Sylvia Day - Perfect Kisses

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.

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.