Jonathan fought to control his rapid breathing, his annoyance with the man’s indifference growing brighter with each breath. Something was obviously not right. Miss Iverness would not simply leave, not without saying a word.
Or would she?
She had tried to tell him several times that she was not as she seemed. Is this what she had meant? Had her words been a warning?
Unable to control the energy racing within him, he began to pace. “But surely you must understand. She came here on my recommendation. I feel responsible on some level, and I just want to make sure she is well.”
“I would not fret.” Mr. Langsby removed his glasses and placed them on the desk before him. “In my assessment, she was a very sweet woman, but also quite a capable one. I have no doubt that she can take care of herself.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Before Camille opened her eyes, she knew where she was.
The air was thick with soot, and the familiar scent of smoke awakened a part of her memory that had almost fallen asleep.
Blinkett Street.
She pressed her eyes shut, trying to recall the view from her window at the Fellsworth School, with its wide green lawn and the sounds of children playing on the grounds below. But the vision would not form.
Panic rose as she opened her eyes. The dark, cramped upstairs room that had once been her solace now seemed like a prison, and the painting on the wall that had once brought comfort now seemed to taunt her, its careful brushstrokes and vibrant hues a cruel reminder of the world she craved.
She sat up, still fully clothed in her black linen gown, kid boots, and even her apron. She had refused to change out of them, not ready to let another bit of that world slip from her. Already her mind was churning, plotting her next step. She would not stay here. She couldn’t—not now that she had tasted life beyond the boundaries of Blinkett Street.
It would be impossible for her to return to Fellsworth, of course. There would be no hiding from Papa there. Nowhere familiar would be safe. And if she did return to the school, how could she possibly explain her sudden absence? They would either turn her away for neglecting her responsibilities or, if the truth became known, reject her because of the character of her family.
She felt the box in her apron pocket. By some miracle, she had been able to conceal the ruby from Papa. Somehow he had made his way into the school unnoticed and found her room. He had searched every nook and cranny of her chamber at Fellsworth, but he had failed to check her person.
The ruby belonged to the Gilchrists, and somehow she would get it back to them. She should have returned it to Mr. Gilchrist when she had a chance, but regret would do little for her now. She needed to act. And although she had been unable to discern the correct course of action while still at Fellsworth, she could see it now.
She hurried over to her trunk and knelt before it. She ran her fingers across the rough wood and uneven edges before lifting the lid, careful to prevent it from squeaking in the silence. The trunk contained the treasures of her life before her time in Fellsworth—less than two weeks previous, but it seemed a lifetime ago. She pushed aside a winter cloak and heavy shawl and reached down to the back left corner. She exhaled in relief when her fingers brushed velvet. She gripped the fabric pouch and pulled it free. After freeing the string, she looked inside. Both coins and paper money were tucked neatly within. She tucked the pouch into her bodice and gathered a few other personal effects. Her shawl. A clean dress and underthings. Everything she thought she would need but that was light enough to carry in her battered satchel.
She would go to Fellsworth long enough to return the Bevoy to its rightful owner. And then she would disappear. Somehow. Somewhere.
As far from Blinkett Street as she could possibly travel.
There was no doubt in Jonathan’s mind what needed to be done.
Mr. Langsby’s lack of concern regarding Miss Iverness’s disappearance came as no surprise, especially since Mr. Langsby was not familiar with her history.
Jonathan was, and he could not ignore it.
He needed to return to London and the sordid length of Blinkett Street.
And fast.
From the school he headed to Kettering Hall, leaving his apothecary’s box in the sickroom. He had arrived at the school on foot, so he ran the familiar path from the village to Kettering, ignoring the burning in his chest and the rain that was starting to sprinkle from the heavens.
Jonathan did not wait for a welcome once at Kettering Hall. Rainwater showered from his coat as he crossed the threshold. He paid it no mind.
He wanted—no, needed—to speak with his father. A shift had occurred yesterday morning in his cottage. The rift between them had not been mended—time had rendered it far too deep and jagged to be set to rights so quickly. But at present, he felt his request would be acknowledged, if not welcomed.
For the first time that Jonathan could remember, he did not wait for an invitation to enter his father’s private sanctum. He ran across the entryway to the main hall, his boots sliding on the smooth marble, then crossed to his father’s study. He placed his hand on the curved brass handle and pushed it open with a force that extracted squawks of surprise from the caged bird in the corner.
Ian Gilchrist jerked his head upward, his face twisted into a scowl, his eyebrows drawn in apparent irritation. “Jonathan! What is the meaning of—”
“Miss Iverness is gone,” Jonathan blurted, his voice little more than a gasp for air.
His father stood in a slow, deliberate motion. “Gone? What do you mean?”
Jonathan closed the door behind him and stepped over several crates, ignoring the bird’s beady eyes and how they followed him. “I went to the school today for my regular visit, and upon my arrival I was informed that she had disappeared. Her bed had not been slept in, and her things were all missing.”
His father sunk slowly back in his chair, as if his mind were mapping the significance of the news. “This cannot be a good development.”
His father was referring to the Bevoy, to be sure, but for Jonathan Miss Iverness’s absence signified something far more personal. He tugged the hat from his head and forced his fingers through his wet hair. “I intend to go after her. I just came by to tell you that I am taking a horse from Kettering’s stable and will set off for London immediately.”
Ian Gilchrist nodded. “Take Zion. I’ve never ridden him, but the stablemaster claims he’s a steady mount.”
“Thank you.”
His father’s reaction took Jonathan a bit by surprise. He had expected indifference or perhaps even anger that a possible clue to the whereabouts of the Bevoy had slipped through their fingers. Instead, an expression akin to concern tugged at his father’s mouth.
The older man ran his fingers over his chin. “Do you know where you are going?”
Jonathan gave a sharp nod. “One of the teachers said that a short man with gray hair and green eyes was asking about her the other day. It has to be James Iverness.”
“Be careful,” warned his father. “Iverness is a shifty character.”
A strange warmth sparked in Jonathan’s chest. Was his father concerned for his safety? “I will.”
Jonathan turned to leave, but his father’s words halted him. “Take this.”
He pulled a polished chest from a nearby trunk and set it on the desk. He opened it to reveal a set of dueling pistols and a set of matching knives. “I know this goes against your convictions, but here. You might need them.”
When Jonathan hesitated, the old man thrust the chest into his arms. “Don’t argue,” he growled. “Just take them.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Camille hoped the earliness of the hour would work in her favor.
Her father was not one to rise before noon if he could possibly help it. He was a creature of the night, active when most of the good people of the world slumbered. So there was a good chance he was still snoring in the chamber across the hall.
; Experience had made her well acquainted with every creaky floorboard of her room and the corridor outside. She held her breath and avoided them as she left her cramped chamber, satchel in hand.
Her heart beat wildly as if attempting to warn her of a danger she was already all too familiar with. Hurt and betrayal mingled with the fear and trepidation within her, but she banished them with practiced skill to make room for clarity and confidence—both of which she would need. Camille patted her pocket, ensuring that the box and letter were still in their place.
She made it to the landing and down the narrow stairs. The morning sounds of Blinkett Street were audible through the thin walls. She was so close to freedom, for once she was free of their shop she could blend into the masses, and disappearing would be easy.
But then she heard voices—male voices, then one that sounded female. She couldn’t tell where they were coming from.
Camille’s heart pounded with such intensity that she felt certain that everyone within a mile’s radius could hear. She drew a deep breath and bit her lip. Those voices could only spell danger.
Camille stepped to the right side of the staircase, knowing that the left side had a tendency to squeak under her weight. She considered her options once she reached the bottom of the curved stairwell. If the voices were indeed coming from the back room, she would want to turn right and exit from the shop’s front entrance. If they were in the shop, she would need to turn left and make her way through the back room to the alley.
If all went well she could slip into the shop without being seen or heard. And all was going well until her satchel slid from her shoulder and banged against the wall.
She froze.
Then the sound of toenails echoed on the wooden floor.
Tevy.
The voices in the other room stopped.
Tevy’s thick tail thudded against the thin walls. The sound of his panting drew closer. There would be no stopping the animal if he wanted to find her. She needed either to run back upstairs or make a dash for the door.
But then the voices resumed. Tevy’s sounds ceased, and her breath released with shaky relief.
Just as her confidence was returning, however, a black nose nudged the door at the bottom of the stairs. Tevy had found her.
Her heart burst at the sight of him. His gold eyes brightened, and his tail wagged against the wall.
She wanted to run to the dog—her constant childhood companion—and throw her arms around him. Instead she held out her hands to signal silence.
Too late.
Heavy boots thudded on the floor, followed by muffled grumbling. A hand reached around the door and grabbed the dog by the collar.
Papa.
His face looked sinister in the morning shadows. She had never really been terrified of him before, had never really thought him capable of physically harming her. But now everything was different.
How she wished Tevy would come to her. She would feel much safer. But even though she knew the dog loved her, he was even more loyal to her father.
Camille drew a sharp breath, trying to appear normal. “Good morning, Papa.”
“Well, now, what it is that you are up to?” He eyed the satchel in her hand. “You wouldn’t be trying to leave your Papa without saying a proper farewell, would you?”
She lifted her chin with practiced bravado. “Of course not.”
“Well then, you won’t mind handing over what is in the satchel, will you?”
She pressed her lips together. She was trapped. Papa stood at the bottom of the stairs, completely blocking her escape. Tevy sat at his feet, his pink tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.
Clearly she had no choice. Camille pulled the satchel from her shoulder and tossed it down the rest of the stairs. Then, deciding to act as if everything were normal, she spoke brightly. “Perhaps I should go and get us some bread from the baker.”
She started to brush past him, but he grabbed her arm. “You’ll not be going anywhere. Not until we get this straightened out.”
She frowned, feigning innocence. “Get what straightened out?”
He nodded toward the shop and stepped back, a silent indication that he wanted her to go that way. She descended the rest of the stairs and turned right. It was then she got her first glance at the shop. Her breath caught in her throat.
The damage from the night the shop was vandalized had obviously not been set right. The shattered front window had been boarded up, but in the dim light from the other window she could see that the room was void of merchandise. It had all been removed. The shelves were empty and falling from the walls. Tables were turned. Broken glass and splintered wood littered the floor.
Camille’s stomach clenched. It wasn’t the state of the room that shocked her, nor the stale odor that permeated it. It was quite another matter entirely.
She spotted him immediately in the corner of the shop. His dark eyes were fixed on her, and a crooked grin spread over his face.
Mr. Darbin.
The man’s lip curled into a smile. He bowed with dramatic flourish, his dark hair falling thick over his forehead.
A sinister chill traveled Camille’s spine.
He stepped forward, his voice oozing with amused gentility. “My dear Miss Iverness. How much more pleasant it was to spend time with you in the comfort of Kettering Hall. But how the tides have changed.”
He stepped closer, the scent of his tobacco reaching her before he did. She wanted to shrink back, to look away. But she did neither.
“You picked up whist so quickly, I am surprised that you did not see the game that was being played beneath your very nose.” Mr. Darbin spoke to her with the same easy familiarity he had used when they met at Kettering Hall. But the smile which at one time had held such warmth now dripped with contempt. “We know you have the Bevoy. Do not protest, for I saw the puzzle box in your hand that very morning at Kettering Hall. So if you’ll just kindly tell us where it is, all can go back as it was.”
She pinned him with her stare and spoke slowly. “As I told you before, I know nothing of the Bevoy, and I certainly know nothing of its whereabouts. But if I did, I certainly would not share such information with you.”
“Come now, Camille. Is that any way to speak to our guest?”
The words were spoken by a woman.
A coldness draped over Camille like a veil of ice and snow. She knew the voice. Despite the years that had passed, none could be more familiar.
She turned slowly, as if it were a ghost standing behind her instead of a person of flesh and blood.
“Mama,” she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper.
Camille had wondered a million times what it would be like to have her mother home, but she had never imagined it like this. For this felt wrong. Very wrong.
The woman standing before her was very much like the woman Camille remembered. Time’s paintbrush had barely touched her beauty. Her hair still shone ebony, without a trace of gray. Her skin was a darker shade of tawny, and her dark eyes flashed in the shadows, focused steadily on her daughter.
The child in Camille wanted to throw herself into her mother’s arms. She wanted to fling her arms around her neck and believe that everything that had happened was somehow a mistake. But something held her back from moving. For the expression that met her gaze was not the expression she remembered.
Hardness lined her mother’s face. She did not smile or move to embrace Camille. She stepped forward, her arms folded in front of her, one long forefinger tapping the fabric of the opposite sleeve. She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at Camille. No warmth lit her eyes.
Camille pressed her lips together as her mother circled her with slow, deliberate steps. When she was finished with her assessment, she stopped in front of Camille.
“All this black you wear. You look to be in mourning.”
Camille’s chin began to tremble, but she did not respond to the odd statement. She was acutely aware of all the eyes on her. Papa�
�s. Mama’s. Mr. Darbin’s. She had to be prudent.
Her mother stepped even closer. Her scent of mint and lavender triggered familiar memories, but now it seemed to reach fingers around Camille’s throat and squeeze. She remained perfectly still as Mama reached out and tilted her chin to the side with a cold finger. “You are a beauty, as your father said you were,” she said in her heavily accented English.
Camille did not blink. “What are you doing here?”
Her mother dropped her hand and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “I hear you have been giving your father quite the difficult time.”
Camille straightened her posture as if any bit of added height would give her an advantage. “And that news is what finally brought you back to England?” She made no attempt to contain her sarcasm.
“Quiet, girl,” growled Papa. “You’ll not be taking that tone with her, nor with me.”
Her mother lifted her hand to silence her father. To Camille’s amazement, he backed down.
“No, it isn’t what prompted me to return. Other matters of business incited my journey weeks ago. But what a shame to hear that you have been behaving like such a wild thing, after all the advantages you were given.” Her mother began to circle Camille again with slow steps. The very act made Camille feel like a caged animal.
At length her mother spoke again. “When I left, you were young, Camille, too young to understand the intricacies of family balance. I do not blame you for being angry with me for my absence. I expect it. But I will not accept your insolence. You are still my daughter, and I will have your respect.”
She finished her circle and stopped, her gaze burning into Camille’s. “At present, the importance of our family’s business troubles far outweighs any hurt feelings or anger you might have. If you know anything of the Bevoy, I expect you to speak now and quickly. Now is not the time for selfishness. And there is no time to waste. Your father and I have toiled far too long on this project to see it crumble at this stage, long before you were given the box. So tell me. Where is the stone?”
The Curiosity Keeper Page 25
