Night Storm (15 page)

“Oh, dear. I used what remained of my last supply yesterday.” She noticed Felix and Piper eyeing Cameron. “My apologies. Mr. Adair, this is Felix and Piper Scott.”

Cameron nodded at Piper and shook Felix’s hand. “Nice to meet the two of you.”

“Would you like me to finish Mr. Adair’s order?” Piper asked, her eyes bright with feminine curiosity.

“Thank you, Piper, but Mr. Adair’s all set.” She sent Cameron a meaningful look, one he promptly ignored.

“Mrs. Fielding was just telling me about how much she depends on you both. Have either of you thought to follow in Mrs. Fielding’s footsteps and open your own apothecary shop?”

Piper didn’t exactly beam, but her curious expression transformed into enthusiasm. “I’ve begun my third year of apprenticeship, sir. Perhaps they’ll allow women apothecaries by the time I’m through.”

“I should hope so. Women are the most nurturing. It only makes sense for females to play an integral part in the care of our sick.” He smiled. “You could not have picked a better mentor.” Cameron turned his intent gaze onto Felix. “What about you?”

“No, sir. I hope to tread the boards one day.”

“Acting?”

Charlotte’s breath caught. Given Cameron’s earlier line of questioning, she should have realized what he was up to the second he started doling out compliments.

“Which theater?”

“Look at the time,” Charlotte interrupted. “I know you have another appointment to attend, Mr. Adair. Please don’t let us keep you.” If he could tell a boldfaced lie, so could she.

The slight curl to one corner of his mouth conveyed understanding, even defeat. For now.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fielding. I nearly forgot.” To the Scotts he said, “I’ll see you again soon.” His gaze landed on Charlotte. “A moment, please?” He headed for the door, not bothering to see if she agreed.

Almost instantly, she felt the weight of two intrigued pairs of eyes on her. She grabbed her coat, muffler, and gloves from the back room. “Finish unpacking these containers, would you? I’ll be only a minute.” The two busied themselves, though she had no doubt they were watching her every move.

The moment she shut the door behind her, Cameron said, “Charley—”

“Wait.” She set off down Long Acre, not stopping until she reached the next intersection. “Now you may say your peace, Cameron.”

He backed them up to the side of one building so they could avoid the wind. “Charley,” Cameron said softly. “Why are you protecting the boy?”

The tenderness in his voice made the backs of her eyes sting. “If I don’t, who will?”

“His parents.”

“His father is gone, and his mother works atrociously long hours.”

“So you are his self-appointed guardian.”

“I was merely his employer until you started sniffing around.”

“Touché,” he said. “You don’t need to protect him from me. I only want one thing—to find the killer.”

She fixed her attention on the building opposite them. “He’s had a difficult time since his father left them a few years ago. In many ways he’s had to become a man too soon and, in other ways, he’s still just a boy.”

“All I want to know is if he saw anyone inside the passage or leaving it. That’s it.”

Deep down, Charlotte knew his request was not unreasonable. Felix was sixteen, on the verge of manhood—not an innocent, uncomprehending seven-year-old. But her old wounds had not scarred over, merely scabbed. And right now his presence picked at the crusty barrier, making it bleed.

“Let me think on it.” She walked away, unable to stay for fear of giving him more.

“Charley, you need to know I was paying attention about something else today.”

She slowly turned toward him, her heart thundering. “Oh?”

“Riordan’s man told me Felix went missing for a period of time during the audition. Around the same time the baroness was killed.”

Charlotte’s thoughts skittered back to the audition, to Peter asking her if she’d seen Felix, to Felix stuttering out an apology regarding his troublesome costume. His red costume.
Oh, dear Lord, no. Not Felix.

“One day, Charley. I’ll give you one day to prepare Felix for my visit.”

She closed her eyes briefly, swallowing hard. How had her carefree morning at the theater turned into such a confusing, life-altering mess?

Chapter Seven

At half past twelve, Adair entered the anteroom of the British Museum, where a porter directed him to record his name and address. Then another porter led him to the saloon, where he and eleven other visitors waited until it was their turn for a viewing of the venerable institution.

If the rest of the museum was anything like the saloon, he could probably spend days roaming the rooms and not see everything. Fresco paintings dotted the walls and dome, and a rather detailed sculpture of a bearded man and two younger men wrestling with a giant asp sat on a table.

“Good afternoon, sir.” An older gentleman with a kind smile and a middle straining at the seams approached him. “Please, gather near the door. In a few short minutes, I’ll introduce you to the museum’s history and layout, then send you on your way.”

“An acquaintance of mine volunteers here,” Adair said, forcing a high note of joviality into his tone. “Perhaps, you know her—Lady Bentondorf?”

“Yes, yes, wonderful lady. I suspect you’ll find her in the Gallery of Antiquities, near the Egyptian sculptures.”

“Very good! It’s been months since we last spoke. When will we reach the gallery?”

“Visitors generally make it to the gallery in two hours. But everyone wanders the exhibits at their own pace. The gallery is on the uppermost floor and the Egyptian artifacts are in the seventh and eighth—no, eighth and ninth rooms, I believe.” Something caught the man’s attention. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. Time to get you all on your way.” The portly man turned to address the milling group. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mr. Appleton, your guide. If you’ll follow me, we’ll begin your viewing at the grand staircase.”

The group size had grown to fifteen, which suited Adair’s needs. The more people to occupy Mr. Appleton’s attention, the better.

“In 1753, Parliament approved the purchase of the Montagu House for the sum of twenty thousand pounds. The museum opened to the public on January 15, 1759, after a series of extensive renovations were completed on the long-abandoned mansion.” Their guide turned to ascend the grand staircase.

On the large landing stood three long-necked ginger and cream spotted animals. Could these be the giraffes he had read about in François Le Vaillant’s travel book? They had to be the most unusual, ugly creatures he’d ever seen but he couldn’t take his eyes off them. Not even for the renowned Charles de La Fosse and Jacques Rousseau paintings the guide droned on about.

“This is where I shall set you free for the next hour to roam the upper level rooms at your leisure. Here, you will find modern works of arts from all over the world, including royal manuscripts of King George III and three other collections by Sloane, Harleian, and Cottonian—all of which were essential to the museum’s opening in 1959.”

The group moved off like a swarm of bees down the corridor. None were brave enough to break off on their own yet, or perhaps they preferred to ask the guide questions rather than reading the descriptive plaques. Adair stayed with them until the third room, where forty-six volumes of Julius Caesar’s papers sent the crowd into a frenzy of adoration.

Strolling away, Adair kept an even pace until he made it to the staircase leading to the gallery. He’d managed the first flight of stairs by taking slow, measured steps. But he didn’t have the time to go slow for this next flight. Inhaling a deep breath, he plowed up the stairs, two at a time, not giving himself time to think or feel.

Once he reached the top, air whooshed from his lungs. Still, he didn’t pause to dwell on the ache pounding in his leg and shoulder. He continued along the empty corridor, a slight limp now slowing his progress somewhat.

When he stepped inside the eighth room holding the Egyptian antiquities, he forced his heart rate to slow and shook the tension from his muscles. He scanned the room for Lady Bentondorf, but he found only glass cases and a well-dressed gentleman and lady studying two mummies. The mummy on the left was decorated with colored glass beads and the one on the right had a gilt face and a body ornamented with paintings. Bending, the woman looked lower into the case, drawing Adair’s attention to a small square box covered in paintings. The lady’s hand lifted to cover her mouth, the gentleman took her elbow, and they moved on.

Curious, Adair strolled passed the glass case and discovered that the small box held the mummified remains of an infant. The sight of something so innocent displayed in such a cold fashion made his gut churn.

Adair slipped into the ninth room. Given the size of some of the sculptures, he couldn’t see the room in its entirety. Weaving his way past an enormous fist, an obelisk, and a sphinx’s head, he searched for a woman who appeared to belong here. Someone comfortable moving about the treasures as if they’d done so numerous times.

Again, his search produced no results. He paused next to a large slab of black granite, his fingers absently rubbing his wounded shoulder. The broken artifact stood about three and a half feet high and two feet wide. Foreign scripts covered the entire surface in straight, neat lines.

Leaning closer, he ran his fingertips over the strange squiggles and soon realized three distinct inscriptions scored the stone’s face. The topmost section appeared to be written in pictures.

“Is this your first time seeing the Rosetta Stone?” a female voice asked near his left shoulder.

Adair jerked upright, embarrassed by his curiosity about a rock defaced by the scribblings of a child. A tall, willowy blond wearing a sand-colored dress trimmed with light blue ribbons stood a few feet away. Her twinkling blue eyes and mischievous smile seemed in direct contrast to her simple attire and severe hairstyle.

“The slab has a name?” he asked.

“Of course. The
granodiorite stele
could be the key to unlocking the two-thousand-year-old Egyptian language. Something so important must have a name, don’t you think?”

Adair eyed the stone skeptically. “Where did it come from?”

“Rosetta, Egypt, formerly known as Rashid before the French invasion. It’s a port town near Alexandria. As I understand it, Napoléon Bonaparte took a group of scholars with him on his Egyptian campaign. They were instructed to seize anything that had ancient cultural significance. When our military defeated the French in Egypt three years ago, they took possession of the stone and transported it here.”

“All that so we can decipher a script no one uses anymore?”

An indulgent smile transformed her pretty face into something very striking. “The importance of such a find can be difficult to understand to those not in the antiquities field.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be Lady Bentondorf, would you?”

Curiosity, and a hint of wariness, entered her features. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

He held out a card. “Cameron Adair. I was told you might have information I need concerning Lady Winthrop.”

“Susan?” She accepted his card, but didn’t look at it. “Is something wrong?”

Adair knew then that she had not yet received word about her friend’s murder. He cursed beneath his breath. Although he’d braced himself for a few tears, he wasn’t prepared to break the full, ugly news of her friend’s violent death. A person should hear something like that from a loved one, a friend, or at the very least an acquaintance. Not a stranger.

Then he realized his chance of getting information from her had slipped from slim to naught. He set his jaw. Too late to walk away now. “I’m afraid so.”

A group of young ladies filed past, each of them casting furtive glances Adair’s way.

“Is there some place private where we might speak?”

She clasped her hands together. “Come with me, please.”

In silence, she led him to a small alcove toward the back of the room. A black leather, gold-trimmed settee faced a life-size figure of Isis, Egyptian goddess of motherhood, magic, and fertility—or so the placard said.

“Few visitors bother to come this far.” She perched on the edge of the settee. “We should remain undisturbed for at least a little while. Please sit.”

“Thank you, my lady. I prefer to stand.”

“What news do you have of Susan? Or, rather, Lady Winthrop.”

He’d never been one to mince words, but the devastating news he had to deliver seemed crammed in the back of his throat. Finally, he managed, “Lady Winthrop was found murdered at the Augusta Theatre on Monday morning.”

She sucked in a sharp, startled breath. Shaking fingers pressed against her lips, as if to forcibly hold back a broken cry. Tears filled her eyes, wavered, and then spilled over onto her smooth cheeks.

“I’m sorry for your loss, my lady.” Adair patted his coat pockets, searching for a handkerchief. He pulled out one that looked as though it hadn’t been washed in a few days. He stuffed it back inside.

Lady Bentondorf slipped a lacy concoction from her sleeve and delicately dabbed at her face. “Murdered? How?”

“Stabbed.”

“Oh, how horrible. Poor Susan.” More tears, more dabbing. “Why would anyone do this to her?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“What?” She stared at him, her mouth agape. “What would I know of it?”

Adair glanced around to ensure they were still alone. “Can you think of anyone who would wish to do Lady Winthrop harm?”

Lady Bentondorf dropped her gaze to the floor, searching, a frown marring her delicate features. “No. Everyone loved Susan.”

“So I hear. Has Lady Winthrop mentioned an unusual or disagreeable encounter with someone of her acquaintance? A store clerk, a walker in the park, a dance partner. An incident that might have perplexed her, or even scared her at the time, but that she brushed off as insignificant.”

She was shaking her head even before he finished his question. “No. Other than the rare occasion when she grumbles about her husband’s strange compulsion for cleanliness and sometimes obsessive gambling, Susan’s always sunny, always enthusiastic about the day’s events.”