“How do you know? You have no proof. All you’ve told me so far is that you think Tillinghurst is a bad man and somebody answering to the name Jones, whom you couldn’t see, spoke to you from behind a locked door a couple of nights ago. That’s not a whole lot to go on, unless you want me to believe that you have second sight.”
“Fiddlesticks! It only makes sense!” She threw her arms out in an extravagant gesture, as if to convince him.
He wasn’t convinced. Well . . . maybe he was, but not because he believed in Loretta’s fine understanding of human nature. But things had begun to stack up against Tillinghurst, and Malachai, who didn’t like the man personally, and who always interacted with others warily, wasn’t one to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. He’d learned that hard life lesson as an infant.
“We’d better plan what we’re going to do when we gain entrance to Tillinghurst’s house,” Malachai said.
“Plan? What do you mean?” The afternoon sunlight reflected on the lenses of her eyeglasses, but Malachai could detect the gleam in her eyes. The dashed woman was actually enjoying this!
He gave her an exasperated glance. “We’re not going to storm in and take over the place as if we’re besieging Peavey’s precious castle, for God’s sake. What I propose is that we pretend to be engaged, and that we’re paying a sociable call on my business partner in order to tell him the happy news.”
Without looking, he felt her doubt. Annoyed, he said, “We don’t have to mean it, for God’s sake. As your friend Jason said, it’s a ruse. You’ve heard of ruses, haven’t you?”
For a moment the only thing Malachai heard was the noise of the Hudson’s engine. Then Loretta said, “I don’t trust you.”
It was, possibly, the worst thing she could have said to him. Turning on her, he said with venom, “I am the most trustworthy man you’ll ever meet, Loretta Linden, and don’t you ever forget it. I’ve spent my entire life being trustworthy. How the devil do you think I’ve gained and kept the loyalty of my men? It certainly wasn’t by deceiving them or cheating others.”
He could tell he’d startled her, because she actually flinched from his wrath, something Loretta seldom did even when Malachai was at his most truculent. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“No? How the devil did you mean it?”
“Well . . . As long as you know we’re not really engaged.”
“Oh, for . . . Listen to me, Loretta Linden. This is a ruse. A scheme. Can’t you get that through your head? I thought you were supposed to be smart!”
She sniffed. “I am smart.”
“Well, then, act like it, can’t you?”
“There’s no need to be caustic, Malachai. I only wanted to make sure we both knew the truth.”
If he hadn’t been driving, Malachai would have pounded his fists against something. But Tillinghurst’s drive was long and curvy, and he didn’t fancy running the good doctor’s nice Hudson automobile into a tree. He allowed himself one frustrated, “God,” before deciding that talking sense to Loretta Linden was approximately as useful as lecturing a school of fish. Or Derrick Peavey.
“But you need to discuss something in the nature of business with him, too, Malachai,” Loretta pointed out, pushing her spectacles up her pert nose absently.
“Why?”
“To give me an excuse to leave the room and look around.”
“But I don’t want you leaving the room and looking around.”
“Fiddlesticks. Who else is going to do it?”
“How about the police?”
“They can look around later! For heaven’s sake, Malachai, we need to find something. I know Tillinghurst is the thief and kidnaper, but we still have to prove it.”
“That’s the police’s job.”
“Darn you! I want to search his house.”
“You and all his servants?”
“Pooh. I can avoid the servants.”
“We’ll see.”
“If you don’t make an excuse for me to leave the room, I will,” she promised him. Or perhaps it was a threat.
He gave up the fight. Might as well, since arguing wouldn’t do him any good. “Fine. Snoop.”
“It’s not snooping.”
“Huh.” He pulled the Hudson to a stop in front of the huge front porch and hissed, “Stay there until I open your door.”
“I don’t need you—”
“Damn it! I know you don’t need me to open your damned door! Pretend, will you?”
Another sniff, then she said, “Very well.”
“I have never in all my life met anyone as troublesome as you, Loretta Linden. I hope you know that.”
She lifted her chin and said, “Thank you.”
Malachai very nearly laughed out loud.
# # #
Loretta felt rather silly, and she guessed Malachai and Jason were right, at least this time. She probably ought to subdue her feminist principles for as long as it took them to fool Mr. Tillinghurst into believing they were only making a social call. With luck, and with their reinforcements working together, they should be able to end this entire thing today, free Malachai’s sailors, arrest Mr. Tillinghurst, and recover the stolen artifacts. She fingered her purse and was surprised to encounter something sharp.
“What are you doing?” Malachai asked. He’d opened the door on her side of the machine, and stood looking down at her.
“I pricked my finger.” She stuck it in her mouth as she put her hand in the bag to find her handkerchief. She pulled out the Chinese knife. “Bother. I thought I’d put this up.”
“What the devil are you doing with a damned knife?” Malachai demanded. “I can just feature you trying to fend off any number of large, armed ruffians with that tiny ornamental thing.”
Irked that he should think so little of her common sense, she said, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not really a knife.” She climbed out of the automobile and stuck the knife back in her handbag. “Well, it is a knife, but I didn’t put it in my purse with the intention of using it.
“Give it to me.” He held out his hand.
“I will not! It’s mine, and besides that, it’s only in my bag because I forgot to take it out. I’m not planning to use it.” She made sure her scorn could be heard in her voice. “Except, perhaps, on you, if you keep being rude.”
“Good God.” Turning without bothering to make sure she was at his side, he ran up the porch stairs.
Frustrated, she trotted up them after him. She guessed he was as frustrated as she—or perhaps it was his nerves acting up— because he mashed down on the electrical doorbell approximately seventeen times.
A red-faced butler opened the door. “Captain Quarles! We thought the cavalry had attacked. You were quite vigorous with the bell, sir.” He caught sight of Loretta and smiled. “Good afternoon, Miss Linden.”
“Good afternoon.” She bestowed a gracious smile upon him and sashayed into the house as if she owned it. She heard Malachai stomping in behind her and presumed he didn’t appreciate her attitude. Too bad.
Chapter Seventeen
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Quarles?” William Tillinghurst’s ferret face strained to produce a smile. “And Miss Linden, too, I see.”
They’d obviously caught him off guard. When Loretta had swept ahead of the butler and marched into Tillinghurst’s front parlor, Tillinghurst had wheeled around, startled. Malachai noticed that he held a bronze statuette that Malachai had last seen on the deck of his ship, Moor’s Revenge. That statuette ought, by rights, to be among the treasures in the Museum of Natural History.
He opted not to mention it. If all went well—which seemed unlikely, but a man could hope—all of the stolen loot would be in its rightful place soon.
Damn, but he hated to admit that Loretta had been correct about Tillinghurst all along. Ah, well, there was no help for it.
Loretta actually curtseyed at their reluctant host. Malachai could hardly believe his eyes. “How nice to see you again, Mr. Till
inghurst.”
Tillinghurst grunted as if he didn’t believe a word of it, and tried to hide the statuette among the folds of his dressing gown. “I’m not exactly dressed for visitors,” he muttered ungraciously. “You might use the telephone before you stop by next time, Malachai.”
“Oh, la, think nothing of it,” trilled Loretta. “I do think spontaneity is such a refreshing thing, don’t you?”
Swallowing a bark of laughter—Mr. Tillinghurst clearly preferred to leave spontaneity to others—Malachai said, “Just a social call, Tillinghurst.” He didn’t like his business partner, and he was pretty sure Tillinghurst didn’t like him. Glancing around Tillinghurst’s front parlor, he noticed signs of disarray. “Going somewhere?”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Malachai detected traces of nervousness in his partner, although Tillinghurst was quick to don his usual suave manner. “Just cleaning up a trifle,” he said vaguely. “Things tend to get out of hand, don’t you know.”
He didn’t know, but he deemed it better not to say so. “Miss Linden and I thought you ought to be among the first to know, Tillinghurst.” Malachai grabbed Loretta’s hand, vexed that it should be necessary to do so. Any normal woman would be simpering and hanging onto him like a limpet onto a ship’s hull. “We’re engaged to be married.”
When he looked, he saw that Loretta had managed to produce a rather grim smile. Dash it all, the least she could do is act happy to be engaged to him. He’d have to have a chat with her about her acting ability one of these days. Not that she’d need it again. He’d make sure of that, by God, or know the reason why. He was going to keep her safe from now on, with or without her permission.
“Married?” Tillinghurst looked at him as if he were trying to determine if Malachai were drunk or merely insane. “Uh . . . how nice.”
“We wanted you to be the first to know,” said Loretta brightly. “Since you and dear Malachai are partners and all that.”
“Right.” Dear Malachai? Malachai felt more foolish than he could remember feeling for a long, long time.
“Oh?”
From the expression on Tillinghurst’s face, Malachai judged that he’d reached a decision on the alcohol-versus-sanity issue, and believed that both Malachai and Loretta had lost their minds. He might be right.
Before he could think of anything to say that might gloss over the situation and make their sudden appearance at Tillinghurst’s estate seem anything other than odd, Loretta stepped into the breach.
“We thought it might be good publicity, you see.”
Tillinghurst stared at her. So did Malachai. Her cheeks took on a becoming pink color. What with her yellow dress and brown coat, she looked rather like a blooming spring bud.
“I mean, you know, you want to have people visit your exhibition at the museum. Wouldn’t it be sweet to have a photograph of the two of us taken among the artifacts? In the newspapers, you know.”
Her trilling laugh sounded hollow, but Malachai had to give her credit for trying. “Right,” he said, following her lead. “You never know who’ll be reading the society pages, old man. Some wealthy dowager might decide to fund another treasure-recovery expedition if we touch her heart.” Good God in a goblet, he couldn’t believe such tripe had actually issued from his mouth.
“Er . . . I see.” As if he didn’t quite know what to do next, Tillinghurst stood there, frozen, his glance passing between Loretta and Malachai. He looked as if he were trying to determine which of the two of them was the more dangerous lunatic.
Again, Loretta saved the day. “But we have other business with you, too, Mr. Tillinghurst.”
Warily, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that business might be, Tillinghurst said, “You do?”
Malachai barely stopped himself from echoing Tillinghurst’s question.
“Why, yes. My parents are thinking of funding another expedition, this time in the area of the Hawaiian Islands. We thought that, if we could garner enough publicity for the venture, others might be interested in joint funding.”
For the first time since they barged in on him, Tillinghurst looked almost interested. “Oh?”
God bless the woman, she really could think on her feet. Too bad she didn’t know what she was talking about. Ah, well, she couldn’t be faulted just because she wasn’t well versed in sailing and treasure-hunting lore.
Malachai, hoping Tillinghurst was as ignorant of such things as she, picked up the line and ran with it. “Right. Mr. Linden and some of his business allies thought it would be worthwhile to explore along the coasts of a couple of the islands. Chinese trading vessels have been lost there, going back centuries. The islands were a stop on the trade routes, you know.”
“Oh? Well, I guess that’s so.” Tillinghurst didn’t sound exactly sure of himself. “I hadn’t heard about the lost vessels. Were they carrying anything worthwhile?”
“Oh, tons of it. Gold, silver, bronze.” Loretta’s contribution. She glanced around the room with interest. “But why don’t we sit down and discuss it, Mr. Tillinghurst? I hope we’re not interrupting anything too important.” She gave another inane burble of laughter.
Tillinghurst sneered and looked as if he would have liked to shoot her. Malachai, who understood this reaction to Loretta, having had it himself a time or two, hastened to intervene. “Er, why don’t you go outside and look at the gardens, Loretta. Tillinghurst and I need to discuss some technical details.”
For only a moment, Malachai feared Loretta would rebel. The familiar mulish look visited her face, and he held his breath. But she recalled their purpose before commencing to lecture, and smiled vacuously. “Oh, of course. We women can’t possibly understand technical details.”
“There’s nothing in the gardens,” Tillinghurst said. His glance began darting around the room. Malachai suspected he was looking for a hiding place for the stolen statuette. “It’s November.”
“True, true,” said Loretta, “but I still love to walk. Nothing like an invigorating walk, don’t you know.”
“Right.” Tillinghurst wasn’t buying it.
Quickly, Malachai said, “Go on along now, Loretta. We men have to talk.”
“Of course.” With a smile that could have sweetened a gallon of lemon juice—or curdled milk—Loretta left them.
# # #
How galling it was to be forced to act like a blithering idiot! Loretta paused for a moment outside the parlor door in order to collect herself and pour figurative water on her inflamed temper. She reminded herself that Jason and Malachai were correct in this instance, and that she needed to play a role.
She made her way to the front entry hall, an elaborately tiled room that would have been right at home in Mr. Peavey’s castle. A twisting stairway, carpeted with a lush scarlet Oriental runner, led to the upper story. Pondering her options, Loretta decided she probably ought to start her search upstairs. A villain would be more apt to hide his loot away from more public rooms.
“May I help you, Miss Linden?”
Loretta jumped a foot and whirled around. The butler, looking very dignified, stood behind her. He held a candlestick in his left fist. Loretta eyed it with misgiving. Surely, he didn’t aim to bash her with it, did he? Ridiculous!
Her nerves leaping like frightened frogs, she commanded herself to play her part and smiled, she hoped benignly. “Oh, hello there. I . . . ah . . . wondered if you can tell me where the powder room is.” Honestly embarrassed to have asked a man directions to the toilet, Loretta blushed.
The butler’s stern demeanor softened, as if he comprehended how a delicately reared young lady might shrink from asking such a question. “Certainly, ma’am. Right upstairs and to the left.” He gave her an understanding smile.
Resenting the smile, but ecstatic to have been given permission to snoop upstairs, Loretta simpered fatuously. “Thank you so much.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Before darting up the stairs, she asked, “Er . . . is Mr. Tilli
nghurst planning a journey?” She eyed the candlestick in the butler’s hand.
He glanced down at it and back at Loretta. “Mr. Tillinghurst has been called back east, ma’am. We’re packing household, as he expects to be gone for some time.”
“Back east, eh?”
“Yes. A family emergency.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” A likely story. Loretta credited Mr. William Frederick Tillinghurst with about as much family feeling as a rattlesnake. And did he aim to take Messrs. Peavey and Jones with him? She simpered again, hating herself even as she did so. “I should so like to journey to New York again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The man’s stolid, butlerish mien had returned, and Loretta guessed she’d be better off not trying to pry further information from him. Although it seemed unlikely, the butler might be in cahoots with Mr. Tillinghurst. Perhaps she’d find a maid upstairs whom she could question. Women were ever so much easier to talk to than men.
“Thank you,” she said, and skipped up the stairs.
Mr. Tillinghurst didn’t stint on his furnishings. Loretta had been in his home before, when she’d accompanied her parents to parties here, but this time she paid more attention to the way the place was decorated. Chinese silks had been hung on the wall in the upstairs hall. When she walked up to scrutinize one of them more closely, she thought it looked as if it might well be ancient. Denise had something like it in her art gallery. Loretta wondered if Tillinghurst had stolen them from a gallery somewhere, or from an art collector.
Then there were the objects d’art placed here and there in pleasing arrangements. And the carved ebony chairs with the luscious silk-embroidered cushions. Loretta squinted down at one of the cushions and was sure she’d seen something similar to it in a museum in London.
Goodness, but Mr. Tillinghurst must be a very rich man. Or a very dishonest one. Or both.
Her parents’ house was furnished expensively, and her father enjoyed antique Chinese and Persian accessories, but his home was nothing like this. This might as well be another museum.
Perfect Romance Page 24
