Chapter Twenty-Seven
P romises. Vows. Rings.
Ugly memories of the night before played in Amelia’s thoughts. Even as the barbed words she and Logan had hurled at each other seemed to echo in her ears, she forced herself to carry on with the work at hand. Mrs. Johnstone and Mrs. Langford had insisted on joining her at the library, and with their eager assistance, they had made short work of cleaning what remained of the vandal’s dismal handiwork. The enjoyable tasks and the women’s light banter had served as merciful distractions from the dull throbbing in her chest. In the company of the women who’d become newfound friends, she had better things to do than to mope about like a lovesick maiden.
Lovesick. The very idea of it was ridiculous. She’d taken a chance. She had never expected permanence. From the start, she’d known better than to risk her heart, much less on a rogue like Logan MacLain. Sharing his bed and his passion and his tenderness had been a sweet folly. Nothing more. Pity that for a time, she would pay a heavy price until her heart fully healed.
Someday, she might happen upon a lover who was true, a man who wanted her to the depths of his heart and soul.
Logan was not that man.
His kiss was so very delicious. So very tempting.
If only it was enough.
He had not lied to her. Truth be told, Logan had been honest from the first. He had crashed into her life in the name of honoring a vow.
He was undeniably handsome. Undeniably charming. Undeniably tender. Logan desired her touch. Her kiss. And when they’d made love, his every caress held passion and heat and delicious delight.
But he had walled off his heart.
Logan was not willing to give her the thing she craved most of all.
He would not offer his love.
Perhaps he’d believed she was like him. Did he think she was capable of keeping her own heart so well guarded, even while she warmed his bed and savored the pleasures of his touch?
No, she would not settle for less than love.
“In all my years, I cannot recall a spring so cold and damp,” Mrs. Langford said as she swept a broom along a low shelf near Amelia’s legs, pulling her from her thoughts. Setting the tool aside, she rubbed her arms as if to ward off a chill.
“It is rather cool and gloomy today, isn’t it?” Just like her mood. “You’re welcome to borrow my cardigan jacket. It’s quite warm.”
“I’ll not take the clothes off yer back and have ye come down with a chill.” Mrs. Langford flashed a cheeky grin. “I’m going to take a bit of time to warm these old bones by the fire and finish my tea. And if Elsie thinks I’m lazing about, she can jolly well—”
“I could do with another cup myself. I do think I’ll brew another pot,” Mrs. Johnstone cut in with a smile. Crossing the room to head to the stove in the back room, she stumbled over the edge of a small, braided carpet. “Good heavens, I nearly took a tumble.” She kicked the offending rug out of her way. “The floorboard’s come loose. Amelia, do you have something we can use to tap the nail back in?”
“Of course.” Amelia went to the back room to fetch a small hammer, then began to slip the board into place.
“No, Amelia. Don’t move it.” Mrs. Johnstone leaned closer to examine the plank. “There... do ye see it? Something’s here, under the floor.” Sweeping her skirts to the side, she crouched low and jostled the board loose. “Polly, please bring the lamp here.”
While Mrs. Langford held the lamp over the spot in the floor where the plank had been, Amelia peered into the hollow. A plain cotton bag not much larger than Amelia’s hand lay between the joists. Crude, black stitches closed the pouch at one end. Mrs. Johnstone reached down to take hold of it.
“Do be careful,” Amelia urged. “There’s no telling what could be in there.”
“I so enjoy a hunt for hidden treasure.” A touch of excitement colored Mrs. Langford’s voice.
Mrs. Johnstone slid her an incredulous glance. “When in blazes have you ever hunted for treasure?”
“I haven’t,” Mrs. Langford said, unflaggingly cheerful. “Until now.”
As Mrs. Johnstone gingerly retrieved the object from its hiding place, her mouth thinned. “Polly, close the curtains.”
After the windows were secured, Mrs. Johnstone yanked apart the stitches that held the sack closed. Lamplight glimmered against what had once been a gilded frame surrounding a crudely painted image of a garden gate.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Mrs. Johnstone examined the painting rendered in unskilled strokes on canvas. “Do you recognize this?”
Amelia studied the landscape which seemed a poorly done imitation of Monet’s technique. “My brother dabbled in oils. But I do not believe this is his work.”
“It may be valuable,” Mrs. Langford said hopefully.
“That’s rather unlikely,” Amelia said. “Why, I don’t even see an artist’s signature.”
Suddenly, Helen Tanner’s words came back to her in a rush.
He entrusted the treasure to you.
Tingles crept along Amelia’s nape. Surely this crudely wrought painting in a battered frame was not the bribe Hawk had offered in exchange for his silence.
Unless . . .
Unless the painting was merely a ruse.
Dragging in a breath to steady her racing pulse, she turned the frame to take a look at the back. “Mrs. Langford, please hold the lamp closer.”
Under the light, she studied the frame, then the canvas. Had this image been painted over an artist’s original?
She sighed. Her expertise in such matters was minimal. But she had no doubt that Paul would’ve known what to do. He’d have known how to hide a valuable work.
“I don’t know what we’re looking at. Or for,” she admitted. “I don’t know if this work has any true value.”
“Why would someone place it here, beneath the floor?” Mrs. Langford asked, shifting to hold the lamp at a different angle.
With the sudden tilt of the light’s rays, Amelia’s gaze was drawn to a scarcely noticeable flaw. The painting rested unevenly against the worn edges of the frame. How very peculiar.
Was something else there, behind the canvas?
Slowly, hesitantly, she pried an edge of the painting from the wood.
The heavy canvas frayed, revealing another layer beneath it.
Her suspicion was correct.
Another layer of canvas lay within the frame. This piece bore no sign of color. Perhaps it was merely a backing for the landscape.
Still, she had to be sure.
Carefully, she peeled away the canvas.
Good heavens.
A folded piece of parchment lay behind the landscape. Carefully, Amelia unfolded the square.
An artist had rendered an intriguing sketch of a very beautiful woman. Amelia lifted it to the light. Each stroke of its creator’s pencil was sure and brilliant. An intricately drawn jewel at the beauty’s throat actually appeared to twinkle.
She spotted a signature in the lower left corner.
Antonio Caravelli.
And beneath the name, a date. 1575.
Amelia’s pulse raced. Her brother had spoken of the Renaissance artist with great enthusiasm. He’d been convinced that Caravelli’s genius would finally be recognized. Not long before he died, Paul had collaborated with an anonymous collector to assemble a gallery show of the artist’s finest works.
Including this one.
Juliet’s Diamond.
Amelia’s mind raced. The treasure. Was this the jewel the intruder had hunted? The diamond he’d would have killed to claim?
Mrs. Johnstone gasped. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or is this scrap of paper more than three centuries old?”
The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. Amelia drew in rapid breaths to steady herself. “I do believe that is the case.”
Mrs. Langford leaned closer, taking a better look. “That pretty little drawing must be worth a fortune.”
Mrs. Johnstone’s brow furrowed. “Ye may be right.”
A sudden pounding on the door jolted all three women in unison. Irritation replaced Amelia’s sense of alarm as she peeked through a side window. “Oh, dear, not him .”
“Who is it, dear?” Mrs. Langford asked in a low voice.
“Mr. Driscoll,” Amelia said as she tucked their discovery back into the bag. “The owner of this building.”
“I know you are in there, Mrs. Stewart,” he called through the door. “I must speak with you. It is a matter of great importance.”
“I will be right there,” Amelia replied, stashing the pouch out of sight in the cabinet drawer.
“The bloke has impeccable timing.” Mrs. Johnstone calmly retrieved the reticule she’d placed on a high shelf and took hold of her double-shot pistol by its pearl-handled grips. “It’s quite lovely, isn’t it?” Quietly confident, she concealed the weapon within the folds of her skirt.
As Amelia slid the floorboard and rug back into place, Mr. Driscoll pounded on the wood with renewed vigor.
“I demand you open this door. I am here to inspect my property,” he bellowed.
Satisfied their find was hidden from the dolt’s view, Amelia motioned to Mrs. Langford to allow him entry.
“There, there, no need to be so impatient.” Mrs. Langford met the man’s scowl with a plastered-on smile.
His bushy brows knit into one dark slash. “I have a right to enter my own building. Who in thunder are you?”
Amelia marched up to him. “I’ll ask you not to speak to my guests in such an impolite manner. What brings you here today?”
“I believe you already know the answer to your question.”
“Do enlighten me, Mr. Driscoll.”
His eyes hardened. “I understand you were not willing to consider Mr. Mansfield’s generous offer. You will find he is not inclined to be as patient as I am.”
Amelia held her ground. “Your patience is not my concern.”
His gaze lit upon the wrinkled carpet. “What’ve your hooligans done to my floor?”
“Recently, I have noticed that the board has worked loose. I had not wished to trouble you with the matter, but perhaps now that you’re aware of it, you will send someone to make the necessary repair.”
“I will do no such thing.” His scowl intensifying, he marched to the spot on the floor, kicked the rug aside, and lifted a corner of the unmoored plank. “When you leave, I will expect compensation for the damage. How in thunder did you—”
The tap of a walking stick against the floor cut through the landlord’s tirade.
Good heavens, not now. Amelia whirled around.
Cecil Mansfield strolled toward them. Blast it. Why had the infernal man returned?
A wiry, sharp-featured man in a well-tailored suit followed Mansfield into the room. Had he brought his solicitor to pressure her to accept his offer?
Mansfield coolly took in the scene. “In view of this unsightly damage, perhaps I shall have to adjust my offer.”
“I was not expecting you.” Appearing ill at ease, Mr. Driscoll set the board back in its place. “I will see to the repair.”
“Obviously.” Mansfield’s mouth shifted into a serpent’s smile. “It appears it is rather fortunate for me that you had not anticipated my arrival.”
“Pay no mind to this,” Driscoll said, seeming to picture the sum he’d counted on from his deal with Mansfield evaporate into thin air. “I’ll fix up the place. You’ll see—”
“Yes,” Mansfield said, leaning heavily on the silver cane. His attention fixed on the crumpled rug. “I can see what has happened here. It’s quite clear, isn’t it, Mr. Smith?”
“Without a doubt,” the wiry man replied.
“I will see Mrs. Stewart and her companions on the street before the ruffians who frequent this place do more damage,” Driscoll went on.
“Ruffians, eh?” Mansfield toyed with his walking stick.
Driscoll offered a solemn nod. “Unsavory sorts of the worst—”
A wolf’s smile curved Mansfield’s mouth. Light flashed against the metal cane. Without warning, he whipped the rod around in a brutal arc.
The walking stick crashed into Mr. Driscoll’s temple.
He sank to the floor. Eyes wide and uncomprehending, his mouth moved weakly. “Help me,” he choked out.
Amelia’s scream echoed in her ears as Mansfield met the man’s helpless plea with another ruthless blow. This time, Driscoll’s eyes went shut.
Betraying no sign of emotion, Mansfield wiped the walking stick against the landlord’s coat and began to search the pockets of the unconscious man’s jacket. “This one’s always so bloody nervous. Makes me wonder what the fool has been hiding from me. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Smith?”
“Indeed.” The tall, lean man nodded as he eyed Driscoll with distaste. Stepping past the unconscious man, he turned his attention to Amelia. “It’s high time we had a talk.” His tone was as coolly threatening as the dagger in his hand.
Instinctive fear surged through her. She could not surrender to it. She had to stay calm. There was no choice.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Johnstone raise her weapon. Amelia’s pulse thundered in her ears. She needed to keep the men’s focus on her.
“Don’t... do not come any closer,” she said, deliberately infusing her words with a pleading tone.
Smith continued his advance. The look in his eyes told her he enjoyed the sight of her fear. “You’ll do what we tell—”
Mrs. Johnstone squeezed the trigger.
The bullet slammed into Mr. Smith.
He froze in mid-stride. For a moment, it seemed he did not comprehend what had taken place. He stared blankly at the ugly red stain spreading over the formerly pristine wool of his coat, a hand’s breadth beneath his right shoulder.
“Bugger it,” he murmured. Slowly, he turned to Mrs. Johnstone. He took a lumbering step toward her. “You’ve only one shot. You think that will stop me?”
“Sadly—for ye, that is—ye’re mistaken.” Mrs. Johnstone said calmly, even as her gaze darted from Mr. Smith and Mansfield, who was at that moment still rummaging through the unfortunate landlord’s inside pockets. “If ye stay quite still, perhaps I won’t have to pull this trigger again.”
Smith took another step toward her, then another. “I’ll make you pay—”
Another shot roared in Amelia’s ears. She felt herself gasp as Smith clutched his chest. The knife he’d brandished in his now-limp hand clattered to the floor.
Knees buckling, he collapsed. Staring at the ceiling, he murmured what sounded like a plea for help. And then, he went silent, his shark-like eyes still open, yet now without sight. Without life.
“That was rather unwise,” Mansfield said as he rose to his full height. Lightly tapping his walking stick against his palm, he regarded Mrs. Johnstone with an icy gaze. “Using both of your bullets on my associate... I do appreciate that you did not save one for me.”
“Amelia, leave now,” Mrs. Johnstone said, her voice steady with courage.
Mansfield shrugged. “She has no place to go. No place where I won’t find her.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm of the walking stick against the wood punctuated his every step. “I must say, I’m rather impressed with you,” he said, coming closer to Mrs. Johnstone with each movement. “I’d wager that if you had another weapon, you would have retrieved it by now.”
“Run, Amelia,” Mrs. Johnstone said, low and steady. “Leave!”
“Your concern for your friend is admirable.” Mansfield regarded Mrs. Johnstone with an icy contempt that contradicted his words. “But sadly misplaced.”
Quick as a snake, he whipped around, cane in hand. The stick crashed into Mrs. Johnstone’s head with a sickening thud. A heartbeat later, her eyes went wide, dazed with pain.
The gun tumbled to the floor.
Dear God! No!
“Amelia,” Mrs. Johnstone murmured. Her lids fluttered, not quite shut, while her knees buckled.
As she sank to the floor, Mansfield wiped a red streak from the walking stick.
Mrs. Johnstone’s blood.
Terrible understanding pulsed through Amelia. She felt Mansfield’s piercing stare cut through her as she darted to Mrs. Johnstone’s side. Seeing the rise and fall of the woman’s chest, relief coursed through her. Mrs. Johnstone still had breath. She was still alive.
“That was a very foolish thing to do.” Icy rage simmered in Mansfield’s gaze. He pulled Mrs. Langford to him, holding her in an iron grip, a pistol pressed to her jaw. “I would suggest you do not anger me. You will not like the result.”
“Run. Now, Amelia.” Mrs. Langford’s words were a mere whisper. “Please.”
“Don’t hurt her,” she pleaded.
“Do as I say, and no more blood will need to be shed.” Mansfield’s cruel eyes contradicted his words.
“Don’t listen... to the bastard,” Mrs. Langford choked out, even as he dug the barrel into the tender flesh beneath her chin. “Run!”