Savdek Management
Featuring: Miss Cara Di Abaccio; Hugo Adair; Barnaby Adair
ISBN: 1925559114 EAN: 9781925559118 Kindle: B07BJNR82M Paperback / e-Book Add to Wish List
THE CONFOUNDING CASE OF THE
CARISBROOK EMERALDS is the sixth book in the Casebook of Barnaby Adair
historical mystery series by Stephanie Laurens. Although the heroine of
this story, Miss Cara Di Abaccio, has a low-key courtship with the
dashing Hugo Adair, the focus in this book is the mystery of the
Carisbrook emeralds. After the death of her parents in Italy, Cara goes
to stay with her mother's family in England. She is welcomed with open
arms by everyone, except treated with disdain by her uncle's wife, the
intimidating Lady Carisbrook. When Lady Carisbrook's gaudy emerald
necklace and earring set goes missing, Lady Carisbrook is quick to
point the finger of suspicion at Cara. The familiar characters to
investigate this mystery, and Stephanie Laurens' ability to make the
reader feel totally immersed in this investigation, make THE CONFOUNDING CASE OF THE
CARISBROOK EMERALDS such a treat.
Luckily for Cara, nobody, including the authorities, believes she is a
thief, except for Lady Carisbrook. Inspector Stokes rounds up detective
Barnaby Adair and his crime-solving crew to help solve the mystery and
clear Cara of any wrongdoing. A few of the ladies in the case also
manage to fit in a little matchmaking between Cara and the obviously
smitten Hugo Adair. The investigators, both professional and the
amateur, are extremely methodical in their approach to figuring out
what exactly happened and who is involved. Each investigator has
individual strengths according to their abilities and background, which
greatly help the investigation. When a death occurs, everyone must try
to deduce if it is connected in any way to the disappearance of the
emeralds, an accident, or something more sinister.
THE CONFOUNDING CASE OF THE
CARISBROOK EMERALDS is a superb drawing room mystery with a
hint of romance. As always, I love the way Stephanie Laurens writes a
wide array of intelligent female characters and men who respect a
woman's intelligence and abilities. I look forward to the next exciting
installment in this Casebook of
Barnaby Adair series.
#1 New York Times-bestselling author Stephanie Laurens
brings you a tale of emerging and also established love and
the many facets of family, interwoven with mystery and murder.
A young lady accused of theft and the gentleman who elects
himself her champion enlist the aid of Stokes, Barnaby,
Penelope, and friends in pursuing justice, only for the
investigators to find themselves tangled in a web of
inter-family tensions and secrets.
When Miss Cara Di Abaccio is accused of stealing the
Carisbrook emeralds by the infamously arrogant Lady
Carisbrook and marched out of her guardian's house by
Scotland Yard's finest, Barnaby Adair's cousin Hugo Adair
takes umbrage and descends on Scotland Yard, breathing fire
in Cara's defense.
Hugo discovers Inspector Stokes has been assigned to the
case, and after surveying the evidence thus far, Stokes
calls in his big guns when it comes to dealing with
investigations in the ton—namely, the Honorable Barnaby
Adair and his wife, Penelope.
Soon convinced of Cara's innocence and, given Hugo's
apparent tendre for Cara needing to clear her name, Penelope
and Barnaby join Stokes and his team in pursuing the
emeralds and, most importantly, who stole them.
But the deeper our intrepid investigators delve into the
Carisbrook household, the more certain they become that all
is not as it should be. Lady Carisbrook is a harpy, Franklin
Carisbrook is secretive, Julia Carisbrook is overly timid,
and Lord Carisbrook, otherwise a genial and honorable
gentleman, holds himself distant from his family. More, his
lordship attempts to shut down the investigation. And
Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope are convinced the Carisbrooks'
staff are not sharing all they know.
Meanwhile, appointed Cara's watchdog until the mystery is
resolved, Hugo, fascinated by Cara as he's been with no
other, seeks to entertain and amuse her…and, increasingly
intently, to discover the way to her heart. Consequently,
Penelope finds herself juggling the attractions of the
investigation and the Adair family's demands for her to
actively encourage the budding romance.
What would her mentors advise? On that, Penelope is
crystal clear.
Aided by Griselda, Violet, and Montague and calling on
contacts in business, the underworld, and ton society,
Penelope, Barnaby, and Stokes battle to peel back each layer
of subterfuge and, step by step, eliminate the innocent and
follow the emeralds' trail…
Yet instead of becoming clearer, the veils and shadows
shrouding the Carisbrooks only grow murkier…until, abruptly,
our investigators find themselves facing an inexplicable
death, with a potential murderer whose conviction would
shake society to its back teeth.
Excerpt
April 7, 1839 London"Where is she?"
The feminine bellow echoed through the front hall and into
the breakfast parlor, where Cara Di Abaccio was seated at
the table with her cousins, Franklin and Julia Carisbrook.
Startled, all three raised their heads; together with the
butler, Jarvis, and the footman, Jeremy, they stared at the
doorway.
A heartbeat passed, then in a rush of heavy footsteps and
angrily swishing skirts, Cara's aunt, Livia, Lady
Carisbrook, stormed into the room. She was a tall,
full-figured woman with dark hair, perennially pinched
features, and jet-black eyes. Currently garbed in a frilly
and much-beribboned dressing gown, her hair restrained
beneath a silk nightcap, Lady Carisbrook halted just inside
the door. Her face contorting in fury, she raised one arm
and pointed at Cara. "There you are, you conniving little
thief!"
Her eyes growing even rounder, Cara stared in utter
incomprehension. "Aunt…?"
"Don't you ‘aunt' me! I always knew you were a sly little
trollop—I warned Humphrey how it would be. But would he
listen? No—of course not! He had to give house room to his
scandalous sister's get, and worse, he insisted you be
treated as part of the family, living alongside Franklin and
Julia. Pshaw!" Her cheeks mottled with rage, Lady
Carisbrook advanced on the table. "And now, miss, we see the
result. My emeralds—the Carisbrook emeralds—are gone!"
Lady Carisbrook flung her hands in the air. "Vanished!" She
returned her gaze, black eyes flashing, to Cara. "You've
been here four weeks, just long enough to learn what's what,
and now, you've stolen the emeralds."
Feeling as if she was having a bad dream, Cara set down her
knife and fork and slowly shook her head. "No, aunt. I haven't—"
"Don't bother denying it. The emeralds—necklace,
earrings, case, and all—are gone, and we all know who took
them!" Lady Carisbrook cast Cara a look brimming with
loathing and contempt; her lip all but curled. "You're the
only foreigner in the house."
With that unarguable pronouncement, Lady Carisbrook turned
her adamantine gaze on Franklin and Julia, seated opposite
Cara and as stunned as she. "Make sure the thieving minx
remains in this room until the police arrive."
All the blood drained from Cara's face, from her head.
Giddy, she stared at Lady Carisbrook while Franklin and
Julia, equally white-faced and flabbergasted, did the same.
Until then standing frozen behind the pair, Jarvis shot a
wide-eyed look over their heads at Jeremy.
Commandingly, Lady Carisbrook swung toward the butler.
"Jarvis—send for Scotland Yard. Inform them we have a thief
they need to come and take away."
Without another glance at any of them, Lady Carisbrook
stalked from the room.
Leaving behind a stunned silence and a cloud of foreboding.
* * *
Sergeant Wilkes stepped over the threshold of Lord
Carisbrook's John Street town house in a state of nervous
trepidation.
A veteran of the force, Wilkes did not like the looks of
this assignment; handling crimes in Mayfair was very
definitely not his beat. His bad luck that it was Sunday
morning, and he'd been the senior man on duty when the
Carisbrook footman had come in to report the theft of a set
of priceless emeralds. Still, according to the footman, the
household had already apprehended the thief and merely
required the villain to be clapped in shackles and hauled to
the station to be charged. Such action was well within
Wilkes's scope, and he'd brought Constable Fitch to assist
if necessary.
With Fitch at his heels, Wilkes had followed the footman
down the area steps and through the staff door. Wilkes
looked ahead as the shadows of a long, unadorned passageway
closed around them, and he spied a tall, lean, middle-aged
butler waiting at the corridor's end.
Wilkes removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and told
himself he could manage this. He walked up to the butler and
halted. "Sergeant Wilkes of Scotland Yard." He flicked a
hand over his shoulder. "And this is Constable Fitch. We
understand you've had a spot of bother."
The butler's features remained rigid. "Indeed." With a
fractional inclination of his head, he turned. "If you will
come this way."
Wilkes wanted to ask about the emeralds and the thief, but
he assumed he'd have his answers soon enough, so he held his
tongue and, in his heavy boots, clomped behind the butler up
a narrow staircase and into the front hall.
Before Wilkes realized what the man was about, the butler
strode to a door, opened it, walked inside, and announced,
"Two officers from Scotland Yard, ma'am. As you requested. A
Sergeant Wilkes and a Constable Fitch."
From within the room came a cold female voice. "Excellent.
Show them in, Jarvis."
Despite his rush of nervousness, Wilkes's feet carried him
on. He only just had time to register the oddity in the
butler's words—As you requested? Why had the man phrased
it like that?—before he found himself entering a
drawing room.
A gorgon sat on a sofa set perpendicular to the fireplace in
which a cheery fire blazed. Through beady black eyes, she
watched Wilkes advance. Her lips were thin and tightly
pursed, and her expression stated more loudly than words
that she was unimpressed by what she saw.
Wilkes halted on the fringed edge of a thick rug that looked
expensive. Feeling Fitch halt just behind him, Wilkes
essayed an awkward bow. Straightening, he adopted his
blandest expression and assumed he was facing the lady of
the house. "Lady Carisbrook. We understand your staff have
apprehended a thief."
"Exactly."
The lady's voice—tone and diction—reminded Wilkes of steel
being sharpened.
Lady Carisbrook continued, "My husband's foreign-born niece
has stolen the Carisbrook emeralds. You need to take her
away, find out what she did with my jewels, and return them
to me." Lady Carisbrook stared at Wilkes for three seconds,
then waved her hand in arrogant dismissal. "You may go."
Wilkes blinked. Behind him, Fitch shifted his weight. Wilkes
cleared his throat. "If I could ask, my lady, if the
girl—your husband's niece—stole the emeralds, where are they
now?"
Lady Carisbrook frowned. "It's your job to find out, Sergeant."
Wilkes clamped down on the desire to retreat. "When was the
last time the jewels were seen, ma'am?"
"I wore them last night. When I returned to the house, I put
them in their case and left the case on my dressing table.
This morning, after the Italian girl delivered my breakfast,
I saw the case was gone."
Wilkes frowned. "But you didn't see her take the case?"
"No. But I was hardly watching her every move."
"Has the girl left the house since the jewels went missing?"
Wilkes flicked a glance at the butler—Jarvis—who had moved
to stand to one side, maintaining a clear line of sight to
the gorgon.
At Wilkes's question, Jarvis's expression grew even more rigid.
In contrast, Lady Carisbrook bent an uncomprehending look on
Wilkes. "I'm sure I don't know."
Wilkes exchanged a sidelong glance with Fitch, then drew
breath and stated, "In that case, my lady, we'll need to
speak with the rest of the household and search the premises."
"Good God, no!" Lady Carisbrook looked utterly appalled. "I
won't have police tramping through my house—the very idea!
Especially as there's no reason whatever to put us all out.
The matter is simple—the Italian girl stole my emeralds.
Search her and her room by all means and then take her away.
I refuse to harbor a foreign criminal under my roof for an
instant longer!"
Wilkes's heart was steadily sinking; so much for his hopes
of a straightforward case. In his experience, when one of
the upper ten thousand suggested a case was a "simple
matter," invariably, said case proved anything but.
Lady Carisbrook continued, "No one else could possibly be
the thief—our staff have all been with us for years. It's
perfectly obvious that Cara Di Abaccio is the culprit." Lady
Carisbrook pointed at the door—this time accompanying the
gesture with an arrogantly commanding look. "Do your job,
Sergeant, and remove her from this house!"
Wilkes was out of his depth. He bowed to her ladyship,
turned, and with Fitch beside him, made for the door.
Jarvis moved to hold the door for them, then followed them
from the room. After closing the door with a soft click, the
butler paused, looking at Wilkes. Jarvis hesitated, but
then, strengthening what appeared to be a rigid control over
his features and especially his tongue, offered, "Miss Di
Abaccio is in the breakfast parlor with her cousins—Mr.
Franklin Carisbrook and Miss Julia Carisbrook. If you'll
come this way."
Wilkes cocked an eyebrow at Fitch, who dutifully pulled out
his notebook and started scribbling as they walked.
Jarvis led them to a room on the other side of the house.
Wilkes followed Jarvis inside. A highly polished round table
with six straight-backed chairs arranged around it stood at
the center of the room, and a sideboard sporting numerous
covered dishes sat against one wall. Large windows looked
out on a small square of garden and admitted the weak
sunlight of the April morning, illuminating the three people
seated about the table.
A gentleman in his mid- to late twenties with dark-brown
hair and a young lady of perhaps twenty-one years sat facing
the door; they looked up as Wilkes and Fitch entered. Their
features were tense. Both looked helpless; their gazes
locked on Wilkes as if hoping he would rescue them. From
what, he had no idea.
The third person at the table was another young lady. Glossy
black hair hung in heavy ringlets from an artfully fashioned
knot at the back of her head; when she swung to look at
Wilkes, he saw that the black mane was drawn severely back
the better to reveal a countenance of quite startling
loveliness. Wide, black-lashed, emerald eyes fixed on his
face. The young lady had a finely drawn and straight, if
longish, nose—a Roman nose without a doubt—and her lips were
deep rose and lushly curved above a softly rounded but
determined chin.
From the honeyed tint of her complexion, Wilkes took her to
be the Italian girl—Miss Cara Di Abaccio, their supposed thief.
Wilkes halted a few paces into the room and managed to
suppress a disbelieving snort. He'd collared more thieves
than he could count, but, he reminded himself, this was the
ton, and he knew better than to allow appearances to sway
him. Still…
He favored the three with a short bow. "I'm Sergeant Wilkes,
and this is Constable Fitch. We've been sent by Scotland
Yard in response to Lady Carisbrook's summons."
Wilkes studied the three faces turned his way; all remained
pale and expectantly tense, as if waiting for some axe to
fall. He wouldn't have said he was a sensitive sort, yet
even he felt certain that there was more going on than
simply a misplaced accusation of theft.
He returned his attention to Miss Di Abaccio.
She met his gaze steadily, but, he sensed, with bated breath.
"Miss Di Abaccio. As I assume you are aware, Lady Carisbrook
has accused you of stealing her emeralds."
"I didn't take them." Cara Di Abaccio's voice was low and
husky. She shook her head. "I would never do such a thing."
She spoke calmly, evenly—with transparent honesty. But
underneath, Wilkes sensed she was afraid.
Afraid of what?
Given he couldn't be sure, Wilkes merely inclined his head
in acknowledgment of her statements; he could hear the
scritch of Fitch's pencil as he jotted down her
words. "Be that as it may, miss, we need you to come with us."
For an instant, he wondered if she would resist, but then,
slowly, she pushed to her feet. She drew in a deep breath
and tipped up her chin. "Very well, Sergeant." Then her
façade wavered, and her fear shone through. "May I fetch my
coat and bonnet?"
Her uncertainty—the underlying vulnerability—tugged at
Wilkes, and he hurried to assure her, "This will probably
just be temporary, miss. Just until we can figure out what
happened. And—" He paused, then, looking into her wide eyes,
went on. "As it happens, we'll need to search your room,
miss, so you'll have time to collect whatever you want to
take with you."
Her expression eased enough to be noticeable.
Wilkes darted a glance around the room. His words had
lowered the tension in all those watching—not just in her
two cousins but in Jarvis and the silent footman, too.
Wilkes shot a glance at Fitch and saw his own dawning
understanding reflected in the constable's eyes. No one in
that room believed Cara Di Abaccio was the thief—that she'd
been the one to take the Carisbrook emeralds.
Everyone thought Lady Carisbrook had chosen her as a scapegoat.
Wilkes swallowed a groan. Ton cases—they were never
straightforward.
"Thank you, Sergeant." Miss Di Abaccio nodded in patent
gratitude. She glanced once—fleetingly—at her cousins, then
looked at Jarvis. "Perhaps, then, we should go to my room."
Jarvis signaled to the footman. "Henry will show you up."
Wilkes softly humphed, but didn't argue. Obviously, Cara Di
Abaccio knew the way to her own room, but Wilkes wasn't
averse to a non-Yard witness able to testify to anything
found—or not found—during the upcoming search.
Without another word, Cara Di Abaccio swept out of the room
and into the front hall. She paused to allow Henry to lead
the way up the main staircase, then followed. Wilkes trooped
behind her, with Fitch bringing up the rear.
Miss Di Abaccio's bedchamber was a smallish room on the
first floor, toward the end of one wing of the house and
facing the street. A medium-sized two-door armoire stood
against one side wall, with a modest dressing table next to
it. A washstand and a chest of drawers lined the opposite
wall, flanking a small fireplace with a neat fire still
smoldering in the grate. Opposite the door stood a tester
bed with a pretty chintz coverlet that matched the curtains
hanging at the windows to either side. A flat-topped
traveling chest draped with a colorful shawl sat at the
bed's foot.
The windows were shut against the noise rising from the
street. It was only early April; there was unlikely to have
been any reason the windows would have been opened for
months—not unless Cara Di Abaccio had wanted to toss a jewel
case to an accomplice waiting in the street.
Wilkes crossed to one window. A quick survey of the lock
showed it hadn't been unsnibbed recently—indeed, not for
some time.
Fitch had moved to check the other window. He looked at
Wilkes and infinitesimally shook his head, then turned to
survey the room.
After noting that the footman had taken up a stance against
the wall just inside the door and Cara Di Abaccio was
holding herself rigidly upright in a similar position on the
other side of the door, Wilkes scanned the space with an
experienced eye.
Searching the sparsely furnished room wasn't going to take long.
Cara clasped her hands, her fingers twining and gripping
tight, and watched as the burly policemen searched through
her belongings. They wouldn't find anything…
At least, nothing put there by her.
Her always-active imagination threw up the horrifying
specter of her aunt hating her enough to have hidden—or had
her horrible dresser hide—the jewel case containing the
Carisbrook emeralds somewhere among Cara's things.
Chilled, Cara examined the mental vision, then drew in a
breath through lungs painfully constricted and, by an effort
of will, banished the image.
If her aunt hated her that much…there was nothing she could do.
From the moment she'd arrived in John Street, she'd known
Lady Carisbrook disapproved—mightily—of her; her uncle
Humphrey's sincerely warm welcome hadn't lessened the impact
of her ladyship's cold glare and her grudgingly uttered and
stilted words. From the instant of setting eyes on her, her
aunt had wanted her gone.
Cara had no idea why and had worked to ensure she did
nothing to incite her aunt's active malevolence.
Apparently, she'd failed.
Moving about the small room in their heavy uniforms and
coats, the policemen were surprisingly quick and efficient.
To Cara's relief, they didn't tumble her few possessions
about but lifted, looked, and set things back.
Finally, the pair exchanged a glance, then the older man—the
sergeant, Wilkes—turned to her. "Perhaps, miss, you would
like to pack a small bag. Just the essentials to tide you
over for a few days."
She drew in a deeper—freer—breath and nodded. "Thank you. I
will." It seemed her aunt hadn't tried to…what was the
English term? Pin the crime on her? Regardless, the jewel
case wasn't in her room. Did that mean it was truly missing?
As she pulled her empty traveling valise from beneath her
bed—unexpectedly grateful that she hadn't sent it upstairs
to the attic—Wilkes said to his helper, "Check with the
staff." Cara felt the sergeant's gaze briefly touch her face
but, setting her bag on the bed, didn't meet it. Wilkes
looked back at his man. "Ask around and learn what they can
tell us about Miss Di Abaccio's movements late last night
and this morning."
The other man snapped off a salute, shut the notebook in
which he'd been jotting, and made for the door.
Cara set about systematically packing as much as she could
into the valise.
Ignoring the footman, Henry, who watched her with
sympathetic resignation, Wilkes studied her as she moved
about the room. After a time, he grunted. "You didn't take
the jewels, did you?"
Pressing a folded gown into the case, Cara looked up and,
across the bed, met Wilkes's eyes—kindly brown eyes, their
expression steady. "No." After a moment, she straightened
and went on, "I can't imagine why anyone would think I
would." She spread her hands. "What would I do with them?"
Wilkes frowned. "Wear them?"
She made the scoffing sound her aunt and her cousin Julia
had told her ladies in England never made and moved to the
dresser and pulled open the top drawer. "The Carisbrook
emeralds are famous for their age and quality. But the
design is very old and…heavy." She turned back with her
underthings in her hands. Without looking at either Wilkes
or Henry, she prosaically laid them in the case. "They would
look"—she frowned—"outré." She searched for the English
words. "Awkward and clumsy—silly—on me. I am far too small,
too"—straightening, she gestured, indicating a massive
bosom—"not-large to carry off such a piece."
Henry made a strangled noise, and Wilkes's face turned
decidedly pink. He cleared his throat. "I see. Then I assume
your aunt imagines you would sell them."
About to close her case on her meager wardrobe—all the
clothes she'd brought with her to England—Cara paused and
met Wilkes's gaze. "As I am what the English call a ‘poor
relation,' perhaps that is what my aunt thinks in making her
accusation." Cara shrugged. "Who can tell what is in her
mind? But I only arrived in England a month ago. I have
never been here before, so I know no one, and through the
past four weeks, the only people I have spoken to outside my
aunt's or my cousins' presences have been the staff of this
house. And my uncle, of course."
"Your uncle—Lord Carisbrook." Wilkes frowned. "Her ladyship
said you were his niece."
Cara nodded. "My mother was his younger sister. She eloped
with an Italian painter. But both my parents died of an
illness last year, and Lord Carisbrook—who was made my
guardian in my parents' wills—insisted I come here to London
and live with his family." Cara thought back to that moment
when she'd received his lordship's summons; in the straits
she'd been in, the directive had appeared a godsend. She
looked down at her valise. "It was a very kind offer."
She moved back to the dresser and reached for the bottom drawer.
"So where is your uncle at the moment? It's Sunday—most
gents of his ilk would be at home."
"He left for his estate in Surrey on Friday." Cara studied
the contents of the bottom drawer. "He isn't expected back
until later today." She honestly wasn't sure if, in the
circumstances, her uncle would defend her against his wife's
accusation. He'd been kind, but even when he was in London,
he held himself aloof from the household, from Cara, and
Franklin and Julia, too, as well as his wife.
Cara bit her lip. She couldn't allow herself to think of
what might come. She needed to preserve what hope she still
had and wait to see where this latest bend in her life's
road would take her. Her recent experiences had taught her
that clinging to hope and being open to whatever
possibilities Fate deigned to offer was the surest route to
survival.
Refocusing on the pencils, crayons, and sketchbooks stored
in the drawer, she debated her options. She couldn't take
her wooden art case in which she normally transported her
supplies; it was too big and bulky. Along with her
easel—also far too big to carry—the art case, still holding
her paints, was pushed to the back of her armoire. But she
could probably take all her drawing supplies if she crammed
things in and didn't worry about crushing her clothes.
Wilkes had said "essential" things, and to her, her drawing
implements were as essential as air—far more important than
clothes. She stacked the pencils, crayons, and books, lifted
them from the drawer, and turned to the bed and the valise.
Wilkes continued to watch, but as if he wasn't truly seeing
her press and push and rearrange her things until she could
shut the case. He seemed to shake himself back to the
present as she buckled the straps.
When she straightened and reached for the bag's handle,
Henry stepped forward. "Allow me, Miss Cara."
She gladly surrendered the case; even though she'd been
among them for only four weeks, she'd come to know and like
the staff. "Thank you, Henry."
She looked at Wilkes. He walked to the door, opened it, and
led the way out. Cara drew in a breath, raised her head, and
followed him into the corridor.
Henry shut the door, then quickly caught up to her. He
glanced at the back of Wilkes's head, then murmured, "Don't
you worry, Miss Cara—we'll make sure the master knows what's
happened the instant he steps through the door."
She smiled, although it was a weak effort. "Thank you,
Henry. And please thank the others, too." She paused, then,
as they neared the stairs, added, "And please assure
everyone that no matter what her ladyship thinks, I did not
touch her jewels."
"No, miss. Of course not."
Henry sounded vaguely offended that she'd imagined the staff
would think such a thing.
Wilkes heard the exchange and inwardly grimaced. Staff in a
house like this always knew what was what; the more he
heard, the more he was convinced that Lady Carisbrook's
accusation was all a hum.
He started down the stairs, unsurprised to hear Miss Di
Abaccio's footsteps lightly but determinedly descending
behind him. She was a sensible young lady with a decent
spine, and he liked her the more for it. Lots of young
ladies would have had the vapors. Just the thought made him
shudder, a reaction he endeavored to suppress.
Jarvis was waiting in the front hall, along with Fitch.
Wilkes could tell from Fitch's demeanor that he'd learned
something pertinent from the staff, but rather than asking
for a report then and there and prolonging what—judging by
Jarvis's and Henry's torn expressions—was already a fraught
moment, Wilkes met Jarvis's gaze. "Please inform Lord
Carisbrook that we have detained Miss Di Abaccio for the
moment. We'll be taking her to Scotland Yard."
Jarvis inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression
signaling that he was glad to have been given such a
definite order.
As if to confirm that, Jarvis's gaze cut across the hall.
Wilkes followed the butler's glance and saw Lady Carisbrook
standing in the drawing room doorway with her arms folded
beneath her impressive bosom, vindictive triumph all over
her face.
Wilkes glanced at his "prisoner." Miss Di Abaccio was
standing with her back ramrod straight and her head held
high. Her gaze remained steady, fixed on Wilkes; she didn't
spare a glance for her aunt.
Wilkes looked again at Lady Carisbrook and saw an ugly sneer
further distort the lady's countenance. Then she uncrossed
her arms, stepped back, and shut the drawing room door.
The words "good riddance" hadn't been uttered but had been
most effectively conveyed.
Another glance at Miss Di Abaccio confirmed that her
composure remained intact.
Feeling ever more convinced of her innocence, Wilkes
gestured to the door. Jarvis opened it, and Wilkes
solicitously ushered Miss Di Abaccio out and down the steps.
Fitch moved past and went to open the door of the plain
black police carriage they'd arrived in.
Wilkes guided Miss Di Abaccio to the carriage. Henry, who
had followed, stowed her valise in the boot, then saluted
her before turning away.
"Thank you," she softly called before allowing Wilkes to
help her into the carriage.
Wilkes clambered in after her and settled on the seat beside
her.
Fitch joined them and, after shutting the door, fell onto
the facing seat.
The instant the carriage rattled off, Wilkes met Fitch's
sharp eyes. "What did you learn?"
Fitch's gaze shifted to Miss Di Abaccio, and he politely
inclined his head. "The staff said her ladyship came home in
the small hours from some ball, and Miss Di Abaccio, as well
as the son and daughter, were with her. Seems they all went
upstairs—it was close on two o'clock—and her ladyship was
wearing the jewels then. Miss Di Abaccio and the others all
went to their own rooms. The next thing the staff knew, at
about half past eight this morning, her ladyship came raging
downstairs and accused Miss Di Abaccio of stealing the
emeralds."
Wilkes grunted and shook his head. "Who knows what's going
on in the lady's mind? The instant we get to the station,
collar a runner and send him off to Greenbury Street. This
is definitely one for Senior Inspector Stokes and his friends."
* * *
Hugo Adair slipped through the throng of worshippers who, at
the end of the morning service, had spilled onto the porch
of St. George's Church at the corner of Hanover Square. Tall
enough to see over most heads, Hugo scanned the crowd,
searching for a glimpse of glossy black curls framing a face
of Madonna-like sweetness whose features, instead of exuding
serenity, glowed with vibrant liveliness.
Cara Di Abaccio's face held so much life—radiated so much
engaging vivacity—that Hugo could literally stare at her for
hours and had whenever he could get away with such
unwavering absorption.
He'd taken to assiduously escorting his mother to Sunday
service precisely for that reason.
But today in the church, when he'd located Lady Carisbrook's
hatted head among the devoted—not difficult given her
ladyship had a fetish for extravagant headgear that put all
others to shame—he hadn't seen Cara in her usual position,
seated three places past her ladyship, with Franklin and
Julia, the Carisbrooks' children and Cara's cousins, between.
The thought that Cara must be ill and languishing at home
alone prodded Hugo on as he quartered the shifting crowd,
searching for the Carisbrook party.
He'd first encountered Cara Di Abaccio three weeks before,
at an alfresco luncheon one of his sisters had dragged him
to. He'd been instantly smitten; he was willing to admit
that, no matter how silly it made him sound.
Smitten. It was the right word. Struck beyond
recovery, he'd been drawn to Cara—to her laughing eyes and
her fascinating smile and the warm glow that suffused her
face when she looked at him.
Since their first meeting, he'd tracked her through the ton,
attending the same events she did. Given his family's
connections, that hadn't proved all that hard. His only
concern was that, sooner or later, his mother and sisters
would learn of his doings and insist on meeting Cara before
he and she had progressed to that point.
Hugo paused at the edge of the crowd to sweep the gathering
again. There! The gauzy creation with countless
tiny ribbon bows in a hideous shade of puce could belong to
no other than Lady Carisbrook. Of course, her ladyship was
holding court right in the middle of the crowd. Muttering a
curse, Hugo dived in again, smiling and nodding and
resisting all attempts to waylay him.
Something was wrong—or at least, not right. His instincts
were pricking as they hadn't in a long while—not in all the
months since he'd sold out of the army and returned to
civilian life.
He'd spent nearly a decade in the cavalry, serving in a
regiment of Hussars. With the wars long over, he'd seen no
battlefields—just as well given he'd discovered a year ago
that dead bodies left him nauseated. Instead, his time had
been consumed by parades and balls and looking the part as
he rode with his troop in this or that procession or guard.
Being tall and dark haired and possessing broad shoulders
and a long lean frame, he had excelled at the activity of
looking the part. For the rest of his time, along with a
circle of like-minded friends, he'd engaged in the usual
hedonistic pursuits at which gentlemen of his class also
excelled, wine, women, and song being the least of them.
Gambling hard, riding to hounds, consorting with opera
dancers, and even more reckless adventures had filled
uncounted days and nights.
Then, abruptly, his interest in such activities had died.
Whether it was age or something else, he didn't know, but
one day, he'd simply had enough. Restless and dissatisfied,
he'd sold out.
A month later, during the Season last year, his mother had
hauled him off to a ball in the vain hope he would stumble
on some sweet young miss who would fix his peripatetic
interest and get him off his mother's hands, or at least
that was how she'd phrased it. Instead, he'd gone out to
smoke a cheroot and stumbled over a dead body—a lady with
her head bashed in.
After that experience, he'd lost his taste for cheroots.
But through what had followed, he'd seen more of his cousin
Barnaby Adair and his wife, Penelope. Both were, each in
their own way, decidedly eccentric, yet they'd found purpose
in their lives, and through being in their company, Hugo had
realized that that—purpose—was what he lacked and what he
needed to find.
He'd left town and retreated to his family's estate in
Wiltshire. Enfolded in the peace of the country, he'd set
his mind to the task of defining what he wanted to do—to
achieve with his life.
Long walks and talks with his father had helped, and he'd
realized that his answer lay in the one thing he was
especially good at and that he truly enjoyed.
Breeding hounds.
His father had always bred hounds, and during his earlier
years, Hugo had helped and had nudged their dogs into a
higher category of quality. His father had continued the
work while Hugo had been in the army, and the breeding
kennels had advanced to a point where their name was well
known, and gentlemen and hunt masters came to buy dogs for
their packs.
Hugo had spoken for hours with his father, discussing the
prospects, the ins and outs, and had ultimately won his
sire's agreement that he could take over the fledgling
enterprise. He was eager to do so, but his father had made
one non-negotiable stipulation—that Hugo allow his mother to
have one last try at finding him a suitable bride.
That stipulation was the only reason Hugo was in town—the
only reason he'd been there to fall under Cara Di Abaccio's
spell.
He knew he was handsome, dashing, and all the rest. He was
well born, well-connected, and despite being a second son,
would be no pauper. Yet even over the few short weeks she'd
been in town, from watching Cara discourage other would-be
suitors, Hugo already knew such considerations were of no
importance to her.
She was a rebel like him—a free spirit who, while
acknowledging the tenets of society, allowed them no real
purchase.
He'd discovered she was an artist—that she had an artist's
soul—and she loved animals, all animals, as he did.
He didn't yet know if she felt for him in the same way he
was already willing to admit—at least to himself—that he
felt for her. He hadn't yet reached the point of speaking—of
seeking the consent of her uncle and asking her to marry
him—but day by day, he was edging closer to that precipice.
He was almost at the point of looking forward to falling
over it.
To falling irrevocably in love.
That had worked for Barnaby; Hugo couldn't see why it
wouldn't work for him.
Indeed, just as his inherently reckless nature had made him
perfect for dealing with the potential risks faced by any
cavalryman, those same traits paved the way for him to take
the biggest risk of all and venture his heart on love.
That was one life gamble that, hour by hour, he was drawing
closer to taking.
Finally, his patience well-nigh exhausted, he slid between
two older matrons into a gap behind Lady Carisbrook. He
concentrated on her, and as the surrounding chatter faded,
her voice reached him clearly. She was declaiming to an
audience of her cronies; usually, Hugo judged that most of
her ladyship's toadies were secretly bored by her diatribes,
but today, all gave the appearance of hanging on her
ladyship's every word.
"Of course," she stated, "I always knew she wasn't to be
trusted, but not even I would have dreamed
that the wretched girl would steal my emeralds!"
Her ladyship paused, allowing the expected oohs, aahs, and
sycophantic murmurings to run their course before
continuing, "Naturally, I had no alternative but to summon
Scotland Yard, and they came and took the wretched ingrate
away."
Hugo's instincts flared, not just prodding but screaming.
His blood ran cold. She couldn't mean Cara?
He listened to the responses from the other ladies, but
comments such as "after all you'd done for her," "after
taking her in," and "a viper under your own roof" could have
applied to a favored maid as much as to Cara.
Suddenly desperate, Hugo turned and searched the crowd
again. Franklin and Julia were usually found within feet of
their mother, but not today. "Where are they?" he muttered.
Then he spotted the pair. They were clinging to the edge of
the crowd, and neither looked the least bit happy.
Hugo all but barged his way to them.
He planted himself directly before the pair, making their
eyes go wide. "Cara," he rapped out, using his captain's
voice. "Where is she?"
Julia looked stricken and wrung her hands, but volunteered
nothing.
Hugo shifted his gaze to Franklin, who apparently understood
the threat in his eyes.
Franklin swallowed and said, "This morning, Mama accused
Cara of stealing the Carisbrook emeralds. Mama had them last
night, and this morning, they were gone, and she said Cara
had taken them."
His jaw clenching, Hugo ground out, "I heard your mother
mention Scotland Yard."
Julia nodded frantically. "It was horrible. Two policemen
came and took Cara away."
For one instant, Hugo told himself he'd misheard. In the
next, that part of him that had made his commanders beg him
to remain in the army surfaced, pushing through the
accumulated layers of sophisticated-gentleman-about-town
camouflage.
"Right." Hugo didn't know what his face looked like, but
both Franklin and Julia straightened and lost some of their
irritating vagueness.
Franklin looked at him with blatant hope, while Julia put a
hand on his sleeve and ventured, "Please, can you think of
any way to get her out of there—wherever they've taken her?"
He would do that or die trying. But…he searched Franklin's
and Julia's faces. "You don't believe Cara's guilty."
"Of course not," Franklin muttered, his features growing
grim. He stared at Hugo. "Do you?"
Hugo blinked, then spoke what he realized was the truth. "It
didn't even occur to me."
With that, he swung around and scanned the carriages drawn
up by the curbs on both sides of the street. He spotted his
mother's and quit the church porch and strode for it.
He found his mother's footman, Jenks, waiting in the
carriage's shade. "Find my mother and tell her I've been
called away. I'll see her at home later."
Jenks tipped him a salute.
Hugo spun on his heel and stalked off toward Scotland Yard.
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