A Study in Scandal (Ladies' Amateur Sleuth Society Book 1)

by Robyn DeHart

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  Colin paced his office. Othello eyed him from his perch on the table. The cat glared; Colin was interrupting the feline’s perfectly good nap.

  There was no need to pace. He wasn’t even a pacer. Not usually. He was a calm, reasonable fellow. But ever since returning from Brighton, he’d felt caged and restless. He refused to admit he missed Amelia, but he found himself longing for her cheerful voice and endearing smile.

  But it was dark outside—the middle of the night, actually—so there was nowhere Colin could go to release his energy or walk off his frustrations. So he’d resort to annoying his feline friend and continue his wear on the carpet.

  She had a way about her. A way that made him feel as if he were the only man in London. Only man on earth. More than likely she had that way about her with everyone. She was good with people, a genuinely kind soul. A sort that was becoming increasingly difficult to find.

  In Colin’s case, a sort he now wished he had never come across. Granted, he hadn’t actually been looking, but there she had been.

  She plopped into his life and turned everything he thought he knew about the world upside down.

  Yesterday, he had been prepared the let the case go unsolved, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that to her. He wanted to see the joy on her face when he revealed the truth to her. Wanted for her to throw her arms around him in gratitude.

  Of course, if she did that, he might not ever let her go. Letting her go the first time had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. It had been for the best, he still believed that, but he wasn’t so positive he could do the honorable thing again.

  He’d been so angry when he’d seen her bruised neck and torn dress. And he’d nearly done the unthinkable. Colin didn’t regret threatening the man. He’d meant his threat too, it was certainly not idle. But the man could not harm Amelia now.

  Colin wanted to believe this meant she was safe, now that she was home. Or at least that she was someone else’s responsibility, but he knew neither to be true. She was unsafe, and the longer the case went unsolved, the greater her risk for danger.

  It didn’t help matters that her father didn’t seem to keep very tight reins on her. She was free to wander about the city at her choosing. A freedom that had not proven harmful until they had gone to Brighton. Until she had been under his care, under his protection.

  He wanted to believe that as long as she wasn’t actively working on the case, she’d be safe. That if she weren’t asking questions, or further pursuing Mr. Quincy, all would be well. And perhaps that would be the case. But Colin knew that regardless of whether or not that was true, Amelia had not ceased working on the case. She might be up, even now as he was, reading over her notes in an attempt to find the perpetrator.

  Colin needed to solve the case quickly. And in the meantime, he needed to keep an eye on Amelia, but in such a way that he was able to keep his distance. The last thing he wanted was to cause her additional pain.

  He would start from the beginning, go over the details, piece by piece, until something made sense. Colin spread everything out on the table, trying to place things in sequential order. His notes from their first meeting—when he’d first noticed her ankle and her scent. The interrogations of the servants, the antiquities dealer, the museum curator—all instances when he’d noticed and appreciated her ability to talk with people.

  Colin would never get any work done with her continually on his mind. He needed to focus. He looked down at the table and a name caught his attention.

  Mr. Quincy.

  That was who he needed to speak with, but thus far the man was nothing more than a specter. There was only one way to discover the truth about Mr. Quincy, and that was to visit the man who’d first mentioned his name.

  Monsieur Pitre.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner.” ~The Man with the Twisted Lip

  How had she missed the truth that had been painfully right before her? Amelia swallowed and felt the sword’s tip press against her neck. She met Monsieur Pitre’s gaze and did not look away.

  “There’s no reason to resort to violence, Monsieur Pitre,” she said, hoping she sounded calmer than she actually felt.

  Her weapon, which she had been so resourceful in bringing along, sat across the room safely hidden in her reticule. What she had intended to do with the small dagger, she did not know. And evidently would not get the opportunity to find out.

  Apparently blades were the preferred weapons of the day. But while hers was safely concealed, Pitre had an antique sword pressed to her throat.

  Once again, she’d been an utter fool. Colin was right about her. She refused to see the truth in people—instead she lived her life blindly believing that everyone was kind and good-hearted. Clearly, this was not always the case.

  Monsieur Pitre had never seemed the violent sort, but she’d learned that appearances and behaviors could be deceiving. Perhaps if she didn’t allow him to see her fear, she could talk her way out of this. He’d always seemed rather fond of her in the past.

  “You simply wouldn’t cease your nosy pestering,” he said. “I told you that bust was a fraud, you should have let it go at that.”

  “It matters not if it is a fraud. It belongs to my father.” He had her pinned against the desk while he held the sword at her throat. She surreptitiously felt behind her, looking for something to throw at his head. To no avail.

  “But it’s not a fraud, is it, monsieur?” she asked. “It’s authentic. It is why you stole it from us, correct?”

  He shook his head; his perfectly greased hair slipped out of position. He swiped at it angrily. “There is no real way to know if it is authentic or not,” he said.

  Everything was making sense now. The sequence of events was falling into place in her mind. Pitre had been by the house that morning. He’d come to drop off another of her father’s pieces he’d taken to be cleaned. He must have smuggled Nefertiti out in the very container he’d returned the vase in. Quite clever, Amelia had to admit.

  A crime worthy of a Sherlock story. But this wasn’t fiction, this was real life. No hero—real or literary—was coming to rescue her.

  “But you believe it to be real, don’t you? As do my father and I,” she said.

  “Yes.” He pushed the blade farther against her neck. It was an old warrior’s sword from ancient Greece, so dull he’d have to swing away and hack at her neck to do any real damage. But it could be done, and therefore the threat was real.

  How had she managed to put her life in danger twice in one week? She’d always assumed people found her a likable sort, not the type you’d murder. But here she was trapped with an antique sword against her throat.

  She nearly laughed. But under the circumstances, that seemed vastly inappropriate.

  “I knew you’d discover the truth eventually,” he spat. “You and that inspector friend of yours. You had too much information. Knew too much about other collectors, so I couldn’t feed you wrong information.”

  “What about Mr. Quincy?” she asked.

  “I thought trying to find him would occupy you until you lost interest and gave up on ever finding your statue.”

  “But who is he?” she asked.

  “Me,” he said. “I’m Mr. Quincy.” His voice was now completely devoid of his French accent, and he sounded as English as she.

  “Then you are truly a collector, masquerading as a curator?”

  He sneered. “It seemed the best way to secure pieces without purchasing them.”

  “Mr. Quincy sent us a note suggesting we visit Brighton. Why?”

  “I set you up,” he said proudly. “I knew that with the right sort of questions, that dealer would get suspicious enough and take care of business. He’s a paranoid sort, gets ruffled easily. Mr. Quincy”—he placed his free hand on his chest— “had sent him a letter, not to alert him of your
visit, but to get him informed enough about the piece that when you came calling he’d get scared and—”

  “Take care of business/’ she cut him off.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “As in murder Inspector Brindley and myself?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He visibly quivered. “Murder is such a messy business, and I’ve never been very good at it. I prefer other people to handle those sorts of things. I’m a gentleman, after all.” He leaned in closer. “But don’t think for a moment that I’m letting you go. I’m simply debating the best method to rid myself of you. I hadn’t planned on this, so I’m not quite certain what I’m going to do.”

  “I have no doubt you’re capable.” She certainly didn’t want to offend his pride while he held a sword to her throat. “Perhaps it will make you feel better to know that when I visited that shop, that dealer certainly tried to rid himself of me, but I escaped before he could do any permanent damage.”

  He released a disgusted huff. “He’s an idiot. You simply cannot trust people these days.”

  “Might I inquire as to where my father’s Nefertiti is?”

  “It is safely in my home. Along with my other treasures.” He looked around the room a bit before continuing. “We really ought to make this look as if it were an accident. I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave the museum. It would be far too messy here. I must dispose of you elsewhere.”

  “Very well.” Leaving could be a good thing. Moving might present her with an opportunity to flee.

  But then the door opened, and Colin stood there, looking very large and very angry.

  “Let her go, Pitre,” he bellowed.

  “I don’t have time for this,” the curator whined. “Do you see that I have a sword to your lady friend’s throat? Do not think that I won’t slice her pretty head clean off! Back away, Inspector.”

  Amelia tried to get Colin’s attention to let him know that the blade was not sharp, but he would not look at her. So she did the next best thing.

  Colin froze, unsure what to do. He wanted to launch himself on Pitre. To grab that sword from him and turn it against him. He clenched his fists at his sides, wishing he’d brought something with him. Perhaps he needed to invest in a pistol. But he had nothing. Nothing save his bare hands-—which he was certain were enough to do substantial damage to Pitre.

  But any wrong move and that lunatic could kill her. He needed to calm down and think. Swallow his anger, or at least his burning desire to rip off Pitre’s head, and come up with a solution that would save Amelia. Colin had never been so terrified in all his life. Or unprepared. Completely helpless to save her. To save the woman he loved.

  He did love her, he realized with perfect clarity, he loved her as he’d never thought possible. And now he was going to lose her simply because he’d been a fool and rejected her love.

  “He’s the one, Colin,” she said. “The one we’ve been looking for. Meet Mr. Quincy, he’s a collector. Loves antiquities,” she said.

  Mr. Quincy? Pitre was Quincy. And she’d emphasized “collector” and “loves antiquities.” She was attempting to tell him something.

  He met her glance and she nodded slightly to the shelves at her right—he winced, hoping the blade wouldn’t dig farther into her throat.

  He looked away from her. The last thing they needed was Pitre or Quincy—or whoever he was—catching on. At the moment, though, it looked as if Pitre were eyeing the door behind Colin, trying to judge whether or not he could make a run for it.

  Colin walked slowly to the shelf Amelia had indicated and absently picked up a bowl—an ancient looking piece of pottery. “This is ugly,” he said, and then tossed the piece on the floor, where it shattered.

  Pitre’s eyes grew round. “What?” He held his free hand up. “Stop! Those are priceless.”

  Again Colin picked up something from the shelf, a mask this time, then held it over his head. “Let her go!” He said each word slowly, punctuating his meaning.

  “No,” Pitre said.

  But apparently he’d loosened his hold enough that Amelia was able to break free. She ran to the opposite side of the room. Colin breathed a small sigh of relief. Now he needed to get them out of here.

  Monsieur Pitre held the sword above his head like a crazed samurai warrior. Colin took a chance and dove at the man’s legs, knocking him off his feet. The sword clanked to the floor and Amelia quickly grabbed it. She held a small jeweled dagger in her other hand.

  Colin almost chuckled. At least she had come more prepared this time.

  “Call for the authorities,” Colin instructed her over his shoulder.

  She paused a moment, then ran out of the room. Colin grabbed both of Pitre’s hands to secure him against the floor. He had nothing with which to tie up the man, so he’d have to wait until Amelia returned with the authorities. He hoped someone was within earshot.

  All his life he’d been afraid that he was some sort of monster, a real-life Jekyll and Hyde. He’d been convinced that if he kept everyone at arm’s length, if he refused to feel, then the dark side could not be unleashed. But Amelia had changed everything.

  She’d made him feel when he thought he’d forgotten how. And she’d challenged the way he viewed himself and the way he viewed the world. He knew now that while he had darkness in him, he was not a reckless man, unable to control violent urges. He wasn’t violent. Unless Amelia’s life was in jeopardy. But both times he’d stopped himself before he’d done the unthinkable.

  All because he loved her. She’d freed him from a prison he’d locked himself in and now he wondered if it was too late to win her heart. Would she forgive the callous things he’d said to her?

  Pitre squirmed beneath him. “Get off of me!”

  “Go to the devil, Pitre,” Colin said.

  Amelia ran back in with two police officers in tow. Colin briefly explained the situation to them and they secured Pitre and took him away with them. He and Amelia were to go to Scotland Yard later to give their full report.

  Once they were alone, Colin walked to her and cupped her cheek. “Are you all right? Hurt anywhere?”

  “I’m fine. The blade was rather dull.”

  “He still could have killed you. Pierced you with it.”

  “I know. I was working on an escape plan.”

  “I have no doubt that you were.” He gave her a weak smile.

  “I’m glad you came along and saved me. That was much quicker, and as much as I hate to admit it, much more effective. But why did you come? Did you piece together everything and realize Pitre was the thief?”

  He wanted to touch her. To hold her and ensure she was unharmed. But he had no right to do such a thing after the last time they were together. “Not exactly,” he answered. “I suspected he might be, but I had no proof. I mainly came to talk with him about Mr. Quincy, since he seemed to have the most information about him. I evidently underestimated your investigative skills. How did you figure everything out?”

  “I too didn’t know anything for certain. His name simply kept coming up in my notes. I wanted to talk with him about Mr. Quincy as well.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “I must admit, I suspected Mr. Quincy was the thief.”

  “And you were right.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was.”

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He needed to touch her, so he pulled her to him, cradling her head against his chest. “I’m so thankful you’re safe.”

  He felt her body relax against his. Perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps she still loved him.

  “When I came through that door and saw that sword to your throat, I was terrified,” he said.

  She leaned back and looked into his eyes. “Terrified for me?” she asked.

  “Terrified of losing you. I’ve been such a fool, Amelia. A complete and total fool.”

  “No. You were never a fool.”

  “Yes, I was.” He ran his hand down her cheek. “I was so afraid of losing control, afraid of what would happen if
I allowed myself to love you.”

  “Afraid you’d lose all control and become like him?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He shook his head. “It’s irrational, I realize. Everything was so simple and clear, so black and white to me. I had seen the circumstances again and again. My mother, while not violent, could not control her urges. She simply left us— just walked out one day because she couldn’t make herself stay. And then in my job at the Yard,

  I saw men committing crimes because they could not control themselves. Could not squelch their rush of emotions. I saw that potential in me.

  “Especially with the passion you released in me. It shook everything loose. Made me relinquish the tight hold I had on my feelings. And then when that man in Brighton hurt you... I could have killed him, Amelia. I wanted to.”

  “But you didn’t,” she reminded him.

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t because of you. It’s been a great paradox. You’ve freed that part in me, freed me to feel both the good and the bad. My feelings for you are what made me want to hurt that man, but they also prevented me from killing him. It took me a while to see that.”

  She touched his face, loving the rough stubble on his cheek. “You are a passionate man, Colin, you’ve always had that in you. It’s what drives your work and your research. There is no sin in living life to its fullest extent.”

  He nodded. “I see that now. I was terrified of becoming something I couldn’t control. But then I see you living as passionately as anyone I’ve ever seen, yet you’re all goodness and purity. There is nothing evil or harmful about you.”

  “I love you,” she said sweetly.

  His heart flipped in his chest. “And I love you, Amelia. Suppose you would give a foolish man a second chance?”

  “You might be able to persuade me.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Indeed. I might have a few ideas in mind of some ways I could do such a thing.”

  She giggled, and he pulled her to him. He kissed her deeply.

  “I do love you,” he said. “Don’t ever let me be such a fool again. I don’t want to hurt you or lose you. You’re worth the risk of losing control, and I want to take that risk with you every day.”