On A Wicked Dawn (46 page)

“Stolen goods?”

“Usually. Generally the better dealers avoid such goods, but in the case of the saltcellar, the dealer hadn't been able to resist.” Lucifer's brows rose. “Luckily for us. The last time I saw that saltcellar it was at the Place. It was presented to one of my great-something-grandfathers for services to the Crown.”

Amelia sat forward. “It'd been stolen from Somersham?”

Lucifer nodded. “And that wasn't all that was taken. I retrieved the saltcellar, and we took it back to the Place. We arrived there to find Honoria seriously vexed. That morning she'd received three letters from various family members who'd stayed overnight. They were all missing small items—a Sèvres snuffbox, a gold bracelet, an amethyst brooch.”

“That sounds like the same thief who's been filching items from all over London.” Luc frowned. “There's some reason you've come all this way to tell us.”

“Indeed, but let's not jump to any conclusions, because, frankly, we don't have sufficient facts. However, the reasons I've come to you are twofold. First, the losses at Somersham were already public knowledge before Devil and Honoria heard of them, so they haven't been able to keep things within the family, as they would have preferred.”

Lucifer held up his hand to stop Amelia when she would have asked why. “The bald facts of the scattered thefts are that, if you chalk the losses at the Place up to the same account, then there appears to be only one common factor, only one group who attended all the affected events.”

Silence gripped the room. For long moments, no one broke it. Lucifer looked steadily at Luc, who returned his regard.

“The Ashfords,” Luc finally said, his voice even, uninflected.

Lucifer grimaced. “On the face of it, yes. Devil and Honoria have returned to London—they'll do what they can to
dampen speculation there. Luckily, with the Season virtually at an end, if we can deal with it—whatever it is—swiftly, there won't be much damage.”

To Amelia, Luc seemed preternaturally still.

“We can't afford another scandal—not after Edward.”

Lucifer inclined his head. “We knew you'd feel that way, which is why I drove up here and Devil headed back to town. We need to identify the culprit, so we can deal with the situation as we'd prefer. And, if necessary, minimize any damage.”

His gaze distant, Luc nodded; he raised his glass and sipped.

Phyllida, until then silent, stirred. “You haven't told them the rest.”

Lucifer glanced at her, then grimaced; he looked at Amelia and Luc. “When we were discussing all this—Devil, Honoria, Phyllida, and I—we'd forgotten there was someone else in the room. Great-aunt Clara. As usual, she confounded us all by telling us she rather thought her nurse-cum-companion might have seen something helpful. Luckily, Althorpe, the nurse, isn't anywhere near as vague as Clara—when we spoke to her, Althorpe remembered the incident clearly.

“It was the night of your wedding, and she'd been up late settling Clara. When she got back to her room, she saw a young lady rushing back to the house. It was after midnight. Althorpe is adamant the young lady was older than a schoolgirl, but not by much, and was distraught. Very much upset.”

“Could she describe this young lady?” Amelia asked.

“She was looking down on her—she didn't see her face. What she did see was thick brown hair, possibly shoulder-length—the lady was wearing a cloak, but the hood had fallen back.”

“Brown hair,” Luc murmured. He took another sip of brandy.

“Definitely. Althorpe was quite clear on that—not black, not blond. Brown.”

* * *

It could be one of my sisters.

Luc had made the comment, drawn the inevitable conclusion. Amelia knew how much it had cost him to do so.

Neither Lucifer nor Phyllida had said anything more; they'd all retired, sober and absorbed.

Now, lying in their bed, she watched Luc walk slowly toward her. His face was shuttered; he was further from her—and withdrawn to a greater distance—than at any time since they'd first spoken of marriage.

Her heart ached for him. After saving his family from the disaster of his father's depredations, steering them through the grim scandal of Edward's making, after working so hard and finally succeeding in getting all back on an even keel . . . only to have all his efforts swamped by this.

The implicit threat was all too real. If it came to pass . . . for him, it would be a serious blow.

She waited until he joined her beneath the covers, then took her courage in her hands, and baldly asked, “Who do you think it is? Emily or Anne?”

That stillness that sometimes came over him swept him. He said nothing, just lay stiffly beside her. She bit her lip against the nearly overwhelming urge to speak, to reach for him. To dismiss and push her question away.

Then he exhaled. “I think . . .” He paused, then his tone changed, “I wondered if it could be Mama.”

It was he who reached for her, his hand finding hers, covering it, then gripping, holding tight. “I wondered if . . . well, you know how many families face a problem like that, one they hide and never speak of.”

That was a possibility she hadn't considered. “You mean”—she turned to him, easing closer, seeking to comfort simply by touch—“if she'd developed a habit of picking up things that caught her eye and not even really knowing?”

He nodded. “The girl the nurse saw could have been something quite different—nothing to do with the thefts.”

Amelia thought of his mother, intelligent, calm, and wise. “No. I can't see it.” She made her tone as definite as she felt.
“Those other older ladies who start taking things—from all I've heard, they're quite vague, not just about what they've taken but generally. Your mother's not like that, not at all.”

He hesitated, then said, softly, “She's been through a lot over the years . . .”

Amelia considered Minerva's quiet strength. She pressed closer; under the covers, she lifted a hand to his chest. “Luc—it isn't your mother.”

Some of his tension left him, but not all. He released her fingers, lifted his arm over her, letting her snuggle against him, draping his arm so he could hold her there.

Accepting her comfort, her help, not shutting her out.

Amelia closed her eyes in mute thanks, then she felt his lips press the curls at her crown, felt the weight of his head as he rested it against hers.

After a long moment, he spoke. “If not Mama, then it must be Anne.”

They didn't put it into words, but come the morning they had a tacit agreement that together they would face whatever developed in this latest threat to the Ashfords, and overcome it.

Both Emily and Anne had been at all the gatherings from which items had disappeared. Impossible to believe Emily, so caught up in her romance with Kirkpatrick, had spent any time filching small objects of value. Anne, on the other hand, so quiet and retiring . . .

In the depths of the night, Luc had asked, “Do you have any idea why she might do such a thing?”

She'd shaken her head, then stopped. Eventually murmured, “The only reason I can think of is that she believes she needs money for something, something she can't approach you, or me, or your mother about.”

Luc hadn't argued. But before they'd finally fallen asleep wrapped in each other's arms, he'd murmured, “One thing—we can't broach the matter to her without real proof. You know what she's like.”

He hadn't elaborated, but she'd understood. Anne's quietness wasn't like Penelope's. Penelope often remained silent simply because she saw no reason to waste her words. With Anne, being retiring was a form of self-effacement, a means
of hiding in plain sight. Anne was inherently nervous; it had always been clear it would take time and steady encouragement to make her comfortable in society.

An unfounded accusation would destroy Anne's fragile confidence. If she learned that they—her family, her brother and guardian—suspected her of stealing . . . regardless of the right or wrong of the matter, the outcome would be disastrous.

The morning's gathering about the breakfast table maintained its customary tone—bright, breezy, lots of feminine chatter. Today, there was a rumbling masculine counterpoint; Luc and Lucifer sat at one end, discussing something—Amelia couldn't hear what. Phyllida and Minerva were swapping household tales. Miss Pink was keeping an eagle eye on Portia and Penelope, biding her time before herding those two damsels upstairs for their lessons.

Amelia turned to Emily, on her right; Anne sat on her left. “I was thinking it might be a good idea to check over your wardrobes.” With a glance, she extended the comment to Anne. “You may well need more gowns to see you through the summer, and we should be looking ahead to when we return to town in autumn.”

It took Emily a moment to draw her mind from its now habitual preoccupation; Lord Kirkpatrick and his family had been invited to visit in a few weeks' time. She blinked, then nodded. “I hadn't really thought, but you're right. I wouldn't want a panic over gowns while Mark's here.”

Amelia hid her smile. “Indeed.” She looked at Anne. “We should check your things, too.”

Anne smiled and nodded her agreement.

Perfectly readily, without the slightest hint of trepidation.

Amelia glanced down the table. At the other end, even though his conversation with Lucifer hadn't faltered, Luc had been watching, following her tack. She met his dark gaze; although he didn't precisely nod, she sensed his agreement to her plan.

If Anne had been stealing things, what was she doing with them? If her actions were purely an irrational compulsion,
then the items would be hidden somewhere, most likely in her room. With Emily, Portia, and Penelope forever about, let alone the maids and Mrs. Higgs, anywhere else seemed unlikely. And even if Anne had somehow managed to sell some items, as the matter of the saltcellar seemed to suggest, she couldn't possibly have sold everything.

“Is there much to see in the village?” Phyllida asked.

Amelia looked up. “Not really, but it's a pleasant place. We could go riding that way after lunch, if you'd like.” She nodded down the table at their spouses. “They'll no doubt be occupied elsewhere.”

Phyllida grinned. “Indeed. After lunch, then.” She pushed back her chair.

The table broke up. Phyllida and Minerva went out for a stroll in the gardens. Miss Pink ushered her charges up the stairs to the schoolroom. Leaving Luc and Lucifer still talking over their coffee cups, Amelia, Emily, and Anne headed off for the girls' rooms.

The necessity of examining their gowns wasn't a complete fabrication. It was Emily's and Anne's gowns that had first alerted Amelia to the family's straightened circumstances—she'd noticed fabrics being reused, gowns recut and refashioned; it had been cleverly done but having been in such frequent contact with the family, she'd seen and guessed the truth.

Now, there was no reason the girls couldn't have new gowns, that their wardrobes couldn't be improved to a level commensurate with their social standing. The girls themselves knew nothing of that, but Amelia did.

She directed them first to Emily's room. Emily opened her wardrobe doors wide, Amelia sank into an armchair by the window, Anne plopped down on the bed, and they all settled to enjoy themselves.

Forty minutes later, they'd exhaustively examined the contents of Emily's wardrobe and dresser. Amelia had extended their purview to include all garments, shoes, accessories of all kinds; every drawer and box in Emily's room had been looked into, the contents picked over.

Glancing down at the tablet on which she'd jotted various notes, Amelia nodded. “Very well. We'll arrange to get all these things. Now . . .” She waved to the corridor.

Without further direction, they decamped to Anne's room next door.

There they repeated the exercise, this time with Emily perched on the bed and Anne at the wardrobe doors. Amelia watched Anne closely as she pulled out gowns, shawls, and spencers. Not a glimmer of self-consciousness, not a trace of guilty fear, showed in Anne's sweet face—just a shy delight at being included in such an undertaking.

Again, the contents of every drawer, every hatbox and bandbox were examined; all Amelia discovered was that Anne needed more silk stockings, a new pair of evening gloves, and a new cherry red shawl.

Holding the old one up, Anne studied it in dismay. “I've no idea . . . it was old, of course, but I can't think why the weave should have given way like that.”

Amelia shrugged. “Silk sometimes does that—just gives way.” Although the fabric of the shawl looked like it had been worried and wrenched. “Never mind. We'll get you a new one.”

Emily sat up. “Until you get a new shawl, you won't be carrying your red reticule—the one that matched it. Can I borrow it? It's just the right shade to go with my carriage dress.”