The Curiosity Keeper (7 page)

The woman’s hand trembled on his arm. Her lower lip was quivering. She was injured and no doubt frightened. She leaned against him, heavy now. Ruby or no, he could not abandon her. He would have to catch up with Darbin at another time.

“Where is your father’s house?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Chire Street. The carriage is this way.”

They walked along the lamp-lit street. Jonathan blinked as rain ran down his face. His hat had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and the drops clung to his hair and dripped down his neck.

They continued in silence, until he noticed that her steps had started to slow. She swayed toward him. He held out his hand to steady her. “Are you all right?”

She did not answer him. Her steps started to swerve.

“Miss Iverness, can you answer me?”

She stopped and turned as if confused. She looked up at him and opened her mouth, but then she started to collapse before she could say a word.

He caught her as she fell. Quickly he swept her up in his arms, her wet skirts twisting around him, her head rolling against his shoulder.

“Miss Iverness,” he breathed. “Miss Iverness!”

But her head fell forward unresponsive, locks of black hair clinging to her face.

He had to get her somewhere safe and out of the night air. Out of the danger.

He looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the men lining the street paid little heed—as if the occurrence was so commonplace it was not worthy of breaking a stride.

Jonathan carried her the two blocks to the carriage. He lifted her inside, then signaled to the driver to pull out. As he had apprised Miss Iverness, the drive was quite short. It was unsettling, in fact, to realize how close unsavory Blinkett Street was to the more fashionable London neighborhoods.

Miss Iverness was still unresponsive when they arrived at his father’s London address. Not wanting to attract attention, Jonathan did not call for assistance, but carried her from the carriage to the door himself. Upon realizing the door had been bolted for the night, he used the toe of his boot to knock.

At length Winston, the butler who oversaw the London home, answered the door. He opened it cautiously at first, but when he saw Jonathan with Miss Iverness, he flung it open fully, his eyes wide.

“Shh,” Jonathan whispered to the butler, quickly scanning the interior rooms. “Is anyone awake?”

“No, sir. The staff has all retired for the night, as has Miss Gilchrist. I was waiting up for your return.”

“Good,” replied Jonathan. The last thing he needed was talk among the servants. “Wake Meeks, but no one else. Ask her to wake up my sister, then prepare tea and bring it as soon as she is able. But first I need you to help me.”

The old butler nodded, his expression concerned.

Jonathan carried Miss Iverness to the parlor and reclined her
on the sofa. He stood, breath heavy from the exertion. “Light those candles before you leave, will you? Then will you see to the fire and find something to cover the young lady? She might have caught a chill.”

“Very good, sir.”

The butler set about stoking the fire, bringing the room from cool darkness to a much warmer glow. Jonathan hurried to the study to retrieve his apothecary’s box. He rarely went anywhere without it. He returned to the parlor and knelt next to the sofa. Miss Iverness’s head rested against the sofa’s arm. Her eyes were closed. Black lashes fanned her cheeks, and her pale lips were slightly parted.

He lifted her limp hand, taking note of the ink on her fingers. He felt her pulse and then untied the neckcloth from her arm, gently pulling the fabric away from the wound to expose a nasty gash.

At this she groaned, and her eyes fluttered, but she did not wake. The thick lashes closed over her cheeks once again, and he set quickly to the task of cleaning the wound.

By this light, the extent of the cut was clearer. It was deep, but she would recover. No doubt her fainting spell was due more to heightened emotion than to the severity of the wound. He quickly mixed powder and spread it on the wound, then reached to the bottom of a drawer in his box for clean bandages and rewrapped it.

He made quick work of the task, and by the time he had completed it he heard the shuffle of slippers, hurried and anxious, on the planked floor. He recognized Penelope’s footsteps before he even saw her.

He scratched his head and ran his hand over his face. Nothing about this night had gone as planned, and the last thing he felt like was the lecture from his sister that was sure to come. Thomas may have been able to take such events in stride, but Jonathan was certain he would never develop a taste for the adventure, as Darbin had put it.

But like it or not, adventure had found him, and Penelope would not be happy about the outcome. He gritted his teeth as the parlor door opened. His sister appeared with the force of a gale, her night robe billowing behind her, her light hair fluttering, loose and untethered.

Her steps slowed as her gaze fell on the woman on the sofa. “What is this?”

“There was an accident,” he said, not knowing where to start.

“She’s covered in blood,” Penelope’s voice shrilled. “Just look at her arm.”

“She will be all right.” He said it as much to convince himself as Penelope. “The wound will heal.”

“But where did she come from?”

“Blinkett Street.”

“And where is Blinkett Street?” His sister’s voice continued to climb octaves. “I thought you were going to get the ruby?”

“Darbin and I went to Blinkett Street to recover the ruby. But then, well, there were complications.”

She fixed her deep blue eyes on his as if waiting for a more complete explanation. A muscle in her lip twitched, and he was uncertain if she was going to yell or cry.

She finally spoke. “Complications?” She began to pace. “No,
no. A complication is an unexpected guest for a dinner party. This is a . . . disaster. The woman is bleeding, Jonathan. Bleeding. And her gown is soaked.”

“Please, keep your voice down.”

“Who is she?” Penelope demanded.

“Miss Iverness. She is the daughter of a shop owner. We—”

“You weren’t the one who harmed her, were you?”

“Egad, Penelope. Do you really think I am capable of something like this?”

“Well, what am I supposed to think? I certainly never, in my wildest dreams, would have ever thought that my fine, upstanding brother would bring a woman like this to our home in the dark of night.”

He drew a deep breath and blew it out before trying again to explain. “Darbin and I were attempting to recover the ruby. We found our man and thought it was going to change hands at her father’s shop. But apparently the scoundrel attempted to rob her . . . or worse. He assaulted her with a knife.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “And where is Mr. Darbin now?”

Jonathan looked back to Miss Iverness’s still form. “I am not certain. We were separated.”

“Well this is splendid, just splendid. Did anyone see you bring her here?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a great deal of difference,” she hurled back at him. “Our family’s name is already in shambles. The last thing we need is a scandal connecting you to some shopgirl who accompanies you to our home in the dark of night.”

“You are making much more out of this than the situation
warrants. Trust me. My interaction with a young lady is the least of our worries.”

“You are being very cavalier about this.”

He looked to the door to make sure their conversation had not woken any of the staff. “It would help if you would not become overwrought. The evening has been trying enough.”

“Overwrought?” she squeaked. “Overwrought? My brother brings a woman, unconscious and covered in blood, into my parlor and then tells me not to become overwrought? For all we know, she could be involved in this theft, and you invite her to our home.”

“As I explained, this young woman was being held at knifepoint when we arrived, and then she was injured. I don’t care who she is or what role she has in this situation, I could not leave a woman in peril.”

“What about me? Am I now not a woman in peril?” His sister’s expression immediately turned to a pretty pout, a practiced expression she could call upon at any time. “I was already the object of stares from the women at dinner at the Dowdens’ house tonight. Miss Marbury, who as you know is my most trusted friend and would never intentionally hurt me, informed me that our family was the unfortunate topic of conversation at tea the other day. If news of this should fully come to light, I stand to lose my fiancé. My friends. My entire future is at stake.”

“I do think you are exaggerating.”

“Am I? And did you consider whether or not whoever did this followed you here? Do you even consider our safety?” Penelope’s attention focused. “And what do we do with this Miss Iverness in the meantime?”

Jonathan ignored the onslaught of questions and focused on the last one. “We will put her in a guestroom for the night.”

“A guest in our home?” Penelope fiercely shook her head from side to side. “No, Jonathan. No, no, no.”

“I insist.” He’d seen the fear in Miss Iverness’s eyes. Heard the desperation in her voice. Even felt the force of her terror when she fought against him in the courtyard. And his actions had no doubt contributed to her plight. He was responsible now. He could not turn away. “She is in no condition to leave.”

Penelope’s jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed. “I will not have a shopkeeper’s daughter under the same—”

“Enough.” Jonathan had to put a stop to this. “She will stay here until she is well, I don’t care if she is a pauper or a duchess. And I expect you to be civil to her. She is a guest in our home, and you will treat her as such.”

Penelope diverted her eyes. Jonathan was well acquainted with her tendencies. His sister possessed a kind soul, but her concern for the opinion of others had the tendency to influence her treatment of others.

“Of course I will be civil, Jonathan,” she huffed, obviously offended. “I am not a monster. I would hate to see another woman in danger of any kind. But Father will be furious.”

“Father is not here.”

“He will find out. And what of the servants?” She tightened her robe around her. “There will be talk.”

“We shall tell them a friend of yours is visiting. They will not ask questions.”

“I doubt they will believe it.” Penelope stuck her nose in the air, reminding Jonathan of when she was ten years of age. “If you and I are to have any future at all, we had best find out what we can about the ruby. For without it, I have no dowry, and you have no estate.”

Chapter Ten

S
everal moments later, Camille came to consciousness with a start.

A strong ammonia scent wafted below her nose. She shook her head and opened her eyes.

Her surroundings were blurry. Foggy. Warm light shifted long shadows into focus.

She stirred ever so slightly. She moved her leg. Turned her head. But when she adjusted her arm, pain sliced through her. She bolted upright and cried out. At the movement, black stars darted across her vision, plunging her further into confusion.

“Shh. Be still. Do not move yet.” A female voice, soft and calm.

Camille’s heart thudded at the unrecognized voice, but eventually her vision cleared. A young woman with vibrant flax-colored hair sat next to her, leaning close.

Camille’s gaze darted from the blazing fire to the murals on the wall to the heavy velvet curtains obscuring the room’s two large windows. “Where am I?”

The woman smiled. “You are at the Gilchrist home. There now, be still.”

Camille looked down at the source of her pain. A tidy white bandage wrapped around her arm. The sight of it brought vivid memories of the night’s events rushing at her. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath as she relived the terror.

“You poor dear. You are quite pale.” The pretty blond woman’s lips turned downward in what appeared to be genuine concern. “Does it hurt so very much?”

Camille swallowed. Hurt? Each heartbeat brought agonizing tingling to her upper arm. The mere act of breathing seemed to send knives to her wound. And though a light rug covered her, her clothes felt wet and clammy. Why?

She needed to get home—to be somewhere alone with her thoughts and resolve in her mind how this all happened. She ignored the woman’s plea for her to remain still and struggled to sit up, gritting her teeth at the pain. “I will be fine, I am sure.”

“Yes you will.” A male voice, somehow familiar. Camille looked beyond the woman to a tall, fair-haired man. The sight of him kindled recognition.

This was the man from the alley. She had forgotten his name. She could not recall exactly how she had arrived at this house. But she did remember his kind tone.

“I fear the pain got the better of you,” he continued, stepping closer. His hair was wet and hung over his forehead, and his clothes appeared damp. “That or the blood loss. I’m afraid you lost consciousness. But do not concern yourself too much. All will be well in the end.”

Camille attempted to sit up once more, but her own wet clothing seemed intent upon keeping her captive. As she regained her senses, she became aware of how she must appear. Her gown and apron hugged her person, and her hair had come loose from its pins. She could feel it clinging to her face.

She glanced around the elegant room. She clearly was no longer on Blinkett Street. Mr. Gilchrist had brought her to the
kind of place to which she had not ventured since her youth—a home of gentility and wealth.

A place where a shopkeeper’s daughter did not belong.

She was not one to care what others thought of her—or at least she liked to think she did not. But as she took notice of her bloodstained sleeve and a tear in her skirt, hot tears began to burn. The thought that she—bloody and dirty—was marring this pristine home with these well-dressed people mortified her in a way she was certain she had never experienced.

“I am Penelope Gilchrist.” The woman’s voice was smooth, her gentle accent confirming that she was well-bred. “You know my brother, I believe.”