Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (34 page)

Aunt Jane gathered up her skirts and, without a word, turned her back on Gayle and left the brownstone.

Once she was alone, Gayle felt the tears start falling down her cheeks and she did nothing to stem the tide.
I meant what I said about begging him to continue my education and doing all that I could to become a physician. But I omitted how I intend to beg him to marry me. . . .

Chapter
27

After a night at a hotel, Rowan decided that he would check on Caroline before heading home. Poor Theo had borne the brunt of the excitement yesterday, but he was glad to see a familiar face as they set out for the morning's errand. Rowan's head was pounding again, and he remembered that he'd picked up his headache powders before he'd left yesterday.

“There's a small glimmer of good fortune,” he whispered to himself, retrieving the small packet from his inside coat pocket. “Hell, I think I've even got a small bottle of water to mix it with. . . .” Rowan opened his bag to find the vial, but one of the city's infamous potholes caught a carriage wheel and he had to juggle the packet to keep from spilling white powder everywhere.

The smell was distinct and not at all what he expected. He used a gloved hand to brush off the small amount he had managed to upend on his sleeve, and gingerly brought it to his nose for closer inspection.

“My God, I would have taken enough to kill a man twice over and been dead before we crossed Regent's.” Rowan refolded the packet with careful hands, waiting for the fear to pass so that he could think clearly.

For a few fleeting seconds, he wondered if it had been Gayle. But what grudge would she have had against Ashe? He didn't see the connection. So who, then? Fitzroy wasn't even a remote possibility. The man had the integrity of a bishop and would never risk his reputation in such an obvious way.

He used his fist to pound on the carriage wall and alert Theo. “Change of plans! Go to Rutherford's!”

For long minutes, Rowan felt as if the world had frozen into a stillness of time.
Was
Gayle capable of such a thing? She was aware of his headaches and had access to his pharmacy. There was no cyanide in the house, but he'd sent her to the chemists and—

He examined the small white square in his palm. Death in a packet so innocuous and inviting made him marvel at how close he'd really come to losing his life.

He was no stranger to death. After India, he'd fully understood just how precarious his own existence was and how things could change in a single breath. But even so, this was different.

It didn't feel like Fate or the hand of God pushing a man one way or another down a path. This was the malign interference of a human being trying to destroy someone else. This was an act of murder that squelched philosophical thoughts of natural order or ethereal loss.

By the time he'd arrived at Michael's rented rooms, Rowan was a man devoid of feeling. He'd lost Gayle, potentially his reputation, and now, nearly, his life.

Michael's apartment was uniquely appointed, and there wasn't a delicate curve or breakable object to be found anywhere. He'd bought slightly oversized chairs and rugged tables and even gotten his landlord to provide two large beds to push together so that Michael could sleep across them without his feet hanging off the end. It wasn't so much that Michael was a giant, but being nearly seven feet tall, his friends knew he hated being treated like one. And in his own rooms, he simply
fit
and was allowed to relax.

Rutherford greeted him, openly surprised to have Rowan at his door. “Has something happened?”

“I found poison in my headache medicine.” Rowan held out the small packet. “I was on my way to see Caroline. It's almost pure cyanide.”

Michael took the offending object and laid it on the table. “Don't you keep your own medication in your study?”

“Yes, or in my bag.”

“Then you know I have to ask if you think that Miss Renshaw has anything to do with this?”

“No.”

“Rowan.” Michael gestured for him to be seated and the men settled in to talk. “She arrived rather suddenly, didn't she? And while I've only gotten bits and pieces from an unreliable source named Blackwell, I take it she wasn't entirely welcome and that you hadn't been getting along.”

“Gayle wouldn't poison me.”

“Why not?”

Rowan took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could. Rutherford was an astute man and a good friend, and Rowan knew that whatever was said between them would be held in the strictest confidence. “The truth is that Miss Renshaw wouldn't have poisoned me because she needs me to teach her everything I know and to assist her in becoming a physician. She's my apprentice and I haven't outlived my usefulness.”

“Your apprentice,” Michael echoed softly.

“I've ended it. But I'd gathered the packets before yesterday's falling out, so there you have it. She didn't poison me. She might wish she had after everything that's happened, but . . .” It was a depressing revelation. There would be no joyful proclamation of her love in the future. Gayle wasn't going to give in to maudlin nonsense or sacrifice her freedom. He shook his head. “She wasn't going to kill her one and only potential employer and means to achieving her goal of becoming a doctor.”

“You're in love. Ashe had it right, didn't he?”

“He did. I'm in love with her, Michael, but it doesn't matter now. It's too complicated to be resolved, and I've told her how I feel so I can set it behind me with a clear conscience.” He tried to push it all aside.
It doesn't matter now. Gayle's heard the worst and there's no recovery. I should have thought of it myself. Why waste time spouting on about how much I love her and wish to protect her? She's so contrary, she'd have stayed just to torture me. But Mrs. Hamilton was able to cut the cord, and I should be grateful.
“The most important thing is that she'll be safely away from this mess probably by tomorrow morning. And since we've eliminated her as a suspect . . .”

“Our villain is close,” Michael noted, picking up the sealed packet to think. “They'd have to have intimate knowledge of you to know that you have these headaches and that you take your remedies. Your apothecary?”

“It's too obvious, isn't it? Fitzroy's entire professional reputation and career would be over in a single whisper.”

“Someone else in your household?” Rutherford probed.

Rowan grew silent. “They're family, Michael. I'm not some blue-blooded thing to push people about because they're in my employ. If any of them had a complaint, I would hope that I would know it.”

“You're sure?”

“It's not even a faint possibility. It's a small household, Michael. We live under the same roof, and most of them have been with me since I was a child. I'd give my own life to . . .” Something in him stirred, and Rowan lost his train of thought.

“Rowan?” Michael leaned forward, instantly concerned.

“I think I know where we need to go next, and if I'm right”—he stood in one fluid motion—“then we'll have our hands on our poisoner and be one step closer to finding out who's been trying to destroy the Jaded.”

Chapter
28

It had been the longest night of her life. Waiting for his return this time was far worse than the evening Gayle had waited in the salon for him that first night. After her aunt had left, she'd gone to her room and given in to her tears.

He'd ended it, but not to the point of throwing her out. He'd offered to find her another position, but her pride was at war with her heart. She'd packed and repacked her bag, sorting and re-sorting her things until she'd lost count of her efforts. She tried to sleep and finally managed a few hours before habit woke her up in time for her daily duties.

After breakfast, Gayle kept watch for him on the ground floor. But after a while, her confidence wavered and she'd restlessly returned back up the stairs to the laboratory to walk about the worktables, wiping down the surfaces and aimlessly inspecting the glass vials and beakers on the shelves.

She refused to leave without speaking to Rowan one last time.

Finally, she passed the time transcribing his notes, marveling at the meticulous care and kindness of her beloved mentor. Every line reflected his character, and she felt stupid to have taken so long to really see it.

It made sense to her. She knew what it was to be swept away by his touch, and she couldn't blame Charlotte for succumbing—especially if she had the promise of marriage and no reason to doubt him.
I know what it is to love Rowan West and to want to throw caution to the winds. If Cousin Charlotte did the same, I am the last one to cast blame!

Gayle wanted to believe the best of Rowan, and she knew from her own experience that he was noble and sincere enough to punish himself by accepting full responsibility for Charlotte's death.

As for their tangled relationship, she was determined to make it right.

He'd bravely taken the brunt of the consequences of his actions. She realized that in comparison, her own less than forthright approach to her apprenticeship, to her goals, and even to him was far different. He'd challenged her to tell the truth, and she had.

The door opened, and Gayle turned with her heart in her throat, but it was Florence, bobbing a curtsy and coming in with an empty laundry basket. “I know it's not Monday, but the house was . . . the schedule is a bit off, miss. I've come to see to your room, so don't let me interrupt your work.”

Gayle nodded, wilting a little. “Thank you, Florence.” It was hard to believe that with all the commotion downstairs, the house had missed the dramatic changes and events swirling around them, but she took comfort in the unassuming return to routine that Florence's cheerful announcement heralded.

She looked back at the last note she'd copied after Florence shut her bedroom door behind her for privacy.