Wicked

by Shannon Drake

  CHAPTER TEN

  “TRISTAN, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, man?” Ralph demanded.

  Tristan had stopped. They were a good three blocks from the square, surrounded by folk, some who were rushing toward the sound of the police whistles, others who just kept walking or going, accustomed to the sound. Murder was not a rarity in this area.

  “Come on, let’s get far away. You heard the old bearded fellow.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Ralph! Good God! You must know who that was by now.”

  Ralph stared at him, arching a brow. He looked around, anxious to be on his way. It was quite one thing to be a petty thief. He wasn’t accustomed to the way the world had gone since Tristan came up with the brilliant idea to help himself to a bit of Lord Stirling’s property. Until today, the debacle had stood rather well with him—lounging in the fine apartments granted him among the servants’ quarters at the castle, eating well, living the life of a gentleman, completely at ease. But now! Well, he wasn’t accustomed to being shot at.

  Tristan sighed, looking at him. “It was Lord Stirling.”

  “No!”

  “Aye.”

  “No!”

  “Aye!”

  “Lord Stirling!” Ralph breathed. “But if he was there, in such a disguise, why did he send us in?”

  “Because we do know our way around such places, and we have been known to pawn off an illegal trinket or two,” Tristan said.

  “Fine. That’s all well and good. So let’s move on now, shall we. He told us to go.”

  Tristan shook his head, eyes sparkling. “I’m going back.”

  “Back! To the place we were nearly shot down along with that fellow!” Ralph said with amazement. He tried hard to draw forth some serious authority and dignity. “If it was Lord Stirling, as you say, he very sternly ordered us to move on!”

  “Of course, he didn’t want us involved in the questioning.” Tristan shrugged. “It’s not likely the murder of such a bloke will draw much attention, but in case it makes the newspapers at all, he wouldn’t have us involved.”

  “Right. So let’s not be involved.”

  “We’re not involved any longer. We’re just part of the curious public, drawn to the excitement. A man shot dead in a square! They’ll be people amassing around the scene now, so we’ll not be noticed in the least.”

  “I don’t want to go back to see a dead man bleeding on cobblestones!”

  “Ah, but people do! Just as they used to line up for a public hanging. Come on, my man. We’ll not be noticed. And we may hear a thing or two.”

  “Oh, Tristan!” Ralph moaned.

  “We need to find out what we can for Lord Stirling,” Tristan said firmly. He turned and started back the way they had come.

  Groaning again, Ralph followed in his wake.

  THE DOOR CLOSED behind Camille, and the world was suddenly flooded with light. The chamber to the storeroom door, however, was empty, so she tore for the stairs, racing up them.

  She burst out into one of the galleries, where a few people milled around exhibits. Everyone turned and stared at her. One woman gasped; all looked at her in shock.

  For a moment she was simply frozen in place, not understanding. Then she looked down at the weapon she had grabbed from the mummy crate. She was holding an arm.

  Wrapped, its linen darkened by years of entombment and decay, it indeed appeared to be some kind of strange and grisly trophy.

  She dropped it in horror. Then, realizing she was about to create a scene in the gallery, she smiled ruefully, smoothed back her hair and retrieved the ancient body part. “I’m so sorry. A new exhibit,” she explained.

  She tore for the stairs to the offices, her mind racing. The logical thing to do was go for one of the policemen charged with museum security. But then she would have to explain what she had been doing in the storeroom. Still, whoever had been taunting her might still be lingering in the storeroom. It was time to catch the culprit!

  As she ran into the office, determined to go for help and damn the consequences, she was startled from immediate action when she saw that Sir John’s desk was occupied.

  Evelyn Prior was waiting in the chair.

  “There you are, dear!” she exclaimed. “I was getting worried…a workday and no one about. No one at all. Why, Camille, what’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” She raised a brow. “And you’re carrying its earthly remains around with you.”

  “I…I’m fine,” she murmured. Her heart was thundering. She wasn’t in the least sure why—she had liked Evelyn very much—but she was suddenly wary. Was it possible that Evelyn had been down in the storage vaults, that she had been the one whispering Camille’s name and was now sitting at the desk, just to allay suspicion?

  “Oh, this!” She forced herself to smile. “Yes…terrible of me. I must get it back. I’m embarrassed to say that I saw a rat and panicked. One would think I’d be accustomed to dealing with such things, but…Excuse me, I have to—” She broke off. “Evelyn, what are you doing here?”

  “It’s after four, my dear. I’ve come with Shelby to take a ride out to the sisters’ cottage with you. We must make sure your gown for tomorrow night is complete, that it fits perfectly and that you’ll be ready for the ball.”

  “After four?” Camille murmured. “Of course, I need just a minute…if you don’t mind waiting? Excuse me, Evelyn, I’ll be right back.”

  She exited the offices, closing the door behind her. It was absurd to think that Evelyn might have been stalking her in the storeroom! The woman was Brian Stirling’s right hand, so it seemed. And she had been calm and serene, simply baffled by the fact that no one had been in the office. And surely more baffled than ever to see Camille with a death grip on a mummy’s arm.

  She turned quickly, realizing that there was definitely a reason for her to find one of the officers and hurry back. The mummy’s arm was still in her hands. She needed to return it. She tried to hide it in the folds of her skirt, not wanting to shock any more of the museum’s visitors, then realized there was an even more serious matter. She had dropped Sir John’s keys somewhere. And she had left the door open.

  She found the guard resting in a chair in the hall with the Rosetta Stone. She was grateful to discover the man on duty was a fellow they all called Gramps, though his real name was James Smithfield. He had drawn museum duty, she thought, because of his age. He was a tall, lean man, left with just a few wisps of gray hair beneath his hat. His powder-blue eyes were faded but kind, and he had wonderful stories to tell about his early days in the police force.

  “Jim!” Camille said, shaking him by the shoulder.

  He had apparently dozed off. He looked up with a start. He saw her face, knew he shouldn’t have been napping on the job and jumped up. “Camille!” He looked around, certain there must be some trouble.

  She had to smile, despite her situation. “I need some help, please.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, what is it lass?”

  “I had to check on something in the storeroom. I think someone was down there with me. I’d like to make sure it’s empty and lock it back up.”

  He frowned. She wondered if he knew that she didn’t really have the authority to be prowling around the storeroom.

  “Someone prowling about?” he demanded.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe even my imagination. But if you wouldn’t mind coming with me?”

  “Of course not, lass! It’s my job!”

  Feeling a great deal more secure—even if James Smithfield was nearly as old as some of the museum’s exhibits—Camille led the way.

  The door to the storeroom was still closed, but unlocked. And when Camille pushed it open, the dim lights were back on, just as if they had burned as they were supposed to, all throughout the day.

  She retraced her steps, Jim behind her, poking around containers here and there, determined that he’d not be caught napping on the job again.

  Camille found the carton with the armless mum
my and did her best to return the limb. The keys were on the floor by the massive container. She picked them up. Jim was looking at her, a slight smile teasing his lips. “Now, lass, there’s no one here, nothing looks amiss! Have you been listening to much lore about mummies and curses? Whatever they thought, Camille, these fellows don’t rise again and come after the living! Ah, but then you’re young. Easy to let the mind find fear in such things, eh?”

  She forced a smile. “No, I think someone was down here. But I do agree, whoever it was is gone now.”

  “Probably just someone from another department,” Jim said, still smiling pleasantly, amused, yet affectionately so. He was a good man, confused as to why certain things were so important to the scholarly types in the museum when the sums they cost could feed dozens of families for weeks on end, but still tolerant. A most fatherly figure.

  She caught his arm. “Thank you, James.”

  “Any time you need me, Camille.”

  “Thank you.”

  When they left the storeroom, Camille saw to it that the door was securely locked, though she wondered just what good she was doing. It had been locked when she first arrived!

  There were other keys out to department heads. Other people had access. But another department head wasn’t likely to make all the lights go out! And she was certain that it wasn’t a curator from another area who had been in the darkness with her.

  They walked back. As they neared the Rosetta Stone, he paused. “I won’t be saying a thing about this, you know.” And he winked at her.

  She started to tell him that it was all right, but then decided that she would be glad of his silence.

  “Thank you, Jim,” she said, and started back for the offices.

  BRIAN HAD BARELY FINISHED treating the wound where the bullet had grazed his arm when there was a tap on his door. Ajax, sitting sentinel before the hearth, lifted his head and thumped his tail.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Corwin, My Lord.”

  “Come in, please.”

  He tied the mask at the back of his head as the fellow entered.

  “What is it?” Brian asked.

  “The fellow, Sir Tristan Montgomery, is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Corwin nodded and Tristan entered. “Good evening, Lord Stirling.”

  “Good evening. So…you have a report to make? You found a place where antiquities are being sold on the black market?”

  “You know that I did,” Tristan said quietly and with a great deal of dignity.

  Brian stared at him for a minute and then shrugged. “I will assume then that you and your cohort made it safely away before the police arrived?”

  “We made it away, but we went back,” Tristan told him.

  “Oh?” Brian was definitely surprised. A man with Tristan’s past didn’t usually seek out the police.

  “I thought you’d want the bloke’s name,” Tristan said.

  Definitely surprised, a smile on his lips, Brian walked to a small side table with a brandy decanter and glasses and poured out two portions.

  “Indeed,” he said, handing a glass to Tristan.

  “He was a shady character, well-known to the coppers. Joseph Buttonwood. As of late, he’s not been the type to be in the clink. Apparently, that’s what got the coppers most suspicious of him. Seems they suspected he was doing some dirty work for someone maybe of a higher class, since he’d given up his street robberies in Mayfair.”

  “I see,” Brian murmured.

  “City of London bobbies have the case—we were within the mile,” Tristan continued. “But there’s not much interest. The detective who arrived at the scene after the street boys is a jaded old fellow, Sergeant Garth Vickford. He thinks it’s well enough that the criminal element take out the criminal element, for it avoids a trial and saves the Crown and the taxpayers money. I don’t think that there will be much of an investigation.”

  “You found all this out?” Brian asked.

  Tristan shrugged. “I know how to get close and listen.”

  Brian took a seat in the great upholstered chair before the hearth. For a moment, he didn’t reply. Despite the amazing fact that he was closer than he had ever been before to an answer, he was momentarily distracted.

  It was here that he had sat the other night, holding Camille. It was too easy to remember her scent, the softness of her skin and the way her eyes had looked into his, marbled and brilliant, golden flames and emeralds, not seeming to notice the mask and, apparently, oblivious to the fact that he was known as the beast, a man cursed and scarred beyond all hope….

  “I dare say,” Tristan continued, “that the dead man was no more than a runner, and his attack on Ralph and me probably foolish. That’s why someone, maybe whoever he was working for or just someone with a higher place in the thieves den, decided that he had to be silenced.”

  “Yes, yes,” Brian said. He stood. “Thank you. You did me a service today. You owe me nothing more. I hadn’t really thought that I’d be putting your lives in danger.”

  “But you were there. And you took a bullet in your arm.”

  “A scratch, nothing more. And since I can’t guarantee that I will always be there if there is trouble, I repeat, you have done me a great service. And you owe me nothing more.”

  Tristan stretched to his full height. “Lord Stirling, it’s well known that you led men and fought not from behind the ranks, but at the head of them. But I, too, was a soldier for Her Majesty. I’m not a coward, nor do I love life over honor. I’m pleased to be of greater service.”

  “If I were to cause injury to you,” Brian said quietly, “Camille would loathe me and never forgive me.”

  “If I were to refuse the just and righteous work offered to me by a man such as yourself and eschew the life I had been living, Camille would despair of me,” Tristan countered. “Perhaps I didn’t make a fine showing today, Lord Stirling. Perhaps, as well, I hadn’t quite believed the truth in what you’re seeking to discover. But I can take care of myself. And I will. Don’t ask me to step back now. I’m in this, and I feel as I haven’t felt in many a year.”

  Brian leaned down and stroked Ajax’s great head, then rose and faced Tristan again. “All right. But I’ll ask that you not take things upon your own shoulders. Nothing is to be done without my knowledge, and you will keep your own life and limb in mind.”

  Tristan grinned. “I’m back to bed then—worn and bruised and ailing! Just in case my Camie gets in early!” He saluted and departed the room.

  Brian sat and stroked Ajax’s head again. “What have I done?” he murmured.

  THE SISTERS, Camille was convinced, were not just wonderful, they were fairy godmothers.

  Despite the events of the day and Evelyn Prior’s current company, Camille couldn’t help finding excitement in the garment. She’d never worn anything like it in her life. Surely there had to be something magical about it, simply because it existed. In one day’s time they’d created a gown so lovely that it was breathtaking, and it fit with absolute precision.

  Of course, they had seen to it that she had the right undergarments. A lace-edged corset, matching petticoats, a perfectly sized bustle. Camille was amazed herself at just how alive, how glowing she looked in the dress. Against the color, her hair was dark and her eyes were pools of brilliance. And when she turned in it, she indeed felt like a princess. The bodice was low, but not too low. The little sleeves capped off the bodice, with the line an arc at her shoulders. The fabric shimmered over an ever so slight underskirt, and the beaded bodice fit tight to her natural curves.

  “Oh, miss! You’re too beautiful!” little Ally told her.

  She smiled at the child, losing just a bit of her enthusiasm as she couldn’t help but wonder about her parentage.

  “Thank you,” she told the girl.

  “I helped, you know,” Ally said proudly.

  “You did?”

  “Well, only a little. But they let me do a few stitc
hes on the hem.”

  “Wonderful. And really, thank you so very much!”

  The sisters were grouped together, proudly surveying their accomplishment with impish little smiles.

  Evelyn Prior walked around her, nodding approval, yet Camille felt as if she were part of new furnishings that had been ordered for a room. She was meant to convey a certain appearance, and, as per agreement, she did so.

  “Lovely, lovely,” Evelyn said, then looked at the sisters with a smile. “So…let’s get her back out of it. We’ve got to pack it quite carefully for the castle, and his lordship will be waiting.”

  “You can’t stay for tea?” Edith asked, deeply disappointed.

  “I’m afraid not. Lord Stirling awaits Miss Montgomery before having his own supper.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Ally said.

  Evelyn smiled at the child with great and honest affection. “Ally, dear, we can come back, you know.”

  Ally nodded with a bit too much wisdom for a child her age.

  As they headed out, Shelby waited by the carriage door to help Camille. He offered her a smile and gruff words of encouragement. “There can be no woman, no lady, great or common, more beautiful than you at the ball tomorrow night.”

  “My deepest thanks. For all your kindness,” she told him.

  Evelyn was coming quickly behind them. Still uncertain as to why she was so suddenly suspicious of the woman, Camille slid into the carriage.

  “I’M NOT SO SURE about this,” Evelyn murmured. “I’m not sure at all.” She had come to his quarters immediately following her return from the cottage. Camille had stopped by to spend time with Tristan, who had taken back to his bed.

  Brian arched a brow beneath his mask. “You’re not sure? You’re the one who insisted I slide back into society, find a woman to appear on my arm. You thought it was all just perfect when Miss Montgomery walked into our lives.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But?”

  “The girl is strange! And I do mean strange,” Evelyn told him.

  “How so?”

  “She wasn’t in her workroom when I arrived. I waited at Sir John’s desk. And then she came back with…”