The Curiosity Keeper (5 page)

“There. That’s the shop—right there.”

Jonathan’s gaze followed Darbin’s nod, and then he frowned as he assessed the shabby storefront with its dirty paned windows. A faded sign hung askew from the shabby shutters, with the words “Curiosity Shop” barely visible.

“Your father purchased the Bevoy several years ago from the man who owns that shop. It was a quiet transaction, no doubt. Every thief worth his weight knows of the Bevoy, so ’tis best for the owner to keep quiet about its whereabouts. From the moment you told me it was the Bevoy that had been stolen, I had a suspicion James Iverness was involved.”

“How can you be sure?” Jonathan breathed, unable to take his eyes from the odd little shop. “If he sold the ruby to my father, it doesn’t stand to reason that he would steal it back.”

“Ah! That is where you are wrong. It does stand to reason. You have to think like a criminal.” Darbin tapped his finger against his head. “Iverness is a crafty fellow, and he knows your father—his habits, his collection. More important, he knew your father had the Bevoy. Undoubtedly its location has been shrouded in secrecy for years to all but your father and Iverness. And Iverness is in a perfect position to resell the gem at a profit. No one would be the wiser.”

Jonathan assessed the tiny shop in question. “From the looks of his shop, it does not appear he’s overly concerned with acquiring wealth.”

“That’s the way he operates. Rumor has it that he is one of the richest merchants on this side of town, but you would never know it to look at this place. Keeps a low profile, this one.”

“I trust you have more reason to suspect this man than merely a hunch?”

“I do. I have an informant who works in the auction houses, keeps me apprised of the traffic through there. There’s been a man inquiring about gems recently—McCready is his name—and apparently he has inquired specifically about the Bevoy. Word is out that McCready intends to purchase the Bevoy at this location tonight.”

Jonathan felt optimism flare within him. Perhaps it was good they had engaged Darbin’s help after all; the man seemed to have everything figured out. Eager to put this whole mess behind him, he rubbed his own gloved hands together. “So what do we do now?”

“We wait.” Darbin’s steps slowed, then stopped. “Sometimes these sorts of situations pan out. Sometimes they don’t. Patience is key. But I am not about to let him slip through my fingers.”

They stood in silence for several moments. Then, as if on cue, a young woman appeared, a crooked broom in hand. She flitted over the threshold, her light-colored skirt swishing through the doorway, shadows muting her features. She brushed her hair away from her face before propping her free hand on her hip.

Jonathan watched her sweep off the front stoop. “Who is that?”

“That’s his daughter.”

“Iverness’s daughter?”

“Yes. She helps him in the shop. Has for years.”

The news took Jonathan aback. He had not considered that the man might have a family. “Do you think she knows about the Bevoy?”

“Hard to say, but unlikely. From what we can tell, Iverness operates alone, though he has extensive connections. We must be careful. He’s a sneaky devil.”

The young woman, petite and slender, paused in her task and looked up at the sky, shielding her eyes with her hand. She wiped her face and patted her uncovered hair before returning inside.

Jonathan smoothed his wayward neckcloth back into place. He couldn’t shake the eerie sensation that tonight was a turning point, regardless of whether or not they recovered the ruby.

If he and Darbin failed, Kettering Hall—and his family’s entire fortune—might be lost forever.

If they succeeded, he would surely be plunged ever deeper into his father’s mysterious involvements.

And he couldn’t tell which he dreaded most.

Chapter Six

C
amille jerked her head up as the sharp crack of a breaking bottle echoed off the cobbled street near the shop’s entrance. Then a shrill yell, followed by boisterous laughter.

Would she never cease to jump at the sudden noises of Blinkett Street at night? After almost ten years, she doubted it. After darkness fell, the cadence of shouts and music from the tavern across the street felt like an assault. Of course, the commotion could be heard from the rooms she and her father occupied above the shop, but downstairs the sounds seemed more threatening, the danger more real.

She lifted her eyes. Silhouettes of men with uneven gaits blackened the window.

Her heart pounded, and she shook her head. The noise—and uncertainty—made her lose count. She returned her attention to the money box in front of her and started counting afresh.

How she wished Tevy were here by her side. Gentle as he was with her, his growl alone would halt an intruder in his tracks. But he was with her father, and there was no way to tell when they would return.

She looked up and let her eyes rest on the painting she had propped nearby, drawing hope from the pastoral scene it depicted. One day she would leave Blinkett Street, escape the sullied streets of London, and return to the tranquil countryside
of her childhood. She had no intention of spending her life in this dreary shop. But now was not the proper time. Her father needed her. They might not be close, but he was all she had—apart from a mother who had all but abandoned her.

She took the key to the money box from the string around her neck, locked the box, and reached for her shawl. Her candle, burned nearly to a stub, cast long, flickering shadows on the walls of the shop and its scattered contents. She paused to note how it reflected off the sharp beak of a stuffed raven.

In the back corner of the shop, a narrow staircase led to the three upper rooms—a small parlor, her bedchamber, and Papa’s chamber. Meals were always taken in the back of the shop, where the large fireplace afforded a place for cooking. Normally she ate alone. The fire had waned to nothing more than flickering embers, and the room’s only light came from her candle. She inched her way around the long, uneven table, scooted the wobbly wooden chair to the side, and lifted the lid from a pot of stew. No warmth radiated from it. The scent wafted flat.

She returned the lid to its place, reached for a bit of bread, and took a bite of it as she headed toward the stairs. But as she did, a sound at the front of the shop commandeered her interest. Someone was fumbling with the door lock.

Papa.

He had a key, of course. But his state of mind on such evenings often made even simple tasks troublesome.

She put her candle to the side, clutched her shawl about her, and hurried to the door. She unlatched and opened it, just as she had a hundred times before. Then her breath caught.

The man was not her father. A stranger was trying to enter.

She slammed her weight against the door, pushing with all
her might to close it against the intruder and latch it again. But she was too late. The trespasser stuck his thick boot against the door frame, prohibiting the door from closing.

Moments slowed. Then sped. Camille’s heart pounded and her vision blurred. She wanted to say something, she wanted to cry out, but her mouth was too dry.

She charged the door again, scrambling for control, but he grabbed it with a gloved hand and pushed against her, her strength no match for his.

He forced his way in the shop, bringing with him the wet and cold of night, the flickering torches on the street pushing his shadow before him.

Camille retreated, stumbling backward against the shelves of writing kits and silver services. Now that he was in, she wanted as much distance as possible.

“We are closed.” Her voice sounded impossibly small.

The intruder smiled too confidently, his teeth stark white against the dark angles of his broad face. “Pardon the interruption, Miss. I’ve no wish to impose, but I’m looking for James Iverness.”

His mock formality alarmed her further. Surely this intruder could hear her heart thumping within.

Calm. She had to stay calm. “He is not available.”

He inched closer, slow and steady, like a fox stalking prey. His dark eyes flashed from right to left as if searching. As he approached, the hem of his long cape dragged against a low-lying shelf, clanking the glass bottles into one another and threatening to overturn them.

“Not available?” he repeated. “I would never accuse such a lovely creature as you of lying, but you don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”

She shook her head. Every bit of space that closed between them incited panic. “I swear to you, I do not know where he is. Y-you must leave.”

He stopped an arm’s length away from her. The candle behind her cast odd shadows on his whiskered face, and the scent of old brandy and tobacco encircled her. She wanted to look away from the wide-set, beady eyes that held her gaze captive. But fear, or perhaps disbelief, forbade her to look away.

“Show me where
it
is”—his thin lips curled in a sneer—“and I’ll be on my way.”

Tears pooled in her eyes, but she raised her chin. She would not show fear. She could not. She forced every ounce of her energy into keeping her voice level. “What is it you are looking for?”

“The Bevoy.”

She continued to creep backward. The edge of the counter pressed into her hip. The heat of the candle sitting atop it warmed her back. “I do not know what that is.”

The man picked up a jar from the table next to him and rolled it in his hands. “Well, that is a problem. For I have already paid half of what I owe on it, with the understanding that I would pay the rest when I return. Iverness was to meet me here. He’s not here, but you are. And I want the Bevoy.”

She swallowed hard. “If you would just come back at another time, I am sure my father would—”

Before she could finish, the man dropped the jar in his hand to the planked floor, shattering it into a thousand tiny shards.

Camille jumped at the sound and let out a little cry.

Then the man’s massive arm reached toward her.

She did not think; she only acted. Reaching behind her,
she seized the candleholder and flung the lit candle toward her intruder. The light immediately extinguished, but the hot tallow landed on his face and neck. He howled in pain and spewed profanities, distracted long enough for Camille to twist around.

Behind her on a shelf was a stack of timeworn swords of every shape and length. She had no idea whether they were sharp or not. But she needed something, anything, to give the impression that she was capable of defending herself.

They were in mostly darkness now, the shop lit only by the flickering glow of street torches outside and the candle lamp next to the stairs. She had the advantage. She was familiar with the layout of this disheveled space. One wrong turn, and her perpetrator would send a pile of artifacts cluttering to the ground.

But her sense of confidence was short-lived. The man shook his head, and the weak candle lamp revealed that all trace of his smile was gone. He pushed the back of his hand across his face. “I had hoped we would be able to find some sort of middle ground, but since you are unwilling to cooperate—”

Camille’s breath caught in her throat as the man reached into his coat and produced a blade. The candlelight caught on the bright metal and shot slivers of light into the air. Camille gasped, the air around her inadequate to supply her lungs. The sword in her hand felt impossibly awkward and heavy. She hadn’t the first idea of what to do with it, especially when standing eye to eye with a man twice her size and double her strength.

She gripped the sword’s handle so tightly that her fingers numbed and she adjusted her stance, holding the weapon before her. But in two fast steps he closed the space between them. His huge, gloved hand snatched her arm, and the sword clattered to the ground.

She whimpered as he yanked her closer, his strong fingers squeezing the soft flesh of her arm. She jerked and attempted to pull free, but the more she strained, the harder he tugged. Then he pulled her close, tightening his forearm around her shoulders and forcing her back against his chest, the blade before her face.

At the sight of the blade so close, she shrieked. Panic bubbled within her, fresh and hot. She wanted to look around, to search for an escape, but her eyes seemed fixed to the blade. “Please . . . please let me go.”

“Now perhaps you take my questions a bit more seriously.”

She could feel the muscles of his chest flex against her back. She was acutely aware of every sensation—the pinch of his hand on her shoulder, the heat of his breath, the spicy scent of brandy.

She swallowed, attempting to control her trembling. “Take whatever you want. Just please leave me be.”

“Your father owes me. And I will get what is owed, one way or the other.” He shifted the blade.

“I-I don’t know anything about any jewel. Please, I promise you—”

“I saw him come in here earlier. Do not lie to me.” His voice dripped with mock formality. “You’ll regret it.”

The idea that this stranger had been watching her shop sent icy shivers down her spine. She did not doubt the sincerity of his promise.

Then she heard a familiar squeak—the sound of wood against wood and the ancient door hinge giving way.

Chapter Seven

S
everal hours had passed since Jonathan and Henry Darbin arrived at Blinkett Street. A misty veil still shrouded the neighborhood, and the rain continued to fall. By now it had seeped through his coat and chilled his skin.

And yet they continued to wait.

Earlier that evening, Iverness had entered the shop, and for a moment they had thought the exchange was imminent. But then, not long afterward, he had left with a big dog by his side.

Jonathan and Darbin were about to abandon their quest, assuming their information had been incorrect. But then they saw him—a tall, broad-shouldered man, alone, and concealed under a dark cape.

“There!” Darbin’s tone sharpened and he shifted his position, turning his back to the shop. “Do you see him? That’s McCready, there in the cape.”

Jonathan nodded, careful not to make any motion or movement that might attract attention. “Yes, I see him.”