by Candace Camp
“It has to be the man from last night. It has to! Who else would abduct her?”
“But wouldn’t Vivian have known if the note was not written by her friend?” Eve asked.
“Does Vivian know the woman’s hand that well?” Oliver turned to Seyre. “Would you know her handwriting?”
Gregory shrugged. “I wouldn’t. But Lady Kitty was closer to Vivian. They’ve corresponded for years, ever since she and the duke parted.”
“Then it was forged,” Oliver responded. “Or someone else wrote a note, saying they were writing it for Lady Kitty, that she was too distraught.”
“I suppose she might have gone if she received such a note.” Gregory turned to Camellia. “Did she specifically say that Kitty had written the note?”
“I don’t remember!” Camellia’s face knotted in distress. “I’ve been wracking my brain, but I can’t recall the exact words. It was just a quick thing, a few words as she put on my cloak. I’m certain that she said she was going out to talk to Kitty in her carriage. But I’m not sure anymore if she even said that there was a note or I just assumed that because I saw the paper in her hand.”
“It’s all right.” Gregory squeezed her hand comfortingly. “There was no reason for you to pay attention to what she said. You had no way of knowing.”
“But I shouldn’t have let Vivian walk out by herself!” Camellia’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t even think that it might be a trick. I should have been more careful. More alert.”
“We all should have.” Oliver’s voice was heavy with regret. “If I had only gone there earlier . . .”
“We cannot sit here indulging ourselves in should-haves,” Eve said crisply. “It doesn’t help. What we need to do is figure out who took her and why.”
“And, most of all, where she is now,” Oliver added. “You’re right. If the note was a forgery, then it seems to me that the likeliest suspect would be that poet that Vivian said Lady Kitty had taken in.”
“Kilbothan,” Gregory said darkly. “I’m sure he’s taking advantage of Lady Mainwaring. I can believe he’s learned to copy her handwriting. He could have supplemented the money she freely gave him with an extra bank draft or two. But it’s a little hard for me to imagine him killing someone or abducting Vivian.”
Oliver looked bleak. “I have absolutely no idea who else it could be.”
“Let’s look at it from the other end,” Gregory said. “I have to wonder why this fellow is so concerned with whatever he thinks we have. What would be worth exposing himself this way? Vivian will see him. She will know who he is and can have him arrested.”
“If he lets her go,” Oliver said, and everyone in the room looked at him in horror. “That’s why we have to get her back. We cannot rely on this man to be fair or kind. If this is the same one who attacked her last night, we have to ask, why did he take her? Why didn’t he come here? Why not attack me?”
“Because he hopes to force you to tell him,” Eve said. “Perhaps he even realizes you may have a trap laid for him. It would not take much imagination to guess that Vivian warned you about him. He might have assumed you would be armed against him, waiting for him to break in here.”
“But if he stole Vivian, he could make me give him whatever he asked for,” Oliver concluded. “You’re right. I would give it to him in a second . . . if I only had some clue what it was.”
“It must be something that could identify him,” Gregory said. “Something that, if found, would show that he’d been in Glass’s room.”
Oliver nodded. “An engraved watch, say, or a distinctive ring.”
“Exactly.”
“That makes sense. Did you see anything like that in Glass’s room?”
Gregory and Camellia were silent, thinking, but after a moment both of them shook their heads.
“Perhaps someone else took it,” Camellia suggested. “If all four of us know that we didn’t take it, and it’s gone, the only answer is that someone else did. Maybe after Gregory and I left the room, someone sneaked in there and took it.”
“I suppose someone could have,” Oliver began reluctantly. He went utterly still. “My God,” he breathed. “There was someone else there. Someone who delights in taking things.”
He swung around and charged out of the room. The others looked after him in baffled silence. Then Camellia clapped her hands together and let out a whoop. “Pirate!”
They found the earl on his hands and knees in the space beneath the backstairs. He crawled around, checking under the dog’s blanket and in every nook and cranny. Pirate stood watching him with great interest, wagging his tail. Eve, who had thought to bring a candle from the other room, bent down to bring light to the small, dark space.
A glint of metal at the edge of an old boot caught Oliver’s eye, and he pounced on it. “My God.” He sat back on his heels, staring at the object.
“What is that?” Camellia asked.
“It’s a jeweler’s loupe.” Oliver’s face was grim as he exited from the dog’s hiding place. “And I have a very good idea whose.”
He held it close to Eve’s candle, turning it so that the silver ring around it glinted. Something was engraved on the silver.
“GDB,” he said, his lip curling up in a smile that was chilling. “It’s Brookman’s loupe.”
“Brookman?” Gregory gaped at him. “Vivian’s jeweler?”
Oliver nodded grimly. “I’m certain of it. I was there when he handed it to her to look at a necklace. It’s quite distinctive; it has his initials here on the silver band. See?” He held it out to Gregory. “He must have had it with him when he went to Glass’s, and during the fight it fell out of his pocket. He knew it would identify him beyond any doubt. That is why he was so anxious to retrieve it.”
“But why?” Camellia asked. “If Vivian had had the loupe, she would have already known who he was. Why bother to get it back?”
Oliver shrugged. “I don’t suppose criminals are always logical.”
“He could hope that she hadn’t really examined the thing yet and so didn’t know the truth,” Gregory offered. “Besides, as long as the loupe was gone, there wouldn’t have been any proof. Even with Lady Vivian’s word or yours, the Crown’s case would be weak without the loupe itself.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Oliver’s hand closed into a fist around the loupe, and he set his jaw, his eyes cold and glittering. “I know where Vivian is.”
He thrust the loupe into his jacket pocket as he strode toward the door. The others followed him, including Pirate, his nails clicking merrily on the marble floor of the entryway. They had not quite reached the front door when it opened and Fitz came in. His face was grim, and he shook his head.
“I went to Lady Kitty’s. She wasn’t there—nor the carriage. The servants said she’d gone to Bunting’s in the coach, and when I reached the club, her carriage was there. I talked to the coachman, who swore he’d taken Lady Kitty to Bunting’s and had waited for her the whole time. But there was clearly something smoky about the situation. The horses were heated; they obviously hadn’t been just standing about. It didn’t take long before the driver admitted that after he dropped Lady Kitty off, Kilbothan tipped him a yellow boy to lend him the carriage. He swore that he had no idea where the fellow went with the vehicle. He just whiled away the time in a tavern, and Kilbothan took his driving coat and the carriage. I believed him. Unfortunately, Kilbothan was not there, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to find him.”
“So Kilbothan was in on it, too,” Gregory exclaimed.
“Too?” Fitz asked.
“I’ll explain in the carriage,” Oliver said, starting toward the door.
“Let me get my pistols,” Fitz said. “They just might come in handy.”
“You’re right.” Camellia turned and started toward the stairs with him. “I’ll get mine.”
“Wait. No. Camellia, you ladies are staying here.”
Eve and Camellia looked at him with expressions a
lmost identical in their obstinacy.
“Don’t be such a . . . a lord.” Camellia’s tone turned the word into an insult. “You know I’m the best shot here except Fitz.”
“I think we’ve both proven we are not going to fall to pieces in a crisis,” Eve pointed out. “And there’s something to be said for sheer numbers. This man is not going to think he can get away with harming Vivian in front of all of us.”
“Don’t waste time arguing.” Fitz tossed back the advice to his brother as he trotted up the stairs.
Oliver sighed. “Very well. It would be good to be armed. But hurry.”
In only minutes both Fitz and Camellia were back. Camellia had pulled on the dark cloak she had worn the night of Glass’s murder, and her pocket once again sagged with the weight of her pistol. They made their way out to the carriage in front and climbed in. Pirate dashed out with them and sprang up into the carriage before anyone else.
Oliver cast the dog a jaundiced glance, but said only, “I suppose you might as well go. You got us into this mess, after all.”
The others climbed in, and though it was a tight fit, they managed it. They made good time through the almost deserted streets, and the coach pulled up, as Oliver had instructed, half a block away from the jeweler’s store. They walked quickly and quietly the rest of the way.
“Seyre, I think it’s best he see only you,” Oliver whispered as they grew close. Gregory nodded and went to stand in front of the door while Fitz and Oliver took their places on either side of the door, out of sight. Eve and Camellia lined up behind them.
Gregory took a breath, then rapped loudly on the door.
Vivian came slowly awake. Her head ached abominably, and she recognized nothing around her. It didn’t take her long to realize that she was lying on a bed in a room she didn’t know, that she was gagged and bound, and that her bound wrists were attached by a short length of rope to one of the four posts of the bed.
Fear flooded her, and she began to struggle. The rope cut painfully into her wrists, but she managed to pull and wriggle her way up to a sitting position. She looked around the room. It was a small but tastefully furnished bedroom—and completely foreign to her.
Memories flooded back in—the note from Kitty, the carriage and Brookman, Kilbothan. Brookman had taken her back to his shop; she had seen that much before that wretched Kilbothan knocked her in the head. This bedroom was probably part of the jeweler’s living quarters above his store. Many shopkeepers lived above their work.
She sat for a moment, letting her head clear. Brookman was going to use her to lure Oliver here, and if Oliver didn’t have whatever Brookman wanted, the man planned to kill them both. She had to get out of here and warn Oliver. She scooted across the bed to the post where the end of her rope was tied. If she could just undo the knot, though her wrists would still be bound, she would be able to untie the bonds at her ankles and get rid of her gag as well. Unfortunately, the knot was securely tied, and her fingers had grown cold and numb from being bound. After several minutes of fumbling with the rope, she was forced to acknowledge that she was unlikely to untie the knot like this. She leaned her head against the bedpost, willing herself to think.
Her hair ornament! She had pinned a decoration in her hair this evening—a cunning thing made with jet bangles and a black feather. It had looked quite dashing against her red hair, she thought, but the important thing now was that it had been too heavy for the hair comb attached to it, so she had secured it with an onyx-topped hatpin. It was not, perhaps, quite as lethal as some hatpins she had seen, but the shaft of the pin was at least three inches long, and the little onyx knob on the top gave it a grip. She could use it to defend herself if it came down to that, and she might be able to use it to work the knot loose.
It took a bit of contortion to reach the decoration, but finally she pulled out the pin. She slipped the pin into the knot and began to wiggle it. Her hands, she found, grew even more numb from holding them up to do the slow and wearying work at the knot. Gradually, however, the thing began to loosen. In just a few more minutes, she thought, the rope would ease enough for her to work her forefinger into the knot.
Suddenly a loud rapping came from somewhere below. Vivian’s head shot up and her numbed fingers dropped the hatpin. Frustratingly, it lay on the counterpane just beyond the reach of her bound hands. But she was too elated by the knocks on the door below to worry about that. Somehow Oliver must have figured out that Brookman had kidnapped her!
Of course it could be someone else, but it seemed unlikely at this time of night. And even if it was a stranger, he might rescue her—if only she could make him hear her. Vivian began to scream, but the gag muffled the sound effectively. She raised her feet from the floor and slammed them back down as hard as she could over and over. Then she turned and began to kick her feet against the wall.
Downstairs the knocking began again, even more insistently. “Brookman!”
Was that Gregory’s voice? Vivian’s heart leapt in her throat, and she hammered her feet against the wall as hard as she could, cursing the rope that bound her to the bed. She heard men’s voices outside in the hallway, followed by receding footsteps. A moment later, the door to the bedroom was flung open, and Wesley Kilbothan rushed in.
“Stop that!” he hissed, closing the door behind him and hurrying over to her.
Vivian ignored him, still beating her feet on the wall. He whipped a knife out of his pocket, and she froze, certain that he was about to stab her with it. Instead he sawed through the rope connecting her to the bedpost. Relief washed through Vivian. She turned, snatching up the hatpin from where it had fallen, and twisted, jabbing with all her strength at Kilbothan’s chest. The man flinched away, turning enough to take the hit in his upper arm. The pin plunged into the knob, and he let out a shout of pain.
“You bitch!” He pulled back his fist and punched her in the jaw.
For the second time this evening, Vivian lapsed into unconsciousness.
“Who’s there?” A man’s voice came from behind the closed door.
“Mr. Brookman?” Gregory managed to keep his voice lower and calmer than he felt. “Could you open the door? I need to talk to you.”
“It’s quite late. Come back tomorrow.”
“No! Please, open the door. It’s Lord Seyre, Lady Vivian Carlyle’s brother.” Swallowing, he made his voice sound as pleading and uncertain as he could. “Something’s happened to Vivian. She’s vanished and . . . and I think it might be the thieves Vivian talked to you about.”
“How terrible! But, really, I don’t know what I can do.”
“If I could just talk to you—I know Vivian discussed it with you. I told her not to get involved in such things, but she’s always so headstrong. I thought if you could tell me what you’d told her, I might be able to figure it out. Please!” Gregory waited a moment, then said, more forcefully, “Open up the door! I refuse to leave until I talk to you, even if I have to stand here and pound on your door all night.”
Beside him, Oliver turned and looked at the nearest store window. If Brookman didn’t open the door in the next few seconds, he would have to kick in the window and go in that way. But just then, the door opened a crack, revealing a slice of the jeweler’s face.
“Are you alone?”
Gregory flung himself against the door, sending the other man staggering backward, and he rushed inside, quickly followed by Oliver and Fitz. Camellia and Eve squeezed in after them, the dog on their heels.
“Here! I say! What do you think you’re doing?” Brookman huffed, tugging his jacket straight and looking indignant.
“Where is she?” Oliver growled, grabbing the other man by the lapels of his jacket and shaking him. “Where the bloody hell is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the jeweler flared.
“The hell you don’t!” Oliver smashed his fist into Brookman’s face and followed it with a jab to his stomach. “You want to tell me now?”
The jeweler folded, going down to his knees on the floor. Pirate growled at the man, his lips pulling back from his teeth. The door into the rear of the store burst open, and Wesley Kilbothan strode into the showroom, pistol raised. Fitz turned and squeezed off a shot, and the gun flew out of the other man’s hand. Kilbothan let out a cry and grabbed his hand. He started toward Fitz, murder on his face.
“Stop!” Camellia cried out, her word followed by the deadly click of a pistol’s hammer.
Kilbothan froze and swung his head toward Camellia. He narrowed his eyes in assessment.
“Don’t think that she won’t shoot just because she’s a woman,” Fitz told him lightly. “Besides, as it happens, I have a set of pistols.”
Kilbothan swiveled back and found Fitz training a second gun on him.
“I suggest you go sit down on that stool,” Fitz continued, waggling the gun toward the stool behind the counter.
With a sneer, the other man did as he ordered, flopping down on the high stool and glaring at Fitz, his arms crossed over his chest. “She’s not here. No matter how many times you hit Brookman here, he won’t tell you where she is. He can’t; he doesn’t know.”
Oliver, paying no attention to the drama going on around him, reached down and hauled the jeweler to his feet. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brookman gasped. “I’d never hurt Lady Vivian. She’s my best customer.”
“I know about the loupe.” Oliver reached in his pocket and pulled it out, holding it up so the man could see. “There’s no use lying. You’ll only make things worse for yourself by hurting Lady Vivian.”
Brookman grabbed for the loupe, but Oliver jerked it back out of his reach. Brookman looked at him cagily. “Perhaps a trade might be in order?”
Oliver looked as though he might hit the man again, but he set his jaw, visibly bringing himself under control. “I think a search of your shop is in order.”
He took Brookman’s arm and whirled him around, shoving him toward the door into the rear of the shop. Fitz stayed behind, his gun trained on Kilbothan, as Oliver, Gregory, and Camellia followed Brookman into the back of the store. Pirate trotted after them. Oliver kept a firm grip on Brookman’s arm while Camellia and Gregory searched the office and workroom. When they found nothing, they marched up the stairs. Room by room, they went through it, ending up finally in the bedroom.
