by Amanda Quick
“Move, boy, move,” Anthony shouted. He started forward at a run.
“Dear heaven.” Emeline seized fistfuls of her skirts and went after him.
The boy finally became aware of his dire situation. With a sudden, convulsive jerk, he made to dash for safety.
The breeze caught his cap and sent it skittering back into the path of the horses.
“Me cap.” The lad whirled and raced back out into the middle of the street, obviously determined to rescue the cap.
“No,” Emeline called. “No, don’t go back.”
But the boy paid no attention.
The carriage never slowed. Obviously the coachman did not see the lad dash back into his path. Anguished, helpless terror swept through Emeline. She could never reach him in time.
“Get into a doorway,” Anthony shouted to her over his shoulder. He was several paces ahead of her.
She flung herself toward the nearest entrance and watched, unable to breathe, as Anthony and the carriage bore down on the boy from opposite directions.
Incredibly, Anthony reached the lad seconds ahead of the flying hooves. He flung out an arm, scooped up the boy, and kept going toward the side of the street.
A moment later the carriage thundered past Emeline. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the coachman hurl an object at her. It thudded against the wall beside her and dropped to the pavement. She ignored it, too intent on reaching Anthony and the boy.
The vehicle rumbled on at breakneck speed, swaying dangerously. It rounded the corner at the end of the street and vanished.
Emeline ran toward the pair where they lay sprawled together on the stones at the foot of a short flight of steps. The boy had landed on top. His green cap lay on the ground next to Anthony’s shoulder. He stirred, raised his head, and started to lever himself to his feet. She saw that he was dazed but unhurt.
“Anthony.” She flung herself to the pavement beside him. “Anthony. For God’s sake, answer me.”
For an eternity of mindless, numbing terror, she feared the worst. The elegant knot in Anthony’s cravat had come undone, baring his throat. Ripping off one glove, she touched his skin with her fingertips, seeking a pulse.
He opened one eye and gave her a bemused grin. “I must be dead. I am obviously in the hands of an angel.”
She snatched her fingers back. “Are you injured, sir? Is anything broken?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He sat up and looked at the lad. “What about you, young man? Are you all right?”
“Aye, sir.” The lad held his cap in both hands, examining it with close attention. He looked up with a relieved grin. “Thank ye for saving me cap. My ma gave it to me for me birthday last week. She would have been right put out with me if I’d gone and ruined it.”
“It’s a very fine-looking cap.” Anthony got to his feet, absently brushing the dust from his trousers. He reached down for Emeline’s hand and hauled her lightly up from the pavement.
She turned to the boy. “Now, what was it that you wanted to tell us?”
The boy’s expression turned serious. He concentrated hard. “My pa said to tell ye that ye’ll want to speak with the valet.”
“Your master’s valet?” Anthony frowned. “He was not there today. I noticed the absence. Where is he?”
“Mrs. Rushton let him go a while back. Turned Mr. Fitch off without his wages or references, Pa said. Mr. Fitch was very, very angry.”
Emeline exchanged a glance with Anthony. “That is very interesting,” she said softly.
Anthony looked down at the boy. “Go on.”
“Pa said to tell ye that Nan, one of the chambermaids, says that she noticed Mr. Fitch acting very odd the day he got turned off. She was working in the linen closet that afternoon. Fitch never noticed her, but she saw him come out of the master’s dressing chamber with a small object all wrapped up in a neckcloth. He put it into his bags when he thought no one was looking, and left the house with it.”
“Why didn’t Nan say anything?” Anthony asked.
The boy shrugged. “We all knew Fitch had been let go with no references nor extra wages to see him through to another position. Reckon Nan figured he was entitled to help himself to a little something by way of a retirement pension.”
“Would Fitch have had access to the keys Mrs. Rushton carries?” Emeline asked. “Could he have made a duplicate?”
The lad thought about that and then shrugged. “Don’t see why not. He had plenty of chances to use a bit of wax to make a copy.”
“What do you mean by saying he had plenty of chances?” Anthony asked.
The lad looked surprised by the question. “During one of their afternoon meetings upstairs.”
Emeline frowned. “What afternoon meetings?”
The boy looked at her. “Soon after Mrs. Rushton arrived, she told Fitch that he was to make regular reports to her concernin’ the health and mental condition of the master. They used to meet two or three times a week in the afternoon in one of the upstairs bedchambers.”
Emeline felt herself turning pink. She dared not meet Anthony’s eyes. “I see.”
The boy’s brow puckered in some confusion. “I once overheard Fitch tell Pa that Mrs. Rushton was in . . . in . . . inedible.”
Anthony looked at him. “Inedible?”
The boy frowned. “Don’t think that’s the right word. It was in-something, though, I’m sure of that much.”
“Insatiable?” Anthony offered in a very neutral voice.
“Aye, sir.” The lad cheered. “That was the word. Mr. Fitch said that Mrs. Rushton was insatiable. ‘Wears a man out and that’s a fact,’ he said.”
“Did your pa give you Fitch’s address?” Emeline asked quickly.
“Pa said he had a little house in White Street.” The lad looked anxious for the first time. “Will you be paying me now, sir? My pa said I was to be sure to collect the fee ye promised.”
“No need for alarm.” Emeline gave Anthony a brilliant smile. “Mr. Sinclair will be happy to pay you.”
Anthony gave her a wry look, but obligingly pulled out some money to give to the lad.
The boy seized his fee, grinned happily, and raced off. Anthony watched him disappear around the corner.
“I seem to recall Tobias mentioning on one or two occasions that whenever Mrs. Lake offers a fee for information, he somehow ends up paying it.” He raised his brows. “It appears that particular skill runs in your family.”
“Keep an accurate account, sir. We shall settle the finances at the conclusion of the case when our clients pay us.”
She started to pull on the glove she had removed a few minutes earlier to check for Anthony’s pulse. She paused when she noticed that her fingertips were trembling. Anthony had nearly been run down. She was still shaky with relief. She had to work hard to adjust the glove.
“Emeline, are you all right?”
It was too much. He acted as if nothing untoward had occurred. She rounded on him.
“You could have been killed,” she said loudly.
The words seemed to echo against the looming walls that framed the street.
“I’m all right,” Anthony said.
“Yes, I know. You saved that boy’s life, but you could have been killed.”
“Emeline, I don’t think—”
“What would I have done if you had been crushed beneath that bloody carriage?” Her voice threatened to rise to a shout. “I cannot bear to think about it, do you hear me?”
“I expect they can hear you two streets over,” Anthony said.
“Oh, Anthony, I was so terrified.”
With a small cry, she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
A small shock of surprise went through him, but he recovered instantly, holding her so close that she could scarcely catch her breath.
“Emeline.” His voice was low and hoarse. “Emeline.”
He yanked at the strings of her bonnet with one hand and pushed the obstructin
g hat back off her head. He raised her face and kissed her with a wild, reckless passion that stunned her senses.
What was left of her outrage evaporated in a rush of thrilling heat. She had dreamed of this moment for weeks, tried to imagine what it would be like when Anthony finally kissed her. But the experience was unlike anything she had envisioned.
Anthony’s mouth was urgent, hot, demanding. When he opened it against hers, she felt the edge of his tongue. She shuddered, utterly astounded by the intense intimacy. His arms tightened around her, molding her to the length of his body in such an intimate manner that she was aware of every contour of his strong frame.
He shifted slightly, one hand sliding down her spine to curve around her hip. She could feel him pressing against her thigh.
Two years ago she had prevailed upon Lavinia to provide some specific information on the nature of physical passion between a man and a woman. She had also given serious attention to the erotic decorations on some of the Greek and Roman vases she had seen in Rome. But nothing she had learned had prepared her for this raging excitement, let alone the size of the unyielding bulge behind Anthony’s trousers.
He dragged his mouth off hers, tipped her head, and kissed her throat. She was trembling now, utterly transported. The very pavement on which she stood threatened to dissolve beneath her feet.
“Anthony.”
“Good God.” Anthony abruptly broke off the kiss and raised his head. He was breathing hard. “Forgive me, Emeline. I don’t know what came over me. I can only apologize—”
“No.” She clapped a hand over his mouth to silence him. “I vow, sir, if you say that you are sorry, I shall never forgive you.”
He studied her over the edge of her fingers. Then a warm light appeared in his eyes. She felt his mouth curve into a smile beneath her palm. Cautiously, she lowered her hand.
For a few seconds they just stood there in the middle of the street, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“Anthony?” She was having difficulty breathing properly, she realized.
“Come.” Anthony grasped her elbow and propelled her forward toward the end of the lane. “We must hurry. Tobias and Mrs. Lake will want to know about Fitch.”
“Yes, of course.” She wondered if all gentlemen were so adept at switching moods in moments of great passion.
Then again, perhaps Anthony had not felt the same intensity of emotion that she had just experienced in his arms. This was, after all, the first time she had ever been embraced in what one could call a serious fashion. Granted, while in Rome she had indulged in a stolen kiss or two in a garden or on a terrace, but she had considered the small incidents more or less as experiments. The results had been interesting, but not particularly inspiring, in her opinion. Certainly they had not set fire to her senses as this kiss had just done.
Anthony, on the other hand, was two years older, a man of the world. He had no doubt kissed any number of women in such a fiery manner.
It was an appalling thought.
She was mulling over the dark vision of another woman in Anthony’s arms when she glimpsed the object that the coachman had hurled toward her.
“I almost forgot.” She came to a halt. “He threw something at me as he went past.”
“Who? The bloody coachman?” Anthony followed her gaze. His expression hardened. “Looks like a rock. Rot the bastard’s eyes. He could have hurt you.”
“There is something tied to it.”
She hurried across the pavement to where the rock lay on the ground. There was a string tied around it. Attached to the string was a piece of paper.
“It’s a note.” She removed the paper and unfolded it.
Anthony came to stand behind her. He read aloud over her shoulder.
Stay out of this affair. Where there has been one murder, there may well be another.
Seventeen
“WE ASSUMED THAT THE COACHMAN WAS attempting to run down the gardener’s son, perhaps to prevent him from talking to us.” Anthony looked at the others gathered in Lavinia’s small study. “But now it appears that the man likely never even noticed the boy. He was intent only on delivering his message. Must have been following us, saw his opportunity, and took it.”
“A warning.” Tobias lounged on a corner of the desk and contemplated the note that lay on the polished surface. “It could have been sent by almost anyone involved in this affair.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t going to stop us from pursuing our investigations,” Lavinia said from her post behind her desk.
“Absolutely not,” Emeline declared with equal force.
“I agree.” Joan Dove absently arranged the folds of her elegant gray skirts. “In fact, it only whets one’s appetite to solve the case, if you ask me.”
“Indeed.” Lavinia plucked a leather-bound volume from the shelf beside the desk, flipped it open, and picked up a quill. “I have begun a journal of events that are directly related to this affair so that we may keep track of all the information and observations that come our way. I shall enter this bit about the note while it is fresh. Emeline, tell me everything you noticed regarding the coach and the driver.”
Emeline launched into a detailed description. Lavinia wrote swiftly. Joan rose and went to stand beside the desk, listening intently and offering occasional comments.
Tobias glanced at Anthony, who was watching Emeline with a grim expression. The incident in the street near Banks’s mansion had left its mark, he thought. This was no longer merely an exciting adventure so far as his new assistant was concerned.
It was perfectly natural that Anthony would be alarmed by Emeline’s close encounter with danger. But he sensed something else going on between the two young people, something beyond a gentleman’s normal concern for a lady’s safety. It seemed to him that there were some storm clouds gathering in Emeline’s and Anthony’s heretofore sunny relationship. What the devil was going on here? He made a note to discuss the matter later with Lavinia. She was far more perceptive about this sort of thing.
“From what you have told us,” Lavinia said, scribbling madly, “it would appear that, until recently, Mrs. Rushton was having an affair with Banks’s valet. For some reason she decided to let him go.”
“A lover’s quarrel?” Mrs. Dove suggested. “They argued so she turned him off without references or wages?”
Lavinia pursed her lips. “Whatever the reasons, Fitch was furious and had a motive for theft. He was later seen sneaking out of the dressing chamber with a small object wrapped in a cravat.”
Tobias clasped his hands behind his back. “If Fitch elected to take the Blue Medusa instead of some other valuable that would have been much easier to sell to a fence or a pawnshop proprietor, he may have had a particular buyer in mind. Someone he was certain would pay well for the cameo.”
Lavinia met his eyes. “Celeste Hudson.”
A charged silence settled on the room.
“Obviously we must speak to Fitch as soon as possible,” Tobias said after a moment. “Anthony, you will look for him. He probably won’t be hard to find. When you discover his whereabouts, notify me at once. I will handle the interview.”
Lavinia put down her quill. “I wish we knew more about the Blue Medusa. It might help us identify other people who have a particular interest in it.”
Joan smiled slightly. “I know of one person who could answer most of your questions about the Medusa, assuming he is willing to do so.”
LAVINIA, TOGETHER WITH JOAN AND TOBIAS, WAS ushered into Lord Vale’s impressive library the following morning.
The chamber was long and vast and crammed with books. It was illuminated by tall, classically proportioned windows. A circular staircase led to the upper level where yet more bookshelves were filled with leather-bound tomes. There was an air of scholarly elegance about the room that caused one to speak in hushed tones.
Unable to sit in the midst of such splendor, Lavinia began to prowl the room, examining some of the books with wonder and fa
scination.
Lord Vale waited until the housekeeper had poured the tea and departed. Then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed his guests with polite speculation.
“Mrs. Dove tells me that you wish to interview me in a matter that involves murder,” he said.
“I hope you are not offended.” Lavinia looked up from the study of a large volume that lay open on a table. She had been a bit anxious on this point. A gentleman of Vale’s status had every right to be extremely annoyed at the prospect of being dragged into a situation that involved something so distasteful as murder.
“Not at all.” A glint of acute interest flickered in Vale’s eyes. “As much as I enjoy my scholarly researches into antiquities, I must admit that I occasionally find myself in a mood for other, equally stimulating diversions.”
“A stimulating diversion,” Tobias repeated neutrally from his position at a window. “Well, that is certainly one way to describe an inquiry into murder.”
Vale arched one elegant brow. “I deal with the artifacts of the ancient dead most of my waking hours. A modern murder offers a pleasant change of pace.”
“It was good of you to see us,” Lavinia said.
Vale glanced at Joan. “Mrs. Dove is my friend. I am happy to oblige her in any way I can.” He turned back to Lavinia. “I see you are interested in my copy of Mr. Lysons’s Reliquiae Britannico-Romanae.”
“This is the first opportunity I have had to examine it. The volume is very expensive, you know.”
Vale smiled. “Yes, I know.”
She felt herself turn pink. A man of his wealth was no doubt quite oblivious to the cost of a beautiful book.
“Mr. Lysons’s unusual interest in British-Roman antiquities parallels my own,” Vale continued. “You are welcome to browse through the Reliquiae, Mrs. Lake.”
Lavinia studied the plate displayed in front of her. It showed several meticulously rendered drawings of British-Roman antiquities that Samuel Lysons had uncovered in his explorations of old ruins in his native Gloucestershire. A curious, U-shaped iron blade and portions of a pottery strainer were illustrated. Small, detailed works of art in themselves, the drawings had been colored in light, translucent washes.
