Текст книги "The Vanishing Thief"

Автор книги: Kate Parker

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I pointed at a dark stain on the floorboards. “What if the disorder was caused by his abductors?”

She shook her head. “It couldn’t have been. Mr. Drake must be all right.”

I tried another line of inquiry. “When did Mr. Drake tell you he was traveling to Brighton?”

“The same morning Miss Carter came over in a state, saying Mr. Drake had been abducted. She had a nightmare, silly woman.”

If she saw him that morning, the blood in the hall wasn’t Drake’s, and Edith Carter had lied. I was furious at the dishonesty of my client, and my fury came out in my tone. “You saw him that morning?”

Mrs. Cummings shuffled back in surprise. “No. He left me a note. He often did when he’d be gone before I arrived.”

“Only Mr. Drake was in the house that night?”

“Any night.”

“Are you the only one who looks after Mr. Drake?”

“Any help I need, he’s given me permission to hire from the neighborhood.” She put her hands on her hips and gave a sharp nod.

“If Mr. Drake were in any danger, is there any family or friends that he would go to?”

“He’s alone in the world as far as family goes. He has two friends, Mr. Harry and Mr. Tom, he’s worked with on occasion.”

“What are their last names?”

“Mr. Drake only used their Christian names. I’ve never heard last names.”

“What line of work are they in?”

“I don’t rightly know. From what I overheard, they did some of this and that.”

They didn’t sound like a law-abiding trio. “There was no sign of a disturbance at any of the outside doors?”

“Not that I saw.”

I put sympathy in my voice. “He must have fallen on hard times if he lives here and dines with lords.”

“It’s only right he eat with lords, since he’s descended from French royalty.” The housekeeper nodded to herself at the rightness of it. “Then, when he returned home, he had a message from a sick friend and off he went to Brighton.”

“Please tell me this friend’s name and address.”

“He told me the name of his friend and he told me Brighton. More than that I didn’t need to know. And I don’t see where it’s any business of yours.”

“There’s blood in the front hall, the house was left a mess, and no one’s heard from Mr. Drake in days. Someone needs to make sure Mr. Drake is in good health.”

The puzzled look on her face told me she now doubted Drake had left under his own steam. I pressed my advantage. “What is his friend’s name?”

“All right. Just don’t tell her next door. He went to visit Mr. Dombey.”

“Paul Dombey?”

“Yes. You know him?” The housekeeper looked relieved.

“Oh, yes.” Dickens was popular with my customers. In Dombey and Son, Paul Dombey, the son, goes to Brighton. Was Drake forced to lie to his housekeeper? Or had he written that note before his intruders arrived?

*

“THE DUKE HAS no wish to discuss Nicholas Drake again.” The gray-haired man, presumably the butler, spoke in a hush that didn’t echo in the marble-tiled front hall.

I restrained my desire to stare at the ornately carved balustrade, the delicately painted ceiling with its pastoral settings, and the exquisite oil paintings. The duke wasn’t short of a pound if the entrance hall was anything to go by.

“I only need two minutes of his time and then I won’t bother him again.” I tried to fill my words with quiet authority, since my appearance wouldn’t garner respect. Wind had forced rain under my umbrella while I’d walked from the omnibus stop. Then, as the rain continued to pour down, I’d spent time arguing that my business was with the duke and I would not use the tradesmen’s entrance. Thank goodness there was no mirror in the hall. I must have looked like a drowned pup.

“He doesn’t wish to be bothered at this time.”

I’d seen the door the butler had left and returned by. One quick dodge around the older man and I’d be through that doorway. “That is most unfortunate.”

I turned as if leaving, and when the butler moved around me to help me on with the cloak I’d previously shed, I dashed down the hall.

Skidding on the polished floor in my wet shoes, I grabbed for the door handle. I threw open the door and entered a warm, paneled study filled with enough books and maps to make me feel at home. My shoes squished as I hurried across the thick Oriental carpet.

“Your Grace,” the butler said from behind me.

The Duke of Blackford remained seated at his massive desk studying the papers in his hand. “I’ll handle it, Stevens.” His voice was a weary growl. I could imagine this man, wide shouldered, craggy faced, immaculately tailored, throwing the unimposing Edith Carter out of his house. He hadn’t risen or even looked up when I entered the room. Philistine.

And then he set his papers on the pristine desktop and stared at me with eyes that challenged my right to breathe the air in his study.

I could play my role better than he could. I curtsied. The door clicked softly behind me as the butler left, followed by an icy raindrop skittering down my cheek. I didn’t like being left alone with this man. For once I wasn’t worried about my reputation; I was worried for my life. His dark eyes bore into me, proclaiming he ate more important people for breakfast. And there was the small matter of the blood on Drake’s floor.

“Well?” he demanded in a deep voice. “Why are you here?”

“Your carriage was seen at the site of an abduction.” My voice didn’t tremble, but my knees did.

“Whose abduction?”

“Mr. Nicholas Drake.”

A cruel smile slashed across his sharp-angled face. “Another of his lovers? The middle class grows more interesting.”

Heat rose on my cheeks. “I’ve never met the man.”

“Then why do you care?”

“Friendship.”

“For that drab little mouse Miss . . . ?” He made a graceful, sweeping motion with the long, tapered fingers of one hand. Then his gaze returned to the papers on his desk.

If he thought he could convince me to leave by ignoring me, he was most certainly wrong. I stalked toward the smooth mahogany desk and glared at the seated man. “Her name is Miss Carter. Are you familiar with friendship, Your Grace?”

He rose and looked down on me. I’m of insignificant stature, and he had the advantage of height as well as the bearing of a duke. His black hair was ruthlessly slicked back and his dark-eyed gaze burned inside me. “You’re dripping on my desk, Miss”—he glanced at the card I’d sent in with the butler—“Fenchurch.”

I hopped back a step and gazed down. Two drops shimmered on the polished wood. I wished I’d sent in one of my cards with a false name. This man knew how to intimidate his inferiors without even mentioning his title. I decided not to ask about the death of his fiancée. I’d already made the mistake of letting him know my true identity.

He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped off the rain, then looked from the cloth to me as if he didn’t know how to proceed with propriety. He held out the large white square. “You might want to pat yourself off. You appear to have spent too long outdoors.”

For an instant, I saw concern in his eyes, but was it for me or his desk? Then all expression vanished. I took the handkerchief and wiped my face and hat brim. “You haven’t answered my question.”

His voice was dry with annoyance when he said, “I am familiar with friendship.”

“Then you understand why I’ve taken on this commission for her.” I handed back the handkerchief.

“No.” He tossed the cloth on the floor as he came out from behind his desk. “And if you’re going to continue this ridiculous debate, you need to stand close to the fire. Otherwise, you’ll soak my carpet.”

The infuriating man was making this as difficult as possible. Debate, indeed. All he had to do was answer my questions. But the grip on my elbow was gentle as he led me close to the comforting blaze.

For a moment, I shut my eyes in bliss. The welcome warmth made my fingers and toes tingle with renewed sensation. When I opened my eyes, my gaze fell on a seventeenth-century terrestrial globe in pristine condition. “Oh, how beautiful,” slipped out before I thought.

Blackford strolled over to the sphere and ran one forefinger along the Atlantic. “It is magnificent, isn’t it? The third duke brought it back from Italy.”

I stared at the globe in wonder for a moment before I gave him a grateful smile and said, “Perhaps you’ll save both of us time by telling me where your coach was on the night of March fourteenth?”

“Which coach?”

He was a duke. He probably had more carriages than I had dresses. “A tall, ancient one, all black, pulled by black horses.”

“The Wellington coach. Why? Was that the night Drake disappeared?”

I shook out my damp skirts before the fire, reveling in the heat. Perhaps that was what made me less cautious. “Yes. If your coach was otherwise engaged, then it couldn’t have been involved, and I needn’t bother you any longer.”

The duke returned to his desk and opened a slender volume. As he flipped through the pages, a curly lock of black hair slid over his stiff white collar. I was certain he’d have the errant strand chopped off for unruliness. “Last Thursday, I attended the theater and then had a late supper at the home of the Duke of Merville, where my carriage waited for me. My coachman was unaware of when I would next require him. We returned here at two o’clock on the fifteenth.”

“The theater let out about eleven?”

“Yes. The duke and duchess rode to the theater and back in my carriage.”

Eleven was the time Edith Carter saw Drake tossed into the duke’s carriage. “I will, of course, verify this with the Duke of Merville.”

A smile, a genuinely amused smile, crossed the duke’s face. “Merville will enjoy providing my carriage with an alibi.”

“Then the task will prove an easy one.”

The smile broadened. “He won’t see you. He’s less tolerant of young women breaking into his study than I am. You’ll have to take my word.”

“Why?”

His smile vanished. In its place, his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. Hadn’t anyone given this haughty man a taste of his own insufferable attitude before? “He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. Neither do I, but when you burst in I made a bet with myself that you were here on behalf of Miss Carter. She also entered unannounced, dramatically sobbing threats.”

“Who won the bet?”

Good heavens. The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement for an instant. “Despite your charming demeanor, Miss Fenchurch, I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for the use of my carriages. None of them have ever been used to abduct anyone.”

He was toying with me now. Bigger, meaner, uglier men had tried this same technique in the past. Of course, as a duke, he did it with more elegance. “I’m certain that’s true, Your Grace, but I wish to clarify this matter so there can be no doubt in anyone’s mind your coach is blameless.”

He studied my face in silence. I fought down the urge to fidget as I watched him watch me. All businessmen and aristocrats wore unrelieved black and white, but no man had ever looked so exquisite in the absence of color. Perhaps because his skin was unusually tanned for an Englishman. Electricity seemed to crackle in the air between us.

Then he stalked forward, looming over me. Was he planning to physically throw me out of his study?

“Why do you want to find Drake?”

“Because he’s missing, and no one deserves to vanish without someone trying to find him.” I stared back in part because he cut a mesmerizing figure, and in part because I wanted him to know I was serious about my search.

“You’re not looking for his stolen treasures?”

That surprised me. “What are you referring to, Your Grace?”

“That’s not important.”

“Did he steal something from you?”

“Not precisely, no.” He was pacing around the room now. No, I paced around my bookshop. This room was large enough for the duke to stride about the room.

“Who did he steal from?”

“My sister and my late fiancée.”

“I’d like to speak to your sister.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. She’s staying at the castle, and there’s no way for you to reach her.”

Of course I would try. For now, I tried to sound deferential. “Perhaps you could speak for her. What is Mr. Drake accused of stealing?”

“A necklace and earrings from my sister, and a bracelet from my late fiancée. The thefts took place over two years ago, and nothing has been recovered.”

“Was this reported to the police?”

“Of course.” His tone said he was nearly out of patience.

“And did they determine Mr. Drake was the thief?”

“No.”

I raised my eyebrows at that. “But you’re certain he’s responsible?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He strode to where I stood before his fire and stared down at me. Intimidatingly close. He stimulated my nerves in a way I’d never experienced before while being threatened. I swallowed, expecting him to bodily throw me out of his study. Or ravish me with kisses. He was a man who made the air sizzle with the threat of a long-ago highwayman. Instead, he said, “Because the cur admitted it to me a year later.”

“Did he return the jewelry?”

“He returned nothing.”

I gazed into his rough-hewn face. What I suspected, given his ducal seat on the North Sea coast, was his pirate-raider ancestry. Behind the fragrance of clean linen and sandalwood was a hint of gunpowder and male sweat. “And you didn’t pursue him in the courts?”

“It would have been his word against mine. My sister had no interest in reclaiming her property or having any more dealings with him, so I didn’t . . . do anything.” Behind the cold ducal expression, I saw passion flicker in his eyes.

But what passion? Hatred, anger, fear?

“How did you come to meet with him a year later?”

“He came up to me at a social event. He pulled me aside and he gloated.” The last word poured from his mouth like poison.

I glanced down and saw his hands were in fists. His rage against Drake made him a good candidate for the man’s abduction. But Drake lived in a very middle-class neighborhood. Under normal circumstances, these two men should never have met. “Why would Drake be at a social event with a duke?”

“He moves freely in society, befriending all the young people. He says his father was the younger son of a younger son, and his mother’s family was related to French royalty.”

“You didn’t share your knowledge of his thievery with society? As a warning, of course.”

“I should have.” His tone turned bitter. “I had no idea he’d continued with his crimes until the Duke of Merville mentioned after his daughter’s engagement party that certain items and Drake had left their lives.”

The Duke of Merville suddenly sounded less like an alibi for the Duke of Blackford’s coach and more like a fellow conspirator in a kidnapping. “When was this, Your Grace?”

“The party was over a week ago. Merville made the comment in our club a couple of days later.” He dismissed my question and his answer with a wave of his hand.

“Did the two of you determine a course of action in regard to Mr. Drake?”

“We asked some questions around our club. We found three more members who’d had similar experiences with Drake. He won’t be invited to any events this coming season, I can assure you.”

“You’re going to ostracize him? That’s all?” The man was accused of being a thief. Someone abducted him, and the Duke of Blackford’s answer to all of this was not to invite the man to the round of society parties and balls that would soon begin again? My middle-class sense of justice couldn’t begin to understand the duke’s idea of punishment. Once again I was thankful I wasn’t born to his class.

“It will make it more difficult for him to steal from us.” Any sign of his interest in our conversation gone, Blackford took my arm and led me toward the door. Firmly and quickly, but without discourtesy.

I dug in my heels, more questions churning my mind. “Who were the others who’d had thefts? And why only you, the Duke of Merville, and those three?”

“Surely, Miss Fenchurch, you don’t think I’m going to give you reason to burst into any more homes.” His tone said he thought I was exasperating.

Despite my best efforts, we were nearly to the door of his study. “You don’t think the matter of an abduction is going to disappear, do you?”

“It is, from my home. I’ve said all I’m going to on the matter.” He pulled open the door and hustled me into the hall. The butler hurried toward us. “Good day. Stevens, see Miss Fenchurch out.”

The duke let go of my arm, swung around, and entered his study. The door shut behind him with a firm thud.

I went to the front door ahead of Stevens, who seemed determined not to let me best him again. He needn’t have worried. Blackford had given me enough to work on elsewhere. Had that been his plan?

As the butler helped me on with my cloak and handed me my furled umbrella, I said casually, “I understand the duke has quite a collection of carriages he keeps in London.”

His eyes traveled toward the back of the house. “No, miss. Just the Wellington one and the ordinary coach.”

I nodded to him and stepped outside, unfurling my umbrella as I walked. He’d told me what I needed to know.

Two minutes’ walk in what was now a drizzle brought me to the mews in back of the duke’s residence, where a two-story stone barn and carriage house stood.

The carriage door, much taller than most along the mews, stood open, and I took a step inside. The shining carriage nearest the door was magnificent. Tall and old-fashioned, it was black from its massive wheels to the driver’s leather seat. The only spot of color was the crest painted in vivid colors on the door.

“’Ey, you can’t be in here.” A stocky man in rolled-up shirtsleeves, a rag in his hand, came around the side of the carriage.

“It’s beautiful. Are you the one who keeps it in such magnificent style?”

“Aye.”

“You are to be commended. It’s quite old, isn’t it?” I took another step inside, peering at the coach.

“Aye. The present duke’s great-grandfather was given ’er for service to Wellington in the war with Napoleon.”

“Do you get to ride on it?” I poured a helping of breathless wonder into my tone. At thirty, I was still young enough to bring out chivalrous instincts in most men. The dangerous duke was not most men. I hadn’t made up my mind on whether that was a good or bad thing.

“Aye. I’m His Grace’s driver. John Turner.” He nodded.

“Oh, you are? Fortunate man.” I nodded back. “I’m Georgia Peabody. I’m visiting down the road and they told me about this carriage. I had to come and take a look at something so beautiful.” Georgia Peabody made appearances all over London when Georgia Fenchurch didn’t want to call attention to herself or the Archivist Society.

“’Tis that, all right.”

“I’m sorry, I must be keeping you from your work. But could you open the door for me so I can take a peek inside?”

“I guess it won’t hurt. There, stand on the blocks so you can see in better. But don’t touch nothin’.”

Mounting blocks inside the coach house would have made it easy for me to climb inside if I’d wanted. “Thank you.” I gave him my hand and he helped me up a step before opening the door. I didn’t touch, because I could scour the inside with my eyes. Nothing seemed amiss.

“This must be difficult to drive in rain or fog.”

“No more so than any other carriage. You got to know your team.”

“And I imagine you’re a man who knows his team well, Mr. Turner.”

“Aye.”

“I have a confession to make. I saw this coach out last Thursday night. I thought it the most magnificent sight I’ve ever seen. Where were you going?” I put a sigh into my voice that wasn’t faked. I had a chance to learn something about the abduction carriage.

He frowned before saying, “Last Thursday? His Grace went to the theater and then to a late supper.”

“He must have kept you up late, sitting around in the dark and the weather. How unfortunate.”

“Not this time. The footman he took with us is the brother of a housemaid at Merville’s. She worked it so we was invited in to a late supper while their lordships were upstairs dining.”

“Leaving this beautiful coach and those magnificent animals in the rain? You must have had your work cut out for you cleaning them later.”

He grinned. “Merville’s coachman and I are friendly. We have a deal. When one of us is coming over, the other makes room for the horses in the stables. Then, working together, we unhitch, take care of the beasts, and then have tea and a natter until it’s time to leave.”

“How clever of you.” I heard someone coming at the same time Turner jerked his head toward the house. He helped me down and shut the carriage door.

“Turner,” a man’s voice called, “His Grace wants you in front of the house in ten minutes.”

“Aye. I’ll be there.”

When he glanced back at me, I mouthed, Thank you, and hurried out of the coach house.

The Duke of Blackford’s coach appeared not to be involved. Why had Miss Carter lied? But while the coach was cleared of any involvement, the duke could still be Drake’s kidnapper.

Chapter Three

PHYLLIDA, formally Lady Phyllida Monthalf, had bowls of mutton stew and crispy bread on the table as soon as Emma and I reached our flat near the bookshop. The smells of roast and gravy and warm rolls reminded me how I’d not had time for even a cup of tea all day. I rushed through our prayers as my stomach growled in hope.

I’d told Emma all I’d learned that day and, while I dug in, she repeated everything to Phyllida. As Emma talked about the blood on the floor, I watched as terror flashed through Phyllida’s eyes.

Ten years earlier, I’d seen that same terror when I first met her, at her brother’s London town house. After a week of trying to interest Scotland Yard, a street lad named Jacob had learned from a policeman of the existence of the Archivist Society. He’d begged us to investigate the disappearance of an East End prostitute named Annie at an address in an upper-crust neighborhood belonging to Earl Monthalf. Our own inquiries convinced us that something was amiss and we decided to gain entrance to Earl Monthalf’s home to search for the woman.

We’d discovered that our suspect and his sister lived there, but no one had seen his sister in a decade. Earl Monthalf came and went by the front door, but he allowed no one into his fortresslike house. The front door was locked and bolted. Ornate grilles covered all the windows, making entrance that way impossible. The easiest access was by the kitchen door, and by watching, we discovered Earl Monthalf opened it at ten in the morning for the daily deliveries.

Adam Fogarty, invalided out of the police force, took over for one of the regular deliverymen and I followed, planning to slip in while Fogarty kept Earl Monthalf busy. My job was to search for any sign of the missing woman and rescue her if possible. Jacob was outside to call the police if we were successful. We didn’t think anything could go wrong.

When I slipped in the kitchen door, I encountered a cowering wretch, who stared at me, backing away until she bumped into the sink. Her frock was stained, sweat slid down her cheek, and I could see fading bruises on her face and arms. “Go away,” she said. “It’s not safe here.”

Fogarty, Jacob, and I had wondered why we’d seen nothing of a domestic staff come and go from this house. “Who are you?”

“Lady Phyllida Monthalf.”

She looked pitiful, and I immediately felt sorry for her. Seeing a lady, the daughter and sister of lords, in such a bedraggled state in this basement kitchen made me wonder what had caused her downfall. “You don’t need to fear me. I can help.” I moved forward and squeezed her hand.

She looked toward the next room, where we could hear Fogarty and Earl Monthalf’s voices. She trembled as she pushed me toward the door. “You can’t help. There’s no escape. Hasn’t been for years.”

“Lady Phyllida, was there a woman here named Annie? Where has she gone?”

“She’s still alive, poor soul. Chained to a bed on the first floor, but still alive when I took her breakfast this morning.”

If this beaten, dirty drudge called Annie a poor soul, what would I find upstairs? “Has this happened before?”

“Dozens of times. Dozens of them. It’s terrible.” Her blue eyes flashed defiance for an instant, and I recognized an ally in this investigation.

I heard the men raise their voices in argument and knew I didn’t have much time. “Thank you.” Hurrying over to the back staircase, I climbed it as silently as I could.

Up two flights of stairs, I began to open doors. The first bedroom, opulently decorated for a man, was empty. The second, resembling a tidy jail cell, also was empty. The third contained an iron bedstead with soiled linens and a scrawny, filthy victim with big, staring eyes.

She was chained to the bed in such a way that her attempts to free herself had failed, leaving her with bloody fingers. By moving to the other side of the bed, I was able to unchain her quickly.

“Can you walk?” I asked.

She nodded and struggled to her feet. Leaning on me, we moved slowly and noisily down the two flights of stairs. She was surprisingly heavy and we banged into walls as I awkwardly hurried her along. I knew there was no way Earl Monthalf hadn’t heard us. I kept looking behind and in front of us, but no one gave chase or blocked our way.

When we reached the basement floor, Monthalf stood between us and the door, a knife in his hand. There was no sign of Fogarty.

He walked toward us, smiling. “Two of you to have fun with. Where shall I start?”

Mesmerized by the blade, I didn’t see Phyllida until her brother tumbled unconscious to the floor. She stood staring at us, a cast-iron skillet clenched in both thin hands. Then I ran for the outside door, screaming for help and jostling Annie as I half dragged her along.

The police quickly arrived and medical aid was summoned for Annie and Fogarty, who’d been attacked by Monthalf. Fogarty was furious that his limp had given away his weakness. Monthalf had knocked his injured leg out from under him and then beat Fogarty senseless, leaving Monthalf free to attack us in the kitchen.

Monthalf awoke in chains and was taken to Newgate to await trial. I brought Phyllida home with me when the police began to tear apart the house to find the remains of other missing prostitutes. What started as a temporary refuge a decade before had quickly become her home.

“Will you two be safe?” was Phyllida’s only comment once she’d smoothed her narrow-boned features into mild interest.

“Yes, Aunt,” Emma said, using the honorary title we both employed.

“I doubt we’ll be in any danger but I don’t know what we have: an abduction, a runaway, or a simple misunderstanding,” I told her.

Phyllida gave me a hard look, but she said, “You’ll figure it out. In the meantime, I should plan meals that will fit in with your odd schedules. You are taking on the investigation?”

“I think so.”

“Then your schedules will be disrupted.” She took another bite of her stew. Despite being better fed living with me, she’d never lost her gaunt look.

I smiled. “You always manage to keep the household running no matter how much disorder Emma and I cause.”

“I don’t do that much,” Phyllida said. As much as I was in her debt for the help she’d given me over the years, she still felt as if she wasn’t earning her place. Her brother had left scars on her soul that Emma and I would never be able to erase.

“You save me dealing with the laundress and the grocer and the char. I can’t run the bookshop and take care of our home, too.”

Emma said around a mouthful of stew, “This is wonderful. You are the best cook in the world.”

Phyllida dipped her head, but I saw the blush of pride on her cheeks.

After dinner, Emma and I hurried downstairs and out the door onto the street. In the shelter of the narrow porch, I put the hood of my gabardine cloak over my hat and turned in the opposite direction from the bookshop, wishing there was something equally rain repellent for the hem of my skirt.

Fortunately, the rain held off for most of our walk, and we were out at a time when we didn’t have to wait as long to dash across the streets between carriages. What light there was, from street lamps, shop windows, and carriage lamps, made the wet, shiny pavement look smooth as silk.

When we finally reached Sir Broderick’s looming six-story house, I hesitated, staring at the glistening raindrops starting to hit the pavement at my feet. “I don’t want to listen to a roomful of critics tonight. I have no idea how to find Nicholas Drake. I don’t even know if he’s a victim or a villain.”

Emma gave me a sharp look. “What’s really bothering you?”

I looked up and down the road lined with elegant brick town houses. Lights shone behind draperies in many of the windows, looking welcoming on this dreary night. But how many of them hid secrets as dangerous as Nicholas Drake kept? And did one of them hide my parents’ killer? “I saw a man today—oh, never mind.” I couldn’t tell her who I’d seen.

Emma took my arm and dragged me forward onto the steps. “You’ll figure it out. And we’ll help you.” As she reached out and rang the buzzer, the hood of her cloak fell back. Her golden hair sparkled in the light of the lantern above the door. Emma was born beautiful and lucky. She kept telling me beauty was a curse, but I thought it was better than being called “agreeable.”

Jacob, the street lad who was now a young man and Sir Broderick’s assistant, immediately cracked the door open, saw us, and swung it wide. Emma rushed in, rubbing her hands together. “It’s bitter out. Be glad you don’t have anywhere to go.”

I walked in and gave a sigh. Everything I’d heard that day was a contradiction of something I’d learned from someone else, and I was certain to hear complaints about my investigation tonight. And at some point I’d have to tell Sir Broderick who I’d found.

Jacob gestured with a tilt of his head toward the brightly lit stairs for us to go up. Then he held out his arms for our cloaks.

I took off my damp cape, hat, and gloves, rejoicing in the warmth of Sir Broderick’s home. The head of the Archivist Society insisted on keeping his house overly hot, but after my walk through the blustery night, I was grateful for the heat soaking my clothes and sinking into my bones. Following Emma up the staircase that wound around the iron lift, I found the double doors to the study open.