Duty Before Desire (22 page)

This
was her greatest beauty, he decided. Arcadia might not be the most conventionally pretty woman he'd ever beheld, but her voice was astonishing.

He didn't realize his eyes had closed until they drifted open at the sound of his name tucked inside a nest of that melodious language. He felt like he was coming out of some sort of trance. When they regained focus, both women were watching him from the opposite seat.

“So, Lord Sheridan,” said Miss Parks, “where
are
we going?”

“A jeweler I frequent. Not too far from here. And call me Sheri, won't you, Arcadia? All my friends do.”

Her hazel eyes clouded. “Are we friends?”

“Well, we …” His neck felt hot under the collar. His breezy request wasn't quite so simple anymore, not with her staring at him like that. They were compatriots of a sort, he and Arcadia. And when she'd told Deborah how she wished to be her friend, Sheri had found himself suddenly longing she'd ask for his friendship, too. Although, God knew, he was not in the habit of kissing his friends the way he'd kissed Arcadia at The Mall, nor did he typically fantasize about undressing his friends the way he imagined doing to his bride.

“Speechless, Lord Nothing?” A teasing smile played around Arcadia's lips. “I think I shall call you that,” she proclaimed. “It suits you better than Sheri.”

Saucy minx. “As you wish, my dear, but be advised: all of Society may take to calling you Lady Nothing once we're wed.”

Her smile faltered. He winked.

When they arrived at the shop tucked away in a quiet side street off the bustling Strand, Poorvaja lingered on the sidewalk. “Go ahead, Jalanili. I wish to stretch my legs.”

He wanted to ask Poorvaja if she desired them to stroll with her, but his other companion was already opening the door. He hurried to hold it for her.

The little shop was like a jewel itself, all glittering glass cases and polished brass fittings. When the proprietor stepped out from the back room, his eyes lit. “Good afternoon, Lord Sheridan. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Afternoon, Tulliver.” Sheridan had been a customer here for years. Mr. Tulliver was a skilled gold- and silversmith. Both Sheridan's quizzing glass and his fob had been the craftsman's work. There had also been the occasional gift to soothe the sting of parting when he ended his dalliance with this or that lady.

Speaking of ladies, Tulliver regarded Miss Parks, eyes all agleam. Undoubtedly, he assumed Sheri was here to purchase a bauble for the woman.

“Mr. Tulliver, this is Miss Parks, niece of Lord and Lady Delafield. And my affianced bride, I'm delighted to say,” he added, lest the fellow get the impression she was another of Sheri's soon-to-be castoff mistresses.

Arcadia politely accepted Tulliver's compliments, but she clearly had no patience for chatting with the proprietor. She stalked the length of the counter, examining the case's contents.

“Is there something in particular you are looking for, Miss Parks?” Tulliver asked. “Lord Sheridan has impeccable taste, so if you have difficulty making a choice, I know he'd—”

“I'm looking for a peacock,” Arcadia interjected. “A jeweled brooch. It was stolen from me.”

The man's face paled. “Can you describe it for me, please?”

“It's about this size and shape.” She formed a circle with her index fingers and thumbs, with the tips only overlapping to the first joint. “It's large,” she said a little apologetically. “The body is an elongated sapphire teardrop, with a smaller sapphire and black and white enameling for the head, and a small garnet for the eye. The tail feathers are worked in gold, set all along with emeralds, golden topaz, and sapphires for the spots.”

It sounded gaudy, Sheridan thought, but the thing must've been worth a fortune. No matter Arcadia claimed keeping it with her allowed her to feel connected to her deceased parents and India and whatnot, something that valuable should have been locked up in a strongbox, not riding in a reticule in Hyde Park.

The jeweler let out a low moan. “I saw it, Miss Parks. I did. About a week ago, a man brought it in, wanting to sell it. It's absolutely exquisite; the craftsmanship is divine; the filigree work on the tail feathers is some of the finest goldsmithing I've ever had the honor of laying my eyes upon. And that sapphire!”

“Tulliver,” Sheridan said, bringing the man back to earth. He propped his gloved hand on the counter, rapping with a knuckle. “Who brought it here? Where is the peacock now?”

The man shook his head sadly. “That's just it, Lord Sheridan, I don't know where it is now. I figured the peacock was stolen. I'd never seen the man before in my life, and he wouldn't give me his name, either. I don't deal in stolen goods; the guild would have my skin, and word would get out; my reputation would be in tatters, and I'd be sunk. I didn't want anything to do with it, so I sent him on his way.”

At Arcadia's choked sound of dismay, Tulliver wrung his hands. “If I'd known the rightful owner would come looking for it, I'd have bought it from him and held onto it for you, never mind the cost or the consequences.”

“Nonsense,” Sheri dismissed. “We wouldn't have you risking your livelihood.” Disappointing to learn they'd missed the peacock by days, but Sheridan hadn't really expected they'd be fortunate enough to find it sitting in the case of the first shop they entered, either. It was remarkable that Tulliver had seen it at all.

“How about the man?” Sheri pressed. They didn't have the brooch this time, but finding out who was trying to sell it would be useful to their investigation.

“He was a short fellow,” Tulliver said, “heavy in the middle. Round, pink face. His eyes were blue, I think—no, brown. No, on second thought, they
were
blue.”

“That's not the man who attacked me,” Arcadia said, her tone despondent. “I didn't get a good look at his face, but he was taller than I am, and I didn't notice a heavy belly.” Her eyes were swimming with sadness when they moved to Sheridan. “Now what?”

They were a very pretty hazel, Sheri thought. Shades of brown and green and blue all mixed up like tiny mosaics. And they were so expressive, holding nothing back. All of her pain was right there for him to see.

Snapping himself out of cataloging Miss Parks's attractions, he said, “If you hear anything, Tulliver, do send word to me, won't you?”

“Of course, my lord. And again, Miss Parks, I'm sorry I could not be more helpful.”

“You were most helpful,” Arcadia assured him. “Lord Sheridan, compensate Mr. Tulliver for his service.”

Why, the managing little baggage! What did she think she was doing, ordering him and his money about? And to think he'd been silently complimenting her eyes. His own narrowed on that stubborn chin of hers with its not-quite cleft. She raised a brow, impatient.

Biting his tongue for the moment, Sheri fished a coin from his pocket and passed it across the counter. “Thank you again, Tulliver. Do be in touch.”

He took Arcadia's arm and removed her from the store before she decided to make him give the jeweler his hat.

He hissed into her ear, “In the future, I would thank you to allow me to handle any financial considerations that arise.”

Her eyes widened. “I did allow you to handle it. In fact, I asked you to. You did an excellent job, by the by.”

As they stepped towards the coach, Poorvaja hailed them from a short distance away. When Sheri saw the companion the ayah had picked up, he groaned.

“I'm haunted,” he said.

Poorvaja walked alongside Sir Godwin. Stopping in front of Sheri and Arcadia, the poet greeted them, sweeping his hat from his head and executing a florid bow. Righting himself, he said, “I was in my favorite coffee shop, working on a new composition—inspired by our little meeting at the museum, I might add—when I sighted Miss Poorvaja on the street. I rushed to hail her, hoping you, Miss Parks, might be nearby.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Fortune smiles upon her unworthy son this day, and grants me a glimpse of your glowing countenance.”

A blush swept over Arcadia's cheekbones. “Sir Godwin, you are much too bold in your praise.” She didn't sound entirely displeased, however.

“What meeting at the museum?” Sheri demanded.

“I hesitate to contradict a lady,” said Sir Godwin, ignoring Sheridan entirely, “but I fear my poor words do not do justice to the arresting beauty that surrounds you.” He glanced at the ayah, as if weighing whether Poorvaja would castigate him for heaping such treacle on her mistress. Reaching into his pocket, Sir Godwin withdrew a handkerchief. Sheridan sighted the initials GP embroidered on the corner. “Might I beg a favor of you, Miss Parks?”

“What is it, sir?”

The poet extended his hand; the little scrap of linen caught in his fingertips fluttered in the breeze.

“Would you be so good as to touch my handkerchief?”

Sheri scoffed. God, how he despised Godwin Prickering, his flattering words sashaying around with all the sincerity of a whore's arousal. His betrothed should not be subjected to the ignominy of insincere gallantry. “Of all the idiotic—”

“I'd be happy to oblige, sir,” Arcadia startled him by interjecting. Far from looking put off by the ludicrous request, she smiled shyly as she plucked one cream kid glove from a hand.

Prickering handed the handkerchief to Poorvaja, who scowled at the object before passing it on.

The use of an intermediary further annoyed Sheri. Really, the oaf was standing two feet from Arcadia, not twenty; this show of humble admiration was … Well, it was stupid, is what it was. And what the devil was Arcadia doing meeting this buffoon at the museum? She was engaged to
him
, by Jove. Their arrangement was not one that demanded fidelity, but Sheri couldn't bear the thought of his bride trysting with an imbecile.

Arcadia rolled the material between her bare fingertips. “How long must I hold it?”

“Just another moment,” the poet replied. He gestured to the shop they'd exited. “Out hunting your peacock?” He cast a cool look in Sheridan's direction. “Good of you to assist the lady, Zouche, but do you think it seemly, parading her about to institutions of commerce without a chaperon?”

“But Poorvaja was with us,” Arcadia protested.

Godwin raised a thready brow. “Miss Poorvaja was on the Strand, in fact, not chaperoning you. Fortunate it was me who found her and returned her to you, Miss Parks, and that you were not discovered by those who do not sympathize with your struggle to acclimate to our ways. You must take better care.” Glancing at the Indian woman, he added, “Both of you.”

Poorvaja lowered her head, eyes downcast. Her mouth, Sheridan noted, firmed mulishly. No doubt she wished to give the pompous man a piece of her mind.

“That's quite enough of that.” Sheridan snatched the handkerchief from Arcadia and slapped it against Sir Godwin's stomach. “Take your snot rag and be off with you, Prickering. My fiancée and I don't require a chaperon to do a bit of shopping.”

Clenching the material to his chest, the poet affected a stricken mien. “
Fiancée?
Say it is not so, Miss Parks!”

“I'm afraid it is so,” his Indian-bred chit replied in good cheer.

“Well … well.” Sir Godwin blinked, then cleared his throat. “My thanks for the token, Miss Parks. I shall treasure it. And now I bid you good day, in the hopes that I'll soon have the pleasure of your company once more. Miss Parks. Miss Poorvaja.” His gaze slid to Sheridan. “Zouche.” He smirked, then turned to head back towards the Strand.

There had been a challenge for Sheridan in that exchange with Miss Parks, a gauntlet thrown. Sheri was not in the habit of competing for the attention of a woman, much less his own bride. It was insulting that Sir Godwin might consider himself a worthy opponent to Sheridan in any sense; even more infuriating was that Miss Parks seemed taken in by the man's blatant groveling.

“Where shall we go now?” Arcadia asked, pulling her glove back on.

“It's time to return you to Lord Delafield's house,” Sheri snapped, his eyes returning to the dwindling figure of Sir Godwin.

As they settled back into his coach, Arcadia laced her fingers in her lap. Beside her, her companion stared out the window.

“Why did you tell Sir Godwin about the peacock?” Sheri inquired.

Her eyes widened a fraction. “I was not aware my stolen property is a secret.”

Sheri pulled out his quizzing glass and tapped it against his thigh. “And what is this about the museum? Which museum? When?”

Ye gods, just listen to him. He sounded like a jealous wife. Of Godwin Prickering, no less. This was turning into a very bad business. Sheri had been too long without a woman. For a multitude of reasons, he needed to get Arcadia Parks wedded and bedded. That would allow him to think straight once more.

“By happenstance, we encountered Sir Godwin at the British Museum about a week ago,” Arcadia said. “I told him about the brooch then. He is very kind. A little silly, yes, but harmless.”

Sheri grunted. He was gratified to hear her call the other man silly, although she had no idea of the history of Sheridan's rivalry with the fellow, how far each had gone over the years to devil the other.

It wasn't his place to involve Arcadia in his years-long spat, though. It was her damned brooch; she was welcome to enlist all of London in searching for it, if she wished—although some immature, begrudging part of him felt he did have a claim on the hunt. It was
their
quest, his and hers.

“Back in India,” Arcadia said after a moment, “merchants would come to our house to show us their wares. The
durzi
—the tailor—brought trunks filled with silks and muslins in every color of the rainbow. And other merchants, too—we never left the station to buy such goods; they came to us.” She paused; Sheri watched a flicker of sadness cross her features, briefly rendering them softer. She must have been remembering, once again comparing her ancestral home to the one of her birth, and once more finding England lacking.