She knocked more items from another table to make it even more difficult to be followed.
Memory of the store’s layout guided her through the darkness and toward the back room. But with each step she felt less steady and the pain increased. She pulled the curtain aside and stumbled through the space until she fell against the back door, the knob jamming into her side. A little light filtered in through the small back window. Only a few more steps and she would be free.
Chapter Eight
Camille’s legs wouldn’t move quickly enough. She felt as if she were running in quicksand, as if the shop’s floor was grabbing her ankles and refusing to allow her passage. Pain still seared her arm, and the warm, sticky wetness had covered her palm. She pressed her other hand hard against the wound. She dared not stop to tend it now.
Behind her, the shouts and crashing noises continued. Blood pounded in her head, crying out a warning cadence. Then the sound of footsteps filled the dark room behind her, echoing a threat with each footfall.
A cry escaped her lips, whether from the pain or the fear she did not know. She fumbled with the doorknob, but her sticky hand slipped on the cold metal. Frantic, she jerked and twisted it with both hands until it finally gave way.
Night air, damp and thick, rushed her, filling her lungs. She lurched from the doorway. Rain pummeled, confusing her senses all the more. The tiny walled courtyard behind the shop, which should have seemed so familiar, loomed alien and sinister.
“Wait, wait!”
She did not look back to see who called to her. She lifted her skirt and ran toward the gate that led to the alley. A battered crate blocked her way. She tried to push it aside, but someone grabbed her arm again, pulling her backward.
Infused with sheer terror, Camille flailed and fought, desperate to free herself from the strong hands that held her.
“Stop.” The voice was calm and deep. “I’ll not hurt you.”
She heard the words, but the meaning did not penetrate her alarm. She flung her fists at the man, beating with all the strength her frame could muster. But the more she fought, the stronger he seemed to become, and the more she despaired of escape.
Only as her fortitude and breath waned did she begin to realize that this man’s voice was different from that of the stranger with the blade.
She ventured a glance and saw a broad-shouldered man with a white neckcloth. Light hair. No cape.
It was not the same man.
But who was it?
Chest heaving, her lungs starved for air, Camille slowed her movements. Still he did not fight her.
When she was certain she could speak, she dug deep for her customary bravado. She had to sound confident, in control. “Let go of me.”
The stranger complied, holding his gloved hands up as if proclaiming innocence. “I am here to help.” He glanced behind him at the gaping back door of the shop. “He is gone. At least I think he is.”
Camille looked to the door. All was quiet save for her gulps for air. No more shouts. No more breaking glass.
Relief rushed her, but she could not relax. She trusted no one—especially someone who would be on Blinkett Street after dusk.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
“Jonathan Gilchrist.” The man’s voice was soft. Soothing. “But your arm. It must be tended to.”
She looked down at her limb as if the injury was an afterthought. The moonlight was faint, but even in the dim glow it afforded, she could see the dark stain on her sleeve. On her hand.
A different kind of panic rushed her as the stain registered.
Blood.
Her blood.
The arm began to shake uncontrollably.
As if sensing her trepidation, he reached for it, his movement slow. But she snatched her hand back. “Leave me.”
“I can help,” he offered. “I am an apothecary.”
She looked up at his shadowed face, several inches above her own.
He was too close. She stepped back but continued to stare, trying to make out his features, as if by doing so she could in some way judge his trustworthiness.
But her injury would not wait. Each heartbeat thrust fresh pain through her arm. Her chest grew hot, her head light. She could feel the blood dripping from her fingers. She needed help, and where else would she find it on Blinkett Street now that night had fallen?
She bit her lower lip and, fighting reluctance, extended her arm toward him.
At her motion, the man snapped into action. He pulled the torn sleeve away from the wound with a gentle touch and angled her arm to try to see it better in the moonlight. But then he shook his head. “It’s too dark here.”
Pulling off his neckcloth, he pressed it against the wound and wrapped it tight. Camille winced in pain, trying to fight back the tears that welled with each movement.
“I know it hurts,” he said, “but this will help slow the bleeding.”
She nodded in the darkness.
“Come with me,” he continued, tying off the knot. “We must get you out of here and to somewhere we can tend it properly.”
Camille stiffened. She couldn’t leave the shop—and with a man she did not know? The very thought was foreign.
But the next thought came with equal fervor: Why would I stay?
Her life had been threatened. Her father had left her alone—again—to pursue one of his clandestine business arrangements. He’d invited the murderous stranger to their door and not bothered to meet the man there. He’d even taken Tevy, her one defense against anyone stronger than her. Why should she risk her life to stay and guard his treasures?
“Where will we go?” she asked.
“Is there somewhere safe I can take you—a friend or family member, perhaps?” When she didn’t respond, he spoke. “I’ll take you to my family’s house here in London. My sister is there, she will be able to help.”
But Camille hesitated, tied to the shop in spite of herself. “I cannot go. This is my shop, this is my—”
Urgency heightened his voice. “Miss, I don’t know if that man is coming back. But I would advise you not be here if he does.”
“But my father—”
“Your father is not here. And I cannot, will not, leave you here alone.”
She tried to process his words, to figure out a sensible plan, but her brain felt foggy. The thoughts running through her head did not seem to make sense.
She could not leave. The door was open. Things were broken. She needed to be there when her father came home.
But that might not be until morning.
Her head spun.
“It isn’t far,” he was saying. “And I have a carriage waiting a few streets over. Can you walk?”
She should protest. She should try to find her way to safety—wherever it was that safety lay. Or she should go back inside, lock the door, secure the money box . . .
Another crash echoed from inside.
She jumped in fear, alarm coursing through every vein in her body.
He held his finger to his lips and nodded toward the alley gate.
Chapter Nine
Jonathan offered the young woman his arm, and Miss Iverness laid a paper-light hand on his sleeve. Her wet hair clung to the curves of her face, and the stark white make-shift bandage seemed to glow in the murky darkness. He winced to see that blood was already seeping through.
It was not so much the sight of her blood that affected him. He had tended far more grievous injuries. But knowing his actions might have played a role in her injury tore at him. Darbin had warned him about acting brashly—and he had done just that.
He held his finger to his lips to signal her silence. The last thing they needed was to attract attention. She nodded, then looked straight ahead.
He guided her across the courtyard, assisting her as she stepped over the crate. The gate at the end opened to a narrow alley. Leaning out to look, he realized it led to Blinkett Street. He listened for further sounds of trouble, but no angry shouts met
his ears, no pounding of boots on the cobbled surface—only the music from the public house and the occasional bout of laughter.
As they emerged from the alley onto Blinkett, Jonathan peered back down the street, squinting to make out figures in the deepening mist.
Where was Darbin?
After the initial confusion in the tiny shop, Darbin had chased after McCready, and Jonathan had followed Miss Iverness. He could only guess as to Darbin’s whereabouts now.
The woman’s hand trembled on his arm. Her lower lip was quivering. She was injured and no doubt frightened. She leaned against him, heavy now. Ruby or no, he could not abandon her. He would have to catch up with Darbin at another time.
“Where is your father’s house?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Chire Street. The carriage is this way.”
They walked along the lamp-lit street. Jonathan blinked as rain ran down his face. His hat had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and the drops clung to his hair and dripped down his neck.
They continued in silence, until he noticed that her steps had started to slow. She swayed toward him. He held out his hand to steady her. “Are you all right?”
She did not answer him. Her steps started to swerve.
“Miss Iverness, can you answer me?”
She stopped and turned as if confused. She looked up at him and opened her mouth, but then she started to collapse before she could say a word.
He caught her as she fell. Quickly he swept her up in his arms, her wet skirts twisting around him, her head rolling against his shoulder.
“Miss Iverness,” he breathed. “Miss Iverness!”
But her head fell forward unresponsive, locks of black hair clinging to her face.
He had to get her somewhere safe and out of the night air. Out of the danger.
He looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the men lining the street paid little heed—as if the occurrence was so commonplace it was not worthy of breaking a stride.
Jonathan carried her the two blocks to the carriage. He lifted her inside, then signaled to the driver to pull out. As he had apprised Miss Iverness, the drive was quite short. It was unsettling, in fact, to realize how close unsavory Blinkett Street was to the more fashionable London neighborhoods.
Miss Iverness was still unresponsive when they arrived at his father’s London address. Not wanting to attract attention, Jonathan did not call for assistance, but carried her from the carriage to the door himself. Upon realizing the door had been bolted for the night, he used the toe of his boot to knock.
At length Winston, the butler who oversaw the London home, answered the door. He opened it cautiously at first, but when he saw Jonathan with Miss Iverness, he flung it open fully, his eyes wide.
“Shh,” Jonathan whispered to the butler, quickly scanning the interior rooms. “Is anyone awake?”
“No, sir. The staff has all retired for the night, as has Miss Gilchrist. I was waiting up for your return.”
“Good,” replied Jonathan. The last thing he needed was talk among the servants. “Wake Meeks, but no one else. Ask her to wake up my sister, then prepare tea and bring it as soon as she is able. But first I need you to help me.”
The old butler nodded, his expression concerned.
Jonathan carried Miss Iverness to the parlor and reclined her on the sofa. He stood, breath heavy from the exertion. “Light those candles before you leave, will you? Then will you see to the fire and find something to cover the young lady? She might have caught a chill.”
“Very good, sir.”
The butler set about stoking the fire, bringing the room from cool darkness to a much warmer glow. Jonathan hurried to the study to retrieve his apothecary’s box. He rarely went anywhere without it. He returned to the parlor and knelt next to the sofa. Miss Iverness’s head rested against the sofa’s arm. Her eyes were closed. Black lashes fanned her cheeks, and her pale lips were slightly parted.
He lifted her limp hand, taking note of the ink on her fingers. He felt her pulse and then untied the neckcloth from her arm, gently pulling the fabric away from the wound to expose a nasty gash.
At this she groaned, and her eyes fluttered, but she did not wake. The thick lashes closed over her cheeks once again, and he set quickly to the task of cleaning the wound.
By this light, the extent of the cut was clearer. It was deep, but she would recover. No doubt her fainting spell was due more to heightened emotion than to the severity of the wound. He quickly mixed powder and spread it on the wound, then reached to the bottom of a drawer in his box for clean bandages and rewrapped it.
He made quick work of the task, and by the time he had completed it he heard the shuffle of slippers, hurried and anxious, on the planked floor. He recognized Penelope’s footsteps before he even saw her.
He scratched his head and ran his hand over his face. Nothing about this night had gone as planned, and the last thing he felt like was the lecture from his sister that was sure to come. Thomas may have been able to take such events in stride, but Jonathan was certain he would never develop a taste for the adventure, as Darbin had put it.
But like it or not, adventure had found him, and Penelope would not be happy about the outcome. He gritted his teeth as the parlor door opened. His sister appeared with the force of a gale, her night robe billowing behind her, her light hair fluttering, loose and untethered.
Her steps slowed as her gaze fell on the woman on the sofa. “What is this?”
“There was an accident,” he said, not knowing where to start.
“She’s covered in blood,” Penelope’s voice shrilled. “Just look at her arm.”
“She will be all right.” He said it as much to convince himself as Penelope. “The wound will heal.”
“But where did she come from?”
“Blinkett Street.”
“And where is Blinkett Street?” His sister’s voice continued to climb octaves. “I thought you were going to get the ruby?”
“Darbin and I went to Blinkett Street to recover the ruby. But then, well, there were complications.”
She fixed her deep blue eyes on his as if waiting for a more complete explanation. A muscle in her lip twitched, and he was uncertain if she was going to yell or cry.
She finally spoke. “Complications?” She began to pace. “No, no. A complication is an unexpected guest for a dinner party. This is a . . . disaster. The woman is bleeding, Jonathan. Bleeding. And her gown is soaked.”
“Please, keep your voice down.”
“Who is she?” Penelope demanded.
“Miss Iverness. She is the daughter of a shop owner. We—”
“You weren’t the one who harmed her, were you?”
“Egad, Penelope. Do you really think I am capable of something like this?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think? I certainly never, in my wildest dreams, would have ever thought that my fine, upstanding brother would bring a woman like this to our home in the dark of night.”
He drew a deep breath and blew it out before trying again to explain. “Darbin and I were attempting to recover the ruby. We found our man and thought it was going to change hands at her father’s shop. But apparently the scoundrel attempted to rob her . . . or worse. He assaulted her with a knife.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “And where is Mr. Darbin now?”
Jonathan looked back to Miss Iverness’s still form. “I am not certain. We were separated.”
“Well this is splendid, just splendid. Did anyone see you bring her here?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a great deal of difference,” she hurled back at him. “Our family’s name is already in shambles. The last thing we need is a scandal connecting you to some shopgirl who accompanies you to our home in the dark of night.”
“You are making much more out of this than the situation warrants. Trust me. My interaction with a young lady is the least of our worries.”
“You are being very cavalier about this.”
He looked to the door to make sure their conversation had not woken any of the staff. “It would help if you would not become overwrought. The evening has been trying enough.”
“Overwrought?” she squeaked. “Overwrought? My brother brings a woman, unconscious and covered in blood, into my parlor and then tells me not to become overwrought? For all we know, she could be involved in this theft, and you invite her to our home.”
“As I explained, this young woman was being held at knifepoint when we arrived, and then she was injured. I don’t care who she is or what role she has in this situation, I could not leave a woman in peril.”
“What about me? Am I now not a woman in peril?” His sister’s expression immediately turned to a pretty pout, a practiced expression she could call upon at any time. “I was already the object of stares from the women at dinner at the Dowdens’ house tonight. Miss Marbury, who as you know is my most trusted friend and would never intentionally hurt me, informed me that our family was the unfortunate topic of conversation at tea the other day. If news of this should fully come to light, I stand to lose my fiancé. My friends. My entire future is at stake.”
“I do think you are exaggerating.”
“Am I? And did you consider whether or not whoever did this followed you here? Do you even consider our safety?” Penelope’s attention focused. “And what do we do with this Miss Iverness in the meantime?”
Jonathan ignored the onslaught of questions and focused on the last one. “We will put her in a guestroom for the night.”
“A guest in our home?” Penelope fiercely shook her head from side to side. “No, Jonathan. No, no, no.”
“I insist.” He’d seen the fear in Miss Iverness’s eyes. Heard the desperation in her voice. Even felt the force of her terror when she fought against him in the courtyard. And his actions had no doubt contributed to her plight. He was responsible now. He could not turn away. “She is in no condition to leave.”
The Curiosity Keeper Page 5