The Vanishing Thief

“Did you see the message from this friend?”

“No. He must have taken it with him.”

“Why would he do that?” I gave her such a look of concern she must have forgotten I’d never met Nicholas Drake.

“I don’t know. And there was such a mess.” She glanced up the stairs. “There were plenty of things out of place, but I’m certain that was just from Mr. Drake packing in a hurry for his trip. He’s like most gentlemen. He expects you to pick up after him.” She made a move to open the front door to show me out.

“And the pool of blood in the front hall? Is that part of the normal packing process for most gentlemen?”

She stopped, her shoulders slumped. “Miss Carter told you about that?”

I pointed at a dark stain on the floorboards. “What if the disorder was caused by his abductors?”

She shook her head. “It couldn’t have been. Mr. Drake must be all right.”

I tried another line of inquiry. “When did Mr. Drake tell you he was traveling to Brighton?”

“The same morning Miss Carter came over in a state, saying Mr. Drake had been abducted. She had a nightmare, silly woman.”

If she saw him that morning, the blood in the hall wasn’t Drake’s, and Edith Carter had lied. I was furious at the dishonesty of my client, and my fury came out in my tone. “You saw him that morning?”

Mrs. Cummings shuffled back in surprise. “No. He left me a note. He often did when he’d be gone before I arrived.”

“Only Mr. Drake was in the house that night?”

“Any night.”

“Are you the only one who looks after Mr. Drake?”

“Any help I need, he’s given me permission to hire from the neighborhood.” She put her hands on her hips and gave a sharp nod.

“If Mr. Drake were in any danger, is there any family or friends that he would go to?”

“He’s alone in the world as far as family goes. He has two friends, Mr. Harry and Mr. Tom, he’s worked with on occasion.”

“What are their last names?”

“Mr. Drake only used their Christian names. I’ve never heard last names.”

“What line of work are they in?”

“I don’t rightly know. From what I overheard, they did some of this and that.”

They didn’t sound like a law-abiding trio. “There was no sign of a disturbance at any of the outside doors?”

“Not that I saw.”

I put sympathy in my voice. “He must have fallen on hard times if he lives here and dines with lords.”

“It’s only right he eat with lords, since he’s descended from French royalty.” The housekeeper nodded to herself at the rightness of it. “Then, when he returned home, he had a message from a sick friend and off he went to Brighton.”

“Please tell me this friend’s name and address.”

“He told me the name of his friend and he told me Brighton. More than that I didn’t need to know. And I don’t see where it’s any business of yours.”

“There’s blood in the front hall, the house was left a mess, and no one’s heard from Mr. Drake in days. Someone needs to make sure Mr. Drake is in good health.”

The puzzled look on her face told me she now doubted Drake had left under his own steam. I pressed my advantage. “What is his friend’s name?”

“All right. Just don’t tell her next door. He went to visit Mr. Dombey.”

“Paul Dombey?”

“Yes. You know him?” The housekeeper looked relieved.

“Oh, yes.” Dickens was popular with my customers. In Dombey and Son, Paul Dombey, the son, goes to Brighton. Was Drake forced to lie to his housekeeper? Or had he written that note before his intruders arrived?

*

“THE DUKE HAS no wish to discuss Nicholas Drake again.” The gray-haired man, presumably the butler, spoke in a hush that didn’t echo in the marble-tiled front hall.

I restrained my desire to stare at the ornately carved balustrade, the delicately painted ceiling with its pastoral settings, and the exquisite oil paintings. The duke wasn’t short of a pound if the entrance hall was anything to go by.

“I only need two minutes of his time and then I won’t bother him again.” I tried to fill my words with quiet authority, since my appearance wouldn’t garner respect. Wind had forced rain under my umbrella while I’d walked from the omnibus stop. Then, as the rain continued to pour down, I’d spent time arguing that my business was with the duke and I would not use the tradesmen’s entrance. Thank goodness there was no mirror in the hall. I must have looked like a drowned pup.

“He doesn’t wish to be bothered at this time.”

I’d seen the door the butler had left and returned by. One quick dodge around the older man and I’d be through that doorway. “That is most unfortunate.”

I turned as if leaving, and when the butler moved around me to help me on with the cloak I’d previously shed, I dashed down the hall.

Skidding on the polished floor in my wet shoes, I grabbed for the door handle. I threw open the door and entered a warm, paneled study filled with enough books and maps to make me feel at home. My shoes squished as I hurried across the thick Oriental carpet.

“Your Grace,” the butler said from behind me.

The Duke of Blackford remained seated at his massive desk studying the papers in his hand. “I’ll handle it, Stevens.” His voice was a weary growl. I could imagine this man, wide shouldered, craggy faced, immaculately tailored, throwing the unimposing Edith Carter out of his house. He hadn’t risen or even looked up when I entered the room. Philistine.

And then he set his papers on the pristine desktop and stared at me with eyes that challenged my right to breathe the air in his study.

I could play my role better than he could. I curtsied. The door clicked softly behind me as the butler left, followed by an icy raindrop skittering down my cheek. I didn’t like being left alone with this man. For once I wasn’t worried about my reputation; I was worried for my life. His dark eyes bore into me, proclaiming he ate more important people for breakfast. And there was the small matter of the blood on Drake’s floor.

“Well?” he demanded in a deep voice. “Why are you here?”

“Your carriage was seen at the site of an abduction.” My voice didn’t tremble, but my knees did.

“Whose abduction?”

“Mr. Nicholas Drake.”

A cruel smile slashed across his sharp-angled face. “Another of his lovers? The middle class grows more interesting.”

Heat rose on my cheeks. “I’ve never met the man.”

“Then why do you care?”

“Friendship.”

“For that drab little mouse Miss . . . ?” He made a graceful, sweeping motion with the long, tapered fingers of one hand. Then his gaze returned to the papers on his desk.

If he thought he could convince me to leave by ignoring me, he was most certainly wrong. I stalked toward the smooth mahogany desk and glared at the seated man. “Her name is Miss Carter. Are you familiar with friendship, Your Grace?”