The Curiosity Keeper (6 page)

They watched the man from their location across the street as he stopped before the shop’s main entrance. The shadows hid the actions, but after several moments the door seemed to open. The man disappeared inside.

“Let’s go.” Darbin took several steps forward.

“Wait.” Jonathan grabbed him by the arm. “What are you doing?”

“We are going to go get your ruby.”

“You mean just walk in and ask him politely?” Jonathan made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

“No. We are going to take it.” Darbin pulled a knife from his belt and thrust it in Jonathan’s hands. “You might need this.”

Dumbstruck, Jonathan took the knife.

“Think you can handle that?” Darbin raised an eyebrow.

Jonathan swallowed. “Of course I can.”

“I know you Gilchrists prefer to arm yourselves with pistols. Your brother was the best shot I ever saw.” Darbin chuckled. “But I don’t suppose a man in your profession has much to do with firearms, eh?”

Jonathan stiffened. When he did not respond, Darbin nodded to the knife. “Tuck it somewhere safe, out of sight.”

Jonathan stared at the weapon in his hands. The sensation of danger throbbed fresh within him. The idea of using a knife as a weapon flew in the face of everything he believed in. He was a healer, or at least that was what he tried to do. He could not use a weapon against another man.

Or could he?

Darbin retrieved a pistol from his coat and tucked it in his breeches, oblivious to Jonathan’s concerns. “Come on, then. Don’t just stand there like a lump when there is a task at hand.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to protest. Then a strange energy surge through him. Now was the one time he needed to step away from what was comfortable. He slid the blade into his boot.

Jonathan hurried to keep pace with Darbin as they crossed
Blinkett, ignoring the filth splashing up from the cobbled street with each step.

Darbin stopped just to the right of the shop’s window, his back against the stone wall. Jonathan pressed in beside him.

But then, as they stood there, the sound of breaking glass echoed from the confines of the shop, followed by a scream.

Jonathan jumped. He had almost forgotten about the young woman he had seen earlier in the evening. They had seen Iverness leave the shop, but no one else, so the woman had to still be inside.

Another loud cry from within, followed by a stream of threatening obscenities. What was going on in that shop?

Jonathan started for the door, but Darbin grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Do you hear that woman?”

“Yes, but be patient,” Darbin whispered.

Another shriek sliced the air.

Jonathan turned to his side, just enough to look through the dirty windows. Dim candlelight showed a large, shadowy figure grappling with a woman of much smaller stature.

A fire lit in his belly. He could not just stand here waiting, pretending he did not see. He stepped around Darbin and headed for the door.

“What in blazes are you doing?” Darbin hissed, his face twisting with frustration.

Jonathan did not respond.

“Don’t be a fool!” warned Darbin. “You’ll ruin everything.”

Jonathan hesitated. “But surely she’s no match for him. We must do something.”

“Camille Iverness can take care of herself. Interrupt now,
and McCready will know we are on to him. Do you want your ruby back or not? We must act rationally.”

“I am.” Jonathan bent to pull the blade from his boot, then reached for the door handle.

Camille drew a sharp breath as the door burst open. Her attacker noticed the sound as well. His grip slackened slightly as he looked toward the front of the store.

Camille seized the moment.

She held her breath and pushed her arm out with all her might. The distraction allowed her just enough room to duck out of the man’s grasp. She threw her weight forward, slamming into a cluttered table. The din of glass shattering and metal objects clanking against the floor was almost drowned by loud male voices.

She didn’t even try to listen to what they said. She had to get out.

Someone grabbed her arm from behind. She was trapped, pinned by the table and the darkness. She glanced toward the door. The sight of two shadowed figures fueled her fear and ignited her strength.

Then she heard a pistol cock.

She jerked and twisted, trying to wrench herself free, and then pain, hot and searing, sliced into her other arm, just above her elbow. The pain blurred her vision. Had she been shot? Cut with the knife? She couldn’t tell. She had never felt either. The only thing that mattered now was breaking free and getting to safety.

She grabbed a metal candlestick and hurled it behind her. A thud and a grunt told her it had hit its mark, and then she was free. She grabbed her arm as she lunged away from her attacker. The sleeve felt sticky. Wet.

She knocked more items from another table to make it even more difficult to be followed.

Memory of the store’s layout guided her through the darkness and toward the back room. But with each step she felt less steady and the pain increased. She pulled the curtain aside and stumbled through the space until she fell against the back door, the knob jamming into her side. A little light filtered in through the small back window. Only a few more steps and she would be free.

Chapter Eight

C
amille’s legs wouldn’t move quickly enough. She felt as if she were running in quicksand, as if the shop’s floor was grabbing her ankles and refusing to allow her passage. Pain still seared her arm, and the warm, sticky wetness had covered her palm. She pressed her other hand hard against the wound. She dared not stop to tend it now.

Behind her, the shouts and crashing noises continued. Blood pounded in her head, crying out a warning cadence. Then the sound of footsteps filled the dark room behind her, echoing a threat with each footfall.

A cry escaped her lips, whether from the pain or the fear she did not know. She fumbled with the doorknob, but her sticky hand slipped on the cold metal. Frantic, she jerked and twisted it with both hands until it finally gave way.

Night air, damp and thick, rushed her, filling her lungs. She lurched from the doorway. Rain pummeled, confusing her senses all the more. The tiny walled courtyard behind the shop, which should have seemed so familiar, loomed alien and sinister.

“Wait, wait!”

She did not look back to see who called to her. She lifted her skirt and ran toward the gate that led to the alley. A battered crate blocked her way. She tried to push it aside, but someone grabbed her arm again, pulling her backward.

Infused with sheer terror, Camille flailed and fought, desperate to free herself from the strong hands that held her.

“Stop.” The voice was calm and deep. “I’ll not hurt you.”

She heard the words, but the meaning did not penetrate her alarm. She flung her fists at the man, beating with all the strength her frame could muster. But the more she fought, the stronger he seemed to become, and the more she despaired of escape.

Only as her fortitude and breath waned did she begin to realize that this man’s voice was different from that of the stranger with the blade.

She ventured a glance and saw a broad-shouldered man with a white neckcloth. Light hair. No cape.

It was not the same man.

But who was it?

Chest heaving, her lungs starved for air, Camille slowed her movements. Still he did not fight her.

When she was certain she could speak, she dug deep for her customary bravado. She had to sound confident, in control. “Let go of me.”

The stranger complied, holding his gloved hands up as if proclaiming innocence. “I am here to help.” He glanced behind him at the gaping back door of the shop. “He is gone. At least I think he is.”

Camille looked to the door. All was quiet save for her gulps for air. No more shouts. No more breaking glass.

Relief rushed her, but she could not relax. She trusted no one—especially someone who would be on Blinkett Street after dusk.

“Who are you?” she gasped.

“Jonathan Gilchrist.” The man’s voice was soft. Soothing. “But your arm. It must be tended to.”

She looked down at her limb as if the injury was an afterthought. The moonlight was faint, but even in the dim glow it afforded, she could see the dark stain on her sleeve. On her hand.

A different kind of panic rushed her as the stain registered.

Blood.

Her
blood.

The arm began to shake uncontrollably.

As if sensing her trepidation, he reached for it, his movement slow. But she snatched her hand back. “Leave me.”

“I can help,” he offered. “I am an apothecary.”

She looked up at his shadowed face, several inches above her own.

He was too close. She stepped back but continued to stare, trying to make out his features, as if by doing so she could in some way judge his trustworthiness.

But her injury would not wait. Each heartbeat thrust fresh pain through her arm. Her chest grew hot, her head light. She could feel the blood dripping from her fingers. She needed help, and where else would she find it on Blinkett Street now that night had fallen?

She bit her lower lip and, fighting reluctance, extended her arm toward him.

At her motion, the man snapped into action. He pulled the torn sleeve away from the wound with a gentle touch and angled her arm to try to see it better in the moonlight. But then he shook his head. “It’s too dark here.”

Pulling off his neckcloth, he pressed it against the wound
and wrapped it tight. Camille winced in pain, trying to fight back the tears that welled with each movement.

“I know it hurts,” he said, “but this will help slow the bleeding.”

She nodded in the darkness.

“Come with me,” he continued, tying off the knot. “We must get you out of here and to somewhere we can tend it properly.”

Camille stiffened. She couldn’t leave the shop—and with a man she did not know? The very thought was foreign.

But the next thought came with equal fervor:
Why would I stay?

Her life had been threatened. Her father had left her alone—again—to pursue one of his clandestine business arrangements. He’d invited the murderous stranger to their door and not bothered to meet the man there. He’d even taken Tevy, her one defense against anyone stronger than her. Why should she risk her life to stay and guard his treasures?

“Where will we go?” she asked.

“Is there somewhere safe I can take you—a friend or family member, perhaps?” When she didn’t respond, he spoke. “I’ll take you to my family’s house here in London. My sister is there, she will be able to help.”

But Camille hesitated, tied to the shop in spite of herself. “I cannot go. This is my shop, this is my—”

Urgency heightened his voice. “Miss, I don’t know if that man is coming back. But I would advise you not be here if he does.”

“But my father—”

“Your father is not here. And I cannot, will not, leave you here alone.”

She tried to process his words, to figure out a sensible plan,
but her brain felt foggy. The thoughts running through her head did not seem to make sense.

She could not leave. The door was open. Things were broken. She needed to be there when her father came home.

But that might not be until morning.

Her head spun.

“It isn’t far,” he was saying. “And I have a carriage waiting a few streets over. Can you walk?”

She should protest. She should try to find her way to safety—wherever it was that safety lay. Or she should go back inside, lock the door, secure the money box . . .

Another crash echoed from inside.

She jumped in fear, alarm coursing through every vein in her body.

He held his finger to his lips and nodded toward the alley gate.

Chapter Nine

J
onathan offered the young woman his arm, and Miss Iverness laid a paper-light hand on his sleeve. Her wet hair clung to the curves of her face, and the stark white make-shift bandage seemed to glow in the murky darkness. He winced to see that blood was already seeping through.

It was not so much the sight of her blood that affected him. He had tended far more grievous injuries. But knowing his actions might have played a role in her injury tore at him. Darbin had warned him about acting brashly—and he had done just that.

He held his finger to his lips to signal her silence. The last thing they needed was to attract attention. She nodded, then looked straight ahead.

He guided her across the courtyard, assisting her as she stepped over the crate. The gate at the end opened to a narrow alley. Leaning out to look, he realized it led to Blinkett Street. He listened for further sounds of trouble, but no angry shouts met his ears, no pounding of boots on the cobbled surface—only the music from the public house and the occasional bout of laughter.

As they emerged from the alley onto Blinkett, Jonathan peered back down the street, squinting to make out figures in the deepening mist.

Where was Darbin?

After the initial confusion in the tiny shop, Darbin had chased after McCready, and Jonathan had followed Miss Iverness. He could only guess as to Darbin’s whereabouts now.