Chapter 4 #2
And what would he give it up for? If he’d heard one more London socialite coo, “Ooh, you’re Robert Cameron’s cousin, aren’t you?
” whilst attempting to look discreetly around him for a Ferrari hiding behind his back, he would have likely cracked his teeth from grinding them in frustration.
If he’d had one more Scottish lass from the village he’d been a part of for the better part of his life do the same, well, he would have moved to London permanently.
He paid the cabbie and walked into the station, choosing a fairly large group to become a part of.
He already had the train times committed to memory, so he kept a casual eye on Samantha Drummond, then noted the track she subsequently walked toward.
He purchased a ticket, then followed her with equal casualness, passing and ignoring Oliver on his way.
He waited until the train arrived, waited until the others disembarked, then followed Miss Drummond on board.
He slid into a seat across the aisle and a row or two behind her where he could keep an eye on her without being overly obvious.
He supposed to be fair he would have to admit that she was really quite lovely in a New-England-prep-school sort of way.
He wouldn’t have been surprised to have watched her break out a mystery novel and read it whilst dressed in bobby socks and saddle shoes.
If he’d been going on first impressions, he would have said she was nothing more than a very sheltered though well-educated youngest daughter of two academics with sterling reputations who had sent her across the Pond to associate with other sterling-reputationed academics who would look after her innocent self with as much care as her parents would have.
Obviously, it was a very well-crafted front.
Determining what lay behind that front caused him to lift a mental eyebrow, but he firmly resisted the impulse to pull out his tablet and quickly find those answers.
He would pretend to be just a normal bloke without access to all sorts of things he shouldn’t have had access to and see if he couldn’t pry answers out of her the old-fashioned way.
He wasn’t quite ready to resort to a deerstalker hat and pencil and paper, but he was close.
He was that desperate to keep himself awake.
He watched her for an hour, wondering where in the world she was going to stop and who, if anyone, would meet her there. Perhaps she was off on a little explore to look for other items of a textile nature to poach.
She started to gather her things together as they approached the station at York.
That wasn’t where he would have expected her to get off, but then again, what did he know?
He was just tracking down a priceless piece of lace for a man who simply wanted a piece of history behind glass and hadn’t listened when Derrick had told him to improve his security system.
Derrick supposed he hadn’t done himself any favors when he’d paid His Lordship a little visit one evening.
He’d listened to a few of the earl’s stories, then bid the man a fond farewell, leaving him sitting in his study with a glass of wine.
He had then waited half an hour before he had broken back into the man’s house, disarmed the security system and lifted that very fine piece of lace in under ten minutes, silently and without detection.
He’d walked back in the front door, been escorted to the man’s study, and handed him his treasure.
It was, he was absolutely convinced, only the sterling reputation of the Cameron name that had saved him from being dragged off in irons right then.
The earl, white-faced and trembling, had taken his lace back and promised to have someone out the very next day.
Either that hadn’t happened or the abilities of the security firm had been sadly lacking.
Derrick followed his little librarian off the train and out of the station.
He continued to trail after her as she wandered along streets, looking down at a journal she held in her hands, completely oblivious to what was going on around her.
He raised his eyebrows briefly. Either she was cleverer than she looked, or the Cookes were idiots.
He felt something stir in him that wasn’t the very vile pasty he’d snagged on his way to the platform.
It was something that felt almost a bit like interest. Enthusiasm was overstating it, but a flicker of interest, aye, that was possible.
Who would entrust a piece of lace that valuable to the clueless tourist in front of him who was gawking at everything around her as if she’d never seen anything interesting before in the whole of her life?
His phone chirped at him. He looked down and found a text from Oliver waiting there.
Have scissors?
Derrick smiled to himself, because he’d been thinking the same thing, though as he followed Samantha Drummond, he found himself less tempted to cut her hair than simply unbraid it. She could have done with a bit of, ah, unbuttoning.
The rest of his morning included nothing more interesting than watching her check without fanfare, though rather early, into a modest hotel.
He found himself a discreet place to sit and watch the front door, then he sat and watched.
No curtains moved, as if she peered out to see who was coming to meet her.
No shifty-eyed textile brokers slipped into the lobby for an exchange of goods.
Nothing happened at all except for his eventual inability to feel his backside and a slight twinge in his knee that made him look heavenward to see if it was going to rain anytime soon.
Time crawled by.
Oliver texted him a picture of a hotel he’d checked them into.
Tourists passed him, chatting in various languages.
An old granny on a bicycle almost ran over his toes, then cackled as she pedaled away.
He almost fell asleep in the sunshine, then woke to the feel of his pack starting to leave his fingers.
He glared at a cheeky yob, who then held up his hands and bolted.
He sat there for at least another hour before he couldn’t ignore his stomach any longer.
Either Samantha Drummond had snuck out the back, which hacking into the hotel’s security camera had assured him she hadn’t, or she was the single most boring thief in the history of textile thievery.
He’d had more interesting mornings helping Cameron’s secretary clean out her spam folder.
Oliver appeared suddenly and sat down next to him on the bench. “Go. I’ll shadow her for a bit.”
“Shadow,” Derrick echoed with a snort. “Shadow her where? She hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“Wherever else she doesn’t go, I’ll follow her.” He looked at Derrick and frowned. “You need a lie-down.”
“Why are you so well rested?”
“I’ve already had four lattes this morning,” Oliver said blandly.
Derrick smiled. “Don’t lose her whilst you’re in the loo.”
“I’ll try not to.”
He looked down at Oliver’s shoes. They were fluorescent green. It was such an appalling sight, he could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“Discreet?”
“Backup plan,” Oliver said. “In case the lattes fail.”
Well, either those shoes would keep the lad awake or they would give him nightmares. Derrick sighed and picked up his backpack.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“No worries,” Oliver said. “I’ve plenty to do here.”
Aye, fight off the boredom of watching for a woman who was probably inside her room either watching the telly or having a long, luxurious nap. He was struck by a feeling that he eventually identified as envy.
Perhaps he needed a holiday.
Derrick rose. “Best of luck.”
Oliver waved him off, looking as if he were somehow not quite sitting still as he sat there, still. Derrick headed toward his hotel. Of course Oliver hadn’t provided him with an address, but that wasn’t surprising. There would have been no sport in having everything laid out for him.
He found the hotel without trouble, accepted a key, then took himself upstairs and decided that perhaps he would succumb to weariness and have himself a decent rest. He took off his boots, then simply stretched out with his hands behind his head.
He stared up at the ceiling and wondered about Samantha Drummond.
What in the world was she up to? Admittedly, she was Gavin’s sister, which meant she could have been up to almost anything, but even Gavin had spoken kindly of her the one time he’d actually spoken of her.
She didn’t fit the profile of a high-class thief and her background probably wouldn’t allow her to become a low-class thief.
He shook his head. He just couldn’t figure her.
But he would.
Just as soon as he woke up, hopefully not after having dreamed about those vile green shoes he’d just been subjected to.