But whatever her personality, whatever her demeanor, Jonathan was still haunted by the feeling that he was responsible for her injury. If he had not rushed in and startled McCready, would Miss Iverness have escaped the tussle without harm?
A sharp pounding on the door interrupted his musings. A quick glance at the mantle clock confirmed it was past the midnight hour.
His pulse pounded.
The night’s encounters with unsavory characters had left him leery. But in spite of the evening’s dire events, he did not want Winston or anyone else opening the door at this hour.
He jogged from the study and looked out the window into the night.
Darbin. There could be no mistaking that lanky frame and those wide side-whiskers.
Jonathan flung the door open, ushering in a swirl of damp air.
Annoyance tightened Darbin’s face. “I thought I’d find you here.”
Jonathan stepped back, allowing Darbin room to enter. “Did you get it?”
“Did I get it?” Darbin snatched his hat from his head and shook it, spattering rain onto the polished wood floor. “No, I didn’t get it.”
Jonathan ushered Darbin to the study. “What happened?”
“I chased him as far as I could, but I lost him in a public house. Didn’t want to cause a scene, attract attention to myself. But a man like that can’t lay low forever.” Darbin dropped his hat and coat onto one of the chairs flanking the fire. “What was that little stunt you pulled?”
Jonathan closed the study door. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, do not play innocent. I tell you to hold tight, and you go barreling in like some crazed knight in shining armor.” He narrowed his eyes and pointed his finger at Jonathan. “Your little act of chivalry may have just cost us our only chance to learn about the ruby.”
Jonathan was in no mood to argue—or to be put on the defensive. “I was not about to leave a defenseless woman—”
“Camille Iverness is hardly a defenseless female. Do you think that the daughter of James Iverness doesn’t know her way around the sharp end of a blade? She doesn’t exactly reside in Grosvenor Square, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Think what you will. I prefer to sleep with a clear conscience.” That much was true, he told himself. If only his conscience really was clear.
“Well, isn’t that lovely,” Darbin said. “You can slumber with a clear conscience while I am out chasing some rogue with a knife.”
“Come now, Darbin. I’ve never known you to turn down a good chase.”
“Never known a Gilchrist to give in to a woman, either.” Darbin stepped to the sideboard and grabbed a decanter. “Where is she, anyway? I went back by the shop, and all was quiet. Place looked to be ransacked, but maybe that was just a result of the skirmish. I’d hoped to find Iverness there himself. But no such luck. If he’s involved in the theft, as I suspect, both he and the daughter may be in the wind.”
Jonathan stepped to the sideboard and handed a glass to Darbin. “Miss Iverness is here.”
Darbin sobered. “What do you mean, ‘She’s here’?”
“She’s upstairs. Sleeping, presumably.”
Darbin dropped his arm to his side, his incredulous expression darkening. “You brought Camille Iverness back to your home? Where you live?” He shook his head and shoved long fingers through his dark hair. “Did you drag her here kicking and screaming?”
“Of course not.” He cleared his throat. “She came of her own accord.”
Darbin shook his head. “I can’t believe she agreed to come. Does your sister know?”
“Yes, she knows.”
“Perhaps you see the wisdom in your actions. I do not.”
Jonathan shrugged. “There really were no other options.”
“There are always options.” Darbin poured the brandy and indulged in a long swig. “Did you ask her about the Bevoy? Does she know anything about it?”
Jonathan shook his head. “I did not even mention it. She was injured and quite shaken.”
“Don’t be naïve, Gilchrist.” Darbin dropped in the chair next to the fire. “I see you don’t know that much about women like her. She’ll use that pretty face of hers to charm the money right out of your hands.” He finished off his brandy and looked up. “Still, it might be good that she’s here. She could be your only chance to find the ruby.”
Chapter Twelve
Camille pushed the curtains away from the window.
Dawn had broken, and the first tendrils of gray light swirled into the room. The bedchamber was warm, and she marveled at the experience of waking in comfort instead of shivering in her little room above the shop. The room was lovely too. Even in the dim morning light she could see the details that the shadows had muted the night before—the lovely fabrics of yellow and green, the beauty of the gold-striped wallpaper.
How often had she dreamed of having just such a chamber for herself? But at the moment she could think of nothing besides getting out of this one and returning to what was normal.
Clarity of mind had arrived with the morning. Her arm ached and her head throbbed, but sleep had revived her spirit. She drew a deep breath, and the act of filling her lungs with air invigorated her resolve.
What had she been thinking to accept such an invitation—to spend the midnight hours in the home of complete strangers? Her decision to stay here had been brash, brought on by fear and uncertainty. And she knew one thing for certain: she would not be here when they woke.
She knew her hosts had questions for her, but she had no answers, and she could not face them again. How awkward the previous evening had been. She never wanted to feel that embarrassment, that sense of inadequacy, again. The memory of her burning humiliation urged her to exit the house more quickly.
Camille stepped over to the bureau. The contents of her apron pockets sat on the smooth service. She ran her thumb over the brooch and looked at the hands of the watch. The hour was still very early. If she hurried, she might make it home before Papa returned. Then she could at least attempt to mitigate the damage that had been done before he saw it. She shuddered to think what the shop might look like. She recalled breaking glass. Overturned shelves. And the door had not been secured, so who knew what she would find?
Her biggest obstacle was going to be dressing herself. Her arm screamed with pain, protesting each movement. She tested each finger, wriggling them one by one, doing her best to ignore the stinging of her wound. Blood had soaked through the bandage that Mr. Gilchrist had fashioned the previous night, but the surface appeared to be mostly dry. The dressing probably needed to be changed, but there was no time to concern herself with that now.
Her own gown was nowhere to be found. Miss Gilchrist’s lady’s maid had taken it to clean. But the borrowed dress of yellow silk was on a nearby chair.
She winced as she slid the gown over her arm. Fortunately it fastened by a series of ties instead of buttons and had an overdress that fastened in the front; otherwise she could never have managed on her own. Her dressing was not tidy, her stays far from tight, but they did not need to be.
She wrapped the borrowed shawl around her to hide any dressing missteps and turned to assess her reflection in the gilded mirror in the corner of the room. Her black eyes appeared haunted in her pale face. She looked as if she had encountered a major illness. But at least she could stand without the room spinning—a distinct improvement over the previous night.
She pinned her hair off her shoulders as best as she could manage and gathered her things, wrapping them in her still-damp apron. She could feel her energy returning. Her fight.
Jonathan propped his feet up on the desk. He laced his fingers together, rested them behind his head, and stared up at the leaves carved into the plaster ceiling. Sounds of the street were beginning to creep through the window, and first light danced amongst the shadows of the intricate curves.
It was one of his favorite things to do—greet the dawn after staying up all night. But this parti
cular dawn brought him nothing but worry.
Darbin had stayed until the wee hours of the morning. The investigator certainly reminded Jonathan of his own older brother. Both men harbored the same lust for excitement and fascination with the unusual—a combination that Jonathan found both enviable and irritating.
Jonathan had anticipated Darbin would offer encouragement or at least a clear plan of what to do next, but the investigator’s words had contained more reprimand than optimism. Now, another day had dawned—one more day to be reminded of his father’s mistakes, his concern for his sister’s future, and his own inadequacies.
By now he should have had the ruby in his possession, but he and Penelope would leave for Kettering Hall empty-handed. What a fool he had been to think that recovering the gem would be as simple as walking into a shop and taking it.
After Darbin took his leave, Jonathan had remained in his father’s study instead of retiring to his chamber. He had never been one to require much sleep. Ever since he was a boy, he had enjoyed being awake in the midnight hours while the rest of the world slumbered. The darkness fueled his imagination, providing the perfect solitude to learn and contemplate. And his profession often required him to be awake at odd hours.
But tonight, thoughts of his father and their current situation cluttered every corner of his mind. He knew that even if he did retreat to the silence and solace of his chamber, sleep would elude him, for his thoughts, wild and uncontrollable, ran rampant.
And leading the pack were thoughts of Miss Camille Iverness.
He was not of a romantic bent, but never would Jonathan have anticipated that such a beautiful young woman was involved in a situation so daring as the one at present. True, Miss Iverness could be an innocent bystander, a victim of unfortunate circumstances. Or perhaps Darbin was right—perhaps she was intimately involved.
He had been struck by her bravery. Not many women would have been able to endure such an event with the fortitude she displayed—not the women he was acquainted with, by any means. But whether or not she would be willing to assist him was another matter entirely.
He should have asked her last night about the ruby, when all was quiet. This was his purpose, was it not? To recover a ruby that would eventually be sold to right his family’s debts? But she had been so shaken that the timing of such a question would have seemed almost cruel.
He sat up straight and thumbed through a book on the desk. Surely this morning, at breakfast, he would have a moment to talk with Miss Iverness. He could find out what he needed to know.
He stood up and crossed the room to the window. Dawn’s blue light squeezed its way through the tight row of townhouses and spilled over the roofs. Mist and smoke intermingled, and carts rumbled over the cobbled streets. Two boys dashed across an alleyway.
But it was something unusual that caught his attention.
A woman, unaccompanied and clad in a pale gown and shawl, passed beneath his window. She carried a bundle of cloth and wore no bonnet, revealing a mass of ebony tresses. He noticed that she wore no gloves either, a sight very unusual for Chire Street.
And then he noticed a bulge under her sleeve.
Miss Iverness.
Without pausing for another thought, he snatched his discarded coat from the chair and shoved his arms through the sleeves as he crossed the foyer.
What was she doing out at this hour?
His concern for her arm was valid, of course, but now his concern extended to much more than that, for she could very well hold the answers he sought regarding the Bevoy.
He reached the door, flung it open, and burst out into the cool, bleary dawn. All around him, the evidence of morning revealed itself—merchants setting up their wares, a lamplighter dousing the lamps, a sweeper bent at his work. Jonathan lunged around a cart just in time to see pale yellow fabric swish around the corner and out of sight.
“Miss Iverness!” He knew better than to shout at ladies across the street. But could it be helped? “Miss Iverness! Wait!”
At the sound of her name, the woman stopped and turned. She lifted her hand to brush away a thick lock of hair that had fallen over her face.
He jogged toward her, his footsteps splashing through puddles left by the previous night’s rain. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”
Miss Iverness inched back as he approached. “Mr. Gilchrist. I—I hope I did not wake you as I was leaving.”
“No, you did not. I was in the study and saw you pass beneath the window.” He stopped a few feet from her. “But I am surprised to see you this early. I would imagine you would be resting.”
She glanced over one shoulder and then the other as if looking for something. Or someone. “Oh, no. I am so accustomed to rising early. You and your sister were kind to come to my assistance last night, but now I really must return to my shop.”
He nodded toward the bulging bandage under her sleeve. “But your arm. I would feel more comfortable about it if you would allow me to assess it once more before you depart.”
“I thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”
How different she looked by daylight. His first interactions with her had been wound with anxiety. She had been in pain. Discomfort had affected her appearance. But today, black hair escaped her comb and curled around her face in gentle waves. Soft color highlighted her high cheekbones and accentuated the fullness of her lips. But what struck him most was her eyes. They were every bit as black as her hair, mysterious and sharp. And entrancing. For even though her voice was steady, her eyes shared another story—one of cautious strength. Of observant tenacity. And a little spark of something he could not name.
“Are you not concerned for your safety?” he asked. “After what happened last night, I would think you would prefer to wait until all is settled once again.”
“Last night was horrifying, to be sure. But no, I am not frightened to return.”
“You might not be frightened, Miss Iverness, but I must protest.” Jonathan knew he was overstepping his bounds. This woman had never asked for his help, and he had no right to offer his opinion so freely. And yet, after their shared encounter the night before, the need to protect her welled within him. “I feel you would be safer to remain with us for at least a little while longer. We could send word of your safety to your father.”
She jutted her chin out confidently, her eyes meeting his with a boldness that took him by surprise. “My father will be waiting for me, I am certain. He is likely beside himself with concern at my absence.”
The knowledge that he should stand down and let her go about her business nagged him. But something within him prevented him from doing so. “Would you allow me to accompany you home, at the very least? Do you even know the way from here? I should like to know you arrived safely.”
He thought she was going to deny his request. The debate in her mind played clearly across her face. But at length she nodded her consent. He fell into step beside her.
Heavy clouds lingered, blanketing the morning in shades of pewter and stone. The walk would be a short one, and from what he had gathered, Miss Iverness was a fairly direct woman, so he elected to approach his subject without preamble. “I was hoping to speak with you about what happened last night at the shop.”
She looked up, her words brisk. “I am sure I have as many questions—if not more—than you do, Mr. Gilchrist. I do not know what help I will be.”
She quickened her pace. He adjusted his to match hers. “As I am sure you have realized, I was at the shop last night for a reason.”
“Few people like you just happen upon Blinkett Street without intention.”
He did not take the time to consider her response too closely. “The man who attacked you—do you know who he was?”
“I do not.”
Her seeming indifference was maddening.
“I believe it was a man named McCready,” he continued. “Does that name sound familiar to you?”
She shook her head, her pace not slowing, h
er eyes not wavering from the cobbled street before her.
“My colleague and I were following him, hoping to locate an item that had been stolen from my father.”
She did not respond. In fact, any sense of warmth seemed to leave her expression. Had he upset her? Offended her?
He had to keep trying. “We received information that McCready was going to purchase the item in your father’s shop last night, and that is what brought us to you.”
At this her steps slowed.
“Are you at all familiar with the Bevoy?”
She stopped and turned toward him. Her dark eyebrows drew together, and she cocked her head to the side. “The Bevoy?”
His pulse quickened. Now they were getting somewhere. Over her shoulder, Jonathan spied a small cluster of men staring at them. He motioned for Miss Iverness to continue walking. “Yes. It’s a large gemstone, an uncut ruby. Apparently my father purchased the stone from your father several years ago, and from what we have heard, it was to be sold again at your shop.”
She stopped short and finally turned to him, looking at him so directly he felt she was seeing his very thoughts. “You must be mistaken, Mr. Gilchrist. I have never heard of such a ruby, either now or in the past. My father may be a little eccentric, but he is not a thief, and if you think that I—”
“And I am not insinuating that he stole the gem,” Jonathan hurried to add, “but only that my stolen property might have reached him under the pretenses of an honest transaction. It happens quite frequently, from what I understand about this business.”
She narrowed her eyes.
He immediately regretted his words.
Her icy tone seemed to rise above the street’s commotion. “And what exactly do you know about this business?”
“Very little, I confess.”
There. He had done the last thing he had wanted to do—he had offended her.
“I am afraid I cannot help you.” Miss Iverness folded her arms. “I appreciate your assistance last night, but this is where I must leave you. Good day.”
The Curiosity Keeper Page 7