An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  “May I borrow your cloak?” she asked in a low voice as Camellia untied the garment in question.

  “Of course.” Camellia’s brows rose in question, but she slid the cloak off her shoulders and handed it to Vivian. “Why? Where are you going?”

  “Outside, to talk to Lady Kitty. She’s in her carriage waiting for me. I’ll explain later.” Vivian whipped the cloak on over her dress and tied it, leaning closer to say, “Gregory has been looking for you all evening. He’s just inside the assembly room by the potted plant, utterly bored.”

  Vivian smiled and slipped away. She went out the door and looked down the street. She spotted Lady Mainwaring’s elegant, old carriage standing near the end of the block. As she started down the steps, Mrs. Dentwater was coming up, and the woman greeted her effusively, linking her arm chummily through Vivian’s and chattering away. It took Vivian several minutes and a promise to come to her house for dinner next Thursday to get away from the woman. As she turned away, Vivian pulled up the hood of the cloak as far as she could so that it would be difficult to see her face. She was glad she had done so when she started along the broad sidewalk and saw Lady Parkington and her daughter Dora coming toward her. Vivian ducked her head so that her face was not visible at all and moved over to the edge of the sidewalk, walking with swift purpose. She thought she heard an indrawn breath as she passed the women, but she kept her eyes determinedly on her feet as she walked.

  Once she was past them, she glanced up and saw that the door to Kitty’s carriage stood open, waiting for her, and she hurried to it. Swinging up into the carriage, she closed the door, then turned back to Lady Kitty. To her astonishment, a man, not Kitty, sat on the seat, watching her.

  “Mr. Brookman!” She gaped at the jeweler in bewilderment.

  After a cry and a snap of a whip, suddenly the horses took off, throwing Vivian onto the seat beside him.

  Dora Parkington turned her head to look at the woman who had just walked past them. She was certain that it was Camellia Bascombe. Dora had seen Camellia wear that vivid blue cloak more than once. The pale blue braid that edged the hood and hem made the cloak distinctive. Dora had felt a stab of envy the first time she had seen Camellia wearing it, knowing that she herself would have looked so much better in it than the blond Camellia. The color would have been stunning against her black hair and pale skin and would have deepened the blue of her eyes. Moreover, she would have known how to drape the hood so that it complemented her looks, not pulling it so far forward that one couldn’t even see her face.

  Of course, perhaps that was exactly what Miss Bascombe intended. Dora watched as Camellia walked straight up to the carriage and climbed into it. Dora sucked in her breath in a delighted gasp. She was even more elated when the carriage then took off immediately, the horses and vehicle clattering loudly into the night.

  “Dora!”

  She turned to see her mother waiting for her, frowning at Dora’s dawdling. Grinning, Dora scurried after her. Her mother’s mood would certainly change when she heard this tidbit.

  Moments later, the two of them walked up the steps, ready to begin. Several people were bunched in the large entry hall in front of them, handing their outerwear to servants and preparing to greet Lady Cumberton.

  Raising her voice slightly as they took their place behind the others, Dora said, “But, Mama, I am sure it was Miss Bascombe.”

  Her mother clucked her tongue, then said, “Goodness, child, you must have been mistaken. Miss Bascombe would not have been running off to get in a carriage alone!”

  All around them, the noise level dropped perceptibly, and Dora could almost feel the people around her leaning in to better hear her words. Ignoring her audience, she went on breathlessly, “But, Mama, that is the thing—she was not alone. There was a man in the carriage waiting for her.”

  After her words, utter silence fell all around them. Lady Parkington glanced about, as if she had just now noticed all the people turning to stare at them.

  “Oh!” Lady Parkington’s hand fluttered up to her cheek in dismay. “Oh, my. Dora! See what you have done! Surely you are mistaken. It couldn’t have been Miss Bascombe.”

  “Oh.” Dora looked around her, wide-eyed, then glanced down, quickly covering her cheeks with her hands as if embarrassed, pressing hard to bring up a “blush.” “Mama, indeed, I would not want to do that.” Her voice faltered, and she let her hands drop to reveal her girlishly reddened cheeks. “Perhaps . . .” She brightened, and her voice grew stronger. “Perhaps it was not she. There must be another girl who has a blue cloak like that with the braid all around the hood.”

  A look of even more consternation crossed her mother’s face. “Oh, dear. Um, yes, of course, that must be it.” She pasted on a bright smile. “There is doubtless another guest with a cloak like Miss Bascombe’s. How silly of you to be so fooled.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Dora looked elated at having come up with this explanation. She had to look down again, though, to hide the triumph in her eyes as voices rose around them in excited murmurs.

  Dora could hear Camellia’s name being whispered as she handed off her cloak and moved to the line to be presented to her host and hostess. As she and her mother moved on from the receiving line, she found it slow going, for she was stopped time and again and asked if Camellia Bascombe had really ridden off in a carriage with a man.

  “Oh, no,” Dora protested, wide-eyed. “I must have been mistaken. After all, she had the hood of her cloak pulled so far forward that I could not see her face. I am sure Mama must be right, and there was another woman here wearing a cloak just like hers. You must not think that it was Miss Bascombe. I would be so heartbroken if anything I said made anyone gossip about her. I am convinced that it was not Camellia Bascombe.”

  “What was not Camellia Bascombe?” said a flat voice a few feet away from them.

  Dora looked up, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment. For there was Camellia herself, and standing right beside her was Lord Seyre. Dora opened her mouth and closed it, unable to speak.

  Camellia glanced around and her brows drew together. “What have you been saying, Miss Parkington? I’d like to hear it.”

  Someone to Dora’s left hastened to say, “’Twas nothing. Miss Parkington merely saw someone wearing a cloak just like yours a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” Camellia’s frown cleared. “That must have been Lady Vivian. I lent her my cloak.” She stopped, glancing at the faces that had suddenly turned to stone around her. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  A few people eyed Seyre nervously, but most looked everywhere but at him. Then whispers began to buzz. Camellia, eyes flashing, took a step forward and grabbed Dora by the arm. “What were you saying? Tell me! What lies have you been spreading?”

  “I wasn’t lying!” Dora retorted, stung. “I saw her!”

  “You saw her what?” Now Seyre came closer, and Dora looked around, her face a study in desperation.

  “I—I’m sure it was nothing, Lord Seyre.” Dora widened her eyes, trying to force tears into them. “I was probably mistaken about the cloak.”

  “Tell me what you saw,” Seyre said through clenched teeth, looming over her. “What happened to my sister?”

  “I don’t know!” Dora wailed, no longer having to force the tears, which were flooding out wretchedly now. “She got in a carriage with a man and left!”

  “A man!” Camellia exclaimed. “Now I know you’re lying. Seyre, it’s nothing.” She laid a calming hand on Gregory’s arm. “It was not a man. It was that friend of hers. Kitty. She told me she was going out to talk to Kitty, and she asked to borrow my cloak.”

  “Lady Mainwaring?” Seyre relaxed with a smile. “Oh, of course.” He cast a look of contempt at Dora. “It might be advisable to think next time, Miss Parkington, before you start spreading lies about someone.”

  “I wasn’t lying!” Dora cried, outraged past the point of good sense. “It was a man. I saw him in there when we walked
past the carriage. There wasn’t a woman in it, only a man!”

  Lord Seyre took a step back, and his face suddenly drained of all color. He looked over at Camellia, who stared back at him in equal dismay. “Gregory, no, do you think—”

  “That it was a ruse? Yes!”

  “We have to get Oliver!” Camellia took off at a sprint for the other room.

  Vivian straightened up in her seat and turned to face Brookman. “What are you doing here? Where’s Kitty?”

  “I imagine that Lady Mainwaring is where she usually can be found—at some party or club, gambling. It wasn’t hard for Kilbothan to get the carriage; she’ll never know. And he’s been able to copy her handwriting for some time now.”

  Her mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “You and Kilbothan are stealing the jewels! Both of you run the ring!”

  “Kilbothan!” Brookman made a contemptuous flick of his wrist, as though dismissing the man. “He’s an employee, nothing more. I am the one in charge.”

  Vivian nodded. “It makes sense. You don’t have to sell the jewelry at reduced prices to jewelers or pawnbrokers. You can take the jewels from the settings and reset them in the pieces you sell. Have them recut if need be. You can even melt down the gold and silver to use again.”

  “Waste not, want not.” A thin smile curved Brookman’s lips. “I was even able to sell some of the reset stones back to their original owners. There was a certain wonderful irony in that.” Some of Vivian’s disgust at his words must have shown on her face, for the smile dropped from his lips and he snapped, “You were happy enough to buy my jewels, my lady.”

  “You sold me stolen jewels? Is the Scots Green stolen, too?”

  “Presumably it was stolen several times throughout its history, but I had nothing to do with its theft. It came through the usual channels of jewel merchants just as I told you. And, no, none of your jewels were stolen—except for diamond chips or something of that like. You were far too knowledgeable, as well as too influential, to sell you stolen goods—or to take them from you. I intended to use your patronage to make me the favorite of the ton. If you had recognized one of the stolen pieces in something I’d sold to you, then where would I have been?”

  “Precisely where you are now, it seems to me,” Vivian retorted.

  He sighed in that same rather arch manner that was so different from the way he had always spoken to Vivian before. It was almost like seeing an entirely different man. He even looked somehow different. As soon as she had the thought, Vivian realized where the change lay—Brookman was no longer dressed in the plain, serviceable sort of suit he wore at his business. His jacket and breeches, his shirt, even his neckcloth were of the best-quality material and cut. His hair was artfully styled. Gold fobs dangled from his watch chain, and emeralds gleamed at his cuffs and in the stickpin of his neckcloth. He was dressed like a gentleman of fashion and leisure, and the helpful, just-short-of-obsequious demeanor he used in his shop was gone. He could have passed for any young gentlemen of the upper class.

  “Yes, I hate losing your business,” Brookman admitted in response to Vivian’s last words. “I tried my best to keep you from finding out. Even gave Kilbothan back that brooch in the hopes that it would make you drop the matter.”

  “I am surprised you still possessed it.”

  He shrugged. “It was such a valuable piece in its present form. I hated to recut the central diamond; it wouldn’t have been worth as much. But it was too recognizable to sell the gem, even in a different setting. I couldn’t make up my mind.”

  “I don’t understand why you did it.” Vivian looked at him, disgust mingling with puzzlement. “You have such talent. You are an artist. You’ve already had success. In the years to come you would have only had more.”

  “I enjoy designing the pieces. But that’s not enough money. Not the life I want. Bowing and flattering, effacing myself to people utterly lacking in taste or talent. Putting my beautiful works on the neck of some old hag . . . making rings for a buffoon to toss to some light o’ love as a parting gift. Dressing like a bloody shopkeeper because that is what’s expected of me. You’re right—I am an artist. And I quickly saw that in order to be treated with the respect I deserved, in order to be free to design what I pleased, I would need a great deal more money than I made in that store. At first, it was just a little extra money, being able to make a larger profit from a necklace or a pair of earrings because I didn’t have to buy the jewels. But I quickly saw that I could get far more jewelry than I could use, so I began selling to others. That is when I began to make real money.”

  Vivian shook her head. “I don’t understand. Kidnapping me makes no sense. I had no idea that you were involved until you showed yourself tonight.”

  “Yes, I saw that when you got into the carriage. You truly do not have it.” He heaved a sigh. “That means Stewkesbury is the one who picked it up. Or one of those other two—and though they wouldn’t realize its importance, sooner or later they’d be bound to show it to you or the earl or someone who could see the significance of it, and then I would be finished. But now that I have you, Stewkesbury will give it to me in exchange.”

  “What is it you’re looking for? Why is it so important? Stewkesbury and I will know who you are and what you did. You’ll be imprisoned!” Vivian stopped, sucking in her breath sharply. “Unless—you mean to kill us all.”

  “I thought of that.” His voice was horrifyingly nonchalant. “But I decided that it would be far too messy and dangerous. Getting rid of a mercenary little thief like Glass is one thing; killing an earl and a duke’s daughter is a different matter entirely. God knows, I might have to do away with the other two as well, and that would mean doing away with a marquess. No, I shall have to disappear—change my name, my appearance, perhaps even live on the Continent for a few years. But I’ve money enough to do it now. As long as Stewkesbury gives me what I want, there’ll be nothing to connect me to the murder of Cosmo Glass. The murder charge is all that is important.”

  “But Stewkesbury doesn’t have it!”

  “One of you four does. Maybe no one else has admitted it. Obviously no one’s realized what it means. But I searched Glass’s place after you left, and it was not there. One of you took it.”

  “No one took it!” Vivian exclaimed in frustration. “Why won’t you listen to me? We didn’t find anything at Glass’s place.”

  Brookman’s eyes narrowed, and his face turned cold. “You had better hope that one of them did. Because if they didn’t, then I can be tied to his murder and I’ll have no choice but to kill you all and flee.”

  Vivian could only stare at Brookman as an icy cold swept over her.

  His expression changed, becoming once again the light, faintly sardonic face he had worn throughout the ride. “Ah, here we are.”

  Vivian turned to the window as the coach slowed and came to a stop. They were pulling up in front of Brookman’s shop.

  “Now, we’ll just go inside,” he went on pleasantly. “And I’ll send a note around to Stewkesbury telling him how to recover you. It won’t be long, and hopefully you won’t be too uncomfortable.”

  Vivian lunged for the door handle, screaming at the top of her lungs. Brookman was quick, however, and stronger than she would have imagined. He grabbed her around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides, and hauled her back against him, clamping his other hand over her mouth to stifle her screams. Vivian continued to struggle, kicking and trying to bite his hand, but he held on just as fiercely. After a few moments, the door to the carriage opened, and Wesley Kilbothan appeared.

  “For Christ’s sake, shut her up!” he growled. He climbed inside, closing the door behind him, and pulled out a small, leather-wrapped roll. His hand slashed down toward Vivian’s temple in a swift stroke.

  Pain crashed in her head, and everything went black.

  Chapter 22

  Oliver knew the instant he saw Camellia’s face. Something has happened to Vivian. A hard, col
d lump formed in the pit of his stomach, and he closed the gap between him and Camellia in two quick strides.

  “What is it? Where’s Vivian?”

  Camellia looked startled, but she said only, “I don’t know. She told me she was going out to talk to Kitty, but Dora Parkington insists that she got into a carriage with a man and that the carriage left.”

  “Bloody hell! After last night, why would she meet someone by herself?”

  “She got a note from Lady Kitty. She had it in her hand.”

  “We must be certain that Miss Parkington isn’t making this up in order to appear interesting. And we’ll look outside to make sure Vivian isn’t sitting out there in Lady Kitty’s carriage.”

  “I’ll find Lady Kitty,” Fitz said. He and Eve had come up behind Oliver and had caught the gist of their conversation. “Perhaps Kitty had some crisis that Vivian went to help her with.”

  Oliver nodded. “As soon as we talk to Miss Parkington, we’ll go home. Meet us there.”

  It did not take long for Oliver’s terse, cold questioning to have Dora Parkington crying again and swearing that she had seen a man and only a man in the carriage the woman in Camellia’s cloak had entered. Oliver, along with Camellia, Gregory, and Eve then walked up and down the block, looking into all the carriages lined up there. None of them contained Vivian. Leaving the Carlyle carriage at the curb in front of the Cumbertons’ house in case Lady Vivian returned to the party, they got into Stewkesbury’s carriage and drove to his home, where they gathered in Oliver’s study.

  No one could seem to sit down, at least for more than an instant. Gregory stood, staring sightlessly down into the fireplace, his face drawn. Camellia went to stand beside him and slipped her hand into his. Gregory offered her a faint smile in return. Both of them turned back to Oliver, who was pacing up and down the length of the room. His face was set, his eyes dark and cold as a winter sea.