Page 1 of A Pearl Possessed
PROLOGUE
September 23, 1826
White's Gentlemen's Club
St.James London
Every year he steeled himself against the memories. Every year he failed. As he stepped through the doors of White's, Derek Welkirk, Earl of Framlingwood, swore he would not allow the simple things to drag him back into the dark place to which he strayed far more often than he cared to contemplate. He stayed away all year long, visited the other clubs to which he belonged, and prayed the things that brought that day back in a cavalry charge of unwanted emotion had faded. His prayers went unanswered.
The scents of cigar smoke, news sheets and fresh ink, crisp linen, and expensive drink wrapped around him like a wraith the moment he stepped into the Morning Room. The wraith clung to him as he sought a high-backed leather chair at a table in the corner next to the hearth. Here he would spend his one-night-a-year visit and drink to the glorious Celeste, the woman who...got away. Forever.
A footman appeared in the doorway as if by magic, bearing a tray with Derek's customary tipple--a bottle of French brandy, a bottle of Scotch whisky, and a large heavy crystal glass. Such was the efficiency of the staff at White's that he did not need to ask, even when he only showed up on the same evening once a year.
"Have you need of anything more, my lord?" the footman inquired softly.
Derek filled the glass with whisky and studied the colors as they swirled and changed from amber to brown to gold. "Nothing, John. Thank you." The footman bowed and left the room as silently as he had entered.
As the evening waxed on gentlemen came and went, some left to enjoy the ton's evening entertainments. Some stayed to read the news sheets. Some adjourned to the card room to try their hand at whist or vingt-et-un. None came near him nor spoke to him. Only a few acknowledged his presence with a brief nod.
He'd made headway on a third of the whisky when he drew the faded, crumpled note from his waistcoat pocket. There was no need for him to open the brief missive, scrawled in a bold masculine hand. Derek had memorized the words six years ago to the day, the night a footman had entered this very room and delivered this note on a silver salver like an invitation to a ball or a message from the House of Lords concerning the next bill up for a vote.
Framlingwood,
Celeste Swan was found this morning. It is with deepest regret I must tell you that her body was drawn from the Thames by the River Police at half past eleven. Carrington-Bowles and I identified her not an hour ago. Her throat was slit. Upon further investigation I discovered her rooms were stripped of every possession sometime in the night. Please advise.
Archer Colwyn
1
1 SEPTEMBER, 1826
WHITE'S GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
St.James London
Celeste was dead and the fault was his. Derek had never doubted that for a moment. His old school friend, Col, had, as a Bow Street Runner, caught the man whose hand had wielded the knife, the man who was hanged for her murder. But Derek knew the truth.
He'd loved Celeste, protected her, kept her in the sort of luxury other mistresses envied, but in the end he had failed her. His protection had become obsession. His jealousy had driven her to distraction. And his questions about her past had ended their affair in his words he could never take back and her decision that cost his beautiful Celeste her life.
"You have no right to pry into my past, Derek. I am not your wife, nor will I ever be. How dare you set that sniffing dog Bow Street Runner friend of yours on me."
"Do you deny a strange man has been visiting you in the house I provide you? What is he to you? If you cannot tell me, perhaps it is time we part company."
She stared at him, her eyes shimmering pools of deepest blue. "Perhaps you are right. I cannot live like this, Derek. Perhaps it is time for me to take care of myself."
He had slammed out of the house planning to return in a day or two when she'd come to her senses. When those two days passed he returned to an empty house, the servants dismissed, her clothes and jewels gone, and no sign as to where she had fled. He'd set Col on her trail at once. Three weeks later he'd sat in this very spot and received word of her death.
Derek poured himself a glass of the brandy, raised it high, and then drained the contents to the dregs. "Wherever you are, my love, I hope you are finally happy." He shook his head. "Finally free." He contemplated leaving, his yearly ritual done, but then he wondered, where should be go? Home to Grosvenor Square? Perhaps to one of the many balls and other entertainments to which he had received invitations.
Perhaps to visit one of his mistresses? Not Adrienne. Customarily he visited her on Friday nights, but he'd already sent his regrets and a rather large box of marzipan to her. None of the others would be expecting him tonight. Not that he expected any of them would refuse him. When a man had managed to collect five mistresses and had succeeded in keeping each woman unaware of the others, he did have choices.
However, in spite of having acquired his latest mistress only a week or so ago, Derek was tired of this part of his life, tired of the tenuous connection to his women. Women for whom he had genuine affection and concern, but no true soul-searing passion. He needed something more tonight, comfort perhaps, and each of mistresses had that to offer in abundance. But not tonight. Perhaps he would--
"My lord?" The same footman now stood at Derek's table, a silver salver in his hand. For a moment he believed he'd fallen asleep and was deep in his worst nightmare. "A boy brought thisto the door and asked that we put it into your hands only." The liveried servant nodded at the tray to indicate the sealed note placed in the middle of the ornate silver piece.
Derek took a deep breath and plucked the note from the tray. "Thank you," he murmured as he broke the seal and unfolded the note.
What the devil!