The Curiosity Keeper (15 page)

“I am not certain I follow you.” Camille fussed with the tassels on her cape.

Miss Gilchrist shook her blond head, her bouncy curls twisting to and fro. “Come now. People will ask how you are acquainted with our family. Surely you are not going to share all the details of our . . . connection, are you? We want you to be embraced, and your story could cause some to, well, misconstrue your situation.”

Camille’s face began to burn as Miss Gilchrist’s true meaning became clear. Until she met this family, she had never been ashamed of who she was or where she came from. True, her home was not nearly as elegant as the Gilchrists’. Her clothing was not as fashionable or expensive. But she was the granddaughter of a gentleman. She knew proper manners. Why did Miss Gilchrist, with her perfect complexion and elegant posture and thinly veiled insults, make her feel like such a ragamuffin?

“Let’s just tell them you are a friend of mine from London.” A forced smile lit Miss Gilchrist’s face. “It is indeed fortunate that your speech sounds like that of a lady, not like most people from your part of London. But there is a lilt to your diction, Miss Iverness. I can’t quite place my finger on it. Where is it you are from? Surely not from London.”

Camille bristled. Her refined manner of speaking had been an asset in the shop as she worked with wealthy patrons, but a liability when she tried to make friends with those around her. “I was born on my grandfather’s estate in Somerset. I lived there until he died. Then I moved with my parents to London.”

At the mention of an estate, Miss Gilchrist’s eyes sparkled. “There, then, that’s the truth, isn’t it? You are a lady, a friend from London, and we can just omit the bit about the robbery and your father’s shop. I think that is best, do you not agree?”

Camille received the message behind the innocent expression, the hopeful tone. Practically speaking, Miss Gilchrist’s advice was probably sound, though not given with true kindness.

But did Camille want to start out her new life on a bed of lies?

She looked from Miss Gilchrist’s guileless face to the stern visage of the lady maid’s. Then, with a sigh, she peered out the window at the passing countryside—the countryside she had never thought she would see again.

She was indebted to this family, and she knew it. “Very well. I shall keep that information to myself if you wish.”

“I think it is for the best. You know how the servants can talk. Of course, Meeks here can be trusted completely. I only suggest this for your sake.”

Camille swallowed. Tears pricked her eyes. She did not know why Miss Gilchrist’s suggestion should affect her so. She was certainly no stranger to unkind speech, even outright abuse. Perhaps she could blame her feelings on the extreme events of the past day. But she had so rarely been exposed to the world outside her father’s shop. At the moment, that world seemed like an unbearably harsh and judgmental place.

She could not help but wonder if Mr. Gilchrist shared his sister’s sentiment.

Camille looked out the window, hoping to catch another glimpse of Mr. Gilchrist, but she saw only rain-shrouded woods. She had formed a quick opinion of the man—something she rarely did. A lifetime of broken promises and subtle deception had made her hesitant, but he had been so kind from the beginning—seemingly so genuine.

Perhaps he was. But Camille knew too well that nothing comes free. Nothing was without a price.

She straightened her posture, refusing to give in to melancholy. Now, more than ever, she needed to be away from London. If her father was willing to risk her safety for whatever deal he was working, then any situation would be preferable to living with him—even if it meant remaining under the scrutinizing eye of the Gilchrist family.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before the carriage slowed and then turned. Dusk was falling, but through the dimness she caught a glimpse of a massive brick structure looming against the darkening sky. The horses pulled to a stop, and the sudden silence, the absence of movement left Camille feeling strangely numb.

Then Mr. Gilchrist opened the carriage door.

And the next thing Camille noticed was the air.

It was smooth and clean, and her lungs responded as the freshness swirled into the carriage. Aromas of earth and trees rode the slight breeze, inviting her to explore.

Each breath filled her deeper than the last, thrusting energy into every limb, reviving her spirit.

This was a place she had never been. Yet the clean air, the majestic trees, the spacious vistas felt familiar and reminiscent of a happier time.

Deep inside, she knew she was closer to finding home.

Chapter Seventeen

T
he ride from London had not been a particularly long or difficult one, though rain had plagued most of their journey.

Jonathan didn’t mind. He was just grateful not to be in the carriage. He would much rather battle the elements than spend hours in an enclosed space with the women.

He had been pleased, albeit surprised, when Miss Iverness asked to accompany them, though his sister’s antagonism had tempered his enthusiasm. He suspected Miss Iverness was more than a match for his strong-willed sister, and he could not help but wonder what the conversation in the carriage was like. But the day’s developments had happened so quickly and with such intensity that he needed the solitude of the ride to sort them out.

He’d ridden ahead of the carriage to give the staff advance notice that they were arriving early and that there was to be a guest. The overcast sky was just beginning to dim as he turned into the long drive that led to Kettering Hall.

The place really was impressive. A hipped roof capped its three stories, with shuttered dormer windows symmetrically spaced along the roofline. Trees and shrubbery flanked the structure, and a brick wall enclosing one of the many rose gardens met up against the side of the building.

One day, if all continued as planned, he would be master—a title he had never expected and a responsibility he did not relish.

In the meantime, he had to answer to his father.

That reality did not settle well at all.

He did not look forward to informing Ian Gilchrist of what had happened in London. The man did not accept failure. And not bringing the Bevoy home, in his eyes, would be failure.

The house was relatively dark as he approached. Clearly, they were not expected. His horse’s hooves thudded against the muddy drive.

He pulled to a stop in front of the hall. A footman appeared and steadied his horse. “Welcome back, Mr. Gilchrist.”

Jonathan dismounted, tossed the reins to the footman, and strode toward the door.

At his arrival, the house, already wrapped in the sleepy silence, began to revive. Candles appeared in windows. A torch was brought out to light the entryway. And his father, already dressed to retire in a robe of red and green brocade, hobbled down the main steps, leaning heavily on his cane.

“You’re home earlier than I expected.” His father’s welcome was more of a growl.

Jonathan stepped up to meet the old man. “Yes.”

“Well?” he barked. “Did you get it?”

Jonathan shook his head, looked down, and pulled the glove from his hand finger by finger. “No.”

His father scowled, his jaw trembling. “Why not?”

“It could not be helped.”

“I told you not to come back without it.”

“We cannot stay in London forever, Father. Besides, Darbin is still working on it. Ah, here’s the carriage.”

The coach and four rumbled up the drive and pulled to a stop. Jonathan, grateful for the diversion, walked over to help the women step down.

First, his sister. Judging by the tightness of her expression, he guessed the conversation on the way had not gone well.

Penelope raced to their father, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his withered cheek before scurrying inside. Meeks followed close behind, already calling out orders, their guest apparently forgotten.

He then turned to Miss Iverness. He half wondered if she would allow him to help her from the carriage, so stubborn and independent she was. But she cast him a grateful look and laid her slender hand in his.

“How was your journey, Miss Iverness?” he asked.

But before she could respond, before she even had both feet on the ground, his father barked, “Who in blazes is that?”

Jonathan felt the muscles in Miss Iverness’s hand tighten as she whirled around in surprise at the sudden shout.

Jonathan nodded toward her. “Father, allow me to present Miss Camille Iverness.”

The older man flinched. He narrowed his eyes on her again, looking at her more closely. “Iverness?”

“Yes, sir. Let’s go inside for introductions. I fear the rain will return.”

Jonathan led the way through the door. Warmth immediately rushed them, a welcome relief from the damp, cool evening. The marble-floored entryway opened to a grand hall marked by dark paneled walls and heavy molding at the ceiling and corners. A wide fireplace graced the opposite wall, encircled by a
wine-colored sofa and two high-backed chairs. Paintings much taller than Jonathan lined the dark walls.

The hall never changed. It looked exactly the same as it had ever since he was a boy, but tonight, somehow, it felt different.

Perhaps it was he who was different, not the hall.

Jonathan handed his wet cloak to Abbott and assisted Miss Iverness with her cloak before completing his introductions. “Miss Iverness, may I present my father, Mr. Gilchrist.”

She curtsied as elegantly, he noted, as any gentlewoman he’d met. He was struck by how graceful her movements were—so unexpected for a woman from Blinkett Street.

The older Mr. Gilchrist did not bow in response. He did not even nod. He only leaned heavily on his cane and fixed his steely gaze on her, his words more an observation than a greeting. “James Iverness’s daughter.”

Camille straightened and jutted her chin out in a gesture that was rapidly becoming familiar to Jonathan. “Yes, sir. I am.”

The old man approached her, making no attempt to hide his assessment. He lifted a monocle to his eye and examined her from the top of her head to her boots. “What is wrong with your arm?”

She shifted, but she did not respond quickly enough.

“I asked you a question, girl!” he thundered, causing her to jump. “What happened to your arm?”

“It is a knife wound, sir.”

“Knife. Hmph.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jonathan stepped forward. “Miss Iverness will be staying at Kettering Hall for the night.”

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.