His father whirled as quickly as his aging form would allow. “And I am expected to put that man’s daughter up for the night? Absolutely not.”
Miss Iverness’s eyebrows lifted, but otherwise she made no response.
Jonathan ignored his father’s protest and motioned for one of the footmen. “See that one of the rooms close to Miss Gilchrist’s is prepared for Miss Iverness and that she has everything she needs for a comfortable night’s stay. But before you do, will you show Miss Iverness to the parlor and send for tea? I should like to speak with my father privately for a moment.”
The staff snapped to action. Jonathan waited for the parlor door to close behind Miss Iverness before turning to his father.
Ian Gilchrist paced the main hall, his cane rapping sharply against the wooden floor. Jonathan recognized the signs of his father’s annoyance—the trembling jowls, the furrowed brow. But Jonathan was annoyed as well and growing more so with each passing moment. He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet firmly on the floor, prepared for the lashing that was sure to follow. “You might as well speak your mind. I know you have an opinion. There must be some explanation for your rudeness toward Miss Iverness.”
His father’s quiet, gritty words sliced through the silence, the softness of which would rival the intensity of any shout. “You travel to London to get the ruby. I trust you with a task that I am unable to do myself. But not only do you fail in your task; you also bring home a girl. And not just any girl, but the daughter of a criminal who may well be behind the theft of my ruby. And you ask me my opinion?”
The familiar awareness tugged at Jonathan—the sinking knowledge that he had yet again disappointed his father. And yet he knew the truth of what had happened. If his father had been present, surely he would understand.
But there could be no understanding tonight. Once his father’s opinions formed, he was steadfast. Unwavering.
“We cannot be certain who was behind the theft,” Jonathan ventured.
“It matters not if we are certain. James Iverness is a suspect. That should have been enough for you to leave that sprig of a woman alone.” He fairly spit out the words, and the force behind them incited a series of coughs that racked his body. Ian Gilchrist lowered himself into one of the chairs flanking the fireplace.
Jonathan expelled his breath, searching for the delicate balance of respecting his father and respecting himself. “We made our best attempt to locate the ruby and will not cease. Darbin remains in London, and—”
“I knew I should have gone myself,” interrupted his father, rubbing a finger over his whiskered cheek.
Jonathan shook his head, taking the seat opposite his father. “You are hardly in a condition to travel.”
“Apparently I am the only one who realizes the severity of this situation.” The old man rose from the chair as quickly as his gout would allow. “I sent you to London with one responsibility, and this is the result. Your brother would have known what to do.”
“No doubt,” huffed Jonathan, the inflection of his voice divulging much more than he intended.
“How dare you take that tone when speaking of your brother, God rest his soul. You are set to inherit. You, Jonathan. Need I remind you of that detail? Apparently I must, because from your actions one would think that you care very little for this estate.”
“To the contrary, the present situation concerns me immensely. But I am not going to get myself killed or risk the life of another to see that happen.”
“Spineless boy,” his father hissed.
The words stung far more strongly than Jonathan would ever admit. They were the audible reminder of the chronic dissatisfaction that choked the relationship between father and son. Years of such exchanges had pressed down and compressed it until it was dry, hard, and unmoving.
“But what of this girl?” his father continued. “Why is she here?”
Jonathan looked up. In the face of his father’s criticism he’d almost forgotten about Miss Iverness. “Darbin had information which led us to Iverness’s shop. When we arrived there was a burglary in progress. She was injured. And then her brute of a father threw her out. What would you have me do? Leave her there?”
The sarcasm in his father’s laugh chaffed his taut nerves. “Weak men are influenced by women. You let your guard down, allowed her to influence you.”
“She can help us find the ruby,” Jonathan argued.
“Do you think that, boy? Then you have much to learn of the ways of men outside of Fellsworth.”
His father swept his arm as if to display the room in a grand gesture. “Kettering Hall has been part of our family’s legacy for generation upon generation and will remain so if we will fight for it. But you are too much like your mother, not enough like your brother. He understood the importance of doing what must be done.”
Jonathan bit his tongue and nodded to his father. Then he got to his feet and walked away.
He could not compete with a dead man. He would not even try.
Chapter Eighteen
Camille stood motionless in Kettering Hall’s sumptuous parlor as the footman lit the candles, then relaxed as he exited. This moment of solitude was what her soul desperately needed. But the shouts and bitter tones coming from the other room gave her reason to pause.
She could not make out the words. She was not sure she wanted to.
She drew close to the fire, hoping the warmth would dry the bits of moisture clinging to her clothing and hair, and turned to survey her surroundings. The room was large—much larger than the parlor in the London house. And all around her were signs that she was in the home of a collector.
From the paintings on the walls and the decorations in the main hall she had sensed that such was the case, but now there could be no question. For every nook and cranny in this room was filled with unique and interesting items, the kind of items she had sold in her father’s shop.
Though weariness pulled at her limbs, curiosity won over her exhaustion. She strolled about the room.
Many times she had wished that her family was in a different business. But a lifetime of learning about rare and unique foreign pieces had left its mark. In this room she was in her element. Her entire existence had prepared her for this house.
A boar’s head was mounted above the chimneypiece, flanked by two sizable ivory elephant statues. A Chinese tapestry hung on the far wall next to an intricately carved table of Indian teak. She took her time, studying each piece in the candlelight.
There was no denying Mr. Ian Gilchrist’s eye. His pieces were rare and costly, and it was a treat to see items displayed as they should be instead of piled in a back room or stuffed on rickety shelves as her father kept them.
She was not sure how much time had passed. Ten minutes. Perhaps twenty. She stepped forward to admire a full suit of armor next to the door. She had reached out to run her hand over the rivets on the curved metal, when a voice sounded behind her.
“What do you think of it?”
She snatched her hand back and laced her fingers behind her back. The elder Mr. Gilchrist stood in the doorway. “Forgive me, sir. I did not know you were there.”
He hobbled closer, taking several moments to look at the armor she had been studying. His eyes were like his son’s—startlingly blue and unnervingly direct. “I asked you what you thought of it.”
She turned back to the piece, assessing the red plume atop the helmet and the jewel-encrusted sheath. “It is exquisite. A Scottish piece, is it not?”
“Very astute. Yes. Bought it at an auction in Glasgow more than a decade ago now. I’d bet you are curious about how much I paid for it.”
She could feel her cheeks growing warm. The thought had crossed her mind, and she had a number in her head of what she thought the piece would sell for. But she would never offer such an opinion so freely. “That is your business, sir.”
“You are right. It is my business, and I am glad you recognize that. But I will tell you that
I parted with way too much for it—not that that should surprise you. But you know how it is. I saw a piece I needed for the collection. Once I saw it, I was not to be deterred.”
Camille did understand. She had known buyers to spend months, even years, tracking down very specific pieces for very definitive reasons. And once they found what they wanted, they would pay any price for it.
She released her fingers from her back. “A piece is worth what someone is willing to pay for it. That is what my papa always said.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she really thought about them. Then came the rush of hurt as she remembered her father talking to the men in the alley.
If Mr. Gilchrist was surprised by the reference to James Iverness, he gave no indication of such. He shuffled over to a painting near the armor and studied it for several moments before speaking. “Your father and I do not see eye to eye, Miss Iverness. I do not trust him. Not anymore.”
She stood still, unsure of how to respond. Her normal reaction would be to jump to her father’s defense, regardless if the accusation held any merit. But tonight she was confused on that matter. For had she not, just that morning, witnessed a betrayal of her own? She had been unaware of any relationship between the two men—indeed, she had never heard of Ian Gilchrist. But now what the younger Mr. Gilchrist had suggested was being verified.
“My son tells me you are going to try for a position at the school.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever spent time in a school, Miss Iverness?”
“No, sir. I have not.”
“And to what position do you aspire? Will you be a teacher?”
“Your son said that not all the positions involve teaching. If they are seeking a teacher, perhaps I could instruct others in the practical skills I learned in my father’s shop. But I do not think myself above any work. I would be grateful for any position the opportunity afforded.”
She continued to study the armor, grateful to have something to look at instead of Mr. Gilchrist and particularly relieved at the shift of conversation. She had never been a shy person. But the directness of the man’s questions, combined with her unfamiliarity with her surroundings, had slowed her response.
“My family is well connected with the school. We have been patrons for a very long time.” He continued to walk around the room.
At this point, Camille was not sure if he was there to speak with her or to peruse his collection. He paused several times to pick up an urn or a statue or the like, and for a moment she would think he was absorbed in his own thoughts. Then he would speak again.
“Did that son of mine tell you why he was in London?”
Not knowing what else to do, she answered directly. “He was looking for a ruby. The Bevoy.”
He raised his bushy eyebrow in her direction. “And do you know anything about its whereabouts?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
He returned the statue to the table. “I bought it from your father. He sourced it for me. Did my son tell you that?”
She gave a little shrug. “I wish I could be of more help. But I think you know my father. He can be quite secretive about such things. And when he is working with a private buyer such as yourself, he rarely shares the secrets with me.”
Mr. Gilchrist stared at her for several moments, the intensity of his deep-set eyes unsettling. But then, as quickly and suddenly as he had appeared, he made his way to the door.
“You are welcome at Kettering Hall for the night, Miss Iverness.”
Later that evening, a meal of cold meat and vegetables was served to the weary travelers.
The older Mr. Gilchrist, having already eaten, retired to his chambers at an early hour, but the younger Mr. Gilchrist and his sister sat with Camille in Kettering Hall’s dining chamber.
The meal passed in relative silence, and Camille was glad of it. She was grateful for the warmth and nourishment.
The extravagance of the room, with its blue-striped wallpaper, abundance of candlelight, and row of poker-straight footmen lining the wall, could have set her nerves on edge. She was accustomed to taking meals alone and without ceremony. But fortunately her time at her grandfather’s estate had taught her how to behave in such an environment, even though her table manners were a bit rusty. By following the lead of her hosts, she was able to eat without embarrassing herself and to immerse herself in her own thoughts.
When she arrived at Kettering Hall, her first impression of the elder Mr. Gilchrist had been fiercely negative. But her apprehension had lessened after spending a few moments alone with him in the privacy of the parlor, in a world they both understood. He was a gruff man, to be sure, hard around the edges. But something about his mannerisms, his presence, reminded her of her father, and that slim bit of familiarity in a strange place comforted her.
Mr. Gilchrist broke the silence, interrupting her quiet stream of thoughts. “I trust your food is satisfactory. Is there anything else you would care for?”
Camille tapped her napkin to her lips before speaking. “The food is wonderful, thank you. I am quite content.”
Miss Gilchrist balanced her fork in her fingers. “Normally our dinner would be much more elaborate, but Father rarely eats a formal meal when we are not present. He much prefers to eat in his chamber, and the cook was not expecting us until tomorrow.”
Camille raised an eyebrow. Miss Gilchrist’s statement seemed an odd one, as if it had only been spoken to prove that their early return was a major source of inconvenience or that their wealth far surpassed what the current repast suggested. But Mr. Gilchrist ignored his sister completely.
He took a sip of wine and turned to Camille. “I am sure you are eager to feel settled, Miss Iverness. Tomorrow I will go to the superintendent and see about arranging a position for you. His name is Mr. Langsby, and I think you will find him a kind employer.”
“And if there is no position available?”
“Do not fret.” Mr. Gilchrist’s smile was kind. Reassuring. “The tie between the school and our family is a long one. My own mother taught there in the days before she married my father, and I myself visit the school several times a week as part of my rounds. I am sure that Mr. Langsby will be able to find a place for you.”
Miss Gilchrist returned her fork to the table. “You forgot to say that our family has given large sums of money to the school. In fact, Father completely funded their library years ago. That alone should make a case for employing you at our request.”
Mr. Gilchrist shot a warning glance at his sister. “As I was saying, I am certain he will be able to find a position for you. And if not, well, I will not rest until I find you a suitable arrangement. After all, it was on my recommendation that you left your home. Rest assured—we will not abandon you.”
Camille stiffened. Did he think that she was counting on him to rescue her, like the knight who’d worn the armor in the parlor? Was he planning to take her out of a bad situation and make it all better? She could feel Miss Gilchrist’s condescending gaze on her. Heat crept up her neck.
“I fear I must clarify something.” Camille sat back from her plate, her stomach suddenly sour. “While I am wholeheartedly grateful to you for your kindness and your interest in my welfare, I do not wish to overstep my bounds. Without your assistance it is very unlikely that I would have been able to leave London and have found safety, so I thank you for that. But now that I have a little distance and have had a chance to find a little clarity, I think it is time that I take responsibility for my own situation.”
Mr. Gilchrist frowned. “Do you not wish to apply for a position at the school?”
“Oh, I do think it would be the ideal situation for me. But I think it is best if I inquire after a position on my own.”
A shadow of concern darkened Mr. Gilchrist’s countenance. “Are you certain you have thought that through, Miss Iverness? The superintendent is a kind man, as I mentioned, but he is also quite attentive to rules and traditions, and I know he is a stickler f
or propriety. I do not think he would consider an unsolicited candidate. I am not even sure if there is a position. But I know that if I—”
“I do not fear representing myself. And I cannot in good faith allow you to do something for me that I am quite capable of doing myself. If I am to obtain a position at the school, it should be on my merit.”
Miss Gilchrist’s mouth dropped open. “But Miss Iverness, it is just not done that way! Consider. My brother has a very good friendship with Mr. Langsby. Our family has a long-standing relationship with that school. Pray do not let your pride stand in the way of letting us help you.”
“It is not pride. And I do understand what you are willing to do for me.”
“But I will be at the school to check on the students,” he continued. “I will be there anyway.”
Why did they not see? How could they not understand why this was so very important to her? And then it struck her—she herself had not realized how important it was until this very moment.
For as long as she had remembered, she had worked hard. In her own way, she had been quite successful. Even though she lived with her father, it had been she who built the business on Blinkett Street. Without her skills with inventory and accounts, her carefully developed eye for what would sell, the shop would have succumbed long ago.
She suppressed the sharp words that simmered in her mind and wanted to come out. She had to remember that the Gilchrists were trying to help her. At least it seemed that they were trying to help her. The line between suspicion and gratitude was growing impossibly thin, and more so by the passing moment.
Mr. Gilchrist’s expression softened. His eyes focused on her, and she found it difficult to look away. Their blueness seemed to cast a spell over her, drawing her into a trance. His voice, soothing and low, was quite unlike any she had heard. It lacked the rough accents of Londoners or the broken qualities of foreigners—the kinds of people she encountered most often. Instead it was smooth and melodic, quiet and slow.
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