The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Penelope’s jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed. “I will not have a shopkeeper’s daughter under the same—”

  “Enough.” Jonathan had to put a stop to this. “She will stay here until she is well, I don’t care if she is a pauper or a duchess. And I expect you to be civil to her. She is a guest in our home, and you will treat her as such.”

  Penelope diverted her eyes. Jonathan was well acquainted with her tendencies. His sister possessed a kind soul, but her concern for the opinion of others had the tendency to influence her treatment of others.

  “Of course I will be civil, Jonathan,” she huffed, obviously offended. “I am not a monster. I would hate to see another woman in danger of any kind. But Father will be furious.”

  “Father is not here.”

  “He will find out. And what of the servants?” She tightened her robe around her. “There will be talk.”

  “We shall tell them a friend of yours is visiting. They will not ask questions.”

  “I doubt they will believe it.” Penelope stuck her nose in the air, reminding Jonathan of when she was ten years of age. “If you and I are to have any future at all, we had best find out what we can about the ruby. For without it, I have no dowry, and you have no estate.”

  Chapter Ten

  Several moments later, Camille came to consciousness with a start.

  A strong ammonia scent wafted below her nose. She shook her head and opened her eyes.

  Her surroundings were blurry. Foggy. Warm light shifted long shadows into focus.

  She stirred ever so slightly. She moved her leg. Turned her head. But when she adjusted her arm, pain sliced through her. She bolted upright and cried out. At the movement, black stars darted across her vision, plunging her further into confusion.

  “Shh. Be still. Do not move yet.” A female voice, soft and calm.

  Camille’s heart thudded at the unrecognized voice, but eventually her vision cleared. A young woman with vibrant flax-colored hair sat next to her, leaning close.

  Camille’s gaze darted from the blazing fire to the murals on the wall to the heavy velvet curtains obscuring the room’s two large windows. “Where am I?”

  The woman smiled. “You are at the Gilchrist home. There now, be still.”

  Camille looked down at the source of her pain. A tidy white bandage wrapped around her arm. The sight of it brought vivid memories of the night’s events rushing at her. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath as she relived the terror.

  “You poor dear. You are quite pale.” The pretty blond woman’s lips turned downward in what appeared to be genuine concern. “Does it hurt so very much?”

  Camille swallowed. Hurt? Each heartbeat brought agonizing tingling to her upper arm. The mere act of breathing seemed to send knives to her wound. And though a light rug covered her, her clothes felt wet and clammy. Why?

  She needed to get home—to be somewhere alone with her thoughts and resolve in her mind how this all happened. She ignored the woman’s plea for her to remain still and struggled to sit up, gritting her teeth at the pain. “I will be fine, I am sure.”

  “Yes you will.” A male voice, somehow familiar. Camille looked beyond the woman to a tall, fair-haired man. The sight of him kindled recognition.

  This was the man from the alley. She had forgotten his name. She could not recall exactly how she had arrived at this house. But she did remember his kind tone.

  “I fear the pain got the better of you,” he continued, stepping closer. His hair was wet and hung over his forehead, and his clothes appeared damp. “That or the blood loss. I’m afraid you lost consciousness. But do not concern yourself too much. All will be well in the end.”

  Camille attempted to sit up once more, but her own wet clothing seemed intent upon keeping her captive. As she regained her senses, she became aware of how she must appear. Her gown and apron hugged her person, and her hair had come loose from its pins. She could feel it clinging to her face.

  She glanced around the elegant room. She clearly was no longer on Blinkett Street. Mr. Gilchrist had brought her to the kind of place to which she had not ventured since her youth—a home of gentility and wealth.

  A place where a shopkeeper’s daughter did not belong.

  She was not one to care what others thought of her—or at least she liked to think she did not. But as she took notice of her bloodstained sleeve and a tear in her skirt, hot tears began to burn. The thought that she—bloody and dirty—was marring this pristine home with these well-dressed people mortified her in a way she was certain she had never experienced.

  “I am Penelope Gilchrist.” The woman’s voice was smooth, her gentle accent confirming that she was well-bred. “You know my brother, I believe.”

  Camille snapped her head back up and nodded a greeting. “Yes, we met. Briefly.” The sense that she should be saying something polite—or at least introducing herself—nagged her. “I am Camille Iverness.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Iverness, but I do wish it was under more pleasant circumstances.”

  Camille returned her attention to the man, trying to wrest her mind away from her awkwardness long enough to make sense of her circumstances. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  He stepped forward and took a chair next to the sofa. He rested his elbows on top of his knees and leaned forward. “When we were walking here, you collapsed. I have tended to your arm. It is unfortunate, but not serious. You will recover.”

  “No, I mean, what happened at the shop? There was a man, and we fought. Then someone else came in, and—”

  “All that can wait until morning.” Miss Gilchrist cut her eyes toward the man. “You are safe and well now, and that is all that matters, is it not? The last thing we want is for you to catch your death in that wet gown. Come with me. We will get you something dry and warm to wear. Then we can get you settled in a room for the night.”

  Camille quickly shook her head. She might be afflicted at the moment, but she did not need this sort of help. “Oh no, I could not.”

  The woman looked offended. “Of course you can! It is raining hard out there. The hour is quite late. And from what my brother has told me, it is unthinkable for you to return to your shop alone.”

  Camille looked past Miss Gilchrist to her rescuer. She half expected him to agree with her, to agree that it was best for her to go back where she belonged. But he simply sat staring at her, his square jaw set and his expression impossible to read. His hair was every bit as blond as his sister’s, but his deep-set blue eyes were much lighter. Much more piercing.

  Something about him teased her memory, as if she had known him long ago. But to her knowledge they had never met before tonight. He didn’t seem the type to visit her shop.

  Miss Gilchrist snapped her back to the present. “Please say you will stay the night. I would not be able to sleep for fear that something dreadful would happen to you.”

  For a moment, Camille’s weary body was ready to accept. Outside those sumptuously dressed windows, thunder growled. Fear of what waited for her at home tightened her stomach.

  But she could not stay. The shop had been left open. Unattended. What if her father returned to find it in such a state?

  As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Gilchrist spoke. “Surely you cannot be considering returning there tonight after all that has happened.”

  Camille managed to swing her feet to the floor. “My father will be returning home soon, and he will be concerned about where I am.”

  She stood up. The room swirled. She swayed, and in two steps Mr. Gilchrist was at her side, taking her arm to steady her.

  “You have lost blood, Miss Iverness, not to mention endured a trying experience. Please reconsider. You can sleep here tonight, and we will return you home safe and sound in the morning.”

  “Yes, please reconsider.” Miss Gilchrist added.

  Camille lifted her eyes to the portrait above the chimneypiece. A pastoral countryside, warm in shades of green and b
rown, called to her, and she realized she desperately wanted to stay. She certainly did not want to return to Blinkett Street. For what, after all, would she be returning to? A ramshackle shop full of broken merchandise? A father who might or might not even be there?

  Her stomach gave a lurch, protesting the evening’s events. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh, and the wet linen of her gown felt rough against it. Tears, hot in contrast, burned her eyes. She would not cry. She never cried. She just needed time to consider what to do. And here, she supposed, was as good a place as any to do just that.

  She forced a smile. “Thank you for your hospitality. I would be happy to accept your kind invitation.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Camille slowly made her way upstairs in the wake of Miss Gilchrist and her lady’s maid, a plump woman called Meeks. It was not an easy trek. Her arm and head throbbed. Concern

  It was not an easy trek. Her arm and head throbbed. Concern for the state of her father’s shop weighed on her mind. Thunder cracked continually, lancing her already tense nerves.

  If Miss Gilchrist was aware at all of Camille’s discomfort, she gave no indication of such. She chattered on about how shocking the night’s events had been, leaving Camille to wonder how much Mr. Gilchrist had shared with her regarding the evening’s events. But Camille didn’t ask. All she wanted was to be left alone so she could sort out the situation.

  They entered a prepared chamber. Its warmth immediately welcomed her into the opulent room. The dancing fire and the canopied bed beckoned, and a soft carpet cushioned the hard floor beneath her soggy kid boots.

  “This will be your chamber for the night, and I hope you will be comfortable in it.” Miss Gilchrist swept around the space as if assessing its suitability.

  It was certainly finer than any place Camille had visited for quite some time. She watched Meeks scurry from the bed to the chair, fluffing linens and pillows. The sight brought to mind her own childhood, when her governess had fussed over her in such a manner.

  “This is lovely,” Camille breathed. “I am most grateful.”

  “Tomorrow we can find out what you know about the Bevoy, but first you must rest.”

  Camille frowned. The Bevoy? Was that not what the man who attacked her had asked about?

  “The Bevoy?” Camille repeated, wanting to be certain that she had heard the woman correctly, that she wasn’t merely hearing things in her afflicted state.

  “Yes, of course. The Bevoy. But we can talk about that tomorrow. You have had enough for one evening.”

  Mr. Gilchrist had made no mention of anything called a Bevoy. Camille searched her memory and was sure of it. A sickening wave swept over her. Perhaps Mr. Gilchrist’s intentions in helping her were not as innocent as they appeared. Was his kindness merely a cover for a hidden intention? Was this elegant house the refuge it appeared to be?

  Worrisome thoughts continued to plague her as she shed her wet garments and donned the warm flannel nightdress the lady’s maid provided. Even with dry clothing and a warm fire, an incessant chill coursed through her, refusing to let her forget the evening’s frightening turn. Her thoughts jumped in quick succession from her pain to the shop to her father and then back to her pain.

  “Meeks will take your dress and wash it for you. I fear the blood may not come out, but she can work wonders, even with the most delicate fabric. Your apron, though, seems no worse for the wear—but wait, what is this in the pocket?”

  Camille had quite forgotten about the contents of her apron. She rubbed her arms, panicking slightly. For some reason, the idea of someone else—anyone else—touching her things seemed more than she could bear at the moment. “I had quite forgotten there was anything in there.”

  “’Tis a letter. And some coins. A pair of scissors and a small package of some sort. I’m afraid the wrapping is a little damp—oh well, cannot be helped.”

  She handed over the items, and Camille took them in jittery hands, eager to have them back in her possession.

  “And here is the watch that was pinned to your gown.” Miss Gilchrist held the silver brooch up to the light. “Oh, it’s quite a lovely piece.”

  “My grandfather gave it to me,” Camille blurted as she eagerly took the piece from her host.

  Miss Gilchrist merely nodded, her attention shifting quickly. “We will leave your underthings here by the fire to dry. I should think they would be dry by morning. Do you not agree?” Miss Gilchrist. She pointed to a gown and shawl laid out at the foot of the bed. “Meeks brought these for you to wear tomorrow. I fear I have grown too big for the dress. Meeks tells me it is because of all of the scones I eat. Nonetheless, I can wear it no longer, but you might be able to.”

  Camille ran her finger over the pale-yellow silk dress. Tiny pink and yellow flowers bordered the scalloped hem of the neck and sleeves. How different it was from the linen or cotton she normally wore. It was much more like the silk she sometimes sold in the shop—too fine and priceless for everyday use. The shawl, woven of gossamer wool in a golden hue, shimmered in the candlelight.

  Under normal circumstances, Camille would never accept such offerings. Even as her eyes admired the satin ribbon adorning the bustline, she was searching for a way to refuse it. But what choice did she have? She forced words from her mouth. “I thank you.”

  “Do not thank me. I only hope you are well.” Miss Gilchrist’s smile seemed genuine as she folded her hands in front of her. “I will leave you now. The hour has grown quite late. There is a cord there by the door that you can pull should you need anything during the night. Meeks will come you to straightaway.”

  Camille watched as the woman and her lady’s maid left the room, then she hurried to close the door behind them.

  Finally alone.

  Finally quiet.

  But her mind raced with unrest.

  As if the evening’s events were not odd enough, how did Miss Gilchrist know of the Bevoy? And what in the world was a Bevoy anyway? Odd how an item she’d never even heard of before could suddenly loom so large in her life.

  Realizing she still held the brooch, she opened her hand and gazed at it. Such memories it held. Her grandfather had been dead a very long time, but every time she looked at the brooch or heard the soft tick of the watch, memories of his goodness and kindness flooded her mind.

  Even though her mother had lived with them on the estate, it had been her grandfather who took an interest in her. He who taught her to ride a pony, who read stories to her by the fire. He had taken her to church in the nearby village and even sneaked tarts and chocolates from the kitchen for her.

  He had made her feel loved.

  She placed the brooch on the bureau. She did not need to read the inscription to call the words to mind.

  “All things work together for good to them that love the Lord.”

  Grandfather had been a man of great faith, and no doubt he had believed the words wholeheartedly. But try as she might, Camille could not. When she considered her present situation, the words rang hollow.

  It was pleasant to think that everything would work out in the end. But as far as she could tell, nothing could be further from the truth.

  Later that night, after his sister and their unexpected guest had retired for the night and he had changed into dry buckskin breeches, cotton shirt, and wool coat to ward off a chill, Jonathan found himself unable to rest. So he retreated to his father’s study.

  He had never cared for their London home. He much preferred Kettering Hall and the calm stillness of Fellsworth. In fact, he avoided this house whenever possible, but soon avoiding it would not be an issue. As a result of his father’s financial troubles, efforts were already underway to find a buyer for the London home.

  It would not take long for the property to sell. Chire Street was a hub of social activity. But for the time being all was quiet, at least during the midnight hours.

  Jonathan dropped into the chair behind the broad oak desk and reached for the sealed letter that sat
atop it. He balanced the letter in his hands, tapped it against his palm, then tossed it back on the desk.

  Even from a distance, his father had the ability to impose his will.

  Jonathan did not need to read the letter to know what it contained. His father’s gout might prevent him from traveling, but it did not stop him from sharing his mind. Ian Gilchrist had become a man obsessed with recovering the ruby—he’d spoken of little else since the robbery. And he was dead set on the idea that Jonathan should be the one to recover it.

  Jonathan wanted to be away from this—to go back to the simplicity of his life as an apothecary, tending to the villagers and the children at the nearby school. But this ruby, this ridiculous ruby, and his father and brother’s ties to a world he did not understand prevented it.

  If it were only for his sake, he would abandon it all. He did not need Kettering Hall. But he worried for his father, even though the man had brought much of his trouble upon himself. And his sister . . .

  Childish and dramatic she might be, but their bond had always been strong. And without the recovery of this ruby, her future could indeed be bleak. Most of the estate’s furnishings and his father’s collection would stay with Kettering Hall were it to be sold, with almost nothing left to support Penelope if she remained unmarried. And without a dowry, her chances for making a good match were small indeed. Jonathan was well acquainted with Alfred Dowden. The man was not likely to go through with the marriage if the money vanished. The same was true for most men in their social circle.

  Jonathan stood from the desk and moved to the fireplace. He stoked the orange embers and revived the dying fire. He could not help but think of Miss Iverness. Everything about the past several days had been unusual, but bringing her to their home had to be the most out of the ordinary.

  He recalled how light and delicate she had felt in his arms, but there was a spark to her that he found intriguing. He tried to imagine Penelope fighting an intruder. Miss Iverness’s spirit was tenacious.

  Darbin had mentioned that Miss Iverness was a woman who could defend herself. A woman accustomed to the rougher ways of the street. And perhaps Darbin was right.