Aunt Sophie's Diamonds (24 page)

"And so she shall, for
you
are going to steal them for me."

From long practice in using his brain in business, Mr. Blandings was about three steps ahead of his beloved and not in the least surprised at her command. He demanded to know precisely all terms of the will, and upon discovering that the bulk of it was not to be read for a year, he put his heavy foot down and told her severely he would not go digging up a coffin and stealing a rubbishing set of diamonds he could buy without missing the price. “If it's diamonds you want, my little minx, you know where you might get them without disturbing the dead."

"Yes, but someone will surely take them, Jerry, and it does seem a shame for them to go to Luane Beresford, or the captain."

"If Thoreau is in charge of the operation you may be sure they won't be stolen without being discovered. He's a bright lad."

This called to mind his brightness in discovering that the great stone in the replica was in fact a real diamond, and she told Jeremy about that.

"Only the one stone?” he asked.

"Yes, the rest are paste. Till then the captain thought the whole set was genuine, which is the only reason he didn't dig up the grave sooner."

"How long has it been that he's known the difference?"

"Sir Hillary discovered it in London and told him only last night."

"He couldn't have made arrangements in time to make a go for it last night then, but if there's any fiber in the fellow at all he'll be making his bid tonight. And the other Tewksbury fellow as well—Gabriel, is it you call him?"

"Certainly Gabriel will, for he dug her up the very night she was buried, only he discovered the steel lining and couldn't steal the diamonds."

"He sounds a proper wide-awake young rascal. And Thoreau let him off with that, did he?"

"I fancy Hillary knew all about the steel box from the start, but you can see what sort of people we are dealing with. They will stop at nothing to steal my dear sister's necklace, and if we don't get cracking, Jerry, they will beat us to it."

This blatant hypocrisy on the part of his beloved amused Mr. Blandings very well. There were many things about Marcia Milmont that he admired. Her charms, though they had ceased to cause distress in most quarters, were not too ripe for his taste. Her gentility, thin as it was, was above his own. She was a gentlewoman, and he had determined when he was seventeen years old to marry one of those rare mortals. He came in contact with many of them these days, but till he had clamped his sharp black eyes on Marcia, he never met one he felt comfortable with. She admired his business dealings—was nearly as delighted as he himself was when he turned a good bargain. She would lend tone and cachet to his establishment without boring him to finders. The fact that she was a liar, a conniver, and a schemer would add spice to life. Take that business about letting on young Claudia was her stepdaughter. As though Sophie would go leaving an emerald ring to a girl no blood-kin to her! And in short, he was as close to being in love with her as it was possible for such a hardheaded man to be with anyone, and he was determined to win her by any means necessary. He was not besotted enough, however, to stick his neck into a noose for her or anyone else over a trifling necklace.

"It's a rum set-up,” he remarked. “But Thoreau ain't about to let anyone waltz off with the trinket, my love. You upset yourself for nothing. Now, I see you forming a pout at me, naughty puss. We can't have that. I'll tell you what I'll do, and you approve it. I'll talk to Thoreau tomorrow and see how the land lies, but in the meanwhile I'll set myself to guard the grave for you. If the captain or the other young sprig comes creeping up, I'll give ‘em a taste of the old home-brewed. In the dark they won't know what hit ‘em. The stones won't be stolen this night, I give you my affydavey, and you may lay your pretty head easy on your pillow."

"But it is such an excellent chance to steal them, with the dogs gone, you know. There is no saying he won't ship in a squad of dragoons or some such thing by tomorrow to guard them."

"The dragoons have better things to do with Boney cut loose.” He essayed a pout himself to bring her round. “Seems to me you want any diamonds but the ones I offer you. If it's the set of the stones you like, I'll have them duplicated from the replica."

"Now Mr. Blandings,” she chided. Jeremy became Mr. Blandings when she pretended to be angry with him, as well as when they were in company. “You know it would be improper in me to take such a valuable gift from you."

"Wouldn't be improper for you to take them from your husband,” he slid in.

A day seldom went by that the subject didn't arise between them. Marcia loved Jeremy's wealth nearly as much as he admired her gentle birth, but she loved even more to move in the
ton,
and a Cit, even a solid gold one, would lower her a peg in the eyes of her lofty friends, she feared. It was the sole impediment to their union. For herself, he might have been born in a stable for all she cared, so long as he had clawed his way up to a mansion. “It is early times yet to speak of that,” she replied.

"Early times for a young thing like
you,"
he rallied energetically, knowing his role to a T.
"You
forget
I
am a man of three and fifty. We have known each other over two years. How long do you mean to keep me dangling at your apron strings, eh?” He slid an arm around her plump shoulders as he spoke, setting her old heart all aflutter. He was absolutely the
manliest
man she had ever attracted.

She pushed his hand away in an arch manner that did not discourage him entirely. “Now you are just trying to distract me."

"Turn about is fair play. You have been driving me to distraction these four and twenty months."

"Oh, Mr. Blandings! How you do run on. I am sure you never give me a thought from one day to the next."

"And
I
am sure I am not sitting here in this drafty old shack because you bade me come. Say we do the thing, old girl, and I'll shower you with diamonds."

He grabbed her hand and squeezed her fingers. “What a famous emerald-cut diamond, big as a lantern, I have got tucked away in a vault, waiting to be put on this little finger,” he said, undeterred and unfooled by her protest. “Had it of the Duke of Welbourne. He's all to pieces, you know. Got Skye mortgaged to the hilt, and they do say his heir is bringing in the bailiff to look into the running of it."

"Do they indeed?” she asked. Their lovemaking was often interrupted by
on dits
of this sort, with neither of them finding it at all irregular. “And he trotting through town in a different carriage every day, and the duchess queening it over everyone as though she were loaded with blunt."

"Bellows to mend with the pair of them. I could foreclose on his Leicester hunting lodge tomorrow if I had a mind to, but there's no saying he won't come around, and there's no point getting on the west side of him."

"Very true. He stands to inherit from his uncle, Sir Bartholomew Rankin, and
he
might pop off any day."

"Yes, there's a mort as knows the value of a pound, old Rankin. Has the first penny he ever made, I daresay. But about
us,
Marcy dear."

"Now you mustn't pester me, Jerry. I am in deep mourning for my dear sister and can't think of a thing but her. You mean to stand guard over her grave tonight, do you?"

"I'll guard it with my life."

"And you'll talk to Thoreau tomorrow and see what you can worm out of him?"

"That I will, my girl."

"I suppose I must be satisfied with that then. I daresay you are fagged and will want a little lie-down till it is time to go to the graveyard."

"No, no, I will be better relaxed sitting here with you, imagining we are together at Marcyhurst—married."

"I declare, Jerry, you have nothing on your mind but marriage."

"Not a thing in the world. Did I tell you I got ten per cent for the mortgage in Hampshire, my love?"

They sat bickering and cooing and gossiping for an hour, and when Jonathon stole past the door half an hour later, he was interested but not much surprised to see them sitting hand in hand.

She's going to land that old bird yet, he thought to himself. Be rich as a nabob. As he put a shovel and a file into a canvas bag and set off for the graveyard, it occurred to him that the sole person to inherit the nabob's fortune when he passed on was Claudia Milmont. Old Marcia was too old to give her new husband a son and heir, and the only possible person to get the blunt was Claudia. She also stood to inherit God only knew how much from her grandfather. Wasn't a bad-looking woman in the least, and once the world caught on that she was such an heiress, there'd be every rake and rattle in town trotting after her. By Jove! What a lucky thing it was that
he'd
discovered her first. Have to make up to the girl and get things settled before she left. He hardly thought it worth his while to bother with Sophie's diamonds, but still, they'd tide him over till he married Claudia and became a millionaire.

He left his mare tethered to the iron paling that set the graveyard off from the surrounding countryside and walked quietly to Sophie's mound. He thought, as he approached it, that the headstone had already been erected, for there was a tall straight slab just at the head of the grave. This was a curious affair; he made sure the price of the stone must come out of his own pocket. That will of hers—cursed document—must have made provision for it. As he got pretty close to it, he was surprised to see a soft red glow that became brighter, then receded again to a faint spark. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and an involuntary shiver shook him. He stopped, stared, and felt the panic rising in his breast.

"Good evening, Captain,” the glowing spark said, and he dropped his canvas bag on the ground with a clatter.

A form—a shadowy bulk, detached itself from the memorial slab and approached him with the spark dancing around in front of it. “Sophie!” he screamed and turned tail to flee.

"Yes, I came to commune with her spirit,” a suave voice replied, and Jonathon stopped abruptly.

"You!” he charged.

"As you see,” Sir Hillary answered and took a long draw on his cheroot, causing the spark to glow brightly.

"What the deuce are you doing here?” Jonathon asked angrily.

"I have just explained my presence. I am come to blow a cloud with the dear departed. That is,
she
is not smoking, of course, but I brought my favorite chair to sit by the graveside. The ground is damp and chill, and I felt I would be more comfortable with a chair. A pity I had not thought to bring two. Most remiss of me. I
do
apologize, for I had a pretty good notion you would come to pay her your respects as well. But you have brought something—what is it that made such a racket when it fell just now?” He advanced and picked up the clanging canvas bag. “Garden implements, I take it? Yes, I am sure you were about to plant some bulbs or flowers at the graveside. I had the same idea, but decided to wait till daylight. Do you think she would like daffodils? And some snowflakes, perhaps, to give her a bloom early in the season."

Panic was replaced by anger and a smidge of embarrassment in the captain's bosom. “Don't try to bam me you came here to smoke."

"Surely you can see for yourself I
am
smoking. Sophie never minded in the least. Even in her sickroom she often invited me to light up. I never did, of course, but it was kind of her to make the offer. Would you care for a cheroot, Jonathon? I brought half a dozen with me; I was unsure how long a vigil I would make."

"I don't smoke."

"Bully for you. I hope you are not about to warn me it is a filthy, disgusting habit, as nonsmokers are so fond of doing in that revoltingly self-righteous way they have. I am very well aware of it. But then I don't drink to excess, or gamble at all except in a spirit of sociability, and I know you wouldn't have me perfect. There is nothing so vulgar as an excess of perfection."

"You don't have to worry about that!"

A low, amused chuckle escaped Thoreau's lips. “I find you almost tolerable at times, Captain. Really, you are not at all so bad as people say. Shall we get on with the gardening? I will be quite happy to lend you a hand.” He opened the canvas bag and extracted a shovel. “Yes, I see you have brought a shovel. You take it and I shall use the spade.” Upon saying this, he extracted the file.

"Jonathon, you careless fellow, you have brought a file in error. I can't do a thing with this. Or is it to sharpen the lip of the shovel? Yes, that must certainly be why you brought a file. There can be no other reason. Now, I shall just sharpen up your shovel for you, and you can begin sorting out the bulbs. Ah—where are the bulbs? You cannot mean to say you forgot the bulbs, too, you absentminded soldier. Really, you are beyond anything. I think you might as well go back to Swallowcourt and forget all about your gardening for tonight."

Jonathon stuffed the shovel and file into the canvas bag and replied, “I'll just stick around and bear you company, Thoreau."

"That's downright civil of you, Jonathon. And by the by, I have already told you very recently you may call me Hillary. You hurt my sensibilities to go on calling me Thoreau, as though I were your batboy. Sure you won't have a cheroot? A pity we hadn't thought to bring a bottle, and we might have had a party. Now what is this?” he asked, as he espied yet another gadfly coming to join their party.

"Blandings!” Jonathon said in an angry voice. “I knew he was up to no good and him rich as Croesus."

"He can well afford to give Sophie a few blooms for her garden. In fact, with his blunt, he might set up a greenhouse and swathe her in orchids. Ah, Mr. Blandings,” he said, reaching out his hand to shake with Mr. Blandings, who accepted the hand across the grave with all the sangfroid of the aristocracy.

"Evening, Sir Hillary,” he said in his usual hearty voice. “Been wanting to have a chat with you about this foolish will of Mrs. Milmont's aunt."

"How clever of you to know just where to find me."

"I had no notion you'd be guarding the grave yourself. Marcia told me you'd hired a man, but he was called off, of course, wasn't he?"