But apprehension haunted him on his walk to his boyhood home. He dreaded tonight’s interaction with his father for one reason: the Bevoy.
They were no closer to finding it. And all were painfully aware of the truth. Every day that passed without the ruby increased the likelihood that they would never see it again. He and Darbin had parted on cold terms, and he had not heard from Darbin since the man had left the apothecary shop a few days prior. Jonathan had been optimistic at first, but now his hopes that they would actually recover the gem had dwindled.
His father expected him to be in London, as if that were the mystical answer to their problem. Jonathan did not share his opinion.
Reaching the hall, Jonathan hurried up the main steps, eager to be out of the gathering weather. The rain had not started, yet the warnings were all around. Thunder growled like a beast ready to pounce from its cage. Lightning simmered in the distance. Jonathan hurried inside as soon as Abbott swung the door open.
He found his father in the parlor by the fire, a pipe clenched in his teeth. This he had expected. But finding Henry Darbin in the room as well took him quite by surprise.
The men looked up as Jonathan let himself into the parlor. It was Darbin who spoke first, a crooked grin on his face. “Ah, the prodigal son returns.” The words were spoken in jest, but they plucked at his already tightened nerves.
“Darbin, what brings you to Kettering Hall? I thought you were to return to London.”
Darbin nodded toward the elder Gilchrist. “Your father is a very persuasive man. I have not yet returned to London. Your father convinced me to stay on at Kettering Hall for a few more days.”
Jonathan cast a glance at his father, who was intently stuffing his pipe, all but ignoring the conversation between the two men. “Don’t you have business to see to in London?”
Darbin cocked his head to the side. “Your father and I believe I can be of more use here.”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes on the scene, unsure what to make of it. He took his seat by the fire, just as he did every Friday. It was really too warm for such a fire. The walk over had been muggy at best, and the fire made things worse.
But his father seemed oblivious. “The more the merrier, isn’t that what they say? Dowden sent word that he will be joining us as well, which should please your sister. It’s about time he showed himself around here again.” He puffed his pipe, sending swirls of tobacco smoke into the air, pausing only when coughs racked his body.
Ian Gilchrist had never been an overly healthy man. A raucous lifestyle had aged him beyond his years. As of late his gout had troubled him increasingly, and his breathing seemed compromised as well. Physician after physician had come by, but none had been able to cure him.
Though Jonathan was not a physician, he was an experienced apothecary, working day to day with people afflicted with every manner of ailments. If asked, he thought he could help. But he knew his father. Being an apothecary was a shame to his father, and a disgraceful occupation for the heir of Kettering Hall. Accepting assistance from Jonathan would validate the occupation. Ian Gilchrist would never do that.
“I wish you would let me give you something for that cough,” Jonathan ventured anyway.
His father’s reply was gruff. “Don’t need it.”
But as yet another round of hacking assaulted his father, Jonathan sighed and leaned back against the chair.
Darbin’s voice rose above the crackling fire. “I hear Miss Iverness is settled at Fellsworth School.”
Jonathan noted it had not taken long for Darbin to bring her into the conversation. “She is.”
“As good a place for her as any,” reasoned Darbin. “Away from her father and where we can keep an eye on her.”
Jonathan clenched his teeth. He was not a man prone to quick anger, but Darbin had a way of irritating him. Jonathan knew why. The man reminded him so much of Thomas that it had almost became impossible for Jonathan to separate the two. He knew it was unfair to project feelings for one person onto another, but they were so alike in their mannerisms and their ways of thinking.
Darbin fussed with his cravat. “She will be joining us for dinner, you know.”
Jonathan jerked his head up. Darbin spoke as if he had some authority at Kettering Hall. It was well known that the staff at the school had very limited time off—a total of two Sunday afternoons a month. He kept his temper in check, his voice, even. “No, I did not know. It is Friday. I am surprised the school could spare her.”
“Penelope paid the school a visit and spoke with Mr. Langsby directly,” his father said. “You know your sister and how persuasive she can be. What she wants, she gets. Is that not right?”
“Did I hear my name?” His sister sauntered into the room.
“Uncanny,” Jonathan breathed. “We speak of you and you appear. Penelope, Father was just remarking that you have the incredible ability to get what you want.”
Penelope looked to her father innocently. “What is he talking about?”
“We just informed him that Miss Iverness is joining us for dinner,” he recounted. “He was surprised the school could spare her.”
Penelope flounced onto the sofa opposite Jonathan. She rolled her eyes. “Really, Jonathan. Do not look so sour.”
“I do not think you should interfere. She is settling into a new life. Let her be about her business in peace.”
Penelope’s lips formed that familiar pout. “Perhaps I am interfering, Jonathan, but I want to get this ruby back. And you are sitting there like a dunce, doing nothing. You speak of her new life. But what about my new life? You may not mind being poor and living in the village, but I do. The ruby is of utmost importance to me.”
Jonathan shook his head in disgust. He suspected a trap. Miss Iverness was coming to dinner, undoubtedly expecting companionship, and these three would use that expectation in an attempt to extract information from her.
Jonathan wanted to know the truth as well. Nothing would be more satisfying after all this time than to have the right answers. But this was not the way.
“She knows nothing,” Jonathan stated. “You should leave her alone, Darbin, and do what we have hired you to do.”
Penelope jumped to Darbin’s defense. “Is it truly possible for someone as clever as you to be deceived by a pretty face? Mr. Darbin is trying to do his job. You are not going to be of any assistance, so you might as well step down and let him do his work.”
Jonathan wanted to wash his hands of this group—to leave Kettering Hall once and for all and leave the entire mess behind him. But one thing kept him tied to his chair. He would not leave Miss Iverness to face them alone.
But Penelope was not finished. “I do hope that you are not allowing any personal feelings to cloud your judgment.”
Jonathan lifted his eyebrows. “Personal feelings?”
“I have seen the way you look at her,” she shot back. “All glassy-eyed like a schoolboy. Miss Iverness is quite a beauty, I’ll allow. And what better way to hide a secret than to flirt with the very man she is trying to keep it from. I think you are allowing an infatuation to sway your common sense.”
Jonathan could feel his face reddening, his self-control slipping through his fingers. He had expected this sort of behavior from Darbin and even his father, but not from Penelope. He had thought her more compassionate than to waylay a poor girl who had done nothing wrong. Her panic over losing the dowry must be great indeed.
Penelope continued, her words terse. “Since you seem so lily-livered about this, I will take it in hand myself. You may be fine and well with losing everything, but Father has worked too hard to see it all go downhill. If you will not fight for the Bevoy, then I will. And Mr. Darbin will help me.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Camille had been thrilled to receive an invitation for dinner at Kettering Hall.
Of course, the invitation had raised eyebrows, for Miss Penelope Gilchrist never entered the school, and her personal visit to Mr. Langsby t
o request Camille’s presence had set tongues wagging. And it seemed odd that Mr. Langsby never asked Camille if she would accept the invitation, but told her she was to attend. Clearly the relationship between the school and the Gilchrist family was deep-seated and complicated, if just a visit from the daughter could excuse one of the teachers from her nightly duties.
But at the moment, Camille did not care. Her first days of teaching had been exciting but tiring, and she was eager to be in the company of friends once again—especially since, if she were to be called upon to nurse the sick children, she might not leave the building again for quite some time.
The Gilchrists had sent a carriage for her, and now that carriage rumbled across the countryside. Flecks of rain splattered the side of the window while purple clouds mounted in the east, gilded by momentary flashes of lightning. Camille kept her eyes focused on the window for the entire ride. She never wanted to take this beauty for granted. Never.
Camille smoothed her gown and folded her gloved hands in her lap. She had chosen to wear her plain black teaching gown and her black kid boots. No doubt Miss Gilchrist would expect her to wear one of the gowns she had loaned her, but at least the one she was wearing was officially hers by right. She had bundled all the items that Penelope had lent her into the borrowed valise and would return it tonight. She was already in debt to the Gilchrists for so many things. She did not want to live off their charity indefinitely.
Upon her arrival, the butler took the valise from her and led the way into the parlor. A wave of excitement coursed through her. She felt unusually comfortable, as if she were coming home to a place where she belonged.
When the butler announced Camille, Miss Gilchrist jumped up from the sofa, a vision in shimmering pink sateen. She rushed over and gathered Camille’s hands in her own, carefully dressed curls bouncing with each slippered step. “Miss Iverness, you are here at last. I do hope that you do not mind my asking Mr. Langsby to send you over for dinner tonight. It was presumptuous, I know, but I could not bear waiting until your free Sunday.”
“It is I who am grateful.” Camille quickly scanned the room. The gentlemen in the parlor had all stood when she entered. The elder Mr. Gilchrist. Mr. Darbin. A man she did not know. Jonathan Gilchrist. Her breath caught at the sight of the latter.
She had been concerned that the younger Mr. Gilchrist might not be joining them, especially given the illness at the school. But at the sight of him, her happiness felt complete. She wondered if she would ever be able to see him without feeling this way. It was childish, really. She had often read of infatuations but had never experienced one. Most men, in her experience, were rough and selfish, dangerous and cruel.
But not her grandfather, of course. And not Mr. Gilchrist.
Miss Gilchrist, obviously comfortable in the role as hostess, took Camille’s arm in hers and ushered her to the center of the room. “Do come over here and warm yourself by the fire. The rain did not make your dress damp, did it?” She then turned to face the men. “I believe you know everyone present, with the exception of Mr. Dowden? Miss Iverness, this is my betrothed, Mr. Alfred Dowden. Mr. Dowden, this is Miss Iverness, the one I have told you so much about.”
Miss Gilchrist broke away from Camille and stepped over next to the man, who bowed deeply. “Miss Iverness. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Camille curtsied in return.
She could have guessed Mr. Dowden’s identity before the introduction. In truth, Miss Gilchrist had only mentioned him a few times, but the affectionate glances she threw his way made her feelings for him clear. He seemed to take them as his due. Mr. Dowden was not the tallest man in the room, nor the most handsome, but his deep barrel chest and sober countenance lent him an intimidating presence.
“Please be seated, Miss Iverness,” chattered Miss Gilchrist, taking Camille by the arm. “I do want to hear all about your first few days at Fellsworth School.”
Camille followed Miss Gilchrist’s bidding and took a seat on the sofa. “Everyone at the school has been very kind and welcoming. And they are all so very complimentary of your family.”
“They should be,” growled the elder Mr. Gilchrist, adjusting his position in the chair and wincing as he repositioned his leg. “We’ve given them money to keep that school afloat more times than I can count.”
“Father!” scolded Miss Gilchrist. “That is not at all gracious.”
“But it is the truth.”
“Be that as it may, it never does to say such things.”
Camille lifted her eyes to the younger Mr. Gilchrist to ascertain his view on the topic. He seemed abnormally quiet, and he was the only one of the party not sitting. Instead, he stood at the fire, leaning with his elbow against the chimneypiece. His eyes were fixed on her, but his expression seemed more severe than she could recall. Normally there was a softness in his expression. But now he seemed hard. Almost angry.
Miss Gilchrist had moved on to ask about Mr. Darbin’s recent stay in London, but Camille found herself distracted. Had she done something to upset Mr. Gilchrist? Had something been said to him by the school?
She set the thoughts aside and forced herself to smile. The past two days had been trying enough. She was determined to enjoy a pleasant evening.
Jonathan pushed his stewed spinach with his fork, too angry and frustrated to eat. He wanted to throw Darbin from Kettering Hall and insist he never return. But instead, he clamped his teeth over his lower lip.
He watched as his sister and Mr. Darbin petted and praised Miss Iverness. Penelope was seated on her left, Mr. Darbin on her right. Mr. Dowden, seated next Jonathan, focused mostly on his meal, while Jonathan’s father, at the opposite end of the table, kept unusually quiet.
If Penelope’s purpose was to make Miss Iverness feel at home, she was certainly accomplishing the goal. She inquired after Miss Iverness’s chambers at the school and about her students. She wanted to know whether or not Miss Iverness was getting enough to eat, and she pronounced it a shame that the school did not serve the teachers hot chocolate each morning.
But Darbin was worse. The way he flattered Miss Iverness was nauseating.
Jonathan knew he was sulking. But he also knew that if he were to open his mouth, he may not be able to control what came out.
It was Penelope’s previous comments regarding his feelings toward Miss Iverness that bothered him the most. If he were honest, it was partly because they were true.
He did care for Miss Iverness. How could he not? And watching another man flirt shamelessly with her incited a rage within him that he had never known.
But irrespective of his personal feelings, he also felt responsible for her and did not want to see her led astray. Though wise in the ways of Blinkett Street and adept in dealing with people from a rougher walk of life, she was new to the more genteel brutalities of the country set. Yet surely she was astute enough to realize what Penelope and Darbin were up to.
Jonathan took a sip of the wine before him, the taste bitter against the back of his throat. Miss Iverness was seated across from him, dressed in a black gown of the sort he had seen on the school’s teachers for years. But the plainness of it only seemed to enhance Miss Iverness’s dusky complexion. The candlelight sparkled off her brilliant eyes, and she seemed infinitely happy. She smiled, and a soft dimple formed in her rosy cheek.
Yes, he had feelings for her.
And those feelings intensified his anger against his sister’s ridiculous charade.
As he was contemplating, he almost failed to notice that Miss Iverness had turned to him.
“Mr. Gilchrist, are you well?”
The sound of his name on her lips snapped him from his thoughts. “Oh, yes. Very well.”
Miss Iverness shook her head, her eyes cast down to his plate. “But you’ve barely eaten at all.”
A smirk crossed Penelope’s lips. “Jonathan is just out of sorts. Are you not, Jonathan?”
But Miss Iverness seemed to ignore his sister’s
jab. “I did not see you at the school yesterday, but I understand from Miss Brathay that you were there.”
“Yes, I was there,” he said, ignoring the strange flutter in his chest when she mentioned she had noticed his absence.
Miss Iverness frowned, her gaze fixed firmly on him. “And how did you find Miss Sonten this afternoon?”
He should give her a simple one-word answer. But he elaborated, his eyes on his sister. “She is about the same. Miss Barnes, I fear, is a little worse. Let us hope there are no further cases.”
Penelope lowered her fork, refusing to be left out of the conversation. “And who, may I ask, are these young ladies?”
Jonathan locked eyes with his sister. “Young students at Fellsworth School. Both have contracted scarlet fever.”
Penelope’s expression darkened at his words, as he had known it would. She cast a glance at Dowden, then she fell silent.
Jonathan had known very well how a mere mention of the illness affected his sister, the memory it conjured. And he had done it purposefully, hoping to distract her from her cruel intentions toward Miss Iverness.
But he felt no satisfaction at momentarily quieting her. For the memory burned just as dark for him as it did for her.
Chapter Thirty
In the parlor following dinner, candles lit every corner of the room, the light sparkling off the gilded frames and brass statues. The men had stayed behind in the dining room for port while Miss Gilchrist and Camille took coffee in the parlor. The men joined them shortly afterward, then the elder Mr. Gilchrist announced that he would retire, leaving the young people to entertain themselves.
It was a pleasant room, providing a warm reprieve from the rainy weather outside. Camille settled on the sofa, enjoying this time to relax with people she was quickly becoming to think of as friends. Miss Gilchrist sat on one side of her, and Mr. Darbin took the chair opposite.
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