She started walking again. Jonathan stood and watched her go. But before he could conjure another reason to detain her, she stopped short of her own accord. Curious as to the reason, he followed her, weaving around a passing cart and sidestepping a stack of wooden crates.
Then his own steps slowed.
For by the light of day, the damage to the Iverness Curiosity Shop was clear. One window was shattered, and glass littered the dirt walk. The door was propped open.
Miss Iverness said nothing. She broke away and ran toward the door.
Chapter Thirteen
Camille halted at the shop’s open door, heart thudding out a rhythm like a runaway horse’s hooves.
She could hear her father inside, shuffling amongst the clutter she knew all too well and spewing profanity with familiar coarseness.
She would never have expected him to return this early, for it was just past dawn. Normally his night excursions kept him away much longer—sometimes days.
Fear, as rich and as deep as any she had experienced the night before, rushed through her. Last night she had feared for her safety, but this morning, the fear was different.
She stepped over the broken glass and splintered wood, all thoughts of her conversation with Mr. Gilchrist surrendered to the back of her mind.
Before she could even step inside, her father spied her through the broken window. “Camille, where in blazes have you been?”
She clutched her little bundle of belongings closer to her. Her words refused to form, as if her father’s anger had stolen her ability to speak. She pushed the door open, scooting littered bits of glass and stone as she did.
He did not wait until she was fully inside before he pounced like a tiger attacking its prey. “I asked you a question, girl. I demand an explanation, and you had better have one to give me.”
She barely heard his words. The sights around her had captured her attention. The shop was in shambles, the damage worse than she had imagined. She knew the intruder, Mr. McCready, had dropped a vase, and she remembered knocking over several items. But what she saw now was unlike anything she had expected. The only possible explanation was that the store had been looted overnight.
She stammered as her eyes raked from the broken birdcages to the ripped canvases. “I-I—”
But her father would not wait for her to utter a single word. “You. I leave you to oversee the shop, and I come home to this—with you no place to be found?”
“I-I can explain. You don’t understand.”
“I understand that you let this happen,” he hurled back, his green eyes narrowed in sharp scrutiny.
“I did not!” She jutted her chin and did her best to stand her ground. “A man forced his way into the shop last night. He had a knife. I had no choice; it wasn’t safe here. I—”
“There is always a choice, girl,” he hissed, reaching for a dram of brandy and slamming it down his throat. “I left you in charge, and this is how you betray me? Leave my store alone? Let it be ransacked?”
Suddenly his expression changed. His eyes focused on something behind her, and a shadow against the far wall shifted. She turned around.
Mr. Gilchrist stood on the threshold, his broad shoulders cutting a black silhouette against the street behind him. She blinked and stared at him for several moments, confused. She thought he had remained at the corner as they approached Blinkett Street, but no doubt her father’s profane shouts and cursing had attracted his attention. How could they not? She was not sure if she was irritated that he had followed her or relieved to have another person present.
Her father’s voice grew quiet. “Who are you?”
Mr. Gilchrist stepped inside. “My name’s Gilchrist.”
“Ian Gilchrist’s boy?” No warmth of recognition lit her father’s hard face as he assessed the man in the doorway. “What do you want?”
Camille swallowed the lump of fear and disbelief forming in her throat. So her father was acquainted, at least on some level, with the Gilchrists. She stepped aside to allow Mr. Gilchrist to brush past her. His presence brought with it a strange sense of calm. Her confidence seemed to rise with every step he took into the shop.
Mr. Gilchrist’s voice was strong when hers felt weak. “I am here to make certain Miss Iverness is well. I happened by the shop yesterday night while the robbery was taking place, and she was injured.”
Mr. Gilchrist’s explanation did little to diffuse the fire in her father’s eyes. “You just happened by the shop, did you? Then I suppose you can answer for some of this mess as well.”
Mr. Gilchrist stared her father directly in the eye, something not many people dared to do. James Iverness was king of this street, accustomed to having people bow to his will. Perhaps it was Mr. Gilchrist’s ignorance, or perhaps this well-bred stranger had more courage than she had been willing to give him credit for.
Mr. Gilchrist’s voice was unshaken. “No, I’ll not answer for the damage. That was someone else’s doing. And your daughter is hardly to blame. When I arrived, she was being held at knifepoint by a rogue twice her size. She was fortunate to escape with her life.”
Camille’s heartbeat jumped wildly to her throat. Her father would never stand for such a response. She wanted to blink but felt physically unable. Her father’s face was deepening to a sinister shade of crimson, his cheeks starting to shake. He was a volatile man, and once provoked, he was a volcano, heaving forth hot and angry words with the force of a massive explosion.
James Iverness stepped up to the much younger, much taller man, his hand waving in the air. For what he lacked in stature, he made up in volume. “I’ll not be told who to blame for this disaster or how to speak to my daughter in my own shop, especially not by the son of a thieving, lying . . .” Several choice descriptions of the elder Mr. Gilchrist followed.
Camille looked to Mr. Gilchrist, her breath suspended, waiting for a response of any kind. But none came.
Her father spun around, mere inches from his daughter. “Is this the type of person you prefer to keep company with? This sort of man who disrespects me in my own shop?”
Her need to diffuse the situation overcame her fear. And Mr. Gilchrist’s bravery bolstered her own. “But he helped me, Papa.”
“He helped you, did he? Ha! I bet he did. Helped you right out of your shop.” He pointed a shaky finger to Mr. Gilchrist. “Very convenient, wasn’t it, boy, for you and your kind to have the shop left unattended. I’ll wager I can go to your father’s study and find half o’ what’s missing here now.”
He whirled back to Camille. “And as for you, only a common trollop would come flouncing in here in the morning with a man she doesn’t know.”
The words flamed through the air. Camille could feel Mr. Gilchrist’s gaze on her. She wanted to melt into the floor, to disappear completely. She had told herself she didn’t care what the man thought. He had already seen her at her worst, and she’d thought her humiliation was complete. But she’d been wrong.
Camille shook her head vehemently, as if her exaggerated movement could convince her father more aptly. “If you would just listen, I—”
“I want you gone!” he shouted, each word notably louder than the last. “Leave. Now.”
At first Camille didn’t believe his order. Her father was brash, and where she was concerned, his bark was almost always worse than his bite. But then he grabbed her by the arm—her injured arm. She howled in pain, and her knees buckled beneath her. He either did not notice or did not care. He wrapped his fingers tighter and all but pushed her out the door.
She stumbled onto the cobblestoned street, falling to her knees. The sharp pebbles and shards of glass jabbed her through her dress, and cold moisture seeped through the fine silk. Pain accosted her from every point of her body, but she felt numb in spite of it.
Her father had treated her harshly before, but never had he done anything like this. Though the threat had been present, like a ghost lingering in the air, he had never actually laid a hand on
her before today.
But now, apparently, she had crossed a line. Her actions had cost him the one thing he loved more than anything else—money.
It could not have been helped, she was certain. No matter how many times she recounted the events in her head, she simply could not see how she could have acted differently.
But her father would never see it that way.
She drew a sharp breath, preparing to push through the pain and rise, when a hand touched her elbow.
Camille recoiled at the touch.
“Let me help you.”
A fresh wave of humiliation swept through her. Not only had Mr. Gilchrist been privy to last night’s events. He now bore witness to something much more personal.
Mortification sank dull teeth into her, dissolving her will to stand and face him. But he had already seen the full extent of her shame. She bit her lip to prevent any emotion from writing itself on her face and pulled her arm away. “You have done enough.”
She gathered the items that had escaped from her improvised reticule when she fell. She moved slowly, not so much because of the pain, but because she was unsure of what she was going to say when she did straighten and face Mr. Gilchrist. She sniffed and blinked as she wrapped her belongings once more in the apron, waiting for the sting of embarrassment to subside.
Her father’s cursing and mumblings could be heard from within. And she could not blame his erratic behavior on intoxication, for he had seemed quite lucid. No, this time he meant what he said.
She was no longer welcome at the shop that she called home.
Mr. Gilchrist stepped back to give her room as she got to her feet, but he did not leave. She wanted him to, but she had not expected it.
No, Mr. Gilchrist was a gentleman. She had seen his home, outfitted with the taste and comfort only a privileged man could afford. And he had treated her kindly and equally, not as if she were merely a shopgirl from Blinkett Street, but someone worthwhile. He would not have it in him to walk away from a woman in distress.
He remained quiet while she rose and shook out the folds of her skirt. Then there was no excuse for her to not look him in the eye.
She clenched her jaw as she raised her gaze to meet his. She waited for him to speak and expected him to say something about her arm, but he did not. Instead, his words were soft and low, yet sure and swift, spoken as if he had knowledge of every aspect of her life. “You need to be away from here.”
Tears wanted to fall. She looked past him and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. “Papa is just upset. Things will settle down.”
“No.” The intensity of his blue eyes weakened her knees. “It is not safe for you here.”
She gave a little laugh, but her attempt to make light of the situation fell flat. “Are you always so certain of everything?”
Mr. Gilchrist did not laugh with her. He did not even crack a smile. “I am when I see a lady being treated in such a fashion.”
Her false smile faded. “I know my father. This will pass. The matter will be set to right by day’s end.”
But even as she spoke, her father’s shouts could be heard above the sounds of the street.
Oh, she did not want to be here.
She wanted to be far, far away from Blinkett Street and everything it represented. Her cheeks flamed anew at the thought that Mr. Gilchrist had seen what happened. The previous evening had almost been easier to bear—all had been in darkness. But today she felt completely exposed. There could be no hiding or masking the truth about her life.
Mr. Gilchrist’s eyes were pinned on her. She could feel them as certainly as she could feel the fabric against her skin or the breeze on her face.
She knew men like him. They came into the shop often. They were easy to identify—well dressed in coats of fine wool, with polished Hessian boots and intricately tied cravats. Clean-shaven, wealthy young men seeking adventure and diversion from their otherwise dull lives. While Mr. Gilchrist did not appear to fit that mold, she had interacted with men long enough to know that they were rarely as they seemed.
Lost in her musings, she did not resist as he ushered her away from the shop’s entrance. “I know a place,” he said in a low voice, “where you will be safe. Somewhere you can get away from this.”
That got her attention. The idea that where she came from was not good enough was far beyond what she deemed appropriate. It was insulting. “I appreciate your concern, but I have no intention of leaving my home.”
Camille quickened her steps not only to put physical distance between them but to halt the topic of conversation.
Her gait was no match for his longer one. “And what if Mr. McCready comes again? Or another man, for that matter? Or what if your father will not let you return? What will you do?”
She pressed her lips together, refusing to answer. Her steps grew quicker. Stronger.
But he persisted. “Just hear what I have to say. I have a friend, a good friend, who is the superintendent of a school in Fellsworth, Surrey. Our family has a home nearby, so I know him well. He is always looking for assistance. I could inquire about a position for you.”
She almost laughed at that. “Are you suggesting I could be a teacher? Perhaps you have not noticed, but I am hardly the teacher sort.”
His blond eyebrows drew together as if her brash dismissal of his idea had surprised him. “The school has need of many kinds of help, not just teaching. I am sure there would be something for you to do.” He brightened. “Perhaps you could show the girls how to keep books and balance accounts. You know how to do that, do you not? More important, working there would get you away from London. My sister and I will be returning to Fellsworth tomorrow. You could accompany us.”
She shot back her response. “You are assuming that I want to get away.”
“I’m not—” He paused and rethought his words. “I only mean to be of assistance.”
She eyed him. His concern seemed so genuine. And how she wished it was. How lovely it would be to have someone like him care about her.
But he wanted something.
He wanted that ruby.
No man was as he seemed.
“You can trust me, Miss Iverness. I only want to help.”
“I trust nobody.” Her voice was firm. “And I have no intention of leaving London.”
Chapter Fourteen
Miss Iverness turned sharply and hurried away.
Jonathan watched as she wove her way through the crowds on Blinkett Street and around a carriage. She clutched her bundle to her chest and was almost running. She cast one glance over her shoulder at him, but before he could react she had turned again.
Though the rain had not returned, a canopy of clouds and smoke painted everything around them with its steely paintbrush, reinforcing the stark melancholy. He continued to study her retreating form, her yellow gown a bright spot in the dreary, hopeless gray.
Then she disappeared around the corner.
He stood without moving, stunned at what he had just witnessed. Never had he seen the like. Such violence was foreign to him. Of course, he and his brother had their bouts of boyish roughhousing, but this could not compare.
A man, a grown man, laying hands on his daughter and pushing her into the street?
Unbelievable.
He drew a deep breath, the scents of rotting garbage and smoke from the nearby forge reminding him of where he was.
He huffed angrily under his breath, ignoring the puddled water that splashed onto his boots and legs with every step. His blood continued to boil at the injustice of Miss Iverness’s plight.
But what could he do? She did not want his help. And why should she? She knew nothing of him, other than he was somehow connected to a stolen ruby that had probably been the cause of her injury.
He had no idea what had possessed him to suggest a position at the school. He had no authority to make such an offer, other than the fact that Mr. Langsby owed him a few favors and was an agreeable man.
And yet he wanted to help. His concern for Miss Iverness, this mysterious creature with black hair and startling eyes, would not leave him alone. He could not tell why, other than he recognized something in her—something restrained. Something suppressed to the point of pain.
Something deeply familiar.
For he too knew something about living in isolation—side by side with people with whom one should share love but somehow remained strangers.
He could leave the rough confines of Blinkett Street. Pretend he never met her. The thread that would bind an apothecary from Fellsworth to a London shopkeeper’s daughter was nonexistent. The most prudent course of action would be to leave this moment behind him, reconnect with Darbin, and start a new search, then find his ruby as he originally planned, and return to quiet Fellsworth. He would likely never see Miss Iverness again.
He cast one final glance up the street, but she was gone. No yellow.
Only gray and smoke.
Camille could scarcely believe she had been able to hold back tears.
She rarely wept, and never in front of others. But now that she had turned off Blinkett Street and was in an alley, protected from prying eyes, she let a tear slip. And then another.
How vividly she could recall the stab in her chest, the sick feeling in her stomach after her mother departed for Portugal all those years ago. She had run to her chamber that day sobbing bitter tears. There had been no one to calm or soothe her. And the next morning, when she awoke, she had determined with all the stubbornness of youth never to allow another person to take her to such a state.
Until now, she’d been successful.
But now that ache was back. The sharp ache that reached into her heart and twisted, gripping it in a vise of anger and hopelessness until the tears just had to flow.
She didn’t know which hurt more—her father’s harsh rejection or the fact that Mr. Gilchrist had witnessed it.
She was not exactly clear why she cared so about Mr. Gilchrist’s opinion. After all, he was surely using her as a means to an end, his concern no doubt self-serving. He did intervene on her behalf, but by doing so he had seen a part of her life rarely seen by others.
The Curiosity Keeper Page 8
