The Curiosity Keeper (10 page)

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, her 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.”

She started walking again. Jonathan stood and watched her go. But before he could conjure another reason to detain her, she
stopped short of her own accord. Curious as to the reason, he followed her, weaving around a passing cart and sidestepping a stack of wooden crates.

Then his own steps slowed.

For by the light of day, the damage to the Iverness Curiosity Shop was clear. One window was shattered, and glass littered the dirt walk. The door was propped open.

Miss Iverness said nothing. She broke away and ran toward the door.

Chapter Thirteen

C
amille halted at the shop’s open door, heart thudding out a rhythm like a runaway horse’s hooves.

She could hear her father inside, shuffling amongst the clutter she knew all too well and spewing profanity with familiar coarseness.

She would never have expected him to return this early, for it was just past dawn. Normally his night excursions kept him away much longer—sometimes days.

Fear, as rich and as deep as any she had experienced the night before, rushed through her. Last night she had feared for her safety, but this morning, the fear was different.

She stepped over the broken glass and splintered wood, all thoughts of her conversation with Mr. Gilchrist surrendered to the back of her mind.

Before she could even step inside, her father spied her through the broken window. “Camille, where in blazes have you been?”

She clutched her little bundle of belongings closer to her. Her words refused to form, as if her father’s anger had stolen her ability to speak. She pushed the door open, scooting littered bits of glass and stone as she did.

He did not wait until she was fully inside before he pounced
like a tiger attacking its prey. “I asked you a question, girl. I demand an explanation, and you had better have one to give me.”

She barely heard his words. The sights around her had captured her attention. The shop was in shambles, the damage worse than she had imagined. She knew the intruder, Mr. McCready, had dropped a vase, and she remembered knocking over several items. But what she saw now was unlike anything she had expected. The only possible explanation was that the store had been looted overnight.

She stammered as her eyes raked from the broken birdcages to the ripped canvases. “I-I—”

But her father would not wait for her to utter a single word. “You. I leave you to oversee the shop, and I come home to this—with you no place to be found?”

“I-I can explain. You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you let this happen,” he hurled back, his green eyes narrowed in sharp scrutiny.

“I did not!” She jutted her chin and did her best to stand her ground. “A man forced his way into the shop last night. He had a knife. I had no choice; it wasn’t safe here. I—”

“There is always a choice, girl,” he hissed, reaching for a dram of brandy and slamming it down his throat. “I left you in charge, and this is how you betray me? Leave my store alone? Let it be ransacked?”

Suddenly his expression changed. His eyes focused on something behind her, and a shadow against the far wall shifted. She turned around.

Mr. Gilchrist stood on the threshold, his broad shoulders cutting a black silhouette against the street behind him. She blinked and stared at him for several moments, confused.
She thought he had remained at the corner as they approached Blinkett Street, but no doubt her father’s profane shouts and cursing had attracted his attention. How could they not? She was not sure if she was irritated that he had followed her or relieved to have another person present.

Her father’s voice grew quiet. “Who are you?”

Mr. Gilchrist stepped inside. “My name’s Gilchrist.”

“Ian Gilchrist’s boy?” No warmth of recognition lit her father’s hard face as he assessed the man in the doorway. “What do you want?”

Camille swallowed the lump of fear and disbelief forming in her throat. So her father was acquainted, at least on some level, with the Gilchrists. She stepped aside to allow Mr. Gilchrist to brush past her. His presence brought with it a strange sense of calm. Her confidence seemed to rise with every step he took into the shop.

Mr. Gilchrist’s voice was strong when hers felt weak. “I am here to make certain Miss Iverness is well. I happened by the shop yesterday night while the robbery was taking place, and she was injured.”

Mr. Gilchrist’s explanation did little to diffuse the fire in her father’s eyes. “You just happened by the shop, did you? Then I suppose you can answer for some of this mess as well.”

Mr. Gilchrist stared her father directly in the eye, something not many people dared to do. James Iverness was king of this street, accustomed to having people bow to his will. Perhaps it was Mr. Gilchrist’s ignorance, or perhaps this well-bred stranger had more courage than she had been willing to give him credit for.

Mr. Gilchrist’s voice was unshaken. “No, I’ll not answer for
the damage. That was someone else’s doing. And your daughter is hardly to blame. When I arrived, she was being held at knifepoint by a rogue twice her size. She was fortunate to escape with her life.”

Camille’s heartbeat jumped wildly to her throat. Her father would never stand for such a response. She wanted to blink but felt physically unable. Her father’s face was deepening to a sinister shade of crimson, his cheeks starting to shake. He was a volatile man, and once provoked, he was a volcano, heaving forth hot and angry words with the force of a massive explosion.

James Iverness stepped up to the much younger, much taller man, his hand waving in the air. For what he lacked in stature, he made up in volume. “I’ll not be told who to blame for this disaster or how to speak to my daughter in my own shop, especially not by the son of a thieving, lying . . .” Several choice descriptions of the elder Mr. Gilchrist followed.

Camille looked to Mr. Gilchrist, her breath suspended, waiting for a response of any kind. But none came.

Her father spun around, mere inches from his daughter. “Is this the type of person you prefer to keep company with? This sort of man who disrespects me in my own shop?”

Her need to diffuse the situation overcame her fear. And Mr. Gilchrist’s bravery bolstered her own. “But he helped me, Papa.”

“He helped you, did he? Ha! I bet he did. Helped you right out of your shop.” He pointed a shaky finger to Mr. Gilchrist. “Very convenient, wasn’t it, boy, for you and your kind to have the shop left unattended. I’ll wager I can go to your father’s study and find half o’ what’s missing here now.”

He whirled back to Camille. “And as for you, only a common
trollop would come flouncing in here in the morning with a man she doesn’t know.”

The words flamed through the air. Camille could feel Mr. Gilchrist’s gaze on her. She wanted to melt into the floor, to disappear completely. She had told herself she didn’t care what the man thought. He had already seen her at her worst, and she’d thought her humiliation was complete. But she’d been wrong.

Camille shook her head vehemently, as if her exaggerated movement could convince her father more aptly. “If you would just listen, I—”

“I want you gone!” he shouted, each word notably louder than the last. “Leave. Now.”

At first Camille didn’t believe his order. Her father was brash, and where she was concerned, his bark was almost always worse than his bite. But then he grabbed her by the arm—her injured arm. She howled in pain, and her knees buckled beneath her. He either did not notice or did not care. He wrapped his fingers tighter and all but pushed her out the door.

She stumbled onto the cobblestoned street, falling to her knees. The sharp pebbles and shards of glass jabbed her through her dress, and cold moisture seeped through the fine silk. Pain accosted her from every point of her body, but she felt numb in spite of it.

Her father had treated her harshly before, but never had he done anything like this. Though the threat had been present, like a ghost lingering in the air, he had never actually laid a hand on her before today.

But now, apparently, she had crossed a line. Her actions had cost him the one thing he loved more than anything else—money.

It could not have been helped, she was certain. No matter
how many times she recounted the events in her head, she simply could not see how she could have acted differently.

But her father would never see it that way.

She drew a sharp breath, preparing to push through the pain and rise, when a hand touched her elbow.

Camille recoiled at the touch.

“Let me help you.”

A fresh wave of humiliation swept through her. Not only had Mr. Gilchrist been privy to last night’s events. He now bore witness to something much more personal.

Mortification sank dull teeth into her, dissolving her will to stand and face him. But he had already seen the full extent of her shame. She bit her lip to prevent any emotion from writing itself on her face and pulled her arm away. “You have done enough.”