With effort, he shifted his focus to his notes. “As I expected, much of these words and symbols are nonsense. While many are genuine, combined together, there is no message I can see.”
“So why would Smithby go to such effort to put all that on the wall?”
“Who would know the markings mean nothing? Very few. I’d speculate that the police wouldn’t have known who to contact to decipher them if you hadn’t thought I could be of assistance.”
“True,” Hawke agreed. “By managing to convince Rutter to draw those symbols and pose in that odd way before he died, it created quite a stir amid the prisoners and guards alike. The general public will feel the same.”
“Exactly.” Oliver considered the details of it. “Why do you think Rutter agreed to do all that?”
“Was he so frightened of Smithby that he would agree to anything?”
“Or did he believe Smithby still intended to free him?” Oliver asked. “That makes more sense to me. I’ve heard of a drug that will slow the heart enough to make one think the person is dead. If Rutter thought Smithby was giving him that, he’d probably be willing to draw on the walls and pose in that position. But the slit on his throat—”
“Speaks of desperation or fear. Hmm. From what little we know, Rutter must’ve believed Smithby truly did have some sort of power.”
Oliver held Hawke’s gaze. “Is Rutter truly dead? What if Smithby intends to free him by taking his body once it’s been released to the next of kin and somehow revive him?”
“Damn. If Rutter were free but the police thought him dead, it would solve many of his problems. And Smithby’s.”
“Do you know if the body has already been released?”
“I have no idea, but I intend to find out.” Hawke moved toward the door. “While I’m gone, why don’t you think up something clever for Sergeant Rollins to tell the reporters?”
“Such as?”
“Something that will truly anger Smithby. That will make him want to prove he does indeed have power.”
Oliver stared at the empty doorway. Within seconds, he heard the front door slam shut. He glanced down at his notes, wondering what they could say that would be believable yet prompt Smithby to take rash action.
It appeared he had his work cut out for him. Unfortunately, his visit to Lord Burnham would have to wait until the morrow. He called for a footman to deliver a message, sighing with regret as he realized how much he’d miss seeing Julia.
Chapter Fourteen
“The species of dishonesty alluded to, as not coming within the official term ‘professional,’ has many aliases. Ordinarily it is called by the cant name of ‘perks’...”
~The Seven Curses of London
“Are you certain you don’t want to go to the party tonight?” Aunt Matilda asked. “I can stay here and keep your father company.”
“No need,” Julia said as she sat beside her on the settee in the drawing room with evening approaching. “I don’t feel like a party anyway.”
“All the more reason you should venture out.” Her aunt looked up from her needlework. “It will lift your spirits.”
“I fear I’d only worry about Father.” She hesitated to mention how concerned she was. His condition had worsened significantly since the previous day. He hadn’t left his bed. If he had any notable symptoms she’d send for the doctor, but he just seemed exhausted and uncomfortable. This morning when she’d checked on him, he’d only said he hadn’t slept well, but he’d tossed and turned the rest of the morning, tiring himself further.
“I am worried about him as well.” Her aunt set aside her needlework as her gaze met Julia’s. “Do you know if anything occurred that set him off? I wondered if it was Viscount Frost’s broken promise to visit.”
“Oliver sent a message saying he’d come when he could.”
“That didn’t seem to appease Alfred.”
Her father’s melancholy often began with a small, seemingly minor event. Once the melancholy struck, he fell ill. Sometimes it wasn’t truly an illness of the body, but of his spirits. That was almost worse, for there was little anyone—from Julia to her aunt to the doctor—could do. When his illness had physical symptoms, they could give him something that helped.
Julia sighed. “That is hardly the viscount’s fault. He couldn’t possibly realize how little it takes to upset Father.”
“No, of course not. I just wish he wouldn’t have offered to visit him if he didn’t intend to.”
“Something unexpected must’ve come up.”
The weight of her aunt’s look had Julia picking up a book on the table beside her, anything to act nonchalant. She hoped the heat in her cheeks wasn’t noticeable.
“It sounds as though you’re defending him.”
“Oh?” Julia glanced up to look at her aunt, hoping she was treating her comment casually. “Well, he seems to be the sort of man who would keep his word. And it’s not as though he truly promised. It was more of a suggestion.” Though she’d thought he’d visit based on their conversation.
“Well, Alfred certainly expected him. Perhaps next time you see the viscount, you might explain how fragile your father is when it comes to such matters.”
Julia did her best to protect her father from the minor disappointments life threw his way. At times, it was difficult to anticipate what might upset him.
She wished she had the power to make her father happy. It seemed like she was always searching for something, whether it be a book or a person, that would light his interest. In all honesty, she felt like a failure. Why couldn’t she be the reason he enjoyed life? To be enough to stave off these bouts of despair and illness?
“Julia.” Her aunt’s stern tone had her looking up once again. “I can tell by your expression exactly what you’re thinking. And let me remind you that you are not responsible for his happiness or lack thereof. That belongs solely to him.”
“I just wish I could—”
The older woman held up a finger. “I’m going to stop you there. I understand as I wish the same. However, he has to choose to be happy. While we can do what is possible and reasonable to lift his spirits, we cannot bring him true joy. That only comes from within.”
“But if Mother—”
“If your mother hadn’t been so selfish, you and I might not be here discussing this today. The circumstances are what they are. We can only do the best with the situation. I will also remind you that you are not responsible for her actions either.”
Julia couldn’t help but bite her lip as tears filled her eyes. Despite her aunt’s words, Julia knew the truth. If she’d been a better daughter, her mother would’ve loved her and her family more. She wouldn’t have been so unhappy and chosen not to honor her marriage vows. Julia knew she’d been too demanding as a child, always wanting her parents’ attention, their love. Her mother had made it very clear by both actions and words. Time and again, she’d ignored Julia, turning her back on her.
If Julia had been the quiet, retiring type, then perhaps her parents would be here, together. Her mother would be alive. Her father would be well. Her brother wouldn’t have such a restless spirit. They’d be the sort of family portrayed in pictures of ideal Victorian life.
They’d be whole.
“Dear,” her aunt said as she moved to sit beside her on the settee, “we’ve spoken about this many times. Their behavior is no reflection on you or your brother. You were wonderful children and have grown into wonderful people. The fault lies with your parents.”
Julia nodded, but in her heart, the words rang hollow.
“Your mother was unhappy all of her life. I truly don’t know why though I suspect it had something to do with her own childhood, especially her mother.” She gently squeezed Julia’s arm. “My wish for you is to find joy in yourself. And then to find a man who has the same. Together, you will find true happiness and experience the gift of a wonderful marriage.”
An image of Oliver filled her mind. Unfortunately, he was not a
happy person either. She had to wonder if that was what had first caught her interest. It was difficult for her to see someone unhappy and resist trying to help. After all, she’d spent most of her life aiding her father and, before her death, her mother as well. Somewhere along the way, it had become part of who she was.
Not that she had any intention of falling in love with Oliver—or anyone for that matter. How could she ever consider living a life of her own when her father’s health was so unstable?
“What of you, Aunt Matilda?” Julia asked. “Why haven’t you married? I hope it’s not because you feel the need to care for my father.”
Her aunt drew a deep breath and stared into the distance for several moments. “I suppose I never met a man who made such a risk worthwhile. After seeing all that your parents went through, I confess that I became overly cautious. Too cautious, I can see now. I would not recommend that either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes we must take risks in life. The trick is to know what the stakes are and to weigh them carefully. To enter the situation with your eyes open. Despite all that, you can’t always reach for happiness while holding onto safety.”
Julia stared at her aunt, trying to understand, wondering what had happened in her past to make her say this.
Her blue gaze, not so different from Julia’s, held a hint of sadness. “Don’t be afraid to explore any feelings that should arise, dear. Only by exploring do we know what is possible.”
“Exploring?” Julia wasn’t certain to what she was referring.
Aunt Matilda patted her hand. “Trust yourself. Trust your instincts. You’re old enough to know what risks you should and shouldn’t take.”
Julia continued to look at her, perplexed. In truth, she wasn’t certain if her aunt meant what Julia thought she might. This talk of possibilities and instincts was foreign. Her aunt had never talked to her like this, and Julia had no idea how to react to it.
“I’m going to check on your father before supper,” her aunt announced as she rose. “I hope you know that I am here for you as well, not just your father. If you ever need to speak to me of...anything, I trust you know I’m an excellent listener.”
Julia stood to give her aunt a hug. “I adore you, and I can’t imagine what I would’ve done without you all these years. Thank you.”
“I would be lost without you as well, dear.” Aunt Matilda leaned back and looked her in the eyes. “I know how very much you love your father, but you are not responsible for him. You will always be near to aid him and that is more than enough for any daughter to give.”
Julia smiled, still confused. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“No, of course not. But if a possibility were to arise, I only ask that you would explore it, regardless of where you think it may lead.”
“I will keep that in mind.” Her aunt’s comments were baffling. By the intensity with which she spoke, Julia knew she was trying to convey something important. She only wished she better understood her meaning. Then again, Julia wasn’t ready to discuss her changing feelings. Her future was already set for as far as she could see.
“You’ll know it when you see it. You need only trust, remember?”
Julia nodded, wishing it were that easy.
~*~
The next morning, Oliver gave a satisfied smile as he read the morning newspaper. The headline was even bolder than he’d anticipated.
MURDER IN PRISON DECLARED A FRAUD.
He had no idea how Hawke had convinced Sergeant Rollins to tell all this to the crowd of reporters that gathered outside the prison when word of a prisoner murdered in his cell by black magic had leaked.
The story boldly claimed there had been no murder, only a suicide of a prisoner. It shared how childlike drawings were written on the wall by the man before he’d taken his own life.
If Smithby had intended to increase his power with Rutter’s death, the article would undermine the criminal’s plan. People tended to lash out when angry. The story was certain to make the man livid.
Oliver smiled at the thought.
Hawke had been too late to halt the release of Rutter’s body but had been assured that a doctor examined Rutter and declared him dead. They could only surmise Smithby had convinced Rutter to drink some sort of poison without Rutter realizing what it was. Had Smithby gained that knowledge from The Book of Secrets?
Once again, the idea of such a book in the hands of someone who used it to cause fear in others for his own gain boiled Oliver’s blood. Somehow, someway, by fair means or foul, he was going to take that book from Smithby.
With luck, the article in the paper would anger the man enough that he’d do something idiotic. From what Hawke had recently discovered, Smithby had hidden himself like a rat at the docks, moving here and there to escape detection.
Oliver’s thoughts shifted to Victor, wondering if the lad would happen upon the whereabouts of Smithby’s warehouses. Or at least one of them. Chances were he had several based on the size of his operation. If Victor didn’t contact him soon, he’d have to venture to the area near Mr. Porter’s shop again. While he wanted the boy to remain safe, Oliver also hoped he’d learn something more.
Hawke had said the police were being extra vigilant in their search for Smithby’s location as well. He certainly wasn’t the only criminal plaguing the city, but his ring of professional thieves was a significant problem. Bringing an end to Smithby’s businesses would be a major victory for the police.
Of course, they still weren’t certain which members of the police force aided Smithby. That made catching him all the more challenging.
After finishing breakfast, Oliver worked in the library for a time, allowing the peace of his books to calm him. The past few days had been far too eventful. Despite that, he found himself checking his watch frequently until late morning arrived when he could call upon the Earl of Burnham. After missing his intended visit the previous day, he assumed he might have to spend more time with the lord to make up for it.
With a wry smile at his lack of will, he admitted how much he hoped Julia was there. Lord Burnham was an interesting man, but his daughter was the one who drew Oliver. Not seeing her only made him long to see her more. He’d hoped that absence, regardless of the duration, would help ease her from his mind. But it had done the opposite.
He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, nor of her. Why did she remain constantly in his thoughts? It was as though his entire being longed to be in her presence. While he knew he shouldn’t—couldn’t—allow himself to grow close to her, neither could he stay away.
Where did that leave him?
He honestly didn’t know. He only knew he wanted to see her as soon as possible.
Once the hour hand on his watch struck eleven, he rose from his desk, doing his best to convince himself that he owed the visit to Lord Burnham, that it didn’t matter if Julia was there.
And failed utterly.
In a short while, Tubbs opened the door of the carriage in front of the Hopwood residence. Oliver was part way up the walk before he realized he hadn’t even hesitated before alighting. His anxiety was absent when he knew he’d see Julia. Yet he was slightly breathless as he knocked on the door. He knew the sensation had nothing to do with leaving his home and everything to do with his anticipation of seeing her.
The footman who answered the door showed him into the drawing room rather than the library. Oliver wasn’t certain what to make of that. He waited patiently at first, but as the minutes grew long, his patience faded. He removed his gloves then paced about the room, looking around curiously as he realized he was searching for signs of Julia’s presence.
The room was decorated in restful blues and whites, from the wallpaper to the furniture. While a more feminine room, it wasn’t fussy, but cheerful, much like Julia.
As though his thoughts conjured her, he heard the click of the door and turned to find her standing there.
But the smile he’d grown to expe
ct was noticeably absent.
Something was obviously amiss.
She glanced over her shoulder into the foyer as though expecting someone to join them. Then she looked back at him and slowly walked forward to curtsy. “Good day, my lord.”
The formal greeting took him aback. He much preferred his name on her lips. “And to you.”
“I assume you’re here to see my father.” Her hands were clasped before her, and she had yet to smile.
“Yes.” He pressed his lips together to stop from admitting that he was also there to see her. He studied her closely, taking in the delicate pink of her morning gown, the graceful sweep of her loose chignon, and the tightness of her expression. But something else was different as well.
“Unfortunately he’s feeling poorly and not able to receive visitors.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed in good health during our visit to the museum.”
“His health took an unexpected turn. He was disappointed you weren’t able to call on him.”
“Something urgent arose that took my time.” Oliver cursed under his breath, wishing he’d provided a better explanation in his message.
She gave the barest of nods. “I’m sure.”
He realized she didn’t believe him. Astounded at the thought, he considered how much to tell her about what had happened that delayed his arrival.
“There is something you should know about my father,” she continued, her gaze resting just past his shoulder, making him want to turn and look behind him to see what held her interest. “He suffers from...melancholy, I suppose you’d call it, for lack of a better term. When that takes his spirit under, a physical illness often follows.”
Oliver frowned, trying to understand what she was saying.
“It has nothing to do with you, of course,” she continued. “But in the future, it would be helpful if you didn’t make suggestions with which you don’t intend to follow through.”
He realized what was so wrong about her today—she was completely still. The beautiful butterfly had ceased fluttering. Her hands hadn’t moved from their carefully folded position since she’d entered the room. Her head hadn’t shifted, even her gaze was still.
Charming the Scholar (The Seven Curses of London Book 2) Page 15
