Sapphire

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.