Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

“All right,” he said. “Then, sweetheart, it’s off for good in three days. It’s time I saw my beautiful wife again, as well as my complaining patients.”

Jules was silent a moment; she was praying.

“I’ll provide the champagne,” Penelope said, surprising everyone.

Saint chuckled. “Your father does have the best wine cellar in San Francisco. Think you can sneak some out of there, Penelope?”

Penelope felt herself smiling. Indeed, she realized, she felt comfortable and . . . wanted. It was a heady feeling. “Yes,” she said, joining in the laughter. “I shall lock Ezra in the cellar if he gives me any trouble.”

“Or, love,” Thomas said, leaning closer to her, “if you prefer, I could be convinced to have Ezra lock us in the cellar with the champagne. I can just see you now, Pen, your petticoats in wild disarray and a half-empty bottle in your hand.”

To Thomas’ utter delight, his wife giggled.

How could I have forgotten even for a moment? Jules thought blankly that afternoon as she stood in the entranceway, another letter from Wilkes clutched in her hand. It read simply:

My dear Juliana,

You force me yet again to withdraw. It is not over. Pray do not forget me.

It was Penelope who found her, white-faced, rigid, and alone, huddled next to the sofa on the floor.

She took the crushed paper from her sister-in-law’s nerveless hand, smoothed it out, and read it. She said nothing, merely helped Jules to her feet and drew her against her, hugging her.

Jules said, “God I wish I had my derringer.”

Penelope gently patted her back. “Why don’t I purchase one for each of us?”

Jules could only stare at her.

“Yes,” Penelope said again. “I believe I shall go out now.”

And she did.

27

There was not a sound that morning in Saint’s surgery. The small room was crowded. Thomas, Penelope, Jules, and Dr. Pickett all stood as still as stones, waiting. Thackery and Lydia were outside the open doorway in the entrance hall.

Jules could hear everyone else breathing. She was holding her own breath.

Dr. Pickett cleared his throat. “Saint?”

Saint said nothing for many moments. “Jules,” he said finally, “is that a freckle I see on your nose?”

Jules stared at him, for the moment unable to accept his words. Then, at his slow smile, she flung herself into his arms, nearly knocking him backward. “Yes,” she said against his shoulder, “it’s a freckle. I don’t know where it came from. I suppose I could use some lemon juice or something . . .” She finally broke off, knowing she was babbling.

“Or some cucumber lotion,” Penelope said.

“Or just let me kiss that very cute freckle,” Saint said. He drew her back, stared down into the dearest face he’d ever seen, and lightly kissed the tip of her nose. “Hello, wife,” he said, stroking his fingertips over her face. “It’s quite nice to see you again.”

Thomas gave a loud shout and wrung Dr. Pickett’s hand.

“It seems to me,” Saint said after a moment, a mock frown furrowing his brow, “that a do

ctor’s surgery is the last place to expect such an excess of spirits.”

But nobody paid him any mind. He accepted handshakes, back slaps, with a big smile and his deep laugh. Jules saw his eyes glitter with pleasure, and she didn’t believe she’d ever seen him so happy. She sent a prayer of thanks heavenward, and eyed him hungrily.

“Pen,” Thomas said after a moment, “it’s time to get on with the excess of spirits. And Saint’s right—this surgery is too small for us.”