Thief of Hearts (45 page)

"Because I know it!" She unhooked her hands from the edge of her desk and willed herself to relax. She needed to keep calm; now was not the time to give in to emotion. But she felt like screaming.

"And the paperweight was in Brodie's right hand when you entered?"

She let her breath out slowly. "Yes."

"And you know it was Brodie's paperweight because you gave it to him."

She didn't trust her voice; she nodded once.

The big man surged to his feet. "All right."

She popped up in his wake. What did "All right" mean? she wondered frantically, following him to the door. "What will happen now? What are you going to do?"

He looked down at her with something like kindness. "There's no need for you to worry, Mrs. Balfour." She almost sagged with relief before he continued. "No matter what happens, Mr. Brodie's identity will remain a secret, to protect you. If he's guilty, I promise you he'll hang as Nicholas Balfour."

She lost all color. "He's innocent!" she hissed as he opened the door to the hall. "Where is he? Tell me, I have to see him." She tried to move past him.

Dietz's hold on her arm was unexpectedly forceful, though his voice was still mild. "Not yet, if you don't mind. We have a few more questions to ask him first. Then you can see him. It shouldn't be long."

But half an hour later, when she threw her door open and raced out to find him, the constable in the hall told her he'd been taken to police headquarters.

"Pearlman, are you telling me that he's not back yet?"

"No, mum, not yet."

"But it's after ten o'clock!"

"Yes, mum."

Anna unwound the light lace mantle from her shoulders and dropped it on a chair in the dressing room. She had come upon Pearlman in his master's room, turning the bedclothes down for the night. The valet searched her face discreetly, but he'd have let himself be sacked before he'd ask Mrs. Balfour what in the world was happening to her husband. Anna couldn't have told him anyway. News traveled fast; no doubt Pearlman already knew everything she knew. It wouldn't have surprised her if he knew more.

"Very well, that's all for tonight, there's no need for you to wait up."

"Very good, mum." The valet bowed politely and left the room.

Instead of going back to her room, Anna came all the way into Brodie's. Avoiding the mirror on the wardrobe door, she made a slow circuit of the room, letting her fingertips glide lightly over tabletops, curtains, the chest of drawers. The book on his bedside table was
Great Expectations
. Beside it was
Bell's
, his favorite sporting newspaper. His paisley dressing gown lay at the foot of the bed, neatly folded. The comb and brush on his bureau were spotless; a bottle of macassar oil was tightly stoppered and unused, but another bottle beside it was half empty. She picked it up and opened it. The scent that escaped unlocked a flood of memories. It was the cologne he wore sometimes, grudgingly, but more often since she'd told him she liked it. Without guilt, she opened his top drawer. Handkerchiefs and collars and the scant jewelry he possessed. A small box in the back. With a tiny stab of guilt now, she pulled it toward her and opened it.

And smiled. He'd said he'd given up smoking, but evidently it hadn't been a clean break. She took out a rolled cigarette and held it between her middle and index fingers, turning her hand to study the effect. She brought it to her nose and sniffed. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant. She put the tip to her lips and inhaled, blowing imaginary smoke up and out, the way she'd seen Milly do it this afternoon. An affectation, indeed.

Go to him. Trust yourself
. She'd taken Milly's advice, but she'd been too late. Horace Carter's revelation had rendered her new faith in Brodie meaningless. She would live with that mistake for the rest of her life.

She replaced the cigarette in the box and closed the drawer. Restless, she crossed to the bed. Where was he? He couldn't still be at the police station! And if he was, what were they doing to him? She'd spent the last two hours at the Dougherty house in St. George Street, offering condolences on behalf of her family to Martin's spinster sister. The news of his death had arrived there before Anna, so at least she'd been spared that. Victorine Dougherty was a silly, flighty woman, but her grief was heavy and real. Anna had felt helpless in the face of it. It astonished and dismayed her to realize how little she had really known Martin. He'd worked at Jourdaine for as long as she could remember, although he was only middle-aged. With the friends and neighbors who had come to console his sister, she'd tried to dredge up memories of him, kindly or good-humored anecdotes about him for Victorine's benefit, but without much success. Once Brodie had told her Martin reminded him of a piano; she'd seen the resemblance, laughed at it. Mentioning it tonight hardly seemed appropriate. When she thought of him at all she thought of a serious, rather dour man, who had done his work competently and kept to himself, rarely socializing. But Victorine would miss him, he was all she had and the financial stability of which Anna had privately assured her seemed paltry in comparison to her loss. Who could have killed him? Who could have had enough motive, enough passion to murder so viciously such a quiet, seemingly passionless man?

Not Brodie. She put out her hand to touch his dressing gown. Unable to help herself, she picked it up and held it to her bosom, breathing in the scent of him that lingered in its silky folds. Oh, my dear. My love. I've lost you.

Weeping now, she lay across his bed. Barely a week ago they'd lain on it together. She remembered the night she'd first come to him here, in his room, asking him to love her. He never would again. Memories were all she had now, all she would ever have. She closed her eyes and dreamed of him.

Morning light shone pale and grudging. She blinked in its surly gleam and sat up on her elbows. She was alone. The bed was still made; she was still in her clothes. Had he come, seen her, and gone away? The thought was wrenching, but an instinct told her it hadn't happened. Then where was he?

Her toilette was hasty and thoughtless. Judith was more silent than usual. I should've let Brodie discharge you, Anna mused as the maid buttoned her into a white lace chemisette and maroon silk skirt. It was too early for breakfast; she didn't want it anyway. She would check on her father, would he remember Dougherty? miss him at all and then quietly leave the house for the office. If Brodie wasn't there, her mind shut down; with a jolt of despair, she realized she couldn't think past the next hour or so of her life.

But Stephen was in the hall. Had he been waiting for her?

"He's been arrested."

She held onto the bannister, focusing intently, willing herself not to shout out, not to cry. "What are you talking about?"

Stephen looked as if he hadn't slept at all; he still wore the clothes he'd worn yesterday. "Nick's in gaol. They're saying he murdered Dougherty."

"It's a lie," she said weakly. She was in the act of sinking, sitting down on the second-to-last step, when she saw her aunt come out of the drawing room.

She wore her nightgown under a brown satin robe. Night cream slicked the flaccid folds of skin on her face; her hair was plaited in a long gray braid over one shoulder. Anna had time to think she looked younger, she looked almost pretty, before her strident voice sent all thoughts flying. "This is what comes of marrying beneath you. I told Thomas, but he wouldn't listen. Now see what's happened."

John? She wanted, longed to say his name out loud, but she couldn't. "Nicholas?"

"He's been arrested!"

Somehow she came the rest of the way clown the stairs, into the hall. "Where's Reese? I need the carriage."

"Are you out of your mind?" Aunt Charlotte put her hand out. Expecting sympathy in spite of everything, Anna let it rest on her arm until she felt the anger in it. Then she flinched away. "You can't go there!" her aunt cried, horrified.

"Please get out of my way."

"Anna! Think! He's in gaol for murdering that man. You can't go there. You have to begin to distance yourself from him. No one will think less of you... you were only married three months. You can have it annulled, no one—"

"Let me go!"

"Let her go," echoed Stephen. She sent him a grateful look, but his face froze her in motion. "I'll have it now," he gloated, grinning. "The power of attorney, everything. And there's nothing you can do. Go to him, what difference does it make? You deserve each other."

It took all her self-control not to strike him.

"If you leave this house, I'll move out. I mean it!" Aunt Charlotte's shiny cheeks were beet-red, her thickset figure quaking with indignation.

Anna's own fury brought a freezing-cold calm. "You won't have to. I'll move. Get out of my way."

But her aunt was rooted, immovable. In the end, Anna shoved past her, and something in her enjoyed the physical contact, the near-violence that finally propelled her aunt out of the way.

She walked to the police station, her mind in a chaotic whirl of worry and determination and residual anger. The eastern sun was in her eyes, piercing them. She was perspiring by the time she arrived.

"He's not here," a man in a uniform told her when she demanded to speak to her husband. Afterward, she couldn't remember what she said to him. She remembered waiting, and then another man, not in uniform, speaking to her. "Mr. Balfour's been released in Mr. Dietz's custody, ma'am." He said something about the Ministry, something about a different jurisdiction, she hardly heard.
Where was he
? "He should be at the docks by now, ma'am; he was going there this morning, he said, in case we needed him."

The docks! She hired a carriage in the street and told the driver to take her to the shipyard. Why hadn't he come home? She sat, numb with misery as the city passed unseen out the window, kneading her skirts with her fingers, blind with confusion. The need to see him was like a sickness now. It ate at her, scattering her thoughts. Her heart felt shredded. When she arrived at the north yard she ran toward the brick building in the center, oblivious to the workmen watching her, tipping their caps in amazement. She'd done this yesterday, an indistinct voice reminded her. But Martin Dougherty had been dead then and she'd been too late. This time she must not be. She raced up the steps, unnaturally aware of the dust in their corners, the grainy pattern of oak in the risers. Her hand shook when she reached for the knob of Brodie's door and threw it open.

"Get the hell out of here. Now!"

Anna stopped dead. Her eyes darted between the faces of the two men who stood at opposite sides of Brodie's desk, confronting each other. One was Brodie, the other was Aiden. The tension between them was thick, nearly visible. For a second she thought of yielding to Brodie's harsh command, then elected to ignore it. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, wide-eyed. "No, I won't. Not until you talk to me." She jumped when he hammered his fist on the desk and barked out a truly vile oath, but she didn't move from the door. She had never seen him so angry. "John, I'm not leaving. What is the matter? What's happened?" Brodie only glared. She thought she saw something else in his eyes besides antagonism: she thought she saw fear. "Aiden? Will one of you tell me what's wrong? I won't leave until you do."