Roses in Moonlight (8 page)

“Believe in any of this?” he asked.

She considered his accent. Canadian, maybe. She would have to listen a little more. Just to use it as an academic exercise, of course. She smiled politely. “Of course not. Do you?”

He shrugged. “I’ll reserve judgment until after the evening’s over.”

“What made you come to York?” she asked.

“Backpacking through the British Isles,” he said easily. “Off on holiday while the exchange rate’s tolerable. What about you?”

“I’m house-sitting,” she said. “Friends of the family.”

“From America, are you?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “From Canada, are you?”

He laughed briefly. “Might be.”

Samantha commanded herself to remain unaffected, but that didn’t work as well as she would have hoped. What was it with the men in England? It was the second time in as many days that a guy had turned her brain to mush.

She reminded herself that giving a complete stranger any details about herself was idiotic, but she supposed he would have figured out where she was from soon enough anyway.

“Chilly out tonight,” he remarked.

She nodded, then pulled her jacket around her, because it did seem a bit chilly all of the sudden. Too much paranormal activity, apparently.

And she was not, she was absolutely
not
seeing an Elizabethan gentleman out of the corner of her eye in every deep shadow she passed.

She looked up at the man walking next to her. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Seems like as good a reason as any to take the tour, eh?”

She studied his face by the light of a streetlamp the next time they paused and wondered if she was destined to spend her summer meeting for the briefest of moments men who were just too good-looking for their own good. He reminded her a bit of the man she’d seen before in Newcastle, but she couldn’t figure out why. Similar cheekbones, she supposed, though there was an aura about this guy that was much less reserved than the one at the Castle.

She looked around again for her sixteenth-century shade but saw only the group she’d started the tour with along with the three rather inebriated and now very irritated girls who were obviously annoyed at being displaced.

Samantha considered. Samantha Drummond the textile historian would have backed away immediately and let them have at her Canadian friend, but that wasn’t who she was any longer. She was Sam Drummond, artist, and she didn’t give way to drunks in stilettoes. She lifted her eyebrows archly, then continued on with her companion.

She was just in the process of looking for something pithy to say when her phone beeped at her. She supposed she was going to have to answer eventually, though she’d been ignoring the text messages all day. She excused herself, pulled up the message and read it, then suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. It was a good thing Dory had an unlimited text plan otherwise he would have bankrupted himself already. He was starting to have his messages loaded with more exclamation points than letters, though, which probably should have worried her.

Off on an errand for the Cookes
,
she typed.
Will let you know when return.

She sent it, turned her phone off, then shoved it into her pocket, ignoring how even that made her a little nervous. She had no doubt if she pushed Dory too far, he would call her parents and let them know she was being uncooperative. Then again, he was probably typing up a report on her on a daily basis, so a frantic phone call wouldn’t make things any worse. Her mother had a big exhibition coming up and her father was up to his ruff in his summer Shakespeare season. They wouldn’t have time to do anything but send her brief and pointed emails warning her to behave. Those she could delete easily enough.

By the time she reconnected with her surroundings, the tour had moved on. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised that even that small hesitation had cost her the company of that very attractive Canadian man. Those completely sauced girls obviously knew a good thing when they saw it. She honestly couldn’t blame them. She looked around her casually, on the off chance there was a stray specter with a rapier loitering around, then, seeing none, carried on.

After being properly chilled and thrilled by all sorts of things she fully believed were true, the tour wound up and she realized that she was not exactly as close to her hotel as she might have wished to be. She turned her phone on, ignored the dinging indicating half a dozen texts, then wondered if merely beaning a thug with her phone would be enough or if she would have to use her bag as well.

“What about an escort for our friend here?”

Samantha looked up to find the Canadian hunk standing there, not doing much at all to fend off the groping of his person that was being perpetrated by his admirers. But at least he was trying to be as gallant as possible.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling rather relieved. “I wasn’t looking forward to getting back to the hotel alone.”

“No problem,” he said, staggering just slightly as one of the girls draped a bit too hard. “Let’s go, then, ladies. Lead on, Miss, ah—”

“Samantha.”

“Miss Samantha.” He nodded away from where the tour had ended. “After you.”

She went, grateful that she had at least a decent sense of direction. That came, she supposed, from all the years she had spent in museums without a map. Perhaps she didn’t have all that many skills—especially considering how many she intended to ditch instead of carrying into her future—but she could definitely tell east from west in a sixth-sense sort of way.

She found her way unerringly to her hotel, feeling rather less than comfortable at the sensation of being followed by three giggling women who were probably going to mug that Canadian tourist the first chance they had. She couldn’t blame them, she supposed. If she’d had the guts to indulge in a fling, she might have been tempted to fling with that man there.

She stopped in front of the doorway, then looked at her escort.

“Thank you so much,” she said politely.

“No worries,” he said easily.

Samantha started to thank him a bit more but found herself distracted by the man that had walked behind that little group. She wasn’t one to let her imagination run away with her, but he looked like someone she wouldn’t have wanted to meet in a dark alley. The look he shot her chilled her to the bone.

“Ah,” she said faintly. “Um, I think . . .”

The Canadian looked at her, then over his shoulder. “What is it?”

Samantha shook her head. “Nothing.” She started to explain, then shook her head. “That bald guy over there just gave me the creeps when he looked over here.”

Mr. Canada frowned, then shrugged. “Maybe we’re too loud.”

That was her thought as well. Maybe that unpleasant man had been looking with disapproval at the bimbos who were making a serious ruckus, not her.

He nodded politely. “Well, if you’re safe now, we’ll be on our way.”

“Yes,” Samantha said, “thank you. Very much.”

She walked inside the door and was happier than she likely should have been to have it shut behind her. Maybe she had just had one too many paranormal experiences over the past two days and she’d gotten paranoid. There weren’t ghosts following her and there weren’t random tourists giving her the evil eye.

She was just an understandably cautious woman living for the summer in a country not her own, traveling on her own. It was only prudent to keep a weather eye out for strange things, so she didn’t get caught up in them.

She ran up to her room and quickly locked the door behind her. She was actually very relieved to find everything as she’d left it, though she had to laugh a little at the thought of anything else happening. She was a nobody off on an errand that no one could possibly care about. It wasn’t as if she’d stolen a piece of Elizabethan lace and had half the countryside out looking for her.

She put herself to bed, then set her alarm for a reasonable hour. She would see what of the sights she could on her way south, then get back to Newcastle and get on with the new her.

D
errick
woke to the sound of a dirge blaring next to his ear. He groped for his phone and looked at the time. It was barely six. He didn’t bother with the light. He was fairly sure he’d been having dreams of being chased by either a lad in Elizabethan finery or a garrison of Roman soldiers, but perhaps that was just the aftereffects of thinking about his quarry being herded by a bluestocking Yank in penny loafers.

He would have rolled his eyes if he could have unstuck them from his eyelids. He couldn’t imagine Samantha Drummond was seriously involved with that obnoxious snob, but what did he know about women? He just knew that he hadn’t wanted to go home with any of the three bints he’d used as cover the night before. Was it at all possible to find a serious girl who preferred staying home to partying?

His phone continued to ring. He sighed and took the call, though he had the feeling he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

“What?” he rasped.

“She’s on the move.”

Derrick sat up so quickly, his head spun. “What?” He fumbled for the light, knocking the hotel clock off the nightstand in the process. “Fully packed?”

“Unless she’s off for a wee run with all her gear.”

Derrick swung his feet to the floor. “Any idea where she’s headed?”

“I would suspect the station, but that’s a guess. She’s just leaving her hotel now.”

Derrick cursed and pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t know if I’ll make her train.”

“If not, I’ll keep you apprised.”

Derrick didn’t doubt it. He hesitated to be anywhere near the wench without some sort of disguise, but time was short. He supposed his fellow passengers would just have to make do with his having limited his toilette to merely brushing his teeth.

He traded his own green eyes for blue, pulled on a very faded T-shirt with a pithy saying about Liszt on the back, and pulled his hair back into a very inadequate ponytail. He briefly considered a moustache, but settled for sunglasses and a bit of scruff. All he could do was keep his fingers crossed that Miss Drummond had been too distracted by paranormal happenings over the past two days to pay attention to either his shoes or his jeans, which he couldn’t change. His jacket was nondescript enough that surely she wouldn’t notice anything about it.

He tossed his key at the night clerk on his way out the door, then walked swiftly toward the station. He sent Oliver a pointed text as he did.

?

In line,
came the succinct message, followed by the equally succinct,
run
.

Well, he bloody well was, as it happened. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself by stumbling into the station, gasping for breath, so he did slow to a walk before he hit the doors. He told himself not for the first time that he was going to have to splash out at some point in his life for a rail pass whilst chasing miscreants so he didn’t have to waste time buying tickets.

London by way of Sudbury.

Sudbury? Derrick bought a ticket to Cambridge, then another to Sudbury. Aye, he would most definitely get himself and Oliver both bloody passes for the next fortnight.

He shook his head. Sudbury? He considered possible final destinations for his little lace thief, then decided tentatively on Hedingham Castle. It was a bit out of the way for a rendezvous, but if she was trying to discreetly unload the goods she was carrying with her, it made perfect sense.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked through the crowd toward the train. He supposed he would be left buying something to eat on the train, but that was his own fault. He should have anticipated that Samantha would make an early start. He supposed he also should have anticipated that the Cookes wouldn’t want to wait too long to deliver that lace to the highest bidder.

He loitered on the platform, watched as Samantha got on the train, then waited a bit longer to make sure she didn’t get right back off. It was possible, he supposed, that she might go another direction besides south. It had been all he could do earlier that morning not to hack into all Lydia Cooke’s accounts and see what sort of travel arrangements she’d booked for Gavin’s sister, but, again, that would have made things feel too easy.

He blew out his breath. He needed a change, and soon, before he ruined his career and his life.

Third car, halfway back. Seats full save next to me.

That would have to do, he supposed. He walked down to the appropriate train car, then hopped on board at the back. He wondered absently what Oliver had done to keep that seat free. Perhaps he’d just given all potential travel companions that look he had. Derrick had known the man for over eight years and that look still brought him up short.

He made his way without haste to the appropriate place, made a production of asking for a spot, then collapsed into his seat with a minimum of fuss. He settled in for a bit of a ride, then checked his phone.

Interesting choice, German.

Very,
Derrick replied.

Pair of blokes on board.

Derrick didn’t crack so much as a smile.
Bald, skinny lad and a dark-haired business type?

Damn ye.

Derrick did smile then, then kept himself awake by silently conjugating verbs in his rather rusty German, praying that he might not actually have to use it if he encountered the tightly laced Miss Drummond in person.

He had the feeling that he was getting far too casual about things. It was going to come back and bite him, he was sure of that.

He looked at the back of Miss Drummond’s head three rows and on the other side of the aisle in front of him and wondered about her. He realized he’d been in the same place the day before, but he seemed to look quite often at the backs of heads as he was following people. It might be nice, he supposed, to look at the front of a head now and again.

Which was an absolutely ridiculous thing to be thinking. Obviously, he hadn’t slept enough. He rolled his eyes and sighed, hoping he could stay awake on the way south.

•   •   •

H
e
followed her all the way to Hedingham Castle, making sure she heard him doing his best impression of a slightly baffled tourist. He kept her within sight the entire time, but she made no move to talk to anyone. She simply made her way to the castle as if that were the entirety of her plan. If he hadn’t suspected differently, he would have thought her nothing more than a typical tourist, gobsmacked by the sight of a decently maintained castle boasting a perfectly preserved Norman arch. She read all the plaques in the castle, studied her guidebook diligently, kept her hands in her pockets as she looked in the gift shop but purchased nothing.

He frowned to himself. She was without a doubt the most unlikely criminal he’d ever seen.

Then again, perhaps not. He realized at one point that she was very aware of him. She was fairly adept at glancing casually over her shoulder without being too obvious about it, but not perfect at it.

He watched her as she carefully ate what she’d paid for—every last bite, which left him wondering if she were short of funds and didn’t anticipate any supper—and suspected that perhaps the Cookes weren’t paying her very much. If that was the case, maybe she had no idea what the value was of what she was carrying. If someone had wanted him to courier that piece of lace, he would have named a figure that would have left them gasping.

The day wore on. He began to wonder what else Samantha Drummond could find exciting about a small castle in a remote location, but perhaps she was looking for things to steal.

Or perhaps she was killing time until her contact arrived.

He followed her as she left the keep. He would have expected her to trot right over to the bus, but again, what did he know? He was just the bloke charged with the task of getting property back for a man who trusted him to do the job with absolute discretion. He should have at least been professional enough to have done his research.

He watched Miss Drummond sit on a bench near the castle and pull out a journal she then studied intently, completely oblivious to what was going on around her. He supposed if he’d had any sort of altruism in his soul, he would have rung the Cookes and told them they needed to find better couriers in the future. If that lace wasn’t stolen because she wasn’t paying attention to it, he would have been very surprised.

Perhaps it was time to do something besides tail her. He sighed, then walked over to make a more direct nuisance of himself. It might be possible to startle her into a confession.

“Might I sit?” he asked, pausing beside her and putting on his best German accent. “A rest would be welcome.”

She blinked at him. Then she shut her little journal quickly and put it in her bag.

“Sure.”

He sat down and made a production of taking pictures of the castle with his phone. “My English is
nicht so gut
.
Wie
is your German?”

“Worse than your English, definitely.”

He suppressed the urge to wince, because she’d said it in German and her German was much better than his. He considered, then jumped in feetfirst.

“Have you many castles seen?” he asked.

“One or two,” she said warily. “You?”

“I come from a land of many castles,” he said with a shrug. “They do not hold my attention for long.”

She nodded uneasily, then looked at the castle in front of them as if she might like to run inside it and slam the door shut against him.

“What do you do?” he asked.

She looked at him quickly, then seemed to consider the question. “I’m, um, an . . . artist.”

Of course she was, just like she was a fabulous liar who could apparently take on a persona and never fall out of character. Either that, or
slightly batty tourist
was the persona she was actually going for and she was making a brilliant job of it.

“Are you?” he asked politely. “What do you art?”

“I . . . paint,” she said. Then she took a deep breath. “And draw. Both.” She looked at him. “And you?”

“A bit of this and that,” he said. “Nothing interesting enough to discuss.”

“Well,” she said, bouncing up suddenly, “it’s been a pleasure. Gotta run.”

He watched her rush off back toward the castle and frowned thoughtfully. She was truly a mystery. If her goal was to baffle and confuse everyone in her vicinity, she was succeeding.

He got to his feet and followed her, because that’s what he did, then decided, after she’d looked back over her shoulder with an expression of alarm, that it was time for a change of costume. He texted Oliver to let him know Samantha was his for a bit, then strode off toward the castle car park to see what sort of ride he could find. Twenty quid bought him a ride to the station from an obliging gardener type, which left him time to duck into a loo and make a few changes to his appearance.

He made himself a spot in a corner of the station and decided the time had come to use his phone to its best advantage. He knew about Samantha’s parents, of course, because he’d done business with Gavin Drummond before—unfortunately—and he liked to know more about his clients than perhaps was polite. But when it came to Miss Drummond herself, it took him quite a bit of time to determine even the most basic details about her. She was the single most inaccessible suspect he’d ever encountered. She had very little social media presence, unlike her parents, who seemed determined to let the world know their every thought.

Odd, though, how they didn’t say anything at all about their children. It was as if they didn’t have any.

Samantha Drummond’s details were sketchy, but telling. Hadn’t she said she was an artist? He snorted. She was a rather good liar, actually, given that her degrees were in history and textile curation. He had learned also that she’d spent the past three years tending to her mother’s extensive collection of Victorian artifacts. What she was doing being a courier for the Cookes was beyond his ken, but not beyond his ability to discover.

He glanced up to see Bloke One and Bloke Two sauntering through the station behind the future van Gogh, trailed by Oliver, who somehow managed to never look the same even if he happened to be wearing the same clothes. Spooky was the only way to describe him.

Derrick wondered briefly who the first two lads were, but as long as they were limiting themselves to knives and fists instead of guns, he wasn’t going to worry too much. He couldn’t imagine the Cookes would have sent security after Samantha, but he found himself continually surprised by what crooks were willing to do to accomplish their ends. Surprised, but not surprised, if that made any sense. Why people couldn’t just be honest and forthright—

Well, that was an argument for a different day. He had enough to worry about at present without delving into the moral morass that was the mind of the average thug.

He got on the train, walking past Samantha and choosing a seat a few rows in front of her. The only thing he could say for certain was that he was thrilled he would never have to have anything to do with her because she was just the kind of woman he would never, ever want anything to do with. Too excited about ordinary happenings and pedestrian sights.

That was all he needed: an idealistic thief.

He texted Oliver to make sure he had line of sight, then closed his eyes and decided that perhaps the only thing that would make sense was to take a nap.

He tried, really he did, to force himself to sleep, but slumber eluded him. There was something bothering him that he couldn’t quite lay his finger on.

It was strange that Samantha had gone out of her way to Castle Hedingham without doing anything more useful than looking around. He had been watching her the entire time save at the end when Oliver had taken over. He hadn’t seen her leave anything behind, pick anything up, speak to anyone but the woman selling entrance tickets. She had checked her phone a couple of times, but that could have been just a random thing.

Or it might have been her contact warning her off.

The two men following her left him puzzled as well. He supposed they could have been sent as security for her—heaven knew the lace was worth that kind of care—but he hadn’t liked the look of them.