by Robyn DeHart
“There are two that I know of. Your father. And the other I believe you are familiar with as well.”
“Lady Hasbeck?” Amelia asked.
“Yes.”
“No one else?” she asked.
“No.”
“Strange,” Amelia said. “We heard the other day of someone else, and I was certain you’d know of him, since you are generally so well informed. A fellow who thus far prefers to be anonymous. You haven’t heard of him, then?”
He paused awhile before answering. “If it is the same man—and I am reluctant to share this with you, since I know so little about him—but if it is the same I’ve heard about, he is new to town. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to meet him. He sent me a post introducing himself and inviting me to view his collection. But we have been quite busy here at the museum, so I have been unable to visit his pieces.”
“Of course,” Amelia said. “Can you tell me his name? I could contact him, not to intrude, but merely as one collector to another.”
His lips thinned to a white line.
“Oh, please, Monsieur Pitre. Certainly you have more loyalty to my father and me than to this man of whom you have not yet made acquaintance?” She smiled at him then, hoping to calm his ruffled feathers.
His shoulders sagged slightly, and he offered her a tight smile. “Of course, mademoiselle, you should not even have to ask such a question.” He retrieved a sheet of parchment from his desk and wrote out a name and address, then passed it to her.
“Mr. Quincy,” she read aloud. “Mr. Quincy.” She looked at Colin, but he was busy recording something in his notebook.
“Well, thank you, Monsieur Pitre, you’ve been most helpful. And we certainly thank you for your time.” She stood, and waited for Colin to do the same. When he did not, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
He showed no sign that he’d noticed, merely finished his note, put his notebook away, then stood as if he’d always meant to stand at that precise moment.
“Now then, shall we go?” he asked.
He said nothing as they made their way back to the waiting carriage. His silence continued as the carriage lurched forward to return her home. Perhaps he was reviewing their meeting and would reveal his perceptions once he’d had time to evaluate everything.
He looked rather normal, as would any man sitting in a carriage and looking out the window. Well, any man who was naturally more thoughtful than most. So while he didn’t seem unusually pensive, he was always thinking, she’d wager.
Things had not felt right with Monsieur Pitre. He’d behaved rather peculiarly. Ordinarily, he was charming—flirtatious, even. But today he had been different.
Colin still sat looking out the window. She tried to maneuver herself into his line of sight, but found that to be impossible, unless she wanted to plop herself onto his lap. Perhaps this was what inspectors did, they mulled things over before discussing them.
Well, if that was the case, then she would mull as well. She glanced at Colin. This mulling business was actually more difficult than she had anticipated. Nothing would come to her. Nothing save the fact that she wanted to talk. Wanted Colin to say something. Anything. Surely he’d noticed Monsieur Pitre’s odd behavior.
Oh, blast it! She couldn’t take the silence any longer.
“He was acting peculiar. Do you not agree?” she asked.
He turned his head slowly to face her. “Who?”
“Monsieur Pitre.”
“I honestly couldn’t say. Having never met the man before, I have nothing by which to judge today’s behavior.”
“Well, I suppose that is true. He was behaving oddly, of that I am certain.”
“In what way?” Colin asked.
“He seemed agitated. Nervous, even.”
“What do you make of that?”
Her nerves fluttered. She sat forward slightly. “I think he was hiding something.”
“Something about this case?”
Amelia thought a moment. “Perhaps.”
“The Mr. Quincy he spoke of, have you heard anything about him?” he asked.
“No, I don’t believe I have heard of him.”
“Do you think your father might have? Is there any communication between the collectors—perhaps someplace they meet and discuss their collections, or a journal they use to place advertisements?”
“He hasn’t left the house since Nefertiti went missing, so if this Mr. Quincy is very new in town, then my father would not know him. He has, on occasion, gone to his club to meet with some other collectors. I’ve never accompanied him, so I’m not even certain where it is, but I could ask.” He was looking at her so intently now that she worried about her hat sitting straight and whether or not she had anything stuck in her teeth.
She allowed herself to reach up and feel her hat and to smooth her hair. However, she resisted the urge to run her nails across her teeth. She thought for a moment before continuing. “I suppose we could ask some of the other collectors that I’m familiar with to see if anyone has heard of Mr. Quincy.”
“You say that with a great deal of suspicion,” Colin said.
Chills scattered across her scalp. “Are you not suspicious?”
He chuckled. “Me? Always. But up until this point, you were relying on the random street urchin plan. Are you rethinking your original theory and suspecting anyone in particular?”
He was right. She was suspicious. She wasn’t precisely sure why she felt suspicious, but the feeling was there. Creeping in the pit of her stomach. Something was amiss with Monsieur Pitre’s story.
“I’m not certain what I’m questioning, but Monsieur Pitre was behaving queerly and this Mr. Quincy thing doesn’t sit well with me. I do believe Monsieur Pitre is protecting him.”
“Protecting Mr. Quincy?” Colin asked.
“Perhaps.”
“So you think Monsieur Pitre knows Mr. Quincy’s identity, but is not revealing it?”
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Why?”
Amelia frowned. “Why what?”
“Why do you think that he’s protecting Mr. Quincy?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It’s a feeling, I suppose.”
His eyebrows popped up. “A feeling?”
“Yes, a feeling.” A prickle behind the ears, a twist in the gut. She’d learned long ago to pay attention to these sensations. She didn’t always know what caused them, but eventually their truth was revealed. “Generally speaking, my feelings are often correct.”
“Splendid,” he said dryly. “Amelia, one cannot solve cases on feelings.” He rubbed his temples. “We need evidence. Facts.”
“We can find those. But something is telling me that all is not right with Monsieur Pitre’s story. I think we should follow the lead on Mr. Quincy and see what we can discover.”
“Very well, but if it only leads to more of your feelings, we’re looking elsewhere.”
“So you believed him?” she asked.
“I did not say that.”
“Then you had a feeling as well?”
“No, I do not get ‘feelings.’ But I am not inclined to naturally trust someone either.”
“What shall we do from here?”
“You speak with your father about collectors he knows, get additional names if you did not include them on the original list. We’ll need to go back through the list you gave me to see if anyone was left off.” He rubbed his hand down his face, then released a heavy breath. “Tomorrow we shall start visiting them, starting with Lady Hasbeck. Perhaps she has some insight into Mr. Quincy. And we now have an address for him as well.
Also, ask your father about his club. Perhaps we need to pay a visit there as well.”
“There is a journal,” she said. “As you mentioned, one where they post advertisements. I didn’t even think about it, though, until you said something.”
He pointed at her. “Excellent. See if you can secure the latest copy from your father.
Or a few back issues, if he has them. Perhaps there is something in there that can lead us to Mr. Quincy. Or another collector interested in Egyptian antiquities,” Colin said.
Her heart beat rapidly beneath her chest. They were partners, she and Colin. As reluctant as he’d been, he’d accepted her assistance. Now they were working together. And she’d daresay he appreciated her help.
“Be careful revealing information from one source to another,” he said.
“How so?” she asked.
“Giving Pitre the information from Flinders. It worked to your benefit this time, but you must be careful. You don’t want to give someone any reason to think you are threatening him.”
“But the way you questioned Monsieur Pitre,” she said, “that was somewhat threatening.”
“Yes, well, I am bigger than you,” he said.
“I shall be careful.” She smiled at him. “This is fun, isn’t it?”
“Beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Working together. I am enjoying this. I hope you are enjoying it as well. I would imagine it gets rather lonely for you working all alone.”
He shifted in his seat. “Yes, well, I appreciate your assistance.”
Chapter Nine
“Women are never to be entirely trusted—not the best of them.” ~The Sign of Four
Colin ran a hand across Othello’s thick fur. He’d tried for two hours to fall asleep, to no avail. The cat, on the other hand, seemed to have no problems.
“Some life you lead,” Colin said to the creature. Othello opened one green eye, then promptly shut it.
It was a shame cats weren’t more helpful when it came to these sorts of things. Colin’s mind was overrun with the sudden shift his life had taken. The truth of the matter was that Colin was enjoying himself. He hadn’t had this much amusement, if that is what you could call it, in years. He’d never even enjoyed working at the Yard quite this much. Those first few cases had been exhilarating, and working with the other detectives had brought camaraderie. Something he’d found hard to come by working on his own.
But then everyone had gotten sloppy, or so it had seemed. He supposed that the Yard still served its purpose, still worked diligently to make the streets of London safer. But the flagrant disregard for rules and protocol was too much for him to ignore.
Granted, this wasn’t a real case, not in the way the cases he’d worked at the Yard had been.
The Yard was full of men who worked much like Amelia, on hunches and feelings. Men who suspected someone of a crime and then intimidated that person into a confession or simply discovered evidence that made the suspect look guilty enough.
But Colin couldn’t work that way. For him, while justice and safety were important, it was solving the puzzle that intrigued him the most. So he’d left Scotland Yard six months previously to do investigating on his own terms. More than that, though, he’d left to focus more on his research.
But working with Amelia was exhilarating, her ardor and enthusiasm infectious. He found he wanted to be near her, perhaps with the hope that some of her fervor would absorb into his own skin and he’d remember how to smile. Learn how to relax. How to live life simply for the sake of living it.
Amelia knew how to do that. There was an easiness about her, something that everyone who came in contact with her noticed. People genuinely liked her. She gained their trust, a skill that was quite useful when it came to investigating and interrogating people. People were more likely to talk to her, give her information, than they were him.
Before taking this case, he’d foolishly assumed that people would answer his questions simply because he’d asked them. He’d been wrong. Talking to people, making them feel at ease enough to talk with him was not a skill with which he was naturally endowed.
He himself had never had to question people when he’d worked at the Yard. That had been James’s duty. James had had a way about him—a way to make women want to confide all their secrets in him. And men had been afraid enough of him that they too were willing to reveal all of their secrets.
Amelia was less manipulative. She was unaware of her charms and therefore did not use them to her benefit. She simply behaved in her natural manner, and that was generally enough to make people trust her.
Working with her certainly wasn’t a partnership he wanted to commit to, but for the time being he admitted she was useful.
Useful in gathering the information. Processing it was another matter entirely. Her “feelings” would get them nowhere.
He agreed that something was amiss with Monsieur Pitre, but Colin’s reasoning was based on actual facts, not feelings. He doubted very seriously that Monsieur Pitre was actually French; something was wrong with his accent. It was light, mostly undetectable, a drop of a vowel in the wrong place. Colin had spent a significant amount of time in France shortly after his mother left and he had an ear for accents.
But pretending to be from France only meant Pitre wanted people to believe he was French. Perhaps in the museum world that meant something. It didn’t exactly prove he was involved in anything criminal.
Nonetheless, the curator had appeared agitated, his pale skin flushed, but Colin had assumed that was his normal temperament until Amelia noted otherwise. They would definitely have to keep an eye on Monsieur Pitre.
For now he wanted to work on his research. Colin flipped through his fingerprint samples. All of this had seemed to be such a good idea when he’d started. But there was still so much to be done. He needed to discover a way to pull the fingerprints from materials so they could be matched and used as evidence. Otherwise all his work up until this point would have been for naught.
The problem was, he had nothing new to research. There were only so many times a man could study the same sets of fingerprints and only so many times he could look at his own.
Granted he had Amelia’s now. And he’d studied them. On more than one occasion. They were delicate and dainty and sporadic. Quite fitting. But studying her fingerprints only led to more thoughts of her—something he didn’t need assistance with of late.
He especially didn’t need to be thinking of the day he’d taken her fingerprints and the kiss they’d shared afterward. Or the other kiss. Damn, but she felt good in his arms. Too good.
It was precisely this line of thinking that would get him into trouble. He should concentrate on finishing the case at hand, securing new clients, and using the funds to further his research. But Amelia kept intruding—both physically and mentally.
He might not have anything new to work on with his research, but he could do something to remove her from his mind. The primary thing would be to keep his hands off of her. If he’d stop touching her, stop giving in to his desire to kiss her, then she wouldn’t plague his thoughts so much.
He could do that. He’d learned long ago that he could manage his desires. He hadn’t done so lately, not because he couldn’t, but rather because he hadn’t wanted to.
He’d been testing the temperature of the water, so to speak. Trying to keep his mind off her while allowing himself to kiss her. Perhaps some men could control that sort of thing, but not him. His passion ran too deep. He’d always known he would have to sacrifice having any sort of physical contact with women.
Opening himself up to that sort of passion would only leave him unprepared to control the darker passion that was certain to come. He’d seen it time and time again. A man desired a woman so intensely that he could love her, yet he could turn around and hurt her. The two came together as a pair. Different sides to the same coin.
It was time Colin put his restraint back into practice.
“Amelia, how is the investigation going?” Charlotte asked.
Amelia looked up from her game of cribbage with Meg. “It’s rather exciting. I believe Colin has become quite accustomed to my presence. We seem to be working well together now.”
“Colin, is it?” Meg asked with raised eyebrows.
Willow, who sat penning a letter, stoppe
d midsentence and shook her head.
Amelia ignored her. “Yes, well, we felt as if it would be awkward not to use our given names, since we’re working so closely together.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, then exchanged knowing smiles with Meg. “Anything for the advancement of the case, right?”
“Precisely.” Amelia took a thoughtful sip of her tea. She knew they were mocking her, but she refused to acknowledge it. So she opted to direct their attention in a slightly different direction.
“I do believe Colin—that is, Inspector Brindley— is becoming frustrated, though. He’s spending so much time on this case that he’s no doubt neglecting his very important research.”
“On fingerprinting?” Willow asked. This time she did not look up from her letter.
“Yes, that’s right. To whom are you writing?” Amelia asked.
Before Willow could answer, Charlotte chimed in. “Poor Detective Sterling.”
Amelia frowned. “Another one, Willow?”
Willow pursed her lips. “It is anonymous, so it is perfectly safe. But this man is reckless and has little if no regard for the law and rules and regulations. It is disgraceful that he works for Scotland Yard.”
“What has he done this time?” Meg asked.
“Bribed a scullery maid to say she was an eyewitness to a theft so he could arrest a suspect,” Willow said.
“Gracious,” Amelia said. “That does sound disgraceful.”
“Was the man he arrested guilty of theft?” Charlotte asked.
“Well, yes,” Willow admitted. “But he did not do it correctly. He resorted to a crime of his own and created false evidence to arrest the man.”
“How do you find out such information?” Meg asked.
“My cousin is a clerk in the office at the Yard. He works on the reports.”
“Oh, Willow/’ Charlotte said, “why does it matter how he does it, as long as we are safer because he arrested someone dangerous?”
“Because the rules are there for a reason,” Willow said.
“What does your letter say?” Amelia asked.
Willow picked up the parchment, glanced at it, and turned to the second page before answering. “I am reminding him of the rules. Letting him know that the citizens of London are concerned that he so blatantly disregards protocol.”
