The Bride Wore Pearls by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online

Lucan caught her arm as she passed. “A word of warning, Nish?”
    Higgenthorpe forgotten, she stiffened. “Warning?” she said, turning to face him. “Of what sort?”
    But for once, Lucan looked serious. “Do you think it entirely wise to go down to St. James again?” he murmured. “Bessett may be none too pleased to return from Belgium and find his chosen bride is haring about London with Lord Lazonby—not to mention the fact that the fellow still drops by at least once a week.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake,” she gritted. “Rance is like family, and you know it. Besides, I am not betrothed, and I am certainly not haring about .” It was guilt, perhaps, which drove her to speak so sharply. “I took Lazonby to the theater at Bessett’s mother’s request—not that it’s any of your business. And I went to Whitehall with him to see Assistant Commissioner Napier at his request. Moreover, the man calls here because Raju told him to keep an eye on us whilst he was away. Now I am going to St. James to pay a call on Miss Belkadi. Have you a problem with that?”
    Lucan flashed a skeptical smile, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Dear little Saffy, hmm?” he said. “I didn’t know she had a social life.”
    “Have you a problem with that?” she repeated, more harshly.
    But Lucan just gazed at her through his somnolent, knowing eyes.
    Anisha stalked out, stewing in her own guilt.
    S amir Belkadi was a striking young man of little patience. Possessed of hard, dark eyes which had seen much and gave nothing back, Monsieur Belkadi was also blessed with innate good taste, courtesy of his French father. From his mother, however, he had inherited talents far more useful: the ability to adapt and to change and to overcome incalculable odds; in short, the ability to survive. He was also secretive, cynical, and, if circumstance required it, utterly without conscience.
    Belkadi was employed, nominally speaking, as club manager of the St. James Society, a position for which these diverse talents made him uniquely suited. The society itself was an island of elegance in an ocean of sophistication—which was to say that, in its rarefied little corner of London, the house scarcely stood out.
    This was precisely as its founders had intended, for the true purpose of the St. James Society was not one which wanted advertising. The purpose was, however, marked on its pediment if one knew what to look for: a Latin cross above a crossed quill and sword. To those who understood the significance of this symbol, the house provided safe harbor and solidarity to any member of the Fraternitas who might find himself traveling through—or fleeing to—Britain.
    The house sat in a dead-end street near the Carlton Club, just a stone’s throw from those bastions of clubland, White’s and Brooks’s. Indeed, at first glance, there was no appreciable difference between any of them; all large buildings with impressive entrances manned by impeccably attired doormen who spent their days bowing before a constant stream of England’s most affluent and most noble.
    But none was quite like the St. James Society. And none was managed by anyone half so Machiavellian as Belkadi. Moreover, in this particular establishment, everyone involved in its direction was also a member, which left Belkadi in the unenviable position of having no one to complain to when things went wrong.
    Today, things were going wrong.
    This was partly due to the fact that two of the house’s three founders, Lord Ruthveyn and Lord Bessett, had gone abroad; the former for love, the latter to defuse a dangerous situation in Brussels. This, alas, left only the offhanded Lord Lazonby in residence.
    Quite literally in residence .
    And it would not do.
    “Again, Lazonby, we’ve only the two suites,” Belkadi repeated, setting away his tea. “Herr Dr. Schwartz is a handsome enough fellow, but unless I misinterpret his inclinations, I doubt he will wish to sleep with Mr.