Chapter 12
Rosaline hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t her husband with another woman.
She’d done her best to stroll up to Northwalk Hall as if she belonged there, though she’d not been able to keep herself from staring up at the mansion that’d been built around one of London’s oldest structures.
Even the medieval buttresses had been worked into the breathtaking architecture, along with thoughtful, mischievous, and malevolent gargoyles perched on wide ledges to leer down at those converging on their lair.
After almost being turned away at the door for not having a printed invitation, she’d gained access when another guest had recognized her as Mrs. Wolfe, and told her where she could find her husband.
She found him, all right.
After threading through the ballroom, avoiding waltzing couples, a myriad of tempting trinkets, and several greetings from men hungry for an introduction, she finally spied him over by the gallery.
A searing lance of frigid ice pierced her heart, turning her extremities numb with cold, even in the close and overcrowded ballroom.
Eli, looking like the devil’s own deal broker, strode toward the gallery on the arm of a statuesque woman with a wealth of glorious dark hair and the bold features of a Greek goddess.
Indeed, the gods had been generous when crafting his companion, molding large, perfect breasts and remarkable hips that curved and indented dramatically to a lean waist. She’d an air of regal sensuality and the erect confidence of a woman who was aware of the eyes that followed her wherever she went.
Her scarlet dress beset with rubies boasted a scandalous bodice that, in Rosaline’s opinion, didn’t deserve the designation, as it drew the eye to what it revealed rather than what it concealed.
Blinking a fog of disbelief from her vision, she recognized the woman as the Duchesse de la Coeur. Mercy and Felicity’s dear friend who’d taken them around the world on her yacht. They’d only just returned for Emmett’s wedding.
Rosaline had left Hespera House feeling more beautiful than she ever had in a dress that might as well have already been touched by King Midas himself.
But next to this temptress, she’d seem as dowdy as a church mouse.
Once they’d disappeared into the Northwalk gallery, she drifted closer to the door, stationing herself next to one of the hip-tall vases overflowing with breathtaking flower and flora arrangements that bracketed the entry.
Peering around her ostentatious hiding place, she was dismayed to have lost them altogether.
How was that possible? The only other exit to the gallery was on the other side of the room, and there was no physically viable way for them to have reached the door in time to avoid her.
A few other couples meandered about the palatial room, but all of them did so, it seemed, in order to whisper to each other without being overheard.
“You are going to have to tell me your price for this information, Duchesse. Whatever it is, I’ll pay double.” Eli’s deep, unmistakable twang reverberated from just on the other side of the door, around which Rosaline hadn’t been able to see without being a little too obvious.
“I’ve no need for your money, Mr. Wolfe.”
Of course Eli would take up with a French Duchesse possessed of a voice made for sin. What man wouldn’t?
“You must let me repay you,” Eli insisted.
“I’ve been after the Anatolian Sapphire since it was taken from me six years ago.
It belongs in a set I’ve uncovered from where they believe the Phrygian King Midas was buried near the River Lydia in Assyria.
The sapphire is said to have been parted from the Midas Chalice before it was buried with the king, which means I could be the first man to reunite the gem with its intended setting. Such an opportunity is priceless.”
The Duchesse’s laugh was husky, tinged with an implicit salacious suggestion. “What an intriguing offer, Monsieur Wolfe. I’m certain I’ll be able to think of something, eventually. Indeed, it’s never a bad thing to have a man such as you owe me a favor, N'est-ce pas?”
“Very few can claim to do so,” he replied, his voice as velvety as she’d ever heard it. “But I’m a man who always repays his debts…with interest.”
Rosaline held her breath, swallowing the sob climbing up her throat. He’d used that voice of his to set her loins on fire. To soothe her anxieties and to release her inhibitions. It was as dark and graveled as a moonlight quarry, and the Duchesse was not immune to its effects.
Did this mean she’d lost her husband’s affection and regard completely? Was she eavesdropping on him courting his new intended mistress?
She wouldn’t blame him; the woman was breathtaking, closer to his age, and obviously full of the self-confidence and sensual know-how Rosaline lacked.
Not to mention, she’d had a hand in returning a valuable gem that had been stolen from him…
Whereas Rosaline was a thief who’d broken his trust.
Swirling gowns blurred into a kaleidoscope of color interrupted by the black lines of men in their evening finery spinning butterflies on the ballroom floor.
She would not cry in public. She would not.
“So, tell me, Monsieur Wolfe, how do you plan on retrieving the Anatolian Sapphire?” the Duchesse queried. “It is not up for auction tonight and will only be on display here in the gallery for a short time. Surely you don’t intend to steal it.”
“I intend to get it back by any means fair or foul,” her husband answered in a voice reenforced by iron. “Can’t steal what is already yours. And I have the documentation to prove ownership right here.”
“The sapphire has exchanged hands many times on the black market, where provenance is often as false as the treasure,” the Duchesse warned.
“Whoever owns it now, is linked to the infamous Black Heart of Ben More…to cross him is to cross death. The room it is being held in is on the very top floor and is guarded by men who are—how do you say?—armed to the teeth. It is a dangerous thing you are considering.”
“I’m a dangerous man,” Eli stated as if it were bloody obvious.
“And this…this is a risk worth taking. I don’t care who the owner is.
I will fight him in this house. I’ll fight him in court.
Hell, I’ll have a stand-off in the fucking town square if that’s what he wants, I’ll shoot him in the eye at ten paces.
But I’m walking away with that sapphire, and I don’t mind stepping over his body if I have to. ”
“I will never understand men,” the Duchesse sighed. “This lust you have for such things. Rocks that are made valuable only because someone assigned them value so long ago, we cannot remember why. What is a sapphire? Nothing but a blue stone. Nothing to be killed over, surely.”
“Says the woman draped in rubies,” Eli teased.
“Touché, Monsieur.” That husky laugh again. “But if someone were to take these from me, I would not put myself in harm’s way to get them back. As you can see, I don’t need rubies in order to sparkle.”
Eli’s chuckle was warm and fond. “No, ma’am. No, you do not.”
Rosaline imagined the woman touching Eli’s arm. Brushing her décolletage against him in that outrageously flirty way the French had.
She wanted to claw the Duchesse’s eyes out. Yearned to storm in there and drag her husband home by the ear and—and what exactly? She couldn’t force him be loyal to her. Couldn’t coerce him into forgiving her any more than she could compel him love her.
So…what did she do now?
The chalice she’d taken had an empty slot, which was why she’d thought it lacked value.
But it’d been the only thing in the trove he’d truly desired.
Lord, what a mess she’d made of things. And now, Eli was about to attempt a deal with some of the most ruthless men in the underworld and the powerful nobles with whom they did business.
“The auction doesn’t begin for half an hour hence,” the Duchesse said. “Shall we dance while we wait?”
“Afraid not.” Rosaline didn’t have to be looking at her husband to see the little divot of chagrin that would appear in his left cheek when he was being self-effacing. “I never learnt to waltz. Too busy busting rock or amassing a fortune.”
“Perhaps your new wife could teach you?”
Rosaline couldn’t tell if the Duchesse was being cruel or not…if they were laughing at her.
“How about you point me in the direction of the man who owns my sapphire, Duchesse? I’d love to meet him. To get a measure of him.”
He was avoiding the subject of his wife. God, she wished that didn’t hurt so much.
“I warn you, he’s a loutish boor. He’ll wax poetic about his appalling exploits in Egypt to anyone who will listen.”
Eli made a disgusted noise. “I dislike it when people wax anything. Not poetic. Not prophetic. And not philosophical.”
Rosaline turned away as the Duchesse’s amused laugh sounded closer than before.
She ducked around a corner as they reached the door from the gallery to the ballroom and watched them stroll away toward the solarium where rows of chairs were set before a podium.
Eli’s broad back and strong arms created the perfect bulwark for the endlessly elegant Duchesse.
She didn’t know if she were being bold, or just reckless, but Rosaline followed them for a moment, daring him to turn around. To find her.
To know she’d found them.
“That surprises me, monsieur,” the Duchesse was saying. “You strike me as a man of surprising depths and profound philosophies.”
“Nah.” Eli’s arm lifted to swipe at the back of his neck, smoothing the fine hairs there. “In my philosophy, we are just meat, bone, and blood collecting shiny things to slake our bottomless hunger before we die.”
“How sad, that you feel this way.” The Duchesse looked over at him, true pity softening her gaze.