The Diamond Affair (25 page)

"He would
but I insist you charge the palace the full amount."

Isabel reached
under the counter and pulled out the accounts book.  She dipped the quill in
the ink and wrote down the quantity and price.  "Now, was there anything
else or would you like to see your father?"

"Ye-es." 
He pocketed the phial.  "Isabel."  He looked up and a sense of
foreboding crept over her.  "My real reason for coming here today was to
warn you to be alert.  Someone from Whitehall will probably want to ask you and
Father some questions."

The sense of foreboding
turned to dread.  She should have known that her past would one day find her. 
"What sort of questions?  What has the poisoning got to do with us?"

"I could
smell the poisons used in the sweetmeats."

"And?"

"Hemlock,
henbane and monkshood.  This is one of the few apothecary shops in London that
sells all those ingredients."

She tensed. 
"They all have legitimate purposes if used in their correct dosages.  And
we keep them in the locked storeroom.  I’m the only one allowed to dispense
them.  Besides, there must be other apothecaries who sell those three
herbs."

"I know of
only five."

Isabel picked up
the jar of horehound and tried to replace the stopper but it didn’t seem to fit
no matter how hard she tried to force it.  "Stupid thing," she
muttered, casting it aside.

Lawrence passed
her another stopper.  "I think this one belongs to that jar." 
Concern made his angular features even sharper.  "Don’t be nervous." 

"I’m not
nervous," she said, willing the hairs on the back of her neck to flatten.

"This has
nothing to do with your father," he said.

Papa.  Poor, dear
Papa, seven years in his grave and still unable to rest in peace.  "I
know."  But would the authorities agree?  When they discovered her
connection to him she would become their main suspect.  And a capable
investigator would surely discover it.

Well, she would
just have to hope for an incapable one.  "Papa was innocent."  The
words slipped out from habit.  It seemed she had been thinking them, if not
saying them, every day for the last seven years.

Lawrence said
nothing.  Since his mother’s death, he was one of only two people in Isabel’s
new life—as she thought of her years living in London—who knew her background. 
His silence was damning.

"I must see
Father."  He caught both her hands in his.  "Be careful what you tell
the authorities when they come."

"Of
course," she managed to whisper through her tight throat.

He left through
the rear door and his footsteps retreated up the stairs to Old Man Shawe’s
room.  Too distracted to work, Isabel looked out the window at Bucklersbury
Street and wondered what an official from Whitehall would look like.  Whoever
he might be, he would wear finer clothes than the merchants, tradesmen and
servants going about their business in the muddy apothecary’s street.  She was
sure she would know him when she saw him.

It had begun to
rain, scattering people forced to be out on such a bleak February day.  Some
retreated indoors while others sheltered beneath the overhanging upper stories
of the grocery and apothecary shops lining the street.  Isabel thought one or
two might make use of her warm fire, but none entered.  The rain would keep
trade slow that afternoon but she didn’t mind.  There was much to be done. 

She pulled the
rickety ladder out from the gap between two sets of shelves and picked up the
jar of juniper berries from the workbench.  The bottom two rungs groaned under
her weight.  It seemed Fox hadn’t got around to fixing them yet.  She would
have to have another word with him, and this time she would make sure he knew
the consequences of avoiding his duties.  If Fox couldn’t take orders from her
instead of Old Man Shawe then he would have to seek an apprenticeship
elsewhere. 

She frowned at
the layer of dust on the top shelf and considered wiping it off.  But the jar
grew heavy and since no one except herself and Fox would ever see the dust
anyway, she decided to leave it.  She heaved the jar up but there wasn’t enough
space for it on the shelf.  The entire row, every single jar, needed to be
moved along.  That meant returning the jar she held to the workbench, shifting
the ladder down to the end then climbing back up and shuffling the other jars
one by one then retrieving...

For a fleeting
moment, she considered using her powers to move the jars, but she forced the
instinct from her mind.  She hadn’t used her witchcraft since that fateful day
six years ago and she wasn’t about to start now.

With a sigh, she
descended the ladder, resting the jar on her hip like a baby.  The front door
to the shop opened and she was about to call out to the customer that she would
be only a moment, when he spoke first.

"Let me take
that for you."

That voice...

She looked down
into the face she hadn’t seen for six long years.  And dropped the jar.

He caught it,
although she suspected it was unwittingly done because someone who looked as
shocked as he did couldn’t consciously work their body with such quick
finesse.  She should know.  Her legs felt as stable as water and she gripped
the ladder tighter to stop herself from falling.  She certainly wouldn’t
attempt the next rung yet.  Making an ungainly descent in front of the man she
hadn’t been able to banish from her dreams would be too horrible.

"Isabel?"

"Nick." 
She was sure she said it out loud but she couldn’t hear it so she said it
again.  "Nick."  His name felt strange on her tongue.

"It is
you," he whispered, his dark gaze lifted up to her.  As if his legs had
grown weary, he sat down heavily on the stool provided for customers near the
workbench.  "Oh my God," he said.  "It is you."

Taking very
careful steps, she slowly descended the ladder.  When her foot touched the
second last rung, a loud crack shattered the thick silence.  Isabel fell to the
floor in an undignified heap just as her husband, Nicholas Merritt, rushed to
her side.

"Isabel, are
you all right?"  He knelt and touched her shoulder.

For a brief
moment the connection recalled shared memories—of affection, passion and
finally of pain.  It was this last that made her shake him off.  That and her
embarrassment. 

"I’m
well."  She got to her feet unaided and smoothed down her woolen gown
wishing she could smooth away her erratic heartbeat as easily.

"Are you
sure you’re not hurt?" he asked.  "You landed rather awkwardly."

"I’m
fine!"  Good Lord, this was not the way their reunion was supposed to
happen.  It was supposed to involve her being perfectly serene and looking her
prettiest, and Nick groveling.

He didn’t
grovel.  He didn’t say anything.  He was so close she only had to reach out to
touch his hair.  The power of his presence, something she’d always found
enthralling, sucked her in.  She gripped the bench at her back to stop from
flinging her arms around him and doing the groveling instead.

"Isabel." 
He spoke so quietly she had to strain to hear him.  "Christ!" he said
with sudden vehemence.  He dragged a hand through his hair but said nothing
else.

She turned away
because seeing the shock on his face made her feel more insecure than she had
in a long time.

"Am I so
awful that you cannot even look at me?" he demanded.

Her breath
escaped in a whoosh and tears stung the back of her eyes.  She must look at
him.  If she wanted to put him from her mind once and for all, she must first
face him.  She waited until her vision cleared, then slowly turned around. 

He looked the
same, and yet so different.  He still had the boyish face she held so dear in
her memory, and although he was yet to laugh, the twinkle in his eyes and the
dimples in his cheeks were only a smile away. 

But the boy had
become a man since she’d last seen him.  It was as if a sculptor had chiseled a
little of the youthfulness away to reveal a harder, leaner and even more
handsome face.  A small furrow at the bridge of his straight nose and a few
lines around his eyes and mouth only enhanced his new masculinity.  There was
power and intensity in his features and stance where before there had been only
carefree frivolity.

She wondered if
her appearance had altered as dramatically in the last six years.  His
expression gave no indication as he studied her.  Under the scrutiny, Isabel
resisted the urge to straighten her skirts and check that her cap hadn’t
slipped in the fall. 

"No,"
she said at last when she felt certain her voice wouldn’t falter.  "Not
awful at all."  Far from it.

She marveled that
he was still so tall, something she had not expected.  She had thought he would
not seem so big since she had grown up so much since leaving him.  She had been
wrong.  He towered over her like a solid, impenetrable wall as he had always
done.

They stood like two
strangers, warily watching each other, until Isabel could stand it no longer.

"How did you
know where to find me?" she asked.

He frowned at
her.  "I didn’t.  I wasn’t looking for you.  I just walked in...and here
you are."  He sounded like a man awed by a wondrous magic trick.

Magic.  The
reminder of the vile thing behind their separation sliced through her like a
knife. 

Then his words
sank in.  He hadn’t been looking for her.  The fact that his admission hurt
meant time had healed nothing, and she had not changed as much as she thought.

"Yes,"
she said.  "Here I am." 

"They said
you had gone to Cambridge," he said.  "I tore that city apart looking
for you."  His voice rose from a flat monotone to a pitch that grated her
raw nerves.  "If I’d known you were in London..."  He shook his head,
still staring at her.

He had been
searching for her.  The ache in her heart lessened.  "You wouldn’t have
found me.  I’m not Isabel Merritt here."

"Camm?"
he asked, referring to her maiden name.

She nodded.

"My God,"
he said.  "It’s really you."  His laugh was more of a maniacal bark. 

Maybe he’d gone
mad.  Perhaps the scheme he’d become involved in after their marriage, the
cause of his long absences, had affected his mind.  She edged away from him. 

"No!" 
He caught her face in his hands with a delicacy at odds with his tone. 
"Don’t move."  His skin felt rough on her cheeks but then he caressed
her with his thumbs and she thought she had never felt anything so soft in her
life.

"Isabel,"
he murmured. 

His gaze held
hers and before she could sever the connection, he captured her mouth in a
fierce kiss.  Some distant part of her wanted to struggle but the rest of her
wanted to drown in his soft lips and his warmth.  It wasn't like the kisses of
old.  They had always been passionate but never so powerful.  It was as if
every emotion he had experienced in the intervening years had surged to the
surface and clashed in this single searing kiss.

His hand pressed
against the back of her head, holding her in place, but he needn’t have
bothered because she didn’t want to go anywhere.  She had dreamed of this kiss
for six years and she wasn’t going to end it yet.  Not when it sent a rush of
heat through her, nourishing her starved body, filling a hole she hadn’t known
existed.

But after only a
few short moments, he pulled away.  "I’m sorry," he said, breathing
hard.  "I shouldn’t have done that."  He ran a hand through his hair
and turned away.  "I wish I hadn’t."  Regret echoed through his
hollow voice.

She hugged her
arms over her chest to try and contain her shaking.  That kiss had been a
mistake.  It had ignited something she had thought mastered.  Something deep
within her, a primal, timeless need.

"But I
couldn’t help it," he continued.  "I mean, look at you!  You’re here,
you’re real, you’re not dead and I’ve been living in the same city as you this
whole time!"

He had thought
her dead?  "Yes." 

His eyes
narrowed.  "Yes?  Is that all you have to say to me after six years?"

His acrimony
stung.  "Yes," she said again, because it truly was all she could
think of saying.  Her thoughts tumbled about and she couldn’t possibly form a
coherent sentence from them.

He scoffed and
strode to the door but didn’t open it.  Instead, he stormed back, half turned,
shook a finger at her then grunted and strode away again.  With his back to
her, he placed a hand against the wall and looked down at the floor. 
"Well, Wife, do I get an explanation?  Are you going to tell me to my face
this time that you have a lover?"  His head turned to one side as if he
couldn’t face what was on the other.  "I suppose you have children—"

"No!" 
She took a step towards him but stopped.  "There are no children and no
lover.  There never has been."  And never will be.

"Don’t lie
to me, Isabel.  You did enough of that in our first two years of
marriage."