by Lynn Kurland
“Get off me!”
He heaved himself up into the seat, trying not to crush her in the process, and fumbled for the door to pull it shut as Rufus sped off. He sat back, dragged his hands through his hair, and sighed deeply.
“Thank you, Rufus,” he said. It seemed a rather feeble display of appreciation, but he supposed he might frighten the good Miss Drummond if he fell upon Rufus’s neck and sobbed like a bairn.
“Where to now, Master Derrick?”
“Away is enough for the moment,” Derrick said. He shifted on his seat and looked at Samantha, who was still fumbling with her seat belt. Safety first, he supposed, which he wasn’t going to argue with. Far easier to get his lace back if she wasn’t trying to get out of the backseat.
He watched her for another moment or two, then reached over and buckled her seat belt for her. Her hands were shaking too badly to manage it herself. A guilty conscience, no doubt. Add to that her absolutely white features and there he had a criminal caught red-handed.
And on the subject of being red-handed, he looked down at his own hand, covered as it was in blood that had dripped down his arm. He was fairly sure it wasn’t anything more than a scratch, so he ignored it in favor of staring down the miscreant sitting next to him.
“Where is the lace?” he demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said faintly.
“Of course you know what I’m talking about.”
He watched her hand creep under her apron. He wasn’t altogether sure she didn’t have a knife with her, but he supposed being stabbed by that couldn’t make his arm hurt any more than it hurt at present. Plus, he wouldn’t have any trouble disarming her. He waited until she had started to fumble with whatever she’d found before he lifted the apron of her dress and removed what turned out to be a small notebook from her trembling fingers.
“Give that back,” she said, reaching for it.
He held it away, then glared at her. “Give me back the lace first.”
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Listen, Miss Drummond—”
“How do you know who I am?”
He shot her what he hoped had come out as a supercilious look. “I know all kinds of things,” he said curtly, “including the fact that you have in your possession a piece of lace that does not belong to you, a piece of Edwardian textile—”
“Elizabeth—” She looked at him, the word dying on her lips.
“Elizabethan?” he asked politely. “How interesting that you should know that. Now, where is it?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He wasn’t in the habit of throttling those of the fairer sex, but he was tempted to shout at her at least. He might have wondered if she were actually telling the truth, but she just looked so profoundly guilty. He looked at her sternly.
“I want answers.”
She looked absolutely terrified, which began to leave him slightly unsettled. He wasn’t about to credit her with anything of an altruistic or noble nature, but the woman didn’t look as if she could have stolen a sweet from a shop with any success.
“I don’t have any answers,” she said, “so you might as well let me go.”
“Straight to Scotland Yard, if I had any sense,” he said grimly.
“A dangerous place for you, I’d imagine,” she said, looking down her nose at him. Unfortunately, the fact that her teeth were chattering ruined the aura of bravado.
“What does that mean?”
“It means how do I know you aren’t a textile thief?”
He frowned. Things were not going quite as he’d expected them to, which bothered him. He was accustomed to knowing what would happen before it happened. This business of the unexpected . . . well, he wasn’t sure he cared for it.
“Derrick, we have a couple of friends behind us,” Rufus interjected suddenly. “What do you want me to do?”
Derrick considered furiously. His arm was about to make him daft with its throbbing, he had a very uncooperative courier sitting next to him, and they were both being followed by unknown quantities. He couldn’t imagine that they were friends of the woman sitting next to him. Perhaps some time in a quiet location would cause the answers to bubble to the surface. With the way his companion was wheezing, he didn’t suppose that would take very long.
He texted Oliver. Hotel?
Already done.
Where?
Ritz, of course. Cameron’s buying.
He’ll bill me.
Prob.
Derrick wasn’t a fan of big, splashy hotels, but the security and visibility of the Ritz was undeniable. A difficult place in which to find oneself mugged. He sighed. “The Ritz, please, Rufus.”
“Very good, Master Derrick.”
Samantha Drummond was making noises that sounded remarkably rodent-like. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Cameron’s Mercedes had mice nesting under the seats. He pursed his lips, then looked at his companion. Her face was only occasionally lit by the traffic, but he saw all he needed to. She was absolutely terrified.
“I’ll scream,” she said, sounding as if she would only scream after she’d lost what lunch she’d managed to ingest.
He shifted so he could look her full in the face. “I have no intention of harming you,” he said, though he would most certainly and with a certain amount of cheerfulness turn her over to the authorities once he’d had his lace back from her. “I don’t think the others following you are nearly as altruistic.”
“Bald guy?”
He nodded.
“Skinny guy?”
He nodded, deciding that perhaps it would be discreet not to mention the other two Oliver had seen in the crowd. For all he knew, there were even more.
“What do they want from me?”
“What do you think they want from you?”
She put her hand over her mouth and turned to look out the window.
Derrick wasn’t unused to waiting people out. It had served him very well over the years, that waiting. He could surely outlast a simple scholar from across the Pond, even one who was foolish enough to try to make a little extra from a bit of thievery. Perhaps she’d considered lifting the lace herself. He imagined with enough time and a handful of disappointed looks, she might be dissuaded from a further life of crime. A pity she would spend so long in prison. He didn’t imagine she would look quite as lovely after her stint.
But that wasn’t his worry.
Why he couldn’t have done that at a cheap hotel, he didn’t know, but there it was. At least he would get something decent to eat out of the bargain.
He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He pressed his free hand against his shoulder and almost lost consciousness. That wasn’t good, but it could wait.
He gave Samantha Drummond half an hour before she was singing like a lark. His arm would last that long.
Or so he hoped.
Chapter 9
Samantha stared up at the façade of the Ritz as the very nice car she was sitting in slowed to a stop in front of it. She had spent the ride thinking about how she might best get away from her—well, she couldn’t decide if she should call him her rescuer or her captor. He had certainly hoisted a sword in her defense and he had gotten her away from those very unpleasant-looking men who seemed to be wanting to have a little chat with her. Then again, he had also shoved her into the back of a car and driven off with her, which she couldn’t say was a point in his favor.
She forced herself to take deep, even breaths, then decided she would make a list of events, because making lists always made her feel more in control of her life. And if there were ever a time in her life she needed some control, it was then.
The first item of interest was the fact that she had just spent an unusual half hour in the midst of some weird, reality-show-like street fair complete with extremely unsettling sewage-like props. Second, she
had been rescued by a man who had borrowed a rapier from someone else, then fought with it as if he’d known what he was doing. Third, after a few more thrills and chills that felt far too paranormal for her taste, she was being let out of a very expensive car in front of a hotel that she never would have gotten closer to than gawking at it online.
She was going to have to examine all of those at greater length, but first she had to get herself somewhere safe. And at the moment, if her choice was staying out on the street where she was potentially in the sights of very unpleasant-looking thugs or going inside the hotel where she could maybe go hide in the ladies’ room and start screaming in order to be rescued, she would take the inside route.
The door was opened by a bellhop. She might have considered bolting right there, but that Derrick person had suddenly materialized next to her and taken her by the arm. She allowed that and continued on into the lobby, hoping a handy escape route would present itself sooner rather than later.
It was hard not to feel like a country bumpkin when she walked through sheer luxury. She was acutely aware of her dress, which had acquired a few suspicious substances during her trip through the street fair, and her shoes, which had unavoidably encountered an open sewer on the same jaunt. The truth was, she smelled, and not in a good way.
She clutched her bag to her under her apron and didn’t protest when Derrick, last name unknown, took her by the arm and led her over to the concierge’s desk. He at least didn’t seem to be bothered by her outfit. Then again, the sleeve of his shirt was wet with something so dark that either he had run into a glass of burgundy or he was bleeding. That didn’t seem to faze him, either.
He looked at the man behind the counter. “I believe we have a reservation.”
The concierge looked first at him, then at her, as if he just wasn’t quite sure what to make of either of them. He started to speak but was immediately hip-checked out of the way by an older, more distinguished-looking gentleman.
“Her Ladyship phoned ahead,” he said. “I am Maurice. It is, of course, a pleasure to serve any guest of the Countess of Assynt.”
Samantha suppressed the urge to stick her fingers in her ears. “Who?”
Maurice looked at her and a slight pucker formed between his eyes. “The Countess of Assynt. And you are—”
“Someone very famous,” Derrick said smoothly. “She prefers anonymity.”
Samantha felt her mouth fall open. “No, I wouldn’t—”
“She would,” Derrick insisted. He leaned forward slightly. “Method acting and all that, of course. Elizabethan part, as you can see by the costume. We’ve been rehearsing an abduction scene.”
“We’re not rehearsing anything,” Samantha exclaimed. “He’s kidnapping me—”
“For the scene,” Derrick interjected. “Of course.”
Maurice looked slightly alarmed. “If I might ask—”
“Or perhaps not,” Derrick said with a smile. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “I can’t mention names and this one is too modest to, but she’s a very famous American actress.” He nodded. “Yes, that one.”
“She doesn’t look like her—”
“None of them look like themselves without their stylist, do they?” Derrick said dismissively. He straightened and was again all business. “I need to get her out of the range of any photographers. If you wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course, Mr. Cameron.”
Samantha was starting to get dizzy from looking back and forth between them and trying to get her mouth to form words. Before she could, unfortunately, Maurice had beckoned and an assistant of some kind was instantly there.
“Show them to their suite without delay, Shawn.”
“Ever so good of you,” Derrick said. “I’ll be sure and let Her Ladyship know the sort of service we received.”
More compliments were exchanged. Samantha found that she could do nothing besides continue to splutter helplessly, all the way across the lobby and into the elevator. Derrick, whoever he really was, still had hold of her elbow, but she managed to rip her arm away from him and glare at him. He only smiled indulgently, then nodded meaningfully at their escort.
Samantha considered furiously. Things were rapidly going downhill inside the hotel, but she wasn’t too dumb to realize they wouldn’t be any better outside. Her options were limited to either calling her brother again or calling the police. She wasn’t sure the police would be a good option given that she was currently in possession of a very expensive piece of lace, but Gavin hadn’t seemed all that interested in helping her, either. Given that he likely hadn’t found any enthusiasm for the idea of helping her since the last time she’d talked to him, maybe she was just on her own.
She exited the elevator with Derrick the Gripper resuming his hold on her arm and kept her eyes peeled for a way out of her current predicament. It wasn’t as if she could bang on a door and hope—
Or maybe she could. She contemplated that as she walked down the hallway. There might not be anyone willing to open up to her, but just that gave her what she was fairly convinced was an idea even Carson Drew would have approved of.
She waited until she was standing in front of what was apparently the end of the line for her, then smiled at their escort. “Thanks so much. I’m being kidnapped, you know.”
“Isn’t she droll?” Derrick said in accents so posh, she thought they all might cut themselves on them. “Still in character, even here in the hallway.” He looked at her lovingly. “I believe we should hurry inside and finish the scene, darling, don’t you agree? We wouldn’t want Scotland Yard offering an opinion on—”
Samantha pushed past the man sent to accompany them, jumped inside the room, then turned and shoved the door shut. She bolted it for good measure, then leaned her forehead against the wood.
There was silence on the other side for a moment or two, then a very stern voice that came very clearly through the door.
“Open the door, Miss Drummond. It’s time to come out of character.”
“Go to—” She chewed on the word for a moment or two, then cast caution to the wind. “Go to hell,” she said firmly.
She could hear voices outside, discussing the dilemma. She turned, then leaned back against the door.
Then she jumped half a foot.
A woman rose from the couch, someone who could only have been a Bond girl. Samantha was starting to feel as if instead of falling into a bad crime drama, she had become part of some slick British television show. She wished she could have patted her sidearm meaningfully or given her companion a cool look of disdain, but all she could do was gape at her.
The Bond girl crossed the room to her, then held out her hand. “I’m Emily,” she said, her accent betraying her as French. “Who are you?”
No wonder she looked so effortlessly chic. Samantha wasn’t sure that her Renaissance garb was very stylish, but she was very sure that her normal middle-aged-scholar style would have left Emily wincing involuntarily.
“I’m Samantha,” Samantha managed. “And I’m—”
“A thief,” Derrick growled from the other side of the door.
Samantha pointed back over her shoulder. “He thinks I’m a thief.”
“You are a thief!” came the accusation, muffled, through the door.
“Please, sir, the other guests—”
“The other guests be damned!”
Emily pursed her lips, then laughed a little. “I think, chérie, that perhaps we had best let him in before he lands himself in trouble.”
“He kidnapped me,” Samantha said quickly. “I need help.”
Emily looked utterly surprised. “Kidnapped?”
“Well, what else would you call it? He’s been following me for days, he chased me through a street fair, then he threw me into a car and brought me here.”
“That does sound suspicious,” Emily agreed, “but maybe he was trying to rescue you.”
“I want my lace back!” came the voice very clearl
y through the door.
“Derrick, be quiet,” Emily called.
“Is this part of the scene, Mr. Cameron?” said the concierge’s assistant. “Or should I call the police?”
“Yes,” Samantha said loudly.
“No,” Derrick said firmly. “Emily, open the door!”
“No, don’t,” Samantha said quickly.
Emily frowned. “What are you afraid he’ll do?”
“I’m afraid he’ll take me off somewhere and lock me up until he’s decided what he’ll do with me.” She paused. “Which he seems to have already done.”
“At least the surroundings are lovely.”
Well, there was that. And honestly, she couldn’t imagine even a highly paid thug taking his prey to the Ritz. And what sort of guy would have someone as chic as Emily the Bond girl babysitting that room? She considered, then looked at Emily.
“He’s not dangerous?”
Emily shook her head.
“But he won’t listen to me.”
Emily drew her away from the door. “He will listen to me.”
Samantha put her hand on the door and kept it shut. “I don’t trust him.”
Emily paused, then looked at her seriously. “I cannot blame you, of course, but I will tell you that I would trust Derrick Cameron with my life. I have trusted him with that life in the past, more than once.”
Samantha didn’t want to believe that, but Emily looked so reasonable that she was beginning to doubt her doubts. She frowned at Emily. “Who are you?”
“I work for Robert Cameron, the Earl of Assynt,” she said. “Doing odd jobs, attending to his wife, things they both need me to take care of.” She smiled. “We are trustworthy.”
Samantha wasn’t entirely sure she could count Derrick in that group, but at least Emily looked trustworthy. If things went south, she could hide behind Emily and call the cops.
And again, she was standing in a gorgeous suite at the Ritz. If Derrick had been a thug, she would have been in a crappy hotel in the wrong part of town. Sort of like where her stuff was currently residing.
