An Affair Without End (35 page)

“So no one has offered to sell you a piece other than those few?”

“No. I am very sorry.” He looked regretful. “I have asked some of my fellow jewelers, as well, and I’m afraid no one remembered buying any pieces that seemed suspicious to them. I am sure that most thieves would know that I buy only from reputable dealers or sometimes from a customer who is in dire straits. I would not purchase a piece brought in by someone who roused my suspicions. I feel sure that most of my colleagues are the same way.”

“Would the thief more likely go to a pawnshop, you mean?”

“Perhaps. Or to a store where the owner is not so particular. Sad to say, there are some jewelers who have little concern about where a piece of jewelry is acquired.”

“Do you know what places those might be?”

Mr. Brookman looked slightly startled, but after only a moment’s hesitation he drew out a piece of paper and began to scribble down a few names with a pencil. “This is not a complete list by any means; they are only stores or pawnbrokers about whom I have gotten a certain sense . . . if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think so.” Vivian reached out and took the piece of paper he extended toward her.

“But, my lady . . . ,” he began somewhat nervously. “These are not the sort of places where a lady would go. Certainly not alone.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be going alone.”

Thursday morning dawned bright and clear, a little cool perhaps, but still a perfect day for a ride outside the city. Servants would follow with a cold collation of meat pies, rolls, and other treats to stave off the appetite worked up by a good ride. But for now, only a stylish barouche stood in front of Carlyle Hall, along with several elegant horses, stamping and whickering in eagerness to get started. Gregory, stepping out of the house after Vivian, turned to her with a questioning look.

“Why is the barouche here?”

Vivian’s eyes danced. “You shall see.”

He shrugged as he went over to run a hand over his own horse. “As long as you don’t expect me to ride in it.”

“Never,” Vivian responded with a chuckle.

At that moment the Talbot party arrived, already mounted, followed shortly by several of the other guests, and the next few moments were taken up by greetings.
Camellia, Vivian took note, looked as dashing and vital as Vivian had expected her to. Her new military-styled, dark blue riding habit fitted her form perfectly, and the saucy little hat perched atop her neatly braided and wound blond hair was just the right accent to draw attention to her face, now glowing with happy eagerness. From the expression on her brother’s face, Vivian was sure that Gregory agreed with her assessment.

The rest of the guests were soon there. Dora and her mother were the last to arrive, as Vivian had suspected they would be. It made more of an impression to arrive alone rather than in the midst of the crowd. The Parkingtons’ arrival created exactly the stir Dora wanted among the young men of the party . . . except for the one whom Vivian was sure Dora hoped most to impress. Only Gregory stood apart as the other bachelors jockeyed for position to help Dora from the Parkingtons’ carriage and escort her the few feet to the sidewalk.

Dora, however, made sure to come over to greet Vivian and her brother personally. “Lady Vivian. And Lord Seyre.” Dora offered a modest little curtsey. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your invitation.”

Vivian, casting a quick glance over at Camellia, caught the curl of distaste that touched her lips, and Vivian had to suppress a smile as she assured Miss Parkington that she was welcome. Gregory, beside Vivian, stared in some amazement at Dora’s dress, a floating, fluttering thing of white dimity that enhanced Dora’s delicate good looks. Vivian was sure that at least one young gentleman—probably Cousin Gordon—would feel moved before the day was through to tell Dora that she looked exactly like an angel.

It would not be Gregory, however, for he blurted out, “Surely you cannot ride in that.”

“Oh, no,” Dora told him, smiling and regarding him with her limpid blue eyes. “I do not care to ride. Lady Vivian said there would be a barouche, and I find that much more conducive to conversation. Don’t you, my lord?”

“Uh. Why, yes, I suppose it would be.” Gregory’s smile was quick and sincere. “Please allow me to help you into the barouche.”

Dora smiled and lowered her eyes modestly, stretching out her hand to Gregory. He handed her up into the carriage and proffered the same service to her beaming mother. Then, with a bow, he walked away as Cousin Gordon hastened forward to get into the barouche, followed by the portly Viscount Cranston. Dora’s jaw dropped in surprise.

Vivian, keeping her head carefully turned away from the carriage, waited for Gregory to give her a leg up onto her mount. As he leaned down to cup her foot, Gregory murmured, “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” she retorted as she sprang up onto the mare’s back. Reaching down to take the reins, she added, “And good luck to you.”

Gregory grinned and swung into his saddle, and the party started off.

There was little conversation as the group made its way through the crowded streets of London, but once outside the city, the riders began to form small groups. Vivian watched her brother fall in beside Camellia, but the Overbrooks came up to join them, Percy on Camellia’s left and his sister Felicity on Seyre’s right. It was a clever bit of maneuvering by the pair, Vivian had to admit, especially when she saw Felicity slow down, apparently having a bit of trouble with her stirrup. For courtesy’s sake, Gregory was forced to stop alongside the young woman and bend down to slip the stirrup more securely under her foot. Miss Overbrook was all smiles and thanks, but her pace was slow, and Gregory could scarcely ride off and leave her by herself. Vivian was about to speed up and take Felicity off Seyre’s hands when Oliver drew up alongside Vivian. She smiled at him, the familiar tingle of anticipation running through her.

“Whatever possessed you to invite my addlepated cousin Gordon?” Oliver asked, the laughter in his voice erasing any harshness from the words.

“He was, I thought, the perfect gentleman to entertain Miss Parkington.”

“I noticed that clever arrangement. Was the barouche your idea or hers?”

“I may have mentioned how her delicate beauty would be shown off to perfection in an open-topped barouche. But the decision to ride in it was hers alone.”

“Of course it was. One can only wonder why she was invited in the first place.” Oliver slanted a curious glance at Vivian.

“Not through any doing of mine, I assure you. Lady Parkington managed to wedge her way into it. She’s quite skillful in that regard.”

“Mm. They could use her in the Foreign Office.”

“Only if her daughter’s marriage prospects were at stake,” Vivian retorted, and Oliver chuckled.

They rode in silence for a time. Vivian breathed in the air, untainted by the city’s smells and smoke. The temperature was a bit crisp, not yet the soft warmth of spring, but just right for riding. A breeze touched her cheeks, bringing pink to them and stirring the delicate curls around her face. She savored the perfection of the moment—the smell, the air, Oliver’s presence beside her. All it lacked was a bird singing out its heart. At that instant, a bird began to twitter in a nearby tree, and Vivian could not help but chuckle.

She glanced at Oliver and found him watching her, a faint smile on his face. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest, and Vivian looked hastily away, almost frightened by the sudden burst of emotion.

“I went to see Lady Mainwaring yesterday,” she said, snatching at the first thing that came into her head.

“Did you? To tell her we could not locate her jewelry?”

“Yes, but the odd thing was that she already had it back in her possession.”

“What?” Oliver’s eyebrows soared and he edged his horse closer to her. “How?”

Vivian related the tale of Mr. Kilbothan’s involvement. Oliver listened, a faint frown forming between his brows.

“Very convenient,” he said when Vivian finished.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Vivian nodded. She turned her head to regard Oliver seriously. “Do you think that he could be our thief?”

“‘Our’ thief? I disclaim all ownership of either Mr. Kilbothan or the thief. However, I suppose it is possible. Being around Lady Mainwaring, he would certainly encounter a number of wealthy gamblers. Of course, one could wonder why he would go to the trouble of thievery when he has the lady’s patronage.”

“I would think that it would be preferable to have money of one’s own. It would be rather galling to have to depend on another for allowance. Generous as my father was, I was happy to reach twenty-one and come into my inheritance.”

“But supposing Kilbothan did seek financial independence in that manner, why not take the brooch directly from Lady Mainwaring? Why steal it after she had lost it? In fact, why steal from any of the other people? There must be any number of things that could be taken from her house, probably without her even noticing.”

“No doubt. Kitty is not terribly observant—except, I would say, about her jewelry. She would not notice the gold plate going missing, but I daresay her butler would notify her of it. He might even tell Lord Mainwaring.”

“That could be a delicate situation,” Oliver mused. “And Kilbothan would be the most logical suspect for those disappearances, aside from one of the servants. So he might have chosen other people whom he met through Lady Mainwaring but staged the thefts away from her house so there would be no reason to suspect him. But then why steal one of her ladyship’s own jewels? Especially one that had great meaning for her.”

“He might not have known about the meaning. I doubt she discusses her past lovers with her present one. Would you do so?”

“I? My dear, you malign me. You make it sound as if I had had a string of mistresses.”

Vivian raised her brows. “However proper you may be, you are still a man.”

“Yes. But not, I hope, a fickle one. I am generally known to be wise in my choices and steadfast in my ways.” His eyes were warm on her.

Vivian looked away to conceal the little leap of delight inside her. “Kitty is not steadfast, perhaps, but she is not lacking in courtesy, either. I think it quite likely that she did not tell him that my father gave her that item. I think it is also possible that he did not even realize that it was Kitty’s. She told me that he does not like her gambling and she did not tell him about losing the brooch to Sir Rufus until recently.”

“A little censorious for a jewel thief, don’t you think?”

Vivian grimaced. “The point is that he did not know she lost it to Sir Rufus. And he might not be familiar enough with her jewelry to recognize it when Sir Rufus was flashing it about.”

“Even if Kilbothan did recognize it, he would feel safe since he was taking it from Sir Rufus, not Lady Mainwaring. He couldn’t have known that she would call you into the matter . . . or that you would pursue it so doggedly. Once that happened, he could have decided to remove you by returning the brooch.”

“Then you think he
is
the thief?”

Oliver shook his head. “I have no idea. I think it could be a possibility. On the other hand, his story could be true. I have no way of judging the man or his tale. “He glanced at her. “Perhaps you simply dislike him.”

“I do dislike him,” Vivian agreed without hesitation. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not right to be suspicious of him.”

“True.”

“Mr. Brookman thinks it is likely that the thief is pawning the jewels.”

“What? Who?”

“My jeweler. You remember.”

“Yes. You mean you were questioning him again about these thefts?”

“Of course.” Vivian nodded. “After I talked to Kitty, I drove over to his shop to see if he had learned anything about the thefts.”

“And had he?”

“No. He thinks that the thief is not likely to try to sell to him and other reputable places. He thinks he would go to moneylenders and such. No doubt he’s right.” Vivian sighed. “It makes it much more difficult to find out anything.”

Oliver’s sigh was a gusty echo of her own. “But you intend to continue to try, don’t you?”

“If I can think what to do next.”

“I am sure you’ll come up with something . . . though I dread to think what.”