Night Storm (10 page)

“I can’t abandon my friends.”

His comment tore at her resolve. Felix had never been one to make friends his own age easily. He tended to view the world a little differently from other boys his age and station, seeing beauty and possibility where most only saw darkness and despair. At the theater, he’d found like-minded young men and a wholehearted happiness that had always eluded him. Until today.

She had wanted him to enjoy this period in his life before the burdens of adulthood bore down on him. Now, he would have to start over. Make new friends, find his place. The knowledge gripped her throat with razor-sharp talons and squeezed.

“I’m sorry, Felix. Perhaps in a few weeks you may return and resume your interests there.”

“A few weeks? They’ll all forget me by then.”

“Maybe they’re not the friends you thought they were if they can forget you in so short a time.”

He jerked away from her touch. “You know nothing of them.”

“Felix!” Piper admonished.

“My aim is not to hurt you, Felix. I would never do so intentionally.” Charlotte hesitated, debating how much she should share with a sixteen-year-old.

Despite his youthful age and passionate nature, Felix was a smart young man. Though he might bluster a bit when he was not in agreement with something, he always came around once he had all the facts. Better to give him the information and pray he’d see the truth through the pain of his sacrifice.

“Let us continue, shall we?” She set a brisk pace, anxious to put as much distance between them and the theater as possible. To Felix, she said, “How well do you know Mr. Riordan?”

Felix chewed on the inside of his cheek before answering. “Only a little.”

“Do you consider him a fair man?”

“He can be somewhat harsh, but I’ve never known him to be unfair.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

He shrugged. “He’s always there.”

“That’s it?” Piper asked incredulously.

“What more do you want?”

“How do the actors regard him?” Charlotte asked.

“With a great deal of respect.” His gaze narrowed, first on Charlotte, then on Piper. “Why all the questions about Mr. Riordan?”

“I’m simply trying to understand him better,” Charlotte said. “Something about our exchange regarding Lady Winthrop’s murder investigation has left me feeling uneasy. I’d like to know why.”

“You can’t think Mr. Riordan had anything to do with stabbing her ladyship.”

Charlotte mulled the idea over in her mind. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t conjure up an image of the manager engaged in such a heinous act. Yet, she could not let go of the notion that if she had pressed the matter and waited for Bow Street, Riordan would have drawn Felix into the investigation.

“No,” she said.

Tension whooshed from the young man’s body like a swollen stream bursting free of its earthen dam. “That’s good,” he said faintly, as if the air had been driven from his lungs. “That’s good.”

Piper caught her eye, but said nothing. They walked in silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts, until they came upon a familiar intersection. To the east, lay her shop. Turning west led to Piper and Felix’s home.

“What if I’m offered the part?” he asked.

Charlotte paused, hating her next words before they even emerged. “I know this is hard, but with your talent, there will be other opportunities.” She watched his features harden; mutinous silence followed. “You know me, Felix. You know I wouldn’t ask such a difficult thing of you unless it was important.”

His gaze flicked to hers before returning to the opposite side of the street. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No. No, it doesn’t.” She studied his profile a moment longer, wishing for once that she could ignore her instincts and simply see where things led. But she couldn’t. Not after having survived off them for so long. “I will see you both tomorrow.”

“Good day, Mrs. Fielding.” Piper hesitated, glancing down at Charlotte’s hand. “You’ll be all right walking home by yourself?”

Charlotte’s eyebrows knit together when her fingers tightened around the length of material. A wave of shock and confusion stole over her. Had she really taken something from a crime scene?

She didn’t recall making a conscious decision to keep the item’s presence from the theater manager. From the moment Riordan had barged into the passageway, her instincts to protect Felix and Piper had taken over. Until this moment, she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding anything.

Felix whipped around to stare at Charlotte, concern washing away his anger. “Why wouldn’t you be all right?”

“Your sister is just being cautious. I’ll be fine,” Charlotte said in a firm voice, gripping the stolen article even tighter. “Please go straight home.”

“Come on,” Piper said to her brother. “You’ve caused Mrs. Fielding enough worry for one day.”

“I’ve done nothing but trip over a dead body…”

Piper spun her brother around and shoved him in the opposite direction, chastising him in low tones for his indiscreet comment.

Turning toward home, Charlotte’s mind raced like an out-of-control thoroughbred. Her thoughts had no order, no direction. They simply flew around in awkward, choppy circles, searching for something to clamp on to.

She had no idea of how to get herself out of this mess. Should she go back to the theater and nonchalantly drop the evidence near the body? Could she somehow convince Riordan and the Bow Street Runner, who was no doubt hovering over Lady Winthrop’s corpse even now, that she had accidentally taken the piece? Perhaps it attached itself to the bottom of her shoe and she only just noticed it?

Pushing back the bile, she pressed the side of her fist against her mouth. She inhaled carefully, regulating her breaths, one by one, until her world righted again.

Her sleep-deprived brain could make no sense of her options. She hadn’t slept well since Cameron’s unexpected visit four nights ago. Despite her desire to do otherwise, her mind continually rocked back to their conversation, to his injuries, to the warmth of his skin.

Upon entering her shop, she left the closed sign on the door, having no desire to face customers at the moment. Even though her limbs felt weighted, she knew slumber would evade her if she laid down for a nap. Instead, she arranged the length of material onto the counter.

The first thing she noticed was the color. Red. A vibrant hue found in ladies’ cloaks all across England, but most especially in the country. She thought back to Lady Winthrop’s attire and could not recall her wearing a stitch of red.

Going in opposite directions, her hands smoothed down its length, noting the quality of the woolen material. Not so fine as to be worn by the aristocracy, but not as coarse as the lower class would wear. Upon further study, she decided what lay on her countertop was a cloak ribbon, or a tie. Many cloaks nowadays were fastened at the throat with buttons or hooks and eyes. But some continued to be held together by good old-fashioned strips of cloth.

If it was not Lady Winthrop’s, to whom did the tie belong? Had the baroness struggled in her assailant’s arms and ripped the tie off during her struggle?

Oh dear God. If that was the case, her inadvertent theft was so much more serious.

She would consider her situation for the remainder of the day. The last thing she wanted to do was make a rash decision that could land her several nights in gaol.

The other possibility, and probably the most likely one, was that the tie had been lying in the passageway before the baroness’s murder. Either way, she would not learn the answer by staring at the thing.

Scooping the cloth off the counter, she strode into her office and stowed the evidence away in a drawer. Needing to cleanse her mind of this issue for a few hours, she began reviewing her outstanding orders—a routine activity she’d done twice a day, every day, for months now. Yet, when she got to Mr. Nichols’s laudanum order, her mind veered off into a different territory of danger.
Cameron.

The apothecary in her couldn’t help but wonder how Cameron’s wounds were healing. If he were any other patient, she would have checked in on him by now. Injuries such as his could easily turn for the worst if not properly cared for.

But the brokenhearted young woman in her waved off such concerns, knowing Cameron had taken care of himself quite well these many years, without her help. Setting the laudanum bottle down, she released a slow, ragged breath, praying she would survive Cameron one more time.

Chapter Five

“Mr. Adair?” Trig poked his head into the study. “Mr. Vaughn’s here.”

Adair closed his second volume of
New Travels Into the Interior Parts of Africa
by François Le Vaillant and peeled off his spectacles. During Adair’s recovery, his man of business, Neville Vaughn, had dropped by each day to update him on their two outstanding cases. Adair wasn’t used to being idle for so many days in a row and found himself anticipating Vaughn’s visits.

“Show him in, Trig.” Smoothing his fingers over the leather-bound book, Adair wondered if there would ever be a time when he could do something as adventurous as travel to the land of long-tongued giraffes; lumbering elephants; and brightly dressed, dark-skinned people dancing barefoot around a fire. The image was surreal and pagan and so far out of his reach. Perhaps it would be best if he started over again someplace closer, but just as wild and dangerous—like Scotland.

Vaughn stepped into the sitting room, nodding in Adair’s direction. “Mr. Adair, how are you feeling?”

A few inches shorter than Adair, Vaughn stood just shy of six feet. Wavy blond hair framed an angular face many would consider handsome but not striking. Not like his eyes. Some called them demon eyes because of how the dark rings blended with the black centers, piercing, disturbing.

Adair had found himself caught in the web of those fathomless black orbs more than once. Each time he was left with the sense that Vaughn had cleaved his way through the layers Adair had erected to protect his deepest thoughts. A ridiculous notion, one he refused to acknowledge by word or action. Thankfully, Vaughn was aware of the effect his dark, intense gaze had on people, and he usually avoided extended eye contact.

“I’ll be chasing thieves down alleyways in no time,” Adair said.

“Good to know.” Vaughn held out a sealed missive. “A messenger delivered this to the office. Said it was urgent.”

When not incapacitated by stab and gunshot wounds, Adair spent a good deal of his time at his offices on Temple Lane. Conveniently located near the River Thames and Fleet Street, he had easy access to water and land transportation.

Setting his spectacles back on his nose, he read the bold scrawl of a man’s hand.

Mr. Adair,

An incident has occurred at my theater for which I find myself in need of your services. If convenient, I would like to discuss the matter within the hour. Please forgive the nature of my request. I don’t doubt you’ll understand once you arrive.

Yours sincerely,

Mr. Blake Riordan, Manager

Augusta Theatre, Covent Garden

Adair searched his mind for what he knew about the theater and Blake Riordan, in particular. His cache of knowledge was dismal, for he came up with only a vague reference to the theater flourishing under Riordan’s management. “This should be interesting.”

“Is everything all right, sir?” Vaughn asked.

Removing his spectacles again, Adair cast his spectacles and the missive aside. “I think there’s been a theft at the Augusta Theatre. Are you familiar with Blake Riordan?”

“Rumor only.”

In addition to Vaughn’s uncanny ability to recall the smallest of details, he had only to give one flick of his disturbing eyes to either send people scrambling away or provoke them into babbling their secrets.

“What’s being said about him?”

“Talented actor, highly intelligent, savvy businessman, overly protective.”

“Protective in what way?”

“In any way necessary to safeguard his investments.”

“Sounds like every other successful businessman in London.” Adair rose to his feet, careful about how much pressure he placed on his injured leg.

“Would you like company?”

“Thank you, no. I suspect I’ll have no trouble tracking down whatever prop, costume, or wig that’s gone missing.” He struggled to shrug on his coat. “Still no leads on my attackers?”

“Not yet.” Vaughn moved to assist him. “I’ve stationed spies on each of the men on the list of potential suspects. So far, they’ve reported nothing out of the ordinary. Are you sure you didn’t miss someone?” He fastened the coat closed.

“Thank you.” Adair glanced down at a copy of the list lying on the ottoman. Since discussing the lost manuscript with Lord Freeman, he’d made several discreet inquiries around the city to see which buyers might be interested in a stolen tome. One of the seven people on the list was either affiliated with the buyer or the thief. “No, I didn’t miss anyone.”

Jules’s cousin, the Good Reverend, hadn’t heard anything about the attack on Adair, but he might know which man on this list was capable of murder. Adair pocketed the sheet of paper, grasped the ridiculous walking stick Jules insisted he use, and limped toward the door. “Perhaps the attack was coincidental with my search for the manuscript. I am in the midst of three other cases. It might be time to widen our surveillance.”

“It’ll be done today.”

Adair held the door for Vaughn to exit first. Out in the corridor, he found Trig pacing. Vaughn nodded at the boy and continued on.

“Do you have a new case, sir?”

“It seems so.”

“Can I come with you?”

“You know my rule. I assess the level of danger before bringing you in to assist.”

The boy’s hopeful expression fell.

Adair checked his timepiece. “In a half hour, Mrs. Balcourt’s maid will be making her weekly run to the market. Can I trust you to follow her?”

Trig started bouncing from foot to foot. “Yes, sir.”