again and saw nothing. The clerk was far too frail to deal with ruffians, but she supposed that a watchful eye was better than nothing. There was undoubtedly a burly fellow somewhere on the premises. Anything to do with jewels carried a risk of theft and worse.

She went in, lifting her veil over the bonnet, and was greeted by another man, white-haired and short, who came out from an inner office. Behind it, she guessed, was the cutters’ room, where rough stones were assessed, sometimes for months, before the final decision to cut was made.

The man who greeted her was soft-spoken and utterly unassuming. But she knew he was Moise De Sola, the man who had cut and faceted the legendary Gulbahar diamond and several of the largest jewels in the royal collection. Still, one might pass him in the street and never remember him. He gave her a kindly smile and clasped her hands in his.

“My dear girl.” His voice had a slight accent. “It is an honor to meet the daughter of Mr. Fowler. You are as lovely as your father said, very like your mother. I cut the diamonds for her wedding ring, you know.”

“I didn’t.” The ring had been buried with Georgina Fowler. She had never seen it.

Mr. De Sola sighed. “So much time has passed. I did not see him often after they left London-before you were born, Miss Fowler. But he sent many stones to me. Your father had an eye for beauty.”

“Yes, he did.” Her voice quavered. It was odd to hear her parents spoken of in a place where they had once been, perhaps standing where she was right now.

“I grieved to hear of his untimely death so far from home. But here you are-” He stopped when he saw an inadvertent tear trickle down her cheek. Susannah dashed it away.

“My apologies. Perhaps I should not have mentioned such sad things. But so many memories came back to me when I received your letter in yesterday’s post-your father was a very interesting man. A rough diamond himself.” He patted her shoulder. “My little joke.”

Susannah composed herself. Though she had never been here, meeting someone who had known her father stirred emotions that she had kept firmly in check.

“Thank you, Mr. De Sola.” She looked about her. The office was as her father had described it. Solid, plain chairs were set around a desk in the center of the room, which held grooved trays covered in black velvet. A jeweler’s loupe rested on one, along with a pair of thin, long-fingered tongs with padded tips.

“What do you have to show me, my dear? I know you are here on business and we will close soon. It is Friday-our Shabbat. I must be home before sundown.”

“I have some stones. I-I am not sure where they come from.” She blinked a bit. The gaslight fixture that hung from the ceiling cast a circle of brilliant white on the desk, leaving the rest of the room in semidarkness.

“Please, sit down,” Mr. De Sola said.

Susannah settled herself in one of the chairs, coming as close to the desk as she could without getting in the light. She took out two bulging envelopes of light paper that she had folded around the rubies and sapphires, and opened them, pouring the stones into a mingled heap.

“Some stones? I would say there are more than a hundred.” He smiled again. The old man put the loupe to his eye and picked up a stone with the slender tongs, separating the rubies from the sapphires, and examining them one by one.

She had seen her father do the same thing many times and knew the process would take awhile. Mr. De Sola said nothing. He set aside the largest stones for a more careful look and arranged the rest in two neat rows of red and blue.

Then he studied the largest, five in all, for several more minutes, holding them carefully in the tongs and turning them this way and that under the light.

“Very interesting,” he said at last. “I have seen these before. I think I cut these two rubies. The flaws and inclusions are where they were on the shank of the stone-where their setting would conceal them.”

“Oh.” Susannah gave him a surprised look. She had not expected him to recognize the stones. But he was well known for his uncanny ability to do so. There simply were not that many large, fine gems in the world.

Mr. De Sola took the loupe from his eye and set down the tongs. “All of them are of the highest quality. The rubies are from Burma-as you can see, they are the color of pigeon’s blood, the most valuable. The sapphires are certainly from Kashmir. That cornflower blue is unmistakable.”

He regarded her with a serious air, his white eyebrows lifted high over his dark eyes. “All of them have minute scratches, Miss Fowler. As if they were pried from their settings and not with care.”

“Ah-I know nothing about their provenance.” Her mind whirled. Carlyle Jameson a thief? It seemed impossible. She reminded herself that she had no proof whatsoever that the stones belonged to him. She had found them in her corset. That was all.

He gave an eloquent shrug. “Perhaps someone didn’t want you to know. I think they are stolen.”

Susannah turned pale. Meaning that if she were caught with them, a case could be made that she was a thief.

“Would you like a glass of tea?” Mr. De Sola asked solicitously.

“Y-yes,” she stammered. Her father’s old friend would not think that of course. But she needed something to calm her.

He called into an interior room, and in a few minutes, a young woman in a loosely cut dark dress came in with two glasses of hot tea. The glass was held by an openwork cup of silver that fitted it perfectly, with a silver handle.

“My daughter-in-law, Rebecca. This is Miss Susannah Fowler.”

The other woman greeted her in a low, pleasant voice and handed them their glasses, going back for a bowl of rocklike lump sugar. Mr. De Sola took a lump and held it in his teeth, sipping the tea through it. He looked thoughtfully at the rubies and sapphires, and occasionally at her.

Susannah sipped her tea the way it was, not taking sugar. It was hot and strong-exactly what she needed. She had no idea what to do next.

So the jewels were stolen. Her father said that it often happened. Precious stones cast a spell upon the most reasonable of men. People would steal, even kill to get jewels they could not buy, and unusual ones had an unholy power far beyond their size.

She remembered the rare star sapphire her father had once shown her when she was very young, its six-pointed star shimmering within the blue depths of the stone. Then he had brought out a star ruby, rarer still, and let her hold the magnificent gems in her palms, cool and round.

“None of the stones in the maharajah’s treasure chests compare to these, Susannah,” he had said. “But they are only pretty little rocks.”

To him they were worth nothing more than what people were willing to pay for them. But she had been completely dazzled by the sapphire and ruby in her hands. A little of that magic had emanated from the stones she had found in such quantity and heaped in her lap.

Susannah and Mr. De Sola finished their tea, and he helped her refold the stones in their paper envelopes.

“Would you venture a guess as to-as to what they might be worth?” she said. “I shall have to return them to their rightful owner.”

The old man thought for a moment and named a sum in the thousands of pounds. “Maybe more,” he added quickly.

“I see.” She slipped the envelopes back into her purse and tucked it inside the light fitted jacket that matched her dress.

“Miss Fowler.” He seemed to be studying her carefully. “Sometimes stolen gems cannot be returned.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugged again, pushing away the tools of his trade. Then he clasped his hands together and set them on the table. “Sometimes no one knows where they came from. I last saw those two rubies fifteen years ago. They came in uncut; they went out to Argentina.”

“A country I have never visited.”

Mr. De Sola nodded sagely. “And somehow they got to you. An innocent young lady who lives in London. I will say no more.”

Susannah got up. “Thank you very much for your time and expertise, Mr. De Sola. What do I owe you for the consultation?”

“Only a promise.”

“Certainly.”

“Be careful, my dear. And keep those stones in a very safe place.”

She nodded. Mr. De Sola rose a bit stiffly and rang a bellpull for his clerk. It seemed an eternity until the man arrived but she was outside soon enough, her veil drawn over her bonnet once more. She looked up and down the lane, and glimpsed the same shadow, where it had been. Susannah fought the impulse to touch a protective hand to the pocket in her jacket where she had put the gems, and walked away as quickly as she could.

Chapter Three

A few days later…

It was now or never. Carlyle went to Susannah’s door and knocked. Mr. Patchen opened it, polishing a lamp globe vigorously with a rag.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon. Is Miss Fowler at home?”

Mr. Patchen spat into the globe. “She is not, sir. She will not be back for several ’ours. She and that Lakshmi ’as gone shopping.” He resumed what he was doing, swirling the rag around in the globe and not looking at Carlyle.

Rude of the man. Had Susannah told the servants to keep him at bay? Carlyle had known neither she nor Lakshmi was at home. Familiar with her routines, he had waited until he saw them leave together and that was why he was here. But something about the other man’s stance-Mr. Patchen nearly filled the doorway-irritated him.

Carlyle was there to get the corset, of course. He had planned to borrow a book from the library-it was on the second floor, next to her bedroom-dash into that feminine sanctuary, rifle through her chest of drawers, and leave.

He put a booted foot on the top step, countering Mr. Patchen’s blocking of the doorway with a slight leaning forward of his body. The manservant leaned back a little, just enough for Carlyle to bring up his other foot and tower over the fellow.

“And what may I do for you, sir?” Mr. Patchen said, in a tone that sounded a trifle more agreeable.

“I had hoped to borrow a book-something on India. I know it is in the library, but not exactly where. If I might browse for just a few minutes…”

“I suppose you could, sir. Miss Fowler would know where it is, though.”

Carlyle gave him a jovial smile. “Oh, I don’t think so. May I come in? Thank you.” He squeezed past Mr. Patchen, tempted to remind him who paid his salary.

He brushed past the new maid, Molly, who gave him a surprised look and then a tentative smile. Good. He had at least one ally within the house. He smiled back and took the stairs two at a time.

Carlyle reached the upper landing and went directly into the library, opening the door without making a sound. He shut it just as quietly and looked about. The room held thousands of volumes, shelved in double rows, the newer books in front of the older ones. Susannah came into it to read, he knew.

Her bedroom and sitting room were next to it, and the brief glimpse he’d had when he’d seen her in the corset would help him. Not that he had taken in the details of the decor on that startling night.

But she had told him that she and Lakshmi had made the round of the shops, and decorated with bright colors and pretty trinkets. He had no doubt that her rooms were as charming as their inhabitant and quite unlike the sobriety of the library.

There had been a chest of drawers and no doubt there was a closet. He hoped it would not take him long to find the corset.

He would need a book. Carlyle looked at the shelves. It would be best if the book were large enough to hide a corset, with floppy covers and a well-worn spine. In other words, an old book.

There were many that would fit that description-he pulled a few out at random. Now in India, Dr. Josephus, the owner of both the houses, was a scholar of ancient languages and the author of several tomes on Sanskrit that only a few people had read. He had been happy to let the place to a well-recommended young woman who had penned a note of appreciation to him in graceful Hindi.

None of the books seemed large enough. Perhaps something more like a monograph, or a book of art prints. That would do to hold the thing.

He coughed and it echoed. For a room that held nothing but words, the library was profoundly silent. There was not a speck of dust in it, but the room had the faintly musty smell of old paper.

Carlyle kneeled down to the lower shelves, which held taller books, and drew out a volume bound in tattered silk brocade. He opened it carefully and saw the first illustration of lovers, quite naked, in a pavilion under the moon. He leafed through it, realizing he had found an exquisitely painted manual of the arts of love.

He could not read the ancient script but the paintings were ravishing. Tender couples entwined in dreamy bliss upon page after page, pleasuring each other in myriad ways. It was the perfect hiding place for the corset of a woman he would have loved to love in just that way.

Carlyle closed the book and walked out of the library, grateful for the thick Persian carpets that muffled his steps. He looked about on the landing, then peered down the stairwell. No one seemed to be polishing or sweeping anything. Most important, no one was coming up the stairs.

Her bedroom door was only a few feet away, but he would have to work fast. Carlyle turned the knob and took a precautionary peek before entering. He went straight to the chest of drawers, set the book on top of it, then began to open each one. He looked through the contents without leaving them in disarray, but doing it made his skin crawl. Should Mr. Patchen catch him at this underhanded business he would whack Carlyle with the poker and it would be just retribution. But he had to get those diamonds.

In the last drawer, in the back, he saw a bit of pink silk. He lifted up the rest of the clothes and there it was, limp. Something that would never happen to him if he was next to her skin, he thought, grinning.

He pulled it from the drawer and examined the ribbon rosebuds in the frill. They were still intact, tightly furled. He could feel a diamond deep inside one. Carlyle looked to her dressing table for scissors and saw a little pair that would serve very well.

He used one blade to open the rosebud, squeezed it just so and eased out the first diamond. It lay in his palm, giving off a cold light that seemed somehow accusatory. It took him less than a minute to remove the other five and put them in his pocket.

There was no time to resew the rosebuds and they looked much as they had. He folded the corset and put it back in the drawer, then picked up the book of love. He was looking forward to further study of its beautiful pictures.

Well and good. He had done it. Carlyle turned to go, but a noise in the garden made him cross the room to look out of her bedroom window.

Below him was the quince tree, near the end of its bloom, the center of a boxwood maze that had been carefully tended by the old scholar. Carlyle had wandered in it just last week with Susannah-if twenty steps down a right-angled brick path could be called wandering, especially with Mrs. Posey a discreet distance away.

Susannah and Carlyle had lingered for awhile all the same. The flowers reminded her of India, she’d said. He heard the wistful longing in her voice-ah, how he loved the sound of her voice. It was as if he was hearing it right now.

But…he was. Susannah and Lakshmi were standing outside the door. He was caught in her bedroom, a place he had no reason to be.

“So you are a thief,” Susannah said quietly.

He was momentarily speechless. There was nothing he could say or do to extricate himself from this situation. Lakshmi looked at him, trembling all over, her doe eyes wide with fear. No doubt she could guess why he was there, but she wouldn’t give him away.

Carlyle could not confess everything. He had no idea how Susannah might react and there was much was at stake. But he had to say something.

“I came up to borrow a book.” He held it up but kept it tightly shut. If she saw what was inside it, he would be a dead man. Which sounded rather restful.

She barely glanced at the tattered brocade cover. “That is not mine.”

“No, it isn’t. It belongs to Dr. Josephus.”

“Do you think I have the right to lend out his books?”

“I will ask him myself,” Carlyle said boldly, then realized his mistake.

“Really? But he is in India,” she said icily. “And you should not be in my bedroom. Do not try to tell me that that book was in here. I have never seen it.” Susannah came into the room, putting down her things and brushing so close to him that he had to step aside. She turned around and did it again, and Carlyle realized that he was being herded out the door. If he stayed in her room a second longer, she would probably nip at his heels.

He had been bested and with a trick very like the one he had employed to get past Mr. Patchen. Humiliated by his undignified position, Carlyle told himself he was getting exactly what he deserved.

He stepped out into the hallway, nodding to Lakshmi and holding onto the book, trying to make the best of it. Susannah put her hands on her hips and glared the nonchalant expression right off his face. He straightened up.

“Forgive me. I should not have entered your room. I can only imagine what you must be thinking, Susannah.”

The look in her eyes would give any sane man pause. “No, you don’t, Carlyle Jameson. You haven’t the slightest idea. Get out.”

He cleared his throat. “I was just going.” He clutched the book as if it would protect him from her wrath, walked to the stairs, down them, and out the door. Not three seconds later, a large vase crashed at the base of the stairwell.

But you still have no real proof, Susannah told herself some hours later. Mr. De Sola had said only that the rubies and sapphires were probably stolen, not who had stolen them. And he’d added that it was often impossible to determine such things. She did not regret sending Carlyle Jameson packing, however.

How dare he stroll into her bedroom, as if he owned her house-and her. She could not calm herself, could not stop seething. Despite her agitated state, she had gently dismissed Lakshmi for the night, telling her there was nothing to worry about, but she didn’t seem to have convinced the girl of that.

She could hear her in her room right now, singing something sorrowful in dialect. It was just as well Susannah couldn’t understand the words.

There was another reason for her dismissal of Lakshmi: Susannah wanted to examine the corset without the maid looking on. She pulled open the bottom drawer and took it out, smoothing it open on the bed and studying it carefully. It seemed the same. The ribbon roses were a little crumpled but the corset had been folded up for days. They were very pretty-she toyed with one for a moment. It unfurled into a curling strand of soft silk ribbon and she felt a flash of irritation.

She had been spending a great deal of time fussing over this corset and now it needed mending again. Still, it was only one ribbon and it would not take a minute to roll it up and affix it more tightly.

Susannah looked about for her sewing box, then remembered that she had left it downstairs. She let out a sharp sigh, then turned to see Lakshmi at her door. She had not noticed that the singing had stopped.

The girl was looking at the curling strand of ribbon with something very like shock. And it dawned on Susannah that there had been something in those rosebuds that wasn’t there now. She took a very close look at the others. The furls had been loosened and one bore a tiny cut.

Probably made by the scissors that were on top of her chest of drawers. Where she hadn’t left them. The scissors had been on her dressing table, she was sure of it.

Lakshmi turned and fled down the hall. Susannah went after her. And before midnight, in bits and pieces and between sobs, she had the story from beginning to end.

So Carlyle had only been trying to help an Indian maid who might have been murdered, along with her erring mistress. Susannah was familiar with the ancient and often inhumane code of justice in India, and many aspects of it appalled her. She could not blame either party to the secret for keeping it.

No wonder Lakshmi had been unwell. She was consumed by guilt and afraid for her life. Perhaps she had left the corset where Susannah could find it as a mute plea for help. Susannah felt the maharajah did not deserve to get his trinkets back, not even his enormous diamonds, but she had a feeling that she had indeed been followed. By whom and why was a question she scarcely dared to think about. Most likely the maid had been followed also, but she might not have noticed, especially if her shadow was English.

Curled up in an armchair in her peaceful sitting room, Susannah knew she was not safe. But she could no more go back to Jaipur and give back the whole lot of gems than Lakshmi could. At least Carlyle had not been to blame-she regretted her suspicions concerning him. Her own covetousness had made her cynical.

But Alfred Fowler liked to say that cynics did not deserve their bad reputation. They simply knew how the world worked, and said so plainly, a statement that made Carlyle roar with laughter when he’d heard it. Susannah did not know what to think anymore. London seemed suddenly more ominous than ever.

Her neighborhood was respectable, even elegant, but she found the city grim and gray. Despite Lakshmi’s revelations, Susannah passionately wished to be back under the sun of India where she might read her way through a library for a week without censure, or ride about upon an elephant, or fall under the spell of a centuries-old temple, carved with wondrous beings and forgotten gods. Of course, she knew that her status as a foreigner-and the only daughter of a man who had made himself useful to a powerful maharajah-had permitted her such pleasures but that didn’t stop her from wanting to return to those innocent, carefree days.

Days that were gone forever. Stymied by the problem of what to do about the damned gems, her mind returned once more to Carlyle-and that marvelous kiss. How could he have done it if he considered himself duty-bound to marry her off? Where that was concerned he had been true to his word, and she supposed he had done his best. But the men he had selected as possible suitors were not to her taste. Her half-aunt’s choices were no better. All she could remember of the fellows thus far were a few physical traits-large nose, small chin, tendency to whiffling of mustache when lost in thought, that sort of thing-and nothing at all about who they were.

Mrs. Posey said the particulars of physiognomy-her unlovely phrase-shouldn’t matter to a woman as long as her husband gave her pin money and a few children. Susannah found that prospect too dreary to think about. She could not become a docile wife, disappear into a dank London house filled with stuffed owls and grandfather clocks, and then just…procreate.

Her innocence was gone forever, too. But there were aspects of that she didn’t miss. The sensation of being in Carlyle’s arms and surrendering with mad joy to that incomparable kiss was well worth repeating. It would pass the time until he married her…to someone else. No. No. That could not happen.

Carlyle’s teasing words came back to her: You were the happy empress of your own domain. Far from it. She was as nearly powerless as most women. Her brief fantasy of independent wealth was never going to come true. But it was possible that she could be happy all the same. She would have to talk to Carlyle.

Chapter Four

He settled his tall frame into the same chair that he had occupied when she had confronted him with the corset and tapped his hand upon the table in the same way.

Nervously.

Susannah was glad he was nervous. It gave her the advantage. As always, having him near seemed to muddle her wits. The man exuded physical confidence, even when he knew he was in the wrong. She had not absolved him yet. His good manners and intelligence only added to a natural charm that allowed him to get away with far too much, she reflected, willing herself not to smile back when he ventured to smile at her.

She gave him a severe stare, which required her to look up slightly. He was too tall to be truly humble, of course. Carlyle Jameson towered over people even sitting down. But she would not be intimidated or impressed by such things.

The difficulty was that she found him so attractive. But she could ignore that for a few minutes. “Shall we begin?”

He nodded. “Certainly. Should you have any questions about the techniques of interrogation, I would be happy to answer them.”

That took her off guard. “Whatever do you mean?”

“It is part of an officer’s training. I know that you are a novice at this sort of thing.”

Susannah vowed not to show her irritation at his mocking tone. She folded her hands upon the table and kept her voice calm. “I know that you have the diamonds.”

He gave a deep sigh and pulled a balled silk handkerchief out of his coat pocket. “I do. Here they are.” He didn’t unroll the silk, just pushed it across the table to her.

She had not expected to be presented with them. Susannah’s curiosity got the better of her. She unfolded her hands and carefully opened up the balled handkerchief. Six big, brilliant diamonds sparkled up at her.

“Keep them,” he said amiably.

“They are no more mine than they are yours, Carlyle.” She rolled them back up again.

He took back the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. “You are right.”

“You cannot keep them either.”

He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. Susannah was momentarily mesmerized. “Indeed, Susannah,” he said softly. “From the moment I found out what Lakshmi had done, I have been on constant watch. What if an agent for the maharajah should appear in London?”

She sighed and folded her hands upon the table. “I believe that one has.” She told him of her meeting with Mr. De Sola and his face grew thoughtful.

“The game is reaching its end.”

She sat up very straight, every muscle in her body tense. “It is an ugly one.”

“How much did Lakshmi tell you? I know she was forced to confess that she was the go-between in an illicit love affair involving the maharajah’s young favorite and a palace guard.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head and a raffish lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. “And did she explain that she came to me and implored me to help her? Her unfortunate mistress was imprisoned in a pretty cage of wrought iron and sentenced to death. Can you imagine that, Susannah?”

“I can. I lived all my life in India.”

“Then you know that Lakshmi would have been next.”

Susannah only nodded.

“I said I would help her, knowing nothing of the gems she’d concealed. She hoped to find safety and begin a new life in a distant land and she was desperate. I have ever been a fool for a woman’s tears.”

“Is that merely foolish?” She felt a flash of chagrin. He had often comforted her when she cried for her father, finding the right words to assuage her unbearable grief, and speaking with genuine compassion. The memory of being held in his arms, close as could be to his warm, manly-smelling chest was dear to her. Perhaps that was why she had given in so readily to the kiss.

He shrugged. “I had other concerns, of course. I knew you might be less lonely accompanied by a servant whom you knew. And Lakshmi would serve as a chaperone of sorts. My ultimate loyalty was to you, not to the maharajah, although that august personage seemed to expect all men and women to bow to his will.”

She pressed her lips together, not about to argue that point.

“I suppose the woman told Lakshmi to sew them into a corset?”

“I have no idea.”

Carlyle looked out the window before continuing, his mind elsewhere. Susannah’s tension eased slightly. She knew he was not lying about what had happened-Lakshmi had told her much the same story. But the details he provided were interesting.

“I immediately thought that we might be followed by agents of the maharajah-who would not necessarily be Indian. Most maharajahs keep a few Englishmen around and not for decorative purposes.”

She could not argue with that either. The shadow who had appeared in the lane by Mr. De Sola’s shop had not revealed enough of himself to tell. But she was troubled by a sudden question. “Yes-that’s so. But how did you come to be at the maharajah’s palace? You never said and no one ever told me. Not even my father.”

“I was on assignment. The Rajput kings and princes think it best to keep an eye on the nominal rulers of India-us. Our old fellow limited himself to your father, whom he trusted, and by extension, me. But neither of them knew that I was also an agent in the Queen’s service.”

“Oh.” Susannah’s eyes widened. Lakshmi had not known that either.

“The monopoly enjoyed by the East India Company is coming to an end, and it is in the interests of the empire to keep the peace in India. Therefore, we spied upon maharajahs and nawabs who in turn spied on us. All very gentlemanly. Except for the occasional chap who gets found out and fed to the tigers.”

Susannah just stared at him. So Carlyle had not merely been taking his exercise when he went out riding in the Rajasthan hills. And his visits to the maharajah’s palace had not been just social calls.

“How very interesting.”

“I would have to say that things got a little too interesting. The court and the women of the zenana expected the maharajah to punish Lakshmi as severely as the favorite, but he seemed to have decided that if the bereaved daughter of his dear friend Mr. Fowler wanted her, good riddance. The execution was put off until after our departure. I made an attempt to plead the woman’s case. The maharajah was interested to hear that erring wives were no longer routinely done away with in England-at least not since the reign of Henry the Eighth.” He frowned and began to tap his hand upon the table again. “But as I have said, my chief concern was for you.”

She did remember Carlyle’s watchfulness. Traveling by train over the scorching plains, boarding the ship in Calcutta for the endless voyage home, even here in London, he was rarely far from her side.

“Thank you.” Small words, said in a small voice. She had underestimated him.

“Susannah, I do think he will want the diamonds back. They once belonged to a Mughal emperor, and they have come down through his ancestors. They are worth more than all the rubies and sapphires together.”

“Well,” she said at last. “What now?”

He thought it over before replying. “It will take months for a proper exchange of letters and a trustworthy courier must be hired. I suppose I could do it. I will be sent back to India eventually.”

That was not something she wished to hear. She had shared one of the best years of her life with Carlyle in India, and though she might never go back, she could not imagine London without him. She and Carlyle had been close from the day they’d met and they had drawn closer still in the months after her father’s death, when she’d relied upon him unthinkingly-and somewhat ungratefully. She realized with a rush of feeling that the extraordinary kiss had been a mere taste of what might happen between them. He had never meant to test her trust. The decisions he had made concerning the gems might not have been the best, but he had not stolen them and never intended to enrich himself by their sale.

“I wish you would not go,” she said tenderly.

Carlyle looked at her with surprise. “Oh?”

He stood and began to pace the room. Back and forth he went as Susannah watched, twisting her hands in her lap.

“My dear Susannah,” he said. “Is there a better way to protect you? The gems must be returned.” He had risked much. He was ready to risk more.

“I will go with you. Marry me.”

“No. But I do want you. With all my heart-and if you must know, my body.” His voice was a little rough around the edges. “However, I am not the marrying kind.”

“Neither am I,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

She stood and went to him. “Carlyle, it is you I want.”

“I know it will infuriate you if I say that what you want doesn’t matter, but-”

It was her turn to shut him up with a kiss. Given the difference in their height, it was not easy for her to do, but it was not impossible…because his mouth met hers halfway.

“My dear, my dear,” he whispered into her hair, holding her head when he broke it off. “There is a way…but only if you let me love you as I wish.”

She nodded, nestling against his chest. “And what is that?”

“Call it the ultimate kiss.”

“I beg your pardon. I thought we had done that.”

He clasped her waist with both hands. “Can you send the servants away?”

“Are we still keeping up appearances?”

He smiled. “For as long as possible.”

Susannah was naked in her bed, alone with him, and it felt…glorious. Utterly glorious. He had removed every stitch of her clothing, admiring and loving every inch of flesh as it was revealed to his hungry eyes. Feeling utterly unself-conscious, she watched him take off his clothes, remembering how often and how immodestly she had imagined what his body looked like.

He was perfection. Broad shoulders tapered to a flat belly and muscular sides that went in at the hips. He stood with long, muscular legs apart, his erect cock jutting out proudly, looking down at it when she did. “No, my dear. Not yet.”

“But I want to,” she whispered, on fire with a heavy longing.

He shook his head and came to her, sliding between the sheets and encompassing her in his powerful embrace as they lay side by side. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her neck, and smoothed her disheveled hair. “You will have everything you want. But you will also remain a virgin. In that way I will keep my promise-and you will be able to decide if you truly want me or some other man.” He breathed a soft laugh into her ear. “Who will never be able to tell that you have been loved by another.”

“What do you mean, Carlyle?”

His hand slipped down, caressing her belly, and he touched the outside of her most intimate flesh with a gentle finger. “Open your legs.”

She obeyed, clutching his shoulders, but he moved out of her grasp and down as he flung back the sheet.

He pressed her thighs apart somewhat more and then…put his mouth where his finger had been. Susannah felt a soft sensation unfold deep within her, as his gentle tongue began to lick her there lovingly. Whatever this was called, she wanted it. She arched her back, presenting herself instinctively, craving more. He took the tiny nubbin inside the folds between his lips and sucked it lightly. Cascades of sensual pleasure made her tremble and she began to moan.

Carlyle took his mouth away and sat up, caressing her breasts with expert skill. He rolled her nipples between his fingers, tugging lightly and watching her writhe with a pleasure she had never known.

“I must confess, Susannah-I saw you in that corset by accident when I stepped out on my balcony. I wanted to do this then. You were playing with the little rosebuds on it.” He let go and took her hands, placing them on her breasts. “Play with your nipples while I…” He said no more.

Dreamily, on fire with desire, she began to pinch her nipples rather harder than he had done. She felt his stiff cock bump her side as he sat back and watched, and she looked up in his eyes. “Like that?” she whispered.

“Yes. You are so beautiful, Susannah. Innocent still…” He parted the folds of the swollen flesh between her legs and touched her hymen with a fingertip. She began to shake and grabbed her breasts hard. “But wanton at heart. I am proud to be the man who touches you first. But I will not take you.”

She let go of herself and reached up to him. Carlyle grasped her wrists and prevented her from holding him. Then he put his mouth between her legs and resumed his tender lovemaking. The feeling grew stronger and stronger and she held her thighs as wide as she could, desiring the pleasure that shot through her. His lovingness opened her soul-and his sexual skill made her moan his name over and over.

Susannah reached down to hold his head, then grabbed his hair when he suckled the little bud tightly between his lips and teased the tip of it with his fluttering tongue.

Oh, oh, oh…ohhhhhhhhhh. As the ultimate pleasure overcame her, she knew how much she loved him.

Chapter Five

They were sharing a postcoital dinner and conspiratorial winks. Susannah had managed to wriggle into a corset-not the dangerous one-and fasten her dress by herself. The candlelight hid her faint air of disarray, she hoped. Out by the back door before the servants returned and in by the front door when they were about the house, Carlyle was soberly dressed and impeccably groomed, the picture of upright manliness once more.

In more ways than one, she reflected, looking at him adoringly. He had not reached climax as she had, preferring to wait and putting her from him when she protested, saying with a laugh that there would be time enough for that. But he had let her explore his nakedness as much as she wished once she agreed not to arouse him too much, and she had taken her time about it, not knowing when she would have the chance to do so again.

He was attacking a chop at the moment. Something about the vigorous use of knife and fork told her that the physical frustration bothered him rather more than he would admit to her. Still, Susannah appreciated his self-restraint. Was there ever a virgin who had felt so satisfied in the history of the world?

His suggestion-that she wait and see which man she wanted-was simply absurd. There was no other man. She only wanted him. Susannah wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Carlyle was gnawing on the bone of his chop almost ferociously and looking at her with the same tenderness he had shown in bed. She half expected him to growl just to make her laugh-and he did.

Susannah nodded to the maid, Molly, who brought in the next course, a puddinglike lump of something that could have originally been potatoes, perhaps mashed up with beets. It was dark red, blotched with brown. “Thank you. That looks delicious.”

Molly set the dish on the table and withdrew.

“It looks terrifying,” Carlyle said, poking it with a fork. The lump emitted a blast of steam. “English food is dreadful. Perhaps we should hire an Indian cook.”

“I would be happy to move back.”

“You cannot.”

She permitted herself a pout. “If you say so. But I might move somewhere else. Italy is warm.”

He took a bite of the puddinglike lump and made a face, putting down the fork. “Hmm. You seem to like countries that begin with I. What about Ireland? I believe that they do not treat potatoes as badly as this in that country.”

“Cold and damp.”

“Go to Ifrica, then. Or Istralia. Very warm, both of them. And there is always Imerica.”

“You are being very silly.” She laughed. “And I don’t want to go alone. Do keep in mind that we are not married.” Carlyle gave her a fond look, as if that fact made him happy. Beastly of him-but he was still the beast she wanted.

He rose from his chair and tossed his napkin on the table. “I only wish to grant you the freedom you seem to want so much.”

“Bah. I want-” she blushed-“more of what you-what we-just did.”

Carlyle came around and put his hands on her shoulders, glancing through the open door to the hall to make sure they were quite alone before he slid his hands over her bosom. He caressed her breasts in a way that brought back every single sensation she had experienced in bed with him. “Do you now?”

“Yes.”

“Not tonight, my darling.” He bent to kiss the top of her head. “But soon. I don’t know when.”

She turned in her chair to look up at him. “That is not the answer I wish to hear.”

“The empress has spoken,” he said mockingly. “Well, you are in your domain. Remind me to pick up a few peacocks. You can give them orders.”

Susannah got up, wrapping her arms around his waist and standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the chin. “They would look good in Dr. Josephus’s garden.” She pulled him over to the window and he went with her without a trace of reluctance.

Holding each other in a loose embrace they looked down at the maze and the quince tree at its center, which had shed its blossoms and leafed out fully. A moving shadow beneath it made her draw in her breath. “Did you see that?” she said softly, drawing him back from the window. Carlyle only nodded. “We are being watched.”

He let go of her and moved to one side of the window, looking out without seeming to. “So we are.”

Susannah felt sick, her body tight with tension and-she had to admit it-a measure of fear.

He studied the shadowy garden and seemed to come to some conclusion. “He will not come out into the light. And there is not much of that in any case. I must deal with this now, Susannah. And the servants must not know.” He sighed. “It is a good thing your drainpipes are in excellent condition. Make sure that Mr. Patchen locks all the doors tonight.”

“He always does,” Susannah replied in a miserable whisper. “But the servants will remark upon your sudden absence.”

“Are you not an empress? Ignore them. And stay away from the windows.”

“Yes, of course.”

Carlyle waited a few moments more, and she watched his eyes follow the movements of a predator she could not see, drawing her own conclusions when Carlyle looked up through the window and in the direction of the garden’s back wall, shrouded in darkness. The man, whoever he was, had undoubtedly gone over it

Carlyle didn’t waste a minute. He lifted the window, put one long leg over the sill, grabbed the drainpipe, which clanked, and swung the rest of himself out.

It was three in the morning when he returned. Susannah had stayed in the same room, waving away Molly, who thought she had fallen asleep in the armchair. The English girl had been easy enough to get rid of, but not Lakshmi.

Lakshmi noticed the slight disarray of her mistress’s attire-and more important, the agitated state Susannah was in. But Susannah had sent her away too.

“Never mind, Lakshmi. Please go.”

The Indian woman had obeyed, but with obvious reluctance.

Susannah eventually did fall asleep in the armchair and wakened with a little scream when she realized Carlyle was standing over her.

“Hush,” was all he said.

She looked at his face and gasped. “Oh-what happened?”

His eye was black and a bloody scrape extended from his ear to the front of his chin.

“I became involved in a rather delicate negotiation. But in the end I prevailed.”

She rose and looked about for a handkerchief to soak and wash his face with. The cold cup of tea on the small table by the armchair would have to do for balm. “Who was he, Carlyle? What did he want?”

Carlyle shrugged. “A hired brute. His name is not important. He meant to frighten us.”

Susannah dipped the handkerchief in the tea and pressed it carefully to his face. Carlyle flinched. “He hurt you.”

“Indeed he did. And I hurt him back.”

She cleaned away the drying blood. The task was made more difficult by the short whiskers that roughened his jaw. “Why? You should have-”

“Should have done what, Susannah? Notify the police?”

They would not understand the complicated matter of the gems. “No.” She inspected his skin, seeing for the first time the faint purple bruise underneath the blood. “But should you see a doctor?”

He shook his head, looking at her wearily before sinking into an armchair. “We must keep the gems in a safer place than this house. Do you know, I had thought of putting the corset into a safe deposit box at the bank, but I could not get Lakshmi to let it out of her keeping.”

“She has been so frightened, Carlyle.”

He sighed. “She has reason to be, now more than ever. But there may not be much time. Where are the rubies and sapphires?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happens now?”

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

The next night…

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

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

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

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

“Good evening, Mr. Tagore,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The maharajah wants them back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then kill me,” Carlyle said wearily.

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

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

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

“What about the rubies and sapphires?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In England she is a free woman.”

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Six

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

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

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

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

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

The velvety, close-cropped grass prickled under her bare feet. There was no one to see, no Mrs. Posey to scold her for going about barefoot. She had retired with a pension they provided, and seemed quite happy to do so. But some of the other servants had come along-Mr. Patchen and Molly being two.

Susannah had even sketched their portraits as they went about their daily routines, as she wished to remember it all. Molly in the kitchen, stirring an earthenware bowl at a stout pine table. Mr. Patchen on his knees transplanting crocus bulbs, a concerned look on his face as he patted down the covering earth. And Carlyle himself, riding about his little Eden on a big bay horse he had named Tagore, for some reason. She supposed he wanted to remember India too. Perhaps he’d had a friend by that name.

She found her favorite rock to sit upon-it was very large and quite flat, rising from the ground as if it sought the sun that warmed it. Susannah settled her bottom upon it and took her painting things out of the bag. She pulled out another book that Carlyle had given to her before they moved away from London. Her father had made it for her.

But he had instructed Carlyle not to give it to her right away. She was glad enough of that, because it meant much more to her now. He had told her that the heavy envelope in his hand was from her father and nothing more, and when he’d left her alone with it she’d opened it to find a scrapbook, an unexpected gift that had let her cry at last. Without her ever knowing of its existence, the book had been created over the course of her twenty-three years by her father, with a few early entries from the mother she had never known.

On its pages, he had jotted down his fond recollections of her as a very young child. Her refusal at the age of three to yield the right of way to a big white cow in a Jaipur street. The cow had prevailed, but she had called it a very naughty cow and its owner had requested baksheesh to salve his pride. Then there was the gaily decorated little wagon in which she took her dolls, Indian and European, out for an airing-he had done a wonderful sketch of it and many other drawings of Susannah.

His swift pen had captured her sturdy body and cropped hair, and a characteristic look of mischief in her eyes, as well as a definite and stubborn pout. But her father wrote that her pout that would turn quickly to a smile at the sight of an animal or bird, which he deftly sketched as well.

Once she had reached the awkward age, he hadn’t stopped adding to the book. That was a time she scarcely wanted to remember-the swinging between extremes of emotion, gloom one day, glee the next-and the way she had felt suddenly and dreadfully far too tall and too, well, womanly.

The final pages were begun when her father knew he was gravely ill, and they constituted his last words to her: So loving and so warm and so encouraging that she could not read them without dissolving in tears at first.

By now she had memorized most of it, especially the final page: I have lived my life and, and save for the loss of your mother, it was a happy one, because of you. And now, my Susannah, dear and only child born of our love-youmust begin your life without me. I have only a few words of advice: Think for yourself and follow your own star, as I have done. Joy is elusive, but it is worth looking for. And know that somewhere, somehow, I shall watch over you…

In his way, he had. And now, of course, she had Carlyle. Wherever her father was-not in heaven, not in hell, but perhaps in an afterlife that allowed for a few pleasurable sins-he would have approved of that.

As unconventional as their love was, it was exactly what she wanted, sustaining her heart and soul. She had meant the vows she’d spoken and so had he.

Much later that night, she lay under him after their lovemaking, giggling drowsily as he lavished caresses on her breasts, kissing them noisily and moving up her neck to growl in her ear and make her laugh some more.

Susannah had never regretted choosing him. No one else could make her feel this way and she wanted no other man. Of late she had been considering having his child. Considering his skill at the ultimate kiss-and the similar skills she had learned to satisfy him-she had not yet conceived, but that was all to the good.

They had spent many months exploring the techniques in the old book he had taken from Dr. Josephus’s library. She had even managed to decipher some of the ancient script and set it down in erotic poems, creating a pillow book for the two of them to read together. There was nothing he was not eager to try, but it had been some while before he permitted himself to penetrate her, waiting until he thought she was ready, and pleasuring her in myriad other ways.

He really did spoil her, no matter how much he complained about her imperial tendencies in and out of bed, simply because it amused him to do so. Susannah sighed with happiness when he lifted himself off and curled around her, one hand between her legs. She was slick and he-she felt the nudge from an eager shaft-he was hard again.

“Ahh. May I, my love?”

She decided to deny him. “I am not ready.”

His gentle fingers probed and teased. “I beg to differ. Mmm. Swollen and soft. Made for me.” He swept her tangled hair off her neck and bit her nape very nicely.

Susannah wriggled, pushing her bottom back against the curve made by his thighs and lower belly.

He groaned. “You are a tease.”

“Far from it. I have not recovered from our first time.” She pushed his exploring hand away. “Your lovemaking was so splendid and you-you are so virile that I have folded my petals, so to speak.”

He snorted and put his hand back where it had been. “And I shall open them.”

Susannah clamped her thighs around his hand.

“My heavens, what a powerful grip you have.” He pretended to be unable to yank his hand out, twiddling his fingers between her legs in a way she found irresistibly exciting. It was not easy to hold off, but it was amusing.

Carlyle forced his thigh between hers to open them. At last, laughing, she rolled on her back and let him top her again. But he did not enter her body at once, just looked down at her with love in his eyes.

Susannah looked at him quizzically. “Why are you waiting? What do you want?”

“Oh…just give me a kiss, Mrs. Jameson.”

She did.