Rosemary Rogers - Sapphire

“Two hundred fifty-two pound.”

“That’s it? That’s all the money Wessex had when he died?”

“Of debt. He was two hundred fifty-two pounds in debt.”

“Repeat that last remarkable phrase one last time.”

“Of debt…”

“Of debt?” Blake exploded, coming out of the chair and slamming both palms on the desktop.

Stowe blinked but did not startle. Blake had to admire him for that. There weren’t many men who could look him in the eyes after one of his outbursts.

“But the properties are fine ones,” Stowe offered.

Blake sat down again, this time only on the edge of the leather chair. “I don’t have time to sell real estate. I told you my trip would be brief. I have a shipping business to run in Boston.”

“I…I’m certain arrangements could be made…I could sell the properties for you or you could hire a land broker, but…but there is the issue of the family.”

“The family? What family?”

Blake presently had no family of his own and found the entire concept bothersome in general. He knew marriage was inevitable and he did hope to have a son one day to pass the business to, but so far he had done an admirable job of sidestepping any serious relationships—including one with his closest business associate’s eldest daughter, Clarice. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women; he adored them. He adored them elegantly dressed for the dinner table and then elegantly undressed in his bed, preferably not speaking. He also liked maids, cooks, seamstresses, and even preferred them because they never possessed any expectations beyond their own immediate pleasure. They had no delusions that a smile or a pleasant word or a tumble in bed would lead to a marriage proposal and a mansion on the bay.

“I have no family!” Blake fumed.

“The late earl’s family, the Countess of Wessex and her three daughters by her late first husband—Lady Camille Stillmore, Lady Portia Stillmore and Lady Alma Stillmore.”

“You apparently know the family well enough to rattle off the names without looking them up, which means the countess has been here to see you. Perhaps she was even the distraught widow on your doorstep this morning? And the late earl made no arrangements for his wife and stepdaughters, should he predecease them?” Blake asked, again barely keeping his temper balanced.

“My lord,” Stowe said delicately, “rarely do men think they are going to die. Some even fear that if they do make preparations, it will hurry them on their way.”

Blake smiled and looked away. It was truer than he or any man cared to admit. His own father, a cold, hard man but an astute entrepreneur, had died without leaving a will or any means to support his wife, Blake’s stepmother. Had it not been for Blake, she would have been penniless and on the street, because like his English father before him, Josiah Thixton had left all he possessed to his eldest. Not that Blake begrudged his stepmother one penny of his inheritance—he saw that she continued to live in the manner in which she was accustomed until she died—but he had always wondered why his father had not guaranteed that.

Blake looked across the desk to find the barrister staring at him. He chuckled and slid back in the chair. “So there is debt, two properties and a gaggle of penniless, hysterical women—is that what you’re telling me, old boy?”

Stowe hesitated, then sat back in his chair, removing his wire-frame glasses. “I might have presented the tidings more delicately, my lord, but that is an accurate assessment indeed.”

“Why do you stand here, monsieur?”

Armand turned absently from the window, where rain trickled down the glass in rivulets, to look at the native girl standing quietly behind him. He’d found Tarasai quite by accident in the village. She was lovely, bright and, most importantly, she pleased him, not only in his bed, but in conversation. She had a gentle way about her and seemed to know instinctively when to speak and when to be silent.

“They are in London by now if they have not run into trouble on the voyage across the Atlantic.”

“The weather has been good, monsieur,” she said in a soft, lilting voice. “And the ship that carried them across the sea was a good one. Your chères filles are well, I feel it in my bones.”

She hugged herself and he could not help but smile. Then he coughed a dry, racking cough and she was at his side at once, one hand on his back, the other on his chest.

When the fit subsided, he stood again and reached into his pocket to take his handkerchief and wipe his mouth. “Ah, Tarasai, I am so tired, so very tired.”

“You should not worry so, monsieur. It is not good for your health.”

Slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket, he looked at her. “I am afraid it was wrong of me to send them away. Selfish of me. They were happy here. It should have been enough, n’est-ce pas?”

She slipped her small hand into his. “It was time for your beau papillon to be set free, monsieur. She was too big for this island, too full of la vie. Her future waits for her there across the ocean, a life of adventure and happiness.”

He sighed. “I hope you’re right, Tarasai. I will never forgive myself if she comes to harm through my ambitions for her.”

“I know that I am right,” she said softly. “It is in the stars.”

“Your coat and top, sir?” The butler met Jessup Stowe in the front hall of the prominent men’s club.

“Yes, thank you, Calvin.” Jessup gave himself a shake as he handed the servant his umbrella, then his top hat and drenched overcoat. “Still coming down pretty hard out there,” he remarked as he smoothed his thinning gray hair with the palm of his hand.

“Yes, sir. Your table is ready, Mr. Stowe, and Mr. Barker already awaits your company.”

“Thank you, Calvin.” Jessup pulled his slightly rumpled waistcoat down over his stomach, thinking that either the striped fabric was shrinking or he was gaining weight. “And thank you for taking those wet things.”

The butler nodded, backing up. “I can show you to your table, sir, if you’d just like to—”

“I’ve been eating at that table six nights a week for the past seven years since Mrs. Stowe died, Calvin. Surely I can find it.” Jessup started to turn away and then turned back, snapping his fingers. “Calvin, one more thing.”

“Sir?”

“It’s possible, though not probable, that I might have a guest coming. A Lord Wessex.”

The butler looked at him oddly.

“The new Lord Wessex, the earl’s heir,” Jessup explained with a wry smile.

“I see, sir.”

“He’s an American and doesn’t know his way around London, so I think he might be a bit out of sorts tonight.”

“I’ll show him to your table at once, Mr. Stowe, should he appear.”

Looking both ways to be sure no one was watching, Jessup slipped a coin from the small pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to the butler. “I know Mr. Porter prefers we not tip personally,” Jessup said quietly, “so just between you and me. You’re always so kind to me, Calvin. Kinder than any of my sons has ever been.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Calvin took one last step back, then turned, pleased and trying not to show it, and hurried down the hall.

His waistcoat reasonably straight, Jessup walked into the parlor of the prominent though slightly threadbare men’s club frequented by barristers like himself. He nodded to several gentlemen at the bar and proceeded to the dining room beyond. His old friend, Clyde Barker, also a widower, was already at the table, already on his first glass of scotch.

“Jessup.” The ruddy-faced man rose, his legs appearing a bit unsteady.

“Clyde, good to see you.” He clasped his friend’s hand and then moved closer to wrap his arm around Clyde’s shoulder. “I look forward all week to Fridays, just to see your ugly face.”