Penelope’s.
His younger sister was swathed in a silk wrapper. Her long hair, fair like his own, was bound into a plait that hung over her shoulder. But it was her eyes, wide and red-rimmed, that halted him.
“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.
“Long enough to hear Father. And you. Garrett did not latch the door.” She crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze direct. “What are you going to do?”
He pushed his fingers through his hair, still disheveled from the wild ride, and leaned against the small table in the hall. “I don’t know.”
“How bad could it be to talk to Mr. Darbin?” she reasoned. “You do remember him, do you not? He was always a good sort. I am sure he would help us.”
Jonathan nodded. Yes, he remembered Henry Darbin. The man had been Thomas’s best friend, and the older Gilchrist son and his school chum could not have been more alike. That fact alone was a cause of Jonathan’s reluctance to involve him.
His sister continued. “At least speak with him. We both know Father can be a bit dramatic at times. But if the ruby is gone, really gone, and Father refuses to inform the constable, then Mr. Darbin may be our only hope of ever seeing it again.”
“Our only hope?” scoffed Jonathan. “You seem to forget, sister, that the loss of this ruby means nothing to me, other than the fact that I am sorry that someone has violated our home.” He began to pace, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “This is what we have warned Father about for years, is it not? That his collecting and his choice to keep company with unsavory sorts can only lead to trouble.”
“Do you not wish to secure a better future for yourself as well? I cannot pretend to understand how you can be content in that dark little apothecary’s shop day in and day out. But if you will not consider it for your own sake, please then, at least consider it for mine.”
When Jonathan did not respond, she cut her eyes toward Garrett to ensure he was not listening. “If you do not go handle this matter, then I fear that Father will try to travel to London himself. His health is declining. You know as well as I that the journey would not be good for him. And given how impatient he has grown, even if he did manage to track down the right people, he could make things much worse.”
She reached to grip his arm. “Please, Jonathan. Please, for me. If there is no dowry and I am unable to marry, and if Father really does lose Kettering Hall, what will become of me when Father dies?”
Penelope’s lips formed a pout, but it was not her typical pout, set intentionally to get her way. No, genuine emotion welled within her.
He knew the dangers for a woman in Penelope’s situation. At twenty-three, she was already approaching the upper limit of marriageable age. She was hardly a spinster, but how much longer would she be able to rely on her pretty face to attract suitors? Without a dowry, her chances of making an advantageous match would decline. She had her heart set on Mr. Dowden. Unfortunately, he surmised Mr. Dowden had his heart set on her dowry.
He clenched his jaw. How quickly, in the span of an hour, everything could change.
Penelope’s eyes began to fill with tears. This, too, was in her bag of tricks—tears that she could initiate at a moment’s notice. But he knew his sister better than anyone else in the world, and he believed the tears were genuine.
His resolve began to waver. Besides Penelope, he felt no steady connection to anyone in the world. She was the one thread that tied him securely to Kettering Hall. All other cords of attachment had frayed with time.
“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I was going to go to London in a few days’ time anyway. I shall call on Mr. Darbin. But I will make no promises on the matter.”
Chapter Four
Camille pinched the bridge of her nose, then pressed the palm of her hand against her eye.
Night was falling. No longer did the gray daylight reach in through the shop’s wide front windows and illuminate the back wall. Instead, a single candle shed light on the leather-bound ledger in front of her. She lifted the brooch pinned to the bodice of her pale linen gown and angled it so she could see the small timepiece dangling from the silver clasp. There was still much to do before she could rest.
She dipped her quill in the inkwell and scratched it across the rough paper, carefully recording the numbers of the day’s transactions.
She added them. But the numbers did not make sense.
She added them again in her head, then she wrote them out on a spare piece of paper. Still they did not balance.
With a frown, Camille resumed the task of finding the mistake.
For it had to be a mistake.
She oversaw the daily transactions personally. Indeed, she was the one who collected the money each day. That day she had sold the snuff grater, the Italian watercolor box, the Chinese tea box, and the bolt of Indian silk. She had traded for a set of dueling pistols. Those along with all the day’s other sales should have amounted to more.
The shop’s one-eyed cat, Link, nudged her arm. Surprised at the touch, Camille jerked, and when she did, he jumped, unsettling the bottle of ink and nearly sending it to its side.
At the clatter, the curtain closing off the back room fluttered, and her father poked his head over the threshold. “What was that?”
“Oh, nothing,” muttered Camille. She returned her quill to its holder and lifted the fat gray cat to the floor. “Link is merely attempting to assist me, ’tis all.”
“That cat needs to be out of doors. I’ve said it before. It doesn’t do to have him wandering about. This place is in enough of a disarray. Too many things could be broken.”
Camille bit her lip at the reprimand. It felt as if he were blaming her for the disorder and the animals in the shop. She wanted to remind him that Link kept the cluttered store free of mice and that, even if she did shoo the cat away, he himself would only bring another into the store. But there was no reasoning with him.
He stepped through to the shop and started toward her, but then paused and whirled around. “Did you sell the Persian vases?”
Camille lifted her attention, the immediate need to defend her decision rushing to the front of her mind. “No, I moved them over there, by the wall. I only meant to make the shop tidier, Papa. It is nearly impossible for anyone to walk through.”
He cursed under his breath. He hated when she moved his merchandise. He retrieved the vases and placed them back on the counter. “Did you ever read the letter from your mother?”
Camille looked down to the ledger. He had asked her about the letter daily since it arrived a week prior, yet it remained unopened in the pocket of the apron she donned each day to protect her gown. “No.”
“I don’t understand your delay. Your mother took the time to write you; the least you can do is read what she wrote. Tsk. I never saw the like. Not answering her letters will cause a bigger rift than the one that is already there—mark my words.”
She ignored his lecture. The last thing she wanted was another discussion about her mother. It was easiest to pretend the situation was nonexistent.
He stepped closer, the scent of brandy, tobacco, and the nearby forge accompanying him, and he plopped a small item wrapped in linen on the counter. “I want you to take this to Maxwell first thing in the morning. He is leaving for the continent in the next day or so. Instruct him to see this gets to your mother.”
Camille sighed as she lifted the small package and held it up. “Another one? Papa, I don’t think—”
“I didn’t ask you what you thought about it,” he snapped. “I told you to take it to Maxwell.”
Camille shook her head, took the gift, and tucked it in the front pocket of her work apron along with the letter. Ever since her mother left London to go to Portugal nine years ago to care for her own ailing mother, her father had been anxious for her return. But weeks slid into months, and months swelled to years. Initially, her mother wrote promises of a quick return, but over time, the frequency and the warmth within t
he letters subsided. And yet, her father continued to write and send little gifts as if her return were imminent.
Camille wondered if the items her papa sent ever actually made it to her mother’s hand, with the war and the sea travel. At first it had saddened her to see how her mother’s selfish actions changed her father. But now his behavior was beginning to frustrate her.
She shook her head. “These trinkets you send her will not bring her back.”
Her father ignored her and bent to scratch Tevy’s ears.
Camille stepped out from behind the counter. “How can you be certain it will even reach her?”
James Iverness reached to snatch his hat from a hook by the door. “Just do as I say.”
Camille drew a sharp breath. Her mother was the one topic that had the power to drive a wedge even deeper into her and Papa’s strained relationship.
Instead of arguing, she nodded to the garments in his hand. “It’s going to rain. Where are you going?”
“To the docks. Shipment from Africa came in today, and I want to make my offers before the goods are sent to the auction house.”
She looked to the dark sky out the window. “When will you be back?”
“When I’ve finished my business. Tevy’s coming with me.”
“What?” Camille looked at the dog, who sat calmly at his master’s feet. “Usually you leave him with me.”
“Can’t be helped, I’ve important business to tend to, and I need the dog for protection.” He reached for his coat and pushed his arm through the sleeve.
She jumped up from the chair, eying the muscular dog. “You know how raucous the street can get at night. I would feel safer if Tevy stayed here.”
“I told you I need him. That’s the end of the matter.”
Tevy followed Papa through the door, his tail thudding against the thick door frame. The door banged shut, and she was alone.
Link nudged her elbow again, seeking attention, and she gathered him under her arm. His rhythmic purring filled the silent room, and she ran a hand over his warm fur.
On the street outside, a crash and an angry shout gave her reason to jump. She lit another candle and looked to the shop’s only working clock, which shared a cluttered shelf with a stack of leather-bound books, a silver tea set, and a jar of old keys. A long evening stretched before her—a long, lonely evening. Or perhaps more, as her father’s excursions had been known to last through the night and sometimes for days on end.
She sighed and scratched Link under the chin. “Looks like it is just you and me, old man.”
Chapter Five
Drizzle floated down, sinister and dirty. Cold drops splatted on Jonathan’s greatcoat, his cheeks, his eyelashes. He didn’t bother to wipe them away, but only tipped his hat lower over his brow. With every step, muck and mire splashed from the grimy surface of Blinkett Street, marring his riding boots and dampening his buckskin breeches.
He and Henry Darbin had been here for more than an hour—watching, waiting. When they first arrived on the crooked street, people had bustled to and fro, lending a sense of security, but as evening’s mist cloaked the scene, an unease—and a distinct chill—had crept in. Darkness now shielded the passing faces. The haphazard glow of orange torchlight had replaced the sun’s gray glow, reflecting from the wet cobblestones like splinters of broken mirror. The onset of music from a nearby public house compounded the bedlam, and streaks of lightning raced across the sky in broken ribbons, threatening to bring more weather.
Jonathan did not want any part of traveling to this notoriously deviant section of London’s south side, but his eagerness to put the business of the ruby behind him overpowered his present discomfort. Almost a week had passed since the gem was stolen, and it had been just a day since Jonathan arrived at Darbin’s dingy quarters in London to explain the situation. He should be pleased, for already Darbin claimed to have a sense of where the ruby was and how to retrieve it.
“You were right to come to me when you did, Gilchrist. I’ve helped dozens of theft victims recover stolen goods—so many, to be honest, that I have stopped counting.” Darbin stated his opinion as if it were fact as he leaned against a stone wall, fiddling with the latch on his silver snuffbox. “It is clear you doubt my abilities, but I speak the truth.”
“That remains to be seen, does it not?” Jonathan adjusted his collar and glanced at two questionable characters as they passed. “The way I see it, a great many things must come to pass for us to have the Bevoy back in our possession.”
Darbin wiped a smudge from the little box and held it up to catch the weak light. “So cynical. Your brother would have seen this excursion as an adventure.”
Jonathan did not want to speak about Thomas to anyone, let alone to his brother’s best friend. “Not cynical. Just practical.”
Darbin returned the box to his coat before fixing his gaze on the street before him. “I do wish your father had changed his mind and accompanied you and your sister to London. Now, there’s a man always up for a rally of any sort. How fortunate you are to come from such a family. I come from a family of women. Six sisters. Six, I tell you.” He smirked as he adjusted a leather glove. “No adventure there whatsoever, save for the occasional hunt for the perfect length of ribbon or an ostrich feather to adorn a bonnet.”
Jonathan had no interest in learning about Darbin’s family. He changed the subject. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“I’m sure. I know these streets like the back of my hand.”
Darbin pushed himself off the wall and strolled along the street as confidently as if he owned the businesses flanking each side. He motioned for Jonathan to follow. “Best for you not to make eye contact with anyone. You’re the spitting image of your brother, with those smart clothes and golden locks. We don’t need anyone asking questions or, worse, starting the rumor that old Thomas Gilchrist has come back from the grave.”
Jonathan fixed his gaze on the shadows in front of him, but he did not divert his eyes from those they passed. Even in death, his brother’s ability to dominate taunted him. He would not keep his eyes down, nor would he adjust his hat to further cover his hair. He was here for one task, to find the ruby. And if his presence incited conversation that his brother had returned from the grave, what did he care?
Jonathan had known Darbin most of his life. He and Thomas had gone to school together from the time they were boys. Darbin’s family was from the far north of England, and since Kettering Hall was much closer to the school, Darbin had often accompanied Thomas home for breaks. He had quickly become a favorite of their father’s, his lust for adventure complementing that of Ian and Thomas Gilchrist. After Thomas’s death, Darbin’s visits to Kettering Hall had ceased. He had called once to offer condolences, but Father, in his grief, had refused visitors. After that, there had been no reason for Darbin to be invited back into their lives.
Until now.
Darbin’s intention, like Thomas’s, had been to study the law, but his desire for more exciting—and profitable—pursuits had moved him in another direction. He now acted in a private capacity to investigate difficulties that the overtaxed military and local constabularies were unable to handle. At Penelope’s urging, Jonathan had visited Darbin in the days following the robbery. And just the previous morning, Jonathan had received notice that Darbin had uncovered information regarding the Bevoy and requested that Jonathan accompany him on the recovery.
Darbin’s crooked smile cracked. “You aren’t getting nervous, are you?”
Jonathan squinted, and from the corner of his eye he watched a lady of the night entice an intoxicated man. Nervous? He rarely felt nervous. But was he uncomfortable? Yes.
Of course he regretted the decision to come. What did he know about recovering a stolen anything?
Now Jonathan teetered on the edge of this precarious world, uncertain how to function within it. The boy within him was eager for his father’s approval, for a nod of acceptance and confirmation, but the reasona
ble man in him knew the dangers of such an environment. And yet he could not turn back.
“Not nervous.” Jonathan muttered his response after a long pause. “Just not accustomed to such pursuits.”
Darbin’s hearty laugh echoed from the crumbling facades that lined the street. “Of course you’re not nervous. You’ve got the same blood flowing through your veins as your brother. Never saw a more fearless man, God rest his soul. Mark my words, Gilchrist. We’ll find your father’s trinket and the man who nabbed it.”
Jonathan winced as Darbin’s laugh sliced the night. “Do you not think it wise to be more discreet? We are trying to go unnoticed, not send him our calling card.”
“You are wound far too tight.” Darbin’s heavy hand slapped Jonathan’s back, the smacking sound intensified by the wetness of his coat. “Don’t forget, I know these parts well. Leave the worrying to me.”
They continued down the narrow street with its sharp juts and uneven surface. The scent of dung and smoke thickened, mingling with the damp mist settling around them. Jonathan sidestepped a man lying on the road and considered pausing to offer assistance, but Darbin reached out his arm, stopping Jonathan in his tracks.
“There. That’s the shop—right there.”
Jonathan’s gaze followed Darbin’s nod, and then he frowned as he assessed the shabby storefront with its dirty paned windows. A faded sign hung askew from the shabby shutters, with the words “Curiosity Shop” barely visible.
“Your father purchased the Bevoy several years ago from the man who owns that shop. It was a quiet transaction, no doubt. Every thief worth his weight knows of the Bevoy, so ’tis best for the owner to keep quiet about its whereabouts. From the moment you told me it was the Bevoy that had been stolen, I had a suspicion James Iverness was involved.”
“How can you be sure?” Jonathan breathed, unable to take his eyes from the odd little shop. “If he sold the ruby to my father, it doesn’t stand to reason that he would steal it back.”
“Ah! That is where you are wrong. It does stand to reason. You have to think like a criminal.” Darbin tapped his finger against his head. “Iverness is a crafty fellow, and he knows your father—his habits, his collection. More important, he knew your father had the Bevoy. Undoubtedly its location has been shrouded in secrecy for years to all but your father and Iverness. And Iverness is in a perfect position to resell the gem at a profit. No one would be the wiser.”
The Curiosity Keeper Page 3
