Night Storm (17 page)

She dug out the first costume and decided to search the entire garment for any telltale signs that a piece had been torn off, just in case she had been wrong about the tie. Although it contained the requisite red and gold threading, she could see right away it wasn’t the one Felix wore for the audition. However, to be safe, she searched the woolen tunic and cloak, but found the item intact. Not wanting to give away her presence, she took the time to stuff the heavy garment back in place.

Excitement filled her veins when she held up the second costume for inspection. The exquisite gold filigree design on the cloak bespoke power and wealth. This must be the Marc Antony costume. Not taking any chances, she studied the entire costume more closely, matching detail for detail in her mind’s eye. By the time she finished, she had no doubt this was the costume Felix had been wearing the day before.

She fanned the cloak out, sifting through the thick folds with a careful eye. There was not a single rip, frayed edge, or blood splatter anywhere. A silent battle of relief and disappointment grappled inside her chest. Relief because her mind could now accept what her heart had known all along—Felix had had nothing to do with Lady Winthrop’s murder. But she also felt disappointment in herself for having taken an important item from a murder scene. An item the authorities could use to track down a murderer.

Dear God, what had she been thinking to do such an outrageous, utterly irresponsible thing? She dropped the tie back into her reticule for safekeeping. What she would do with it at this point, she had no idea. Something would come to her—it always did. But, right now, she had to place the costume back where she’d found it and go and find Piper.

Charlotte pressed her face against the tunic and sent up a silent prayer of forgiveness, an action she hadn’t bothered with in years. Not since the last time she’d begged God to knock some sense into Cameron’s prideful head. The Almighty hadn’t answered her then, or the thousand times before. So she’d quit praying. Quit hoping. Quit yearning.

“What is it you’re doing there, Charley?”

Surprised, she jerked her head up to find Cameron Adair striding toward her, a feral look in his eyes. Everything happened so fast. One moment she was asking the good Lord for forgiveness, and the next, she was backing away from Cameron’s determined approach.

He plucked the tunic from her loose grip, inspected it, then tossed it onto a nearby chair. “Are you a secret admirer?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your nose. Buried in a man’s shirt. Unrequited love?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Flames licked up the sides of her face. She picked up the tunic and stowed it away. “What are you doing here?”

“Following a lead.” His gaze charted a detailed path around the room, scrutinizing every item, big and small, before settling on her. “Your turn.”

“My business here is none of your concern.”

In a rough whisper, he said, “Would you feel the same if I told you Lady Winthrop’s murderer might be someone roaming these corridors?”

“You’ve hinted at as much before.” Charlotte shook her head. “But I simply don’t see that being the case. Lady Winthrop is a benefactress of this theater. Why would anyone with an interest in the Augusta jeopardize such a lucrative arrangement?”

“An arrangement that was sure to end soon, despite her ladyship’s untimely death.”

“What do you mean?”

“I paid the husband a visit today.” He rubbed at his shoulder. “Winthrop’s home showed signs of financial decline, and I strongly suspect Lady Winthrop’s support of the Augusta was coming to a close.”

“If you keep digging at your wound, you’re going to ruin my stitches,” Charlotte said, trying to deflect attention away from her presence in the costume room.

“The damned thing is uncomfortable.”

“As in itchy? Or painful?”

“Yes.”

“Which is it?”

He waved her off. “Talking about it forces me to think more about it, which makes the feeling worse.”

A dozen questions clamored to the tip of Charlotte’s tongue, yet she said nothing. Neither of them did for a very long, very uncomfortable five seconds. She counted. Each second. One by one.

“I have to go. Good luck with your search.” She made to leave, but he held his ground. The only way she could escape was either to go through him or make her way around to the other aisle. The latter option held little interest for her. She would not give him the upper hand again. “Cameron, this is getting old. Move aside.”

“You haven’t told me why you’re poking your nose in the Augusta’s costume room.” He peered at Felix’s outfit before turning his keen regard to her.

She felt his gaze probing, searching for a weak point he could exploit. For a reckless moment, she considered giving him the piece of evidence burning a hole in her reticule. But he would demand to know how it came into her possession, and she was not prepared to share secrets with Cameron. “Nor do I intend to.”

“Not a good answer, Charley.”

“Well, it’s the only one you’re going to get.” She glanced at the door, lifting her brows meaningfully.

He shifted his position enough—barely enough—to allow her to slip by. Before she could take a step, he said, “It’s not a good answer, Charley, because I’m left with the sense you’re conducting your own investigation into the baroness’s murder.”

She pressed her lips together, waiting.

“If that’s not the case, you should tell me now and save yourself the aggravation of my constant company.”

“‘Constant company’?”

“I can’t have you mucking up my case,” he said. “So, now I’m going to have to keep an eye on you, as well.”

Blood drained from her face, leaving her cold, slightly numb…and angry. “You’ll do no such thing. I have no further interest in Lady Winthrop’s death.”

“An interesting choice of words.” His attention went back to Felix’s costume. “What did you find here to make you lose interest?”

“Go to hell, Cameron. Or back to wherever it was you were hiding.”

His confident, speculative gaze shifted into something far less sure. Perhaps even vulnerable. His unexpected reaction made her want to snatch the hateful words back. She opened her mouth to say—what? She didn’t know…would never know. For in that moment, Piper stuck her head into the chamber.

“Mrs. Fielding,” Piper whispered loudly. “Are you ready? Peter’s growing suspicious.” She inched deeper into the room before she noticed Cameron. “Oh, my apologies. I did not see you there, Mr. Adair.” Ever the keen young lady, she sensed tension between them. “Is everything all right?”

Charlotte produced what she hoped was a believable smile. “Of course. Mr. Adair happened by and stopped to say hello. I’ll be there in a moment.” When her assistant continued to eye Cameron, Charlotte reassured her, “Another minute more.”

Nodding, Piper backed out of the chamber, pulling the door closed, but not shut.

Cameron studied her for a long moment, and she waited for him to ask her about why Peter would be growing suspicious. Instead, he said, “It’s odd to hear others refer to you as Mrs. Fielding.”

“I’ve had to make many adjustments in the last five years in order to survive until the next day. One rather important alteration I made was to no longer live and breathe by the whim of a man.”

The skin around his cheeks tightened; his eyes grew hard, fathomless. “Interesting to hear that you think you ever did.”

All of the heartache, loneliness, and self-doubt came rushing back with such force and devastating effect that her eyes welled with betraying tears.
Dammit
.

“Charley—”

She shook her head and turned away. The gentleness in his voice made matters worse. She wiped away the moisture, unable to believe she’d allowed this man to break through her defenses. It wasn’t fair. Dear God, she’d suffered enough.

“Cam, do not come near me again.”

When he said nothing, she peered at him over her shoulder. Something indefinable had taken hold of his features, something dangerous. Something she needed to get away from. Now. But first… “Promise me.”

He swallowed hard before answering. “I can’t make that promise.” He shook his head, as if freeing himself from an unpleasant emotion. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be calling on you tomorrow afternoon. No more delays, Charley. Make sure the boy’s with you.”

Acid churned in her stomach. “We’ve discussed this. Felix would tell me if he’d seen something.”

“I’m not as trusting as you.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “You made that sentiment painfully clear years ago.”

Lifting a hand, he indicated the door. “Piper’s waiting.”

Charlotte paused next to him, lifting her chin so she could look him in the eye. “Felix has been through enough. I won’t let you do him more harm.” She did not wait for him to comment before marching away. As parting salvos went, hers had been weak, but no less heartfelt.

She knew the destruction Cameron could inflict with nothing more than a look and a whispered good-bye. No telling what he could do if he set his mind to stopping a murderer.

Chapter Eight

“I have the Scotts’ address.”

Adair lowered his newspaper and motioned for Trigger to sit. “Well done. Have you had lunch?”

“No, sir.”

After signaling to one of the Mirador’s waitstaff, Adair allowed his attention to wander to the outside while Trig ordered. A rare sunny day had visited the city, making the barely above freezing temperatures feel much warmer than they really were. As a result, the area bustled with activity. Fancy carriages and overflowing vendor carts vied for space on the narrow street. Idle shoppers and frantic businessmen strode down the pavement at great odds with one another.

Ever since taking rooms at the Mirador Hotel a year ago, he’d claimed this particular window table as his own. He dined here regularly, though far more often he simply sat, sipped tea or coffee, and resolved whatever issue of the day was bothering him.

Today, he contemplated Charley and her odd behavior yesterday. Why had she been in the costume room, sniffing the red shirt? What else had she been doing in there before his arrival? He would bet his building fortune that her reasons had to do with the possible connection of that whelp Felix and Lady Winthrop’s murder.

“Thank you, George,” Trig said, after the waiter took their orders.

Once the waiter was out of hearing distance, Adair asked, “You’re sure you followed the right boy?”

“He arrived at the apothecary shop with an older girl. The descriptions you gave me for both Scotts matched.” Trigger wiggled his eyebrows. “His sister is even prettier in person.”

“Get on with your story, you rogue.”

Trig smiled. “Like you said he would, within five minutes of arriving, Felix left the shop. Well, more like he stormed out.”

Knowing how protective Charley was of the boy, he’d suspected she would send Felix away as soon as he arrived for work in order to keep him out of sight. “Did he go home?”

“No, he visited a few of the shops along Long Acre. Each stop took about fifteen or twenty minutes. One lasted a half hour.”

“What was he doing?”

“It was a little hard to see from my position across the street. If I had to guess, I’d say he was doing odd jobs for the shopkeepers. At one point, I saw him standing on a ladder with a hammer in his hand.”

“Interesting. It would seem Mrs. Fielding isn’t his only employer.”

“Why is that interesting, sir?”

“Another piece of the puzzle, Trig. Some of the pieces are more important than others.”

Trig frowned, scratching the back of his head. “If you say so, sir.”

“Where did he go when he left Long Acre?”

“He sat on a doorstep. Strangest thing.” Trig leaned back while the waiter placed a steaming bowl of soup and a heaping roasted beef sandwich in front of him. “Smells good, George.”

“I’ll tell the chef you said so. Enjoy, Master Trigger.”

When they were alone again, Adair said, “Continue, please.”

“There’s not much more to tell. He plopped down on a doorstep and stared at the building across the way. Just sat there for over an hour.” Trig spooned soup into his mouth. “I started to feel bad for the kid.”

Adair held back a smile. Felix Scott was likely a year or two older than Trig. But Trig had spent years on the streets, forcing him to mature faster than lads who had others to protect them. “Why is that?”

“I don’t know. He looked like he wanted to go inside, but couldn’t bring himself to go across the street.”

“What building was he watching?”

“A theater.”

“The Augusta?”

Another spoonful. “Sounds right.”

Adair’s attention once again returned to the street, though he focused on nothing. What connection was he missing?

“Need anything else, sir?”

The cup and saucer holding his coffee began to clatter. Adair’s gaze flicked to Trig’s arms resting on the table, then to his vibrating torso. Beneath the table, Trig’s knee was no doubt running in place, causing the table to shake against the onslaught of his pent-up energy. Observing Felix Scott idle outside the theater for so long must have been agonizing for him. Trigger rarely ever sat for more than ten minutes at a time. Adair always knew when the boy was ready to move on to the next project.

Adair dug a few pennies from his coin purse. “A round or two of dice might be in order.”

“Should I ask the boys anything in particular?”

“See what’s being said about the murder at the Augusta and keep your ear open for news about my attack.”

“Will do, sir.” Trig stood, accepting the coins. “Do you want me to show you where Felix Scott lives?”

Like Adair at his age, Trig was happiest when he was doing something. Inactivity preyed on the boy’s nerves and disposition. The more he did, the happier his temperament. Adair had learned awhile ago how to harness the constant pulse of energy flowing from Trig and how to utilize his complex web of friends.

“No. Leave the address with me and you can get started on the other.”

Trig rattled off an address located on the northwest edge of Seven Dials. He wrapped his napkin around his sandwich, then stuffed it into a bag he kept draped across his shoulder. When he saw Adair’s raised brow, he said, “I might not make it back in time for dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll return the napkin to Jules.”