A little scorn is alluring…
William Congreve, The Way of the World
Jack Emerson’s scarred cheek creased, but Cyrus couldn’t be sure if the runner smiled or smirked. The tall thief taker had already folded himself into a chair and crossed one dusty boot over his opposite knee.
“I heard you found your flaxen-haired housebreaker.”
Cyrus stood behind his desk, one hand on the back of his chair. At the mention of Claire, he softened, his gaze flicking to the closed study door. He wanted to be with her. Truth be told, he didn’t want to attend details of a petty theft at one of his warehouses; they were a fact of business, something attended by others. Pentree’s message, however, made the matter sound dire.
“If you’re concerned about not getting the reward,” he said, “I’ll leave a portion with Sir John…compensation for your efforts.”
“Keep your gold, Ryland. I didn’t solve anything,” Emerson said, a faint brogue in his words. “You’re not the first nob to show up at Bow Street asking us to hunt down a woman.”
“It’s not what you think.”
Emerson’s smirk spread. “I’m sure it isn’t.”
Mr. Pentree hugged his folio to his chest, sitting in the chair beside the thief taker. His stare scuttled from Cyrus to Emerson. Cyrus could only guess his employee was trying to decipher what went on here.
Bow Street’s best slouched in the chair. Emerson’s manner reduced everyone to level standing, Cyrus could see it in his assessing eyes. But he had to acknowledge his burgeoning respect for a man who refused to be paid for a job he didn’t finish.
He gave Emerson a subtle nod. “Then may the recent events at Dark House Lane provide ample reward instead.” Cyrus took his seat, ready to listen. “What did you find?”
Mr. Pentree dug into his folio. “While Mr. Emerson inspected the warehouse, I compiled a list of the stolen items, their value and origin, as well as replacement costs.”
The agent passed a sheet of paper to Cyrus.
The document listed neat columns of words and numbers, but a flurry of carriages clattering through his driveway drew his attention outside. The wind of fast-moving vehicles blasted the footmen hanging on to the back. The luncheon was already over? Good.
Pentree cleared his throat. “Most of what was taken was minor and of little value. In fact, some of the crates taken were empty. Quite baffling.”
Cyrus glanced from the page to his agent. “And you did a thorough inventory?”
“Yes, sir. I combed the warehouse with Mr. Talbot, the Dark House Lane supervisor. What you see there is the extent of the thievery.”
Emerson withdrew paper and a lead stick from inside his coat. “I’d like a copy of that list.”
“I made one for you.” Pentree pushed up his spectacles and dug another paper from his folio.
When Emerson reached for the sheet, something metallic glinted from his wrist. He read the paper and put it on his lap, another quick flash of metal visible on his forearm. Was the thief taker carrying knives in his sleeves?
“The destruction to your sugar vats. There’s your trouble.” Emerson tapped the paper. “This isn’t about thievery. A business rival perhaps? Someone wants to get an edge on you.” His brows pressed together. “But there is another possibility…”
But the thief taker let his thought trail into silence, all while squinting at the paper as though he could dig more information from a list of words and numbers.
Cyrus looked over the list in front of him, finding nothing worthy of alarm. “What do you mean?”
“If this isn’t the work of a business rival, then I’d say there’s a distinct possibility someone’s giving you a warning.”
“A warning?” Pentree riffled through more papers.
“Someone wants your attention.” The thief taker scanned the list again, his finger tapping one spot. “Taking low-value items, that’s nothing. But damaging your vats dents your business.”
Pentree’s eyes rounded behind his spectacles. “Sir, the iron vats are completely ruined. They’ll have to be replaced. But I’ve no idea how long that’ll be. They’re forged in Brussels.”
“This isn’t simply about the end result. There’s how they went about damaging your vats. Acid was poured all over them. Something called spirits of salt,” Emerson explained. “Then whoever did this tossed salt everywhere. You won’t make or sell sugar for a long time.”
“Months,” Pentree added. “Many months, in fact, before the refinery is fully functioning again.”
“Less sugar for Londoners.” Emerson’s half smile returned. “There’s the slim chance this could be random destruction…angry foreign sailors leaving the Fox Tail…did their damage and left on the morning tides.” He shrugged then added, “Maybe East End lads out for a bit of fun.”
Cyrus dropped his list on the desk. “But that’s not what you think.”
“No. This has the feel of a calculated move.”
“There’s something else,” Pentree said. “The night watchman was found bludgeoned on the wharf. He survived, sir, but remains unconscious.”
Emerson’s eyes glittered like hard pieces of glass. “Given the ward he patrols, the attack might be related or might not. But he was found at the end of Dark House Lane.”
Pentree adjusted his spectacles, scooting forward in his seat. “Now you see why I’m not treating this as minor thievery.”
The thief taker began to fold his copy of the list. “I’d like to go back to the warehouse and—”
The study door burst open.
“Cyrus!”
He stood up, as did Emerson and Pentree, the reflexive nature of well-mannered men, when Lucinda rushed into the room. Her face was pale.
“Lucinda?” Cyrus hurried around his desk in time for her to collapse against him.
“I know you’re in a meeting,” she cried, her voice muffled against his sleeve. “But I must talk to you.”
He wrapped an arm over her shoulders and looked to Emerson and Pentree. “Gentlemen…”
Cyrus didn’t have to finish his words. The men nodded silently.
Pentree tucked his folio under his arm, speaking in hushed tones. “Sir, Mr. Emerson wants to visit the warehouse again. I’ll take him there now.”
“Thank you. Please alert me as soon as you find out anything, anything at all.”
The men took their leave and Cyrus withdrew his handkerchief for Lucinda. He settled her in the chair Pentree vacated and planted himself on the edge of his desk in front of her. He folded his arms loosely across his chest and waited. Lucinda wiped her eyes, her sniffles decreasing.
“Doing better?” he asked, gentling his voice.
She nodded, watery, woeful eyes searching him. “Something awful happened, Cyrus.”
Lucinda dabbed her reddened nose with the crumpled handkerchief. After living with seven sisters, he understood a good listening ear and patience with feminine tears was the best course of action.
“I’m not even sure…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked into the distance. “Everything was going so nicely; then some of the ladies started retching…right there on our floor.”
“Retching?”
“Yes. Something was terribly wrong with the pastries. It affected only a few ladies…not everyone had eaten them yet, but Lady Atherton and Miss Alcott claimed they were terribly salted.”
His body went still.
“You speak of Claire’s baked goods. Salted?” He couldn’t ignore the ugly chill from the news.
“Yes.” She blinked at him. “Though I don’t believe it was intentional, as some said. Miss Mayhew was terribly distressed.”
“Tell me everything. Start with what happened after I left.”
His sister relayed minor details mixed with salient facts. She started and stopped, looking to him when she stalled or forgot something. He nodded his encouragement, and Lucinda finished with the ladies demanding their carriages.
“And what of Claire?” he asked, not bothering with the social niceties of proper address. “What did she do?”
“After Lady Atherton accused her of salting the pastries on purpose, Belker and Lady Foster went with her…to the library, I think.” Lucinda’s hands twisted the handkerchief. “But I was tending the other guests.”
One hand fisted on his thigh. “And is Claire still here?”
“No. Belker arranged one of our carriages to take her home. She left from the mews. Then he went back to the kitchens to investigate—”
He moved off the desk and paced the room. The vats. The watchman. Claire…alone above her shop.
Lucinda sighed, slumping lower in her chair. “You ought to know the Duchess of Marlborough said some spiteful things to Miss Mayhew.”
“Such as?” He stopped at the settee and turned to face Lucinda.
“Something about a Lord Jonathan and an adventuress from Greenwich reaching above her station. She made similar unkind remarks when I was calling for the carriages, and that’s when Lady Foster took Miss Mayhew to another room.” Lucinda’s face crumpled. “What Her Grace said could easily apply to me…to us.”
“Luce,” he chided, but a mild sting touched him. The same high reach applied to him.
His lips firmed. He needed to extract himself carefully from Their Graces, though a great deal rode on the tentative connection. They assumed much between him and Lady Elizabeth.
“It’s true. I see how some ladies regard me when they don’t think I’m looking. Sometimes all I want to do is go back to Stretford.” She sighed wistfully. “Miss Mayhew is very brave.”
Miss Mayhew. Claire. His hand rested on the same back cushion where he’d first seen her and where she’d announced she was no lady. He couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s rather obvious, Cyrus. You’re in love.” Lucinda’s startling words broke the silence.
He looked at his sister, another daze setting in on an already baffling day.
Love?
Lust most definitely. Attraction and enjoyment, no argument there. But love? Dangerous, foreign territory.
“It’s written all over your face…the way you watch over her.” She smiled enough to show her dimple. “And I’ve never seen you fret over a gift before.”
He jammed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t fret.”
Lucinda chuckled sweetly over that, her dark brown curls bouncing on her shoulder. Then one hand slipped inside his coat, finding the spot over his heart where she’d caressed him a few nights ago.
Love?
The floor blurred. Yes, love.
He was a fool for not seeing, not knowing, and having his imp of a sister inform him of his state of being.
But then, he’d never been in love.
He moved off the settee and strode to his desk.
The salt.
The truth of something afoot demanded he act. First, the goings-on at Dark House Lane and now what happened in his own home. This couldn’t be a coincidence. He dragged hard on the bell rope near his desk.
“Cyrus, what are you doing?”
“I’ll be out tonight…all night.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Simon and Zach will be here within an hour. Peter should be along too. You’ll stay in with them. Understood?”
She nodded, her eyes rounding. Then he yanked open a drawer, revealing a row of iron keys. He knew which one to pocket.
Emerson’s words rang in his head: Someone wants your attention.