The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “Miss Iverness could have been killed,” challenged Jonathan. “Never pegged you to be a murderer.”

  Darbin shrugged as if bored with the conversation. “She needed to believe it too. Come on, my friend. Do not be so gullible. Too many people knowing the truth about such transactions can be far too complicated. Mr. Iverness taught me that. It was his idea.”

  The idea that any man would knowingly put his daughter in harm’s way turned Jonathan’s stomach. But now it all made sense. Darbin’s disappearance the night the store was robbed. His ongoing interest in Camille’s whereabouts. Iverness’s harshness toward his—

  At that moment a tall, slender woman stepped through the curtained doorway. There was no denying who she was, for she and Camille shared a remarkable likeness. Surely this was her mother. But there seemed to be nothing motherly about this woman. The lines of her face were hard, her expression scornful.

  Jonathan wanted clarification, but he knew he would not get it. Not here, and possibly not ever. All that mattered was getting Miss Iverness—his Camille—away from this shop. Somehow she was connected with everyone here. But he didn’t care. Any relationship that tied her up with them was one that had to be severed. He began to circle toward Camille, who stood close to the shop’s front door.

  But then Darbin did the unexpected. In a very small movement, he pointed his pistol away from Jonathan and directly at Camille.

  Jonathan’s blood ran cold, and his stomach turned within him. He adjusted his aim. “Let her go, Darbin. She is not what you want.”

  “And how can you be so sure? Did I not tell you there is more to Miss Iverness than what meets the eye? I did try to warn you, you know. For Thomas’s sake.”

  Sweat gathered on Jonathon’s brow. The air seemed too thick to breathe. But for the first time that day all was clear to him.

  He had the one thing that they wanted.

  And they were threatening the only person who mattered to him.

  Darbin’s voice rang out far too confidently. “And this is an interesting position we find ourselves in, you with a pistol pointed at my chest, and I with a pistol pointed at Miss Iverness. What are we to do?” His words issued a challenge.

  Jonathan knew he had the advantage. The Bevoy was in his possession. But still he asked the question: “What is it you want, Darbin?”

  “You know what I want,” the man hissed. “And I know full well that Miss Iverness has more information about it than what she is sharing with me.”

  Jonathan shifted his weight carefully as he listened. “Now, I have a bit of information to share with you. Miss Iverness does not have the ruby, so you might as well take your pistol off her.”

  “You are bluffing,” snorted Darbin, casting a glance toward James Iverness before latching his gaze back on Jonathan.

  Jonathan pressed his lips together. This was the moment.

  He had a choice, and the choice he made at this moment would define his life from this moment forward.

  He could back out of this dusty, cluttered little shop with the ruby securely in his pocket. He could give it to his father and win his praise. He could save the estate.

  Or, he could turn the ruby over and free Camille.

  She had never declared love for him. He did not even know if she would leave the shop and return to Fellsworth with him. But in his mind, there was no question.

  The box was in his hand.

  It was worth the risk.

  Jonathan held the puzzle box up. “Release her, and the ruby is yours.”

  At last the older woman spoke. “That’s it.” Her words rushed forth hungrily. “The Bevoy is in that box.”

  Jonathan heard Camille gasp, but he did not look her way. Instead he steadied his eyes on Darbin. He repeated himself. “Let Miss Iverness go, and this is yours. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  Iverness and Darbin exchanged glances again. Jonathan could read their thoughts, interpret the look that bounced between them. Once in their possession, the gem would be sold, and if they were working together, it would be gone in the blink of an eye. If he had learned anything, it was that Iverness likely had a buyer lined up before Camille ever left with the ruby.

  Pistol still aimed, Jonathan set the box on the counter to his left. The clatter of wood against wood echoed through the shop.

  “This is my proposal.” Jonathan’s voice was steady. “Miss Iverness and I will leave. The ruby will stay.”

  An incredulous look crossed Darbin’s narrow face. “You would hand it over? For the likes of her?”

  Jonathan did not answer the question—not directly. He just repeated his terms. “I will give you the ruby. You will make no effort to detain us further, and you will never contact Miss Iverness again.”

  “He’s bluffing,” breathed Iverness, kicking the dog away from his feet and taking a step forward. His green eyes bored into Jonathan, unblinking.

  “I swear it on my brother’s grave,” Jonathan countered. “I will give up all rights to the ruby. And you never contact her or my family again.”

  James Iverness looked at his daughter, and for a f leeting moment, a spark of emotion glimmered. His eyebrows drew together, and his lips seemed to fall into a frown. But just as quickly as it appeared, the expression disappeared.

  “And if we don’t agree?” asked Darbin.

  Jonathan straightened his aim. “I will pull the trigger.”

  “You may kill me, but my colleague has a knife. And you will have nothing, no time to reload.”

  “What do you care?” Jonathan shot back. “Because when I pull this trigger, I will not miss. If you think my brother was a good shot, think it through. For we were taught by the same master, and I was a far better pupil than he. Now, I think Miss Iverness needs to leave this discussion, don’t you?”

  Darbin dropped his hand.

  Jonathan did not move his eyes away from the men. “Leave, Miss Iverness.”

  When she did not move, he glanced at her over his shoulder. She looked from her mother to her father, whose gaze was fixed firmly ahead. Jonathan did not miss the flash of shock, of daughterly sadness. But as quickly as that expression wrote itself on her face, she gathered herself and raced for the door. The dog, who had been sitting at Iverness’s feet, gave a sudden bark and ran after her.

  James Iverness lunged forward, seized the box from the counter, and twisted the top a certain way to pop it open. He held the gem up to the dirty sliver of light squeezing through the door window.

  Jonathan looked at the ruby. It looked black and dull to him. But the woman lunged forward and ripped the gem from James Iverness’s hand.

  All of this . . . for a stone?

  “We have a deal, then,” Jonathan confirmed. “You have what you want. You will leave Miss Iverness alone. The relationship is severed.”

  A crooked grin crossed Darbin’s face. “You are more like your brother than I thought.”

  “I am not at all like my brother.” Jonathan backed out of the shop, pistol still pointed. But the other three occupants of the room were too interested in the prize to notice his retreat.

  Chapter Forty

  Jonathan burst from the shop onto Blinkett Street. He filled his lungs, but instead of the fresh air they so desperately needed, he inhaled rain and smoke and the scent of filth.

  He tucked the pistol at his waist, still unable to believe what had transpired and how willing James Iverness and his wife had been to trade their daughter for a ruby. Their greed sickened him. But he had no more interest in them at the moment.

  He adjusted his coat to hide the firearm and looked to his right, then his left.

  Camille was nowhere to be seen.

  Momentary panic struck him. He had told her he had feelings for her, that she was the woman he loved. But she had never said as much to him. For all he knew, she cared nothing for him. Perhaps she had already disappeared into the crowded streets of London, never to be seen again.

  He pushed his way through the crowd t
oward the nearest side road. The rain blurred his view, dripping from the brim of his hat to his face. Fear pushed his pace harder until he was jogging through the streets. He paused at each alley, peering through gates and down the narrow spaces. But he found nothing.

  He was not sure how long it was before he stopped running and came to a halt, gasping. She was gone. For if she had wanted him to find her, surely she would have made her presence known.

  His chest heaved with the exertion of the past several minutes, but the real pain was in his heart and soul.

  Gone.

  Then, almost on a whim, he looked down one last alley. And there, leaning against the wall, head bent, was Camille. The brown dog from the shop was sitting at her feet, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. But when the dog noticed him, he stood. He growled.

  Camille turned toward Jonathan. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face shiny with rain and tears. Her dress was soaked, and her black hair, loosed from its pins, hung down her back in sodden ropes. She touched the dog, and he sat back down. Her breath came out in sobs, and her shoulders trembled.

  He jogged toward her until he was so close he could feel the heat radiating from her. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but in the moment, his mouth could form no words.

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand. But then came the outburst—more demand than question. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?” he asked, confused by the intensity of her voice.

  “The Bevoy belongs to your father, not to them.” Tears choked her voice. “You gave them the Bevoy to free me. You should not have done that.”

  He drew a deep breath, his own breathing calm in contrast to her heaving gasps. “Did I not tell you,” he whispered, “that I came to London for you, not the Bevoy.”

  She shook her head, her dark eyes locked on his, her breath slowing. “But you need it. Your father needs it. I would be fine, I would—”

  “Camille.”

  She heard him not. “That was my mother. My mother! After all these years! I—”

  Her rush of words dissolved into deeper sobs. The display of such anguish was enough to trigger emotion of his own.

  He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms tightly around her—tightly enough so she knew he would not let go. Tightly enough that she would never again doubt that there was someone to protect her. To love her.

  Someone who expected nothing from her in return.

  After several moments she pulled away. She looked from his hair to his eyes to his lips. And that was all the encouragement he needed.

  “Camille.” He reached his hand forward and gently smoothed her hair from her forehead.

  She shuddered as she drew a breath, and then she cast her eyes downward.

  Jonathan gave a chuckle, letting his finger linger on the soft curve of her cheek. “My father was right, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiled at her. In fact, he could not stop smiling now, even if he wanted to. “I am beginning to believe that the Bevoy was cursed. And now that it is gone, out of our lives, there are far better things ahead of us.”

  “Us?” She gazed up at him, meeting his eyes once more.

  “Yes, us. If you’ll have me.” The raindrops fell on her forehead, and he brushed them away with his thumb. “When I thought you were gone, it was as if you had taken my very soul with you. I never want to be apart from you. Never again.”

  He let his hand fall from her face to her shoulder to her arm.

  She leaned toward him, and she drew a shaky breath. “I must tell you something.”

  Her words were spoken in such a solemn tone that he almost feared what she was about to say.

  She pulled away, her eyes downcast. “I had the Bevoy the whole time. It was in that little package I carried in my apron. My father gave it to me, but I never dreamed the ruby was in there. I swear to you, I did not know. All that time, all of your trouble, and all the time it was in my possession. I am so sorry. The Bevoy belongs with your family, and I—”

  How could he make her understand? He wanted to silence her on the matter, wanted never to hear the word Bevoy cross her lips again.

  So he did the only thing he could think to do.

  Jonathan reached out and pulled her to him. She felt small and warm in his embrace, but just the nearness of her infused him with confidence. “I care nothing about the Bevoy,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I care about you.”

  He tilted her chin up to his and kissed her, tenderly at first. Then, as his senses took over, he drew her closer still.

  He had taken her by surprise. At first she stiffened, and he thought for a moment she might pull away. Intense longing commandeered his senses, and he deepened the kiss—brazenly, without apology. Every emotion he’d experienced over the past several weeks fused into a desire unlike any he had ever known.

  He pulled away, and the expression in her eyes, the complete trust he found there, wound its way around every fiber of his being. “My Camille. I want to take you away from this. Marry me. Please, please, my darling, marry me. Never leave me again.”

  He waited, half fearing her reaction. Then a smile, the first smile he had seen from her today, curved her lips.

  “Yes, Jonathan,” she told him. “Yes!”

  She flung her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with a passion fully equal to his. And Jonathan knew he had found his home—the only estate to which he had ever aspired.

  It was wherever Camille was.

  He held her close, wanting to memorize the feel of her in his arms. He kissed her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips. And then he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. “I am sorry to say, however, that today’s events will seal the fate of Kettering Hall. I fear it will not be able to remain in the Gilchrist family. I hope it will not disappoint you to not be the mistress of the estate.”

  She smiled. “I have always wanted to be an apothecary’s wife. Nothing could make me more complete.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jonathan propped his fists on his hips and looked around Kettering Hall’s parlor for the last time. It had been six months since he handed the Bevoy over to Darbin. Six months since he and Camille had left London together, and one month since she became his bride. In many respects, with her at his side, he was happier than he had ever been. But now, gazing around the familiar room, he sobered. He had thought it would be easier to say good-bye to his childhood home, where lukewarm and painful memories far outweighed the pleasant.

  In many respects, he had failed his family. He had not recovered the Bevoy. Not permanently. True, he had held it in his hands. But then he had given it away. And the repercussions of that action had come swiftly and fully for his family. The relationship between Penelope and her Alfred Dowden, already strained, had dissolved completely. Jonathan’s father had sold the lion’s share of his beloved collection and generated enough funds to retain the London house. But as predicted, Kettering Hall had been sold.

  All around him stood furniture covered with white sheets. Heavy drapes blocked out light from the windows. Chimneypieces that had boasted fires at all hours were dark. No servants bustled, eager to help.

  Kettering Hall was like a ghost house, dark and gloomy and haunted with memories. But then Camille came around the corner, bringing with her a brightness that could not be diminished.

  The soles of her boots echoed on the wooden floor. She smiled as she approached him, an easy, comfortable smile, and slid her hand into the crook of his arm. But she sighed as she looked around the stark room. “I fear I will always feel guilty about Kettering Hall.”

  He covered her warm hand with his own. “And why is that?”

  “If it weren’t for me, you would have had the Bevoy. Then your sister would have married, and your father would have his collection still.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “And I cannot allow you to accept guilt over such a thing.”

  �
�Even though he does not say as much, I do believe your father blames me.”

  “Kettering Hall is being sold because my father lost our money, not because of anything that you did. Had we lost the estate for the sake of a stolen ruby only, then we did not have the funds to sustain it in the first place. Besides, I am the one who stands to inherit, and you are worth more to me than a thousand Kettering Halls.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  Camille smiled at the display of affection. “I wonder what the new owners will be like.”

  “I’ve no doubt we will meet them at some point since our cottage is so near.”

  A horse’s whinny rose above the sounds of the morning as if summoning the travelers for their impending journey. “It sounds as if they are about ready to depart. We should bid them farewell.”

  He cast one last, long look around the silent room, then led Camille to the main drive, where footmen scurried around and horses jingled their harnesses. Tevy, who had accompanied them from London all those months ago, ran out from around the carriage and loped happily toward Camille.

  “He loves the country as much as I do.” Camille leaned down to scratch the big dog’s ears, then straightened and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. She nodded toward the small courtyard in front of the drive. “Penelope is over there. I should like to speak with her before she leaves.”

  Jonathan watched her head across the drive, then turned his attention back to the carriages. There were two of them—one for the family and another for the few members of staff who were to go with them to the London home. Three footmen worked to lift the bright bird’s cage onto a separate wagon, inciting an onslaught of protesting squawks. Jonathan stepped closer to his father, who was watching the odd event with interest.

  “I never thought I would see the day Kettering Hall would leave the Gilchrist family.” The old man drew a deep breath as Jonathan approached, his eyes not leaving the bird. “And there is none to blame but myself.”

  A breeze swept down from the forest, carrying with it late autumn’s spicy scent. Gone were October’s golden hues. Instead, drab gray and brown covered the landscape, broken by patches of early snow. Jonathan kept his eyes fixed firmly on the landscape as he spoke. “As you always say, the Gilchrists will prevail. A minor setback, ’tis all.”