The Curiosity Keeper (11 page)

She gathered the items that had escaped from her improvised reticule when she fell. She moved slowly, not so much because of the pain, but because she was unsure of what she was going to say when she did straighten and face Mr. Gilchrist. She sniffed and blinked as she wrapped her belongings once more in the apron, waiting for the sting of embarrassment to subside.

Her father’s cursing and mumblings could be heard from within. And she could not blame his erratic behavior on intoxication, for he had seemed quite lucid. No, this time he meant what he said.

She was no longer welcome at the shop that she called home.

Mr. Gilchrist stepped back to give her room as she got to her feet, but he did not leave. She wanted him to, but she had not expected it.

No, Mr. Gilchrist was a gentleman. She had seen his home, outfitted with the taste and comfort only a privileged man could
afford. And he had treated her kindly and equally, not as if she were merely a shopgirl from Blinkett Street, but someone worthwhile. He would not have it in him to walk away from a woman in distress.

He remained quiet while she rose and shook out the folds of her skirt. Then there was no excuse for her to not look him in the eye.

She clenched her jaw as she raised her gaze to meet his. She waited for him to speak and expected him to say something about her arm, but he did not. Instead, his words were soft and low, yet sure and swift, spoken as if he had knowledge of every aspect of her life. “You need to be away from here.”

Tears wanted to fall. She looked past him and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. “Papa is just upset. Things will settle down.”

“No.” The intensity of his blue eyes weakened her knees. “It is not safe for you here.”

She gave a little laugh, but her attempt to make light of the situation fell flat. “Are you always so certain of everything?”

Mr. Gilchrist did not laugh with her. He did not even crack a smile. “I am when I see a lady being treated in such a fashion.”

Her false smile faded. “I know my father. This will pass. The matter will be set to right by day’s end.”

But even as she spoke, her father’s shouts could be heard above the sounds of the street.

Oh, she did not want to be here.

She wanted to be far, far away from Blinkett Street and everything it represented. Her cheeks flamed anew at the thought that Mr. Gilchrist had seen what happened. The previous evening had almost been easier to bear—all had been in darkness. But
today she felt completely exposed. There could be no hiding or masking the truth about her life.

Mr. Gilchrist’s eyes were pinned on her. She could feel them as certainly as she could feel the fabric against her skin or the breeze on her face.

She knew men like him. They came into the shop often. They were easy to identify—well dressed in coats of fine wool, with polished Hessian boots and intricately tied cravats. Clean-shaven, wealthy young men seeking adventure and diversion from their otherwise dull lives. While Mr. Gilchrist did not appear to fit that mold, she had interacted with men long enough to know that they were rarely as they seemed.

Lost in her musings, she did not resist as he ushered her away from the shop’s entrance. “I know a place,” he said in a low voice, “where you will be safe. Somewhere you can get away from this.”

That got her attention. The idea that where she came from was not good enough was far beyond what she deemed appropriate. It was insulting. “I appreciate your concern, but I have no intention of leaving my home.”

Camille quickened her steps not only to put physical distance between them but to halt the topic of conversation.

Her gait was no match for his longer one. “And what if Mr. McCready comes again? Or another man, for that matter? Or what if your father will not let you return? What will you do?”

She pressed her lips together, refusing to answer. Her steps grew quicker. Stronger.

But he persisted. “Just hear what I have to say. I have a friend, a good friend, who is the superintendent of a school in Fellsworth, Surrey. Our family has a home nearby, so I know him well. He
is always looking for assistance. I could inquire about a position for you.”

She almost laughed at that. “Are you suggesting I could be a teacher? Perhaps you have not noticed, but I am hardly the teacher sort.”

His blond eyebrows drew together as if her brash dismissal of his idea had surprised him. “The school has need of many kinds of help, not just teaching. I am sure there would be something for you to do.” He brightened. “Perhaps you could show the girls how to keep books and balance accounts. You know how to do that, do you not? More important, working there would get you away from London. My sister and I will be returning to Fellsworth tomorrow. You could accompany us.”

She shot back her response. “You are assuming that I want to get away.”

“I’m not—” He paused and rethought his words. “I only mean to be of assistance.”

She eyed him. His concern seemed so genuine. And how she wished it was. How lovely it would be to have someone like him care about her.

But he wanted something.

He wanted that ruby.

No man was as he seemed.

“You can trust me, Miss Iverness. I only want to help.”

“I trust nobody.” Her voice was firm. “And I have no intention of leaving London.”

Chapter Fourteen

M
iss Iverness turned sharply and hurried away.

Jonathan watched as she wove her way through the crowds on Blinkett Street and around a carriage. She clutched her bundle to her chest and was almost running. She cast one glance over her shoulder at him, but before he could react she had turned again.

Though the rain had not returned, a canopy of clouds and smoke painted everything around them with its steely paintbrush, reinforcing the stark melancholy. He continued to study her retreating form, her yellow gown a bright spot in the dreary, hopeless gray.

Then she disappeared around the corner.

He stood without moving, stunned at what he had just witnessed. Never had he seen the like. Such violence was foreign to him. Of course, he and his brother had their bouts of boyish roughhousing, but this could not compare.

A man, a grown man, laying hands on his daughter and pushing her into the street?

Unbelievable.

He drew a deep breath, the scents of rotting garbage and smoke from the nearby forge reminding him of where he was.

He huffed angrily under his breath, ignoring the puddled
water that splashed onto his boots and legs with every step. His blood continued to boil at the injustice of Miss Iverness’s plight.

But what could he do? She did not want his help. And why should she? She knew nothing of him, other than he was somehow connected to a stolen ruby that had probably been the cause of her injury.

He had no idea what had possessed him to suggest a position at the school. He had no authority to make such an offer, other than the fact that Mr. Langsby owed him a few favors and was an agreeable man.

And yet he wanted to help. His concern for Miss Iverness, this mysterious creature with black hair and startling eyes, would not leave him alone. He could not tell why, other than he recognized something in her—something restrained. Something suppressed to the point of pain.

Something deeply familiar.

For he too knew something about living in isolation—side by side with people with whom one should share love but somehow remained strangers.

He could leave the rough confines of Blinkett Street. Pretend he never met her. The thread that would bind an apothecary from Fellsworth to a London shopkeeper’s daughter was nonexistent. The most prudent course of action would be to leave this moment behind him, reconnect with Darbin, and start a new search, then find his ruby as he originally planned, and return to quiet Fellsworth. He would likely never see Miss Iverness again.

He cast one final glance up the street, but she was gone. No yellow.

Only gray and smoke.

Camille could scarcely believe she had been able to hold back tears.

She rarely wept, and never in front of others. But now that she had turned off Blinkett Street and was in an alley, protected from prying eyes, she let a tear slip. And then another.

How vividly she could recall the stab in her chest, the sick feeling in her stomach after her mother departed for Portugal all those years ago. She had run to her chamber that day sobbing bitter tears. There had been no one to calm or soothe her. And the next morning, when she awoke, she had determined with all the stubbornness of youth never to allow another person to take her to such a state.

Until now, she’d been successful.

But now that ache was back. The sharp ache that reached into her heart and twisted, gripping it in a vise of anger and hopelessness until the tears just had to flow.

She didn’t know which hurt more—her father’s harsh rejection or the fact that Mr. Gilchrist had witnessed it.

She was not exactly clear why she cared so about Mr. Gilchrist’s opinion. After all, he was surely using her as a means to an end, his concern no doubt self-serving. He did intervene on her behalf, but by doing so he had seen a part of her life rarely seen by others.

Camille allowed herself the luxury of one sob and two very slow, very controlled breaths. She pressed the back of her hand to her cheek and wiped it. She had to move forward.

The tears blurred everything before her into a misty mess of browns and grays. She peered through them at a group of young
girls playing by a back stoop and then a cluster of women chatting with baskets over their arms and mobcaps on their heads.

Slowly reality dawned.

After a lifetime of living in one place, surrounded by the same people, she should have somewhere to go.

But there was no one for her to turn to.

Like it or not, her life was defined by the hours spent in the shop, her social connections limited to her patrons and the occasional merchant. Beyond that, she had little in common with the women who lived near her. She had been raised differently than most of them. Her speech was different due to the time spent on her grandfather’s estate—less like the voice of a Blinkett Street native and more like a lady. She looked different as well, her black hair and dark eyes giving her the appearance of a foreigner.

And then there was her father, of course. James Iverness, a man whose doubtful reputation preceded him.

Mothers did not want their daughters associating with the daughter of such a man. Men did not want to court a woman whose father had such a volatile reputation. There was no other family that she knew of, except for her mother in a faraway country.

She was alone, literally cast out into the streets.

She walked for several hours among the shoddy shops and narrow houses, careful to avoid the straw and dung on the streets. She held her hand to her nose to block the putrid scents of dirty animals and human waste. The smoke from the forge burned her eyes, and the thick air made her lungs ache.

Her body cried, ironically, for the solace of her little chamber above the shop. The pain of her arm was making her sick to her stomach, and the desire for something familiar trumped the anger she felt toward her father.

She thought of Mr. Gilchrist. Those arresting blue eyes. The kindness in his expression. The manner in which he stood up to her father. And his outrageous suggestion—that she leave Blinkett Street and start fresh.

In truth, she left Blinkett Street nearly every night in her dreams, but it had never occurred to her actually to go away.

She had always believed it her duty to stay and help her father, to take care of him as her mother had instructed. She had told herself he was a good man in essence, that despite his brusque manner he loved her and she him.

But was it true?

Somehow, over the years, their relationship had cracked. She had continued striving to do as he bid, to please him. But her efforts were never enough, and now his harsh words and actions echoed painfully in her mind.

Another question nagged as well. Mr. Gilchrist had implied that her father could be involved in a theft? Surely not. She knew his methods were questionable. But she kept the books and had never seen any evidence of outright villainy.

What if he were stealing? Would she be implicated in the theft as well? Could she be hanged for her father’s crimes?

She couldn’t think anymore. Her aching body cried out for rest and her stomach rumbled with hunger. Her head felt both light and full at the same time, and her cut arm throbbed painfully. She looked down and saw it was bleeding again. The bright blood had seeped through the bandage to stain the fine fabric of her borrowed gown.

She could not wander the streets in this condition. She needed to go home. Perhaps she could slip up to her room without her father noticing.

She slowed her steps as she reached the gated entrance to the small bit of earth behind their home. She heard two voices—no, three. All were male. One of them was Papa’s.

Considering the anger he had displayed a short while ago, the laughter she heard now surprised her. Words, when spoken, were muffled, the voices slurred.