The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Camille practically heard the click in her mind as all the pieces of the puzzle finally shifted into place. Her father’s little gifts to her mother had not been a ploy to get her back, as Camille had thought all these years. He must have been sending her valuable English items—perhaps stolen ones—to sell somewhere on the continent.

  How could she not have seen it? It made perfect sense. Her father dealt in imports. Why not exports as well—even smuggled, illegal ones? And how much better if his agent in a foreign country was a woman well acquainted with the culture and landscape?

  The full implication of this realization took a little longer to sink in, but it hit Camille harder than the first, triggering a sense of lonely bereavement she had not felt in years.

  Her mother had left her not out of hard necessity. Not out of tender familial obligation. But for money.

  For several moments, no one spoke. Then suddenly, violently, her mother reached out and grabbed Camille’s arm, the fingernails digging through the fabric of her uniform. “Where is it, girl?” The words were forced through gritted teeth.

  At the contact, Tevy lunged forward and swished against Camille’s skirt in an act of protection, a snarl curling his lip, but her father jerked him back by the collar.

  The sudden motion jolted Camille, and her heart beat wildly in her chest. She fixed her eyes again on her mother.

  So this was the truth of her circumstances. Her father, her mother, and the Gilchrists’ hired investigator were all working together—against her.

  Camille stood straight, doing her best to show no emotion. She could feel the bulge of the box in her apron pocket. And she felt another click, this one deep in her soul. Stubbornness coursed through her, powered by years of pent-up frustration and pain. She would never hand the Bevoy over willingly, not when she knew its true owner.

  Never.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Camille winced as the rough rope rubbed against the tender flesh of her wrists and ankles. She adjusted her position against the wall so that most of her weight was on her hip instead of her backside, careful to make sure that the box stayed in her apron pocket and out of sight. Once she was a little more comfortable, she leaned her head against the shop’s rough wall and fixed her eyes on Mama.

  She was still struggling to comprehend that her mother was really here in London after all these years. When she was younger she had often imagined what this day would feel like, how it would feel to behold the woman who had left her family with nothing more than the empty promise of a quick return.

  But the woman in the room was not the mother she remembered. Her mother had never been overly affectionate, but this woman seemed completely heartless.

  Camille spoke up. “These ropes are not necessary.”

  Mama looked up from the jar of pocket watches she was sorting. “Your father believes they are.”

  “And what of you? Do you believe it necessary to tie your only daughter like an animal?”

  Mama set down a watch beside the jar, her dark eyes narrowing on Camille. “I told you I will not have your insolence.”

  But Camille would not cower to anyone, especially this woman who had abandoned her. “You never answered my question. Why did you return?”

  Mama returned to the watches as if bored with the topic. “Your father needed help with the business.”

  “So it was not to see Papa—or me, for that matter. It was about the business.”

  Mama’s voice deepened. “I will not take your judgment.”

  “It isn’t judgment.” Camille shook her head. “I cannot pretend to understand why you would stay away all this time. But now, knowing that you can go about your business while I am trussed up on the floor, I can deduce that any motherly affection you once had for me disappeared long ago.”

  Mama stepped out from behind the counter. “You brought this on yourself.”

  “And how did I do that?”

  “The Bevoy, Camille. You know how important it is to our business, and yet you do your best to thwart your father’s plans.”

  “The Bevoy does not belong to Father. Did you know that?”

  “Are you accusing your father of stealing?”

  “No. I just think you do not have all of the facts.”

  “Mr. Darbin saw you with the box, Camille. Your father placed it in your hand. So until its whereabouts are determined, we must take every precaution.”

  “Binding my hands is a precaution?”

  Mama stepped even closer, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her distinctive scent of lavender wafted closer to Camille. “Do not question what you do not understand, child.”

  “I am not a child, Mama. I may have been a child when you left, but time has changed everything.”

  Mama pointed a finger in Camille’s direction. “I had no choice but to leave. This world is very unpredictable. I saw what I needed to do to secure my future, and I continue to do that to this day.”

  “But you had Papa. And this shop. And me.”

  She huffed. “If I had left this shop in the hands of your father, it would have been bankrupt within a month. He is a trader, an adventurer, not a businessman. But you—even when you were very young I saw that you could do it. You could manage the day-to-day business while I took care of our operations in my homeland.”

  “I was just a child.”

  “You were strong enough—bright enough. I could handle things in my country that neither of you could. And you had a knack for influencing your father.” She gazed down her nose at Camille and gave a barely perceptible sniff. “I tell you, I did what I had to do to keep the family going.”

  “If that is the case, then why did you not come home after you succeeded in your efforts? You could have come at least once or twice. And if you thought I could handle the business, why lie to me about why you were in Portugal? You could have explained.”

  “It is not that simple.”

  “It sounds pretty simple to me.”

  Mama gave an exasperated snort. “We did what we did to protect you, Camille. Why can you not understand that? For your own safety, it was best for you to not know the intricacies of our business dealings. Besides, you were a child. It would have been far too easy for you to slip and say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

  Camille had no answer for that, just a sense of weary sadness. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

  “One day, maybe you will understand.” Mama’s words hung heavy in the air like dust motes. “One day—you will see—the world will be unkind to you. There will be a point when you have to make a decision that you may or may not be content with. Then you will have to live with that decision, as I have done. And you will do what is necessary to thrive.”

  Thrive? Camille thought back over her past life in the shop. The lonely days and the fearful nights. The sense that she was worth no more to her mother than an occasional letter. Were we thriving?

  “I have already had to make such decisions, Mama. And I still don’t understand.”

  Her mother didn’t answer, merely turned back to her watches, her face still void of emotion. But whereas her mother could remain void of emotion, Camille could not. Her mother’s apparent lack of affection and her lack of regret over the time they had spent apart ripped at her already aching heart.

  With a wrenching effort she attempted to adjust her view, to face reality.

  This was not a family, at least not at the moment. And she was not a daughter, but a prisoner. A hostage. A means to an end.

  Whatever relationship she and her parents had shared had been badly ruptured, and Camille sensed it might never be repaired.

  “So you are still wearing that old watch of your grandfather’s?” Mama nodded toward the brooch, condescension dripping in her voice.

  Camille glanced down at the timepiece. “I am.”

  Her mother huffed and turned back to her counting. “The old man was a fool. That was far too valuable a gift to give to a c
hild.”

  The malice in her mother’s tone struck Camille momentarily speechless, then angered her. “You will notice that despite my young age I managed to take good care of it. Grandfather showed me kindness, and I treasure this keepsake from him.”

  “Of course you thought him kind. He showered you with gifts. You were young when he died; you didn’t have time to learn his true character. If you had known him better, you would have known that he was very much like your father. He squandered that whole estate. No mind for business.”

  Camille bristled. “And why is a mind for business so very important?”

  Mama stared at her as if she had grown a third arm. “How else is one to secure one’s way in the world? Tsk. With a question like that, it is hard to believe that you are my daughter.”

  Camille gave up reaching an understanding with her mother. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  The ride from Fellsworth to London was a long one. Normally the journey passed quickly on horseback, but today heavy rain blurred Jonathan’s vision and mud slowed his pace.

  When he finally reached the city, Jonathan rode as close to Blinkett Street as he dared before renting a stall at a city stable block and paying a boy to tend to Zion. With cautious steps and a watchful eye he wound his way to the unpleasant little corner of London that, like it or not, had become an important location in his life.

  Already familiar with the maze of streets and alleys protruding from Blinkett Street, Jonathan ducked down a side street, taking the back way to James Iverness’s shop. The rain mingled with smoke and soot clung to him. The moisture intensified the musky stench of manure and wet animals. Jonathan crept along the jagged wall, blending in with the constant motion of carts and people. He was reminded of a similar venture several weeks ago, when he had first laid eyes on the little shop. But his motives then had been far different.

  After a quick glance from the right to the left, Jonathan pulled his hat low over his eyes and stepped from the side street onto Blinkett Street. He walked slowly, waiting for a cart to pass, before he stepped to the front of the shop.

  The shattered shop window had been boarded up, but the other window was intact. He looked inside and his breath caught in his throat. For through the dirty glass he could barely see Miss Iverness seated on the floor. She was propped against the wall, her head leaning back. Her eyes were closed.

  Jonathan took a step back, his fist balled at his side. Every instinct within him screamed to force open the door and go to her rescue. But he had done that once and had ended up causing her harm. He needed a better sense of the situation before he attempted such action.

  Forcing his breath through gritted teeth, he took a cautious step closer and peered deeper into the room.

  She appeared to be alone.

  It seemed far too simple that all he had to do was open the door, grab Miss Iverness, and run, but at the moment that seemed the best solution. His heart raced as he inched closer to the door, careful not to attract attention to himself. The shabby crowd shuffled past him, seemingly oblivious. Despite the coolness of the damp air, perspiration gathered under the brim of his hat.

  He licked his lips and focused his gaze on the brass handle just an arm’s length away. He needed to act quickly, before his window of opportunity shattered. She might be alone now, but who knew how much longer?

  He reached out his hand, the brass cold beneath his fingertips. The broken door swung open easily, but it scraped against the floor.

  Miss Iverness jerked her head up. Black wisps of hair framed her narrow face, and her complexion glowed pale. Her eyes widened in surprise, but then she jerked her head toward the curtain that led to the back of the store.

  He nodded. Eyes scanning the space for signs of trouble, he stepped over the boxes until he was quite close to her. He took careful note of his surroundings. Debris throughout the store. A curtained doorway behind the counter. A hall or stairwell opening off the adjacent wall. Laughter coming from somewhere—perhaps from behind the curtain. And as he drew near he realized with a gulp that Miss Iverness’s hands were bound behind her back. Her feet were tied together as well.

  He immediately knelt and pulled the knife from his waist to untether her legs.

  “That can wait,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Quickly—reach into the pocket of my apron.”

  “What?” Jonathan struggled with the second bit of rope. “I cannot. I—”

  “Do it,” she hissed. “Quickly. Please. There is a box in there. You must take it.”

  The rope around her ankles gave way. He reached to help her lean forward so he could reach her hands, but she pivoted to give him better access to the pocket.

  “Take it. Now.”

  He reached into the pocket, and his fingers brushed against something wooden. Some kind of carved box. He pulled it out and stared at it.

  “It’s a puzzle box,” she whispered urgently, “and the Bevoy is inside. Push the elephant heads simultaneously to open it. Press as hard as you can. But I need you to take it now and go. As quickly as you can.”

  The sudden onslaught of information hit him, each bit of it battling for dominance. He looked down at the small box with its carvings of elephants and trees.

  “Please go,” she urged, her voice thin with desperation. “Please, please go.”

  “I am not leaving without you.” Jonathan reached for the ropes binding her wrists.

  “There is no time,” she protested. “They are in the other room. And they are dangerous people. I have no doubt they will harm you or even us both if they find you here. Please, please take the stone and leave now.”

  “I didn’t come here for the Bevoy, Camille.” Jonathan paused in his task long enough to lock gazes with her. “I came here for you.”

  At this she finally stopped resisting and pivoted to give him a better angle. Tears filled her eyes, and she shook her head slowly. “You do not understand. I am not what you think I am.”

  “You are exactly what I think you are.” The rope gave way, and she rubbed her wrists. Still kneeling, he leaned closer to her. “You are strong and kind and compassionate. And you are the woman I love. And I refuse to leave here without you.”

  She said nothing, but a tear slipped down her cheek. He had never seen her cry. He touched it and brushed it away.

  Her words came in a rush, with renewed fervor. “But, you must know—”

  “You can tell me later.”

  She nodded and looked toward the door. “Then we must hurry.”

  He stood and helped her to her feet. She seemed unsteady, no doubt as a result of sitting for so long. Laughter intensified in the back room. She rose to her feet and headed toward the half-open front door. He started to follow her, but as he took a step two men came bursting through the curtained opening.

  Jonathan pulled one of his father’s pistols from his waistband. He was already aiming the barrel before he saw their faces clearly.

  James Iverness.

  And Henry Darbin.

  Nothing could have shocked him more than to see Darbin here. And yet on some level he was not surprised.

  “Darbin,” Jonathan breathed.

  Darbin’s dark eyes widened, then a smile stretched his thin lips. “Jonathan Gilchrist. You are the last person I expected to see here. I wish I could say it was a pleasure.”

  Jonathan scrambled, trying to line up the pieces of the puzzle before him. What was Darbin doing here?

  It was then that Jonathan noticed that Darbin had a pistol as well. It was pointed straight at his chest. And there they stood, their pistols pointed at one another.

  A standoff.

  At that moment, James Iverness propped his hands on his hips, his demeanor calm as if he were out for a Sunday stroll. A giant brown dog circled round his master’s feet, his yellow eyes locked on Jonathan. “Jonathan Gilchrist, eh? So this is the pup that has caused me all this trouble.”

  “A
ye, ’tis.” Darbin’s voice was as smooth as ever, and his pistol remained locked on Jonathan, his demeanor steady and cool. “I had an inkling—a small one, mind you—that you had affections for the lovely Miss Iverness here. Can’t say that I blame you, pretty lass that she is. But I must say I am surprised you would go to all this trouble for her. After all, you are a Gilchrist. I would think that fact alone would render you above such weak emotion.”

  Jonathan drew a sharp breath. His gaze flicked toward Camille. Her dark eyes flashed with fear. He steadied his focus—and his pistol—on Darbin. “I suppose I misunderstood your intentions, Darbin. I had thought you to be a friend of the family. Clearly I was mistaken.”

  Darbin’s voice rang with confidence. “You trust far too easily, Gilchrist—a trait you did not learn from your brother, I might add, but one you might be wise to develop.”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “Exactly. But need I remind you that you contacted me, not the other way around? You brought me into this on a completely different level. And I was happy to comply.”

  Another bit of the puzzle clicked into place. Darbin had been involved with the robbery from the beginning. Who else would have such intimate knowledge of the Gilchrist home? Darbin had been one of Thomas’s best friends and a frequent guest at Kettering Hall. Of course he had knowledge of the home’s layout, of the location of his father’s study. And if he had taken up with Iverness, he no doubt knew that the ruby was at Kettering, most likely in the study.

  With each passing moment, more questions catapulted through Jonathan’s mind. “And that business with McCready?”

  “Aha. A scene, my friend. A ruse. Quite the actor, that one. He could have a career on the stage, could he not? That was to throw you off our trail. Worked like a charm too. But who would have thought you would believe I could find a thief so quickly? Although I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, you do overestimate my skills.”