The Vanishing Thief

I shook my head. “No wonder everything he’s done since then has been a failure.”

The duke stared at the burning house. “Or been too unstable for practical use.”

I coughed again. Breathing was coming easier now and it made me light-headed in relief. “I don’t think he meant to blow up the house. I think we might have done that saving Emma. Beakers seemed to break and set off the next glass dish and so on to barrels stacked in one corner of the laboratory. But he did say he wanted to destroy you and Drake and the Archivist Society before he escapes or hangs.”

Firemen raced past us dragging a hose. Water sprayed onto the house in a stream, but it was too late to save anything. The roof rose and sank in rumbling waves before another hose could pour more water into the building from another direction.

With a shout, the firemen drove everyone back as the roof fell into the house with a mighty crash of sparks and thunder.

The sight was an all too familiar one and I shivered at the memory of that day twelve years before. The day I made the choice to rescue Sir Broderick first.

I turned away from the house, sickened by my memories.

A bobby came up to us. “Is there anyone inside?”

“I don’t think so,” I told him and discovered I was crying.

“Are you the homeowner?” he asked the duke.

“No.” He looked at me. “Where is Lord Hancock?”

I bit back my sobs and swallowed. “Fogarty and Sumner chased him out of the lab while we got Emma out. I didn’t see or hear any servants.”

“The house has stood empty for months,” the bobby said. “It’s been an eyesore for the neighborhood and a target of young boys with their catapults and stones. Few in this neighborhood will be sorry to see it burn down.”

More hoses were dragged across the scraggly lawn and pointed at the fire. The water began to dampen the fire, or perhaps it was burning itself out.

A figure trudged toward us out of the darkness into the blazing light encircling the fiery building. When he reached us, Fogarty said, “I lost him,” and dropped to a sitting position among the weeds, breathing hard.

If I’d had more energy, I’d have found a way to hug him. “I’m glad you’re safe,” I said, patting his shoulder.

“Not the ending we expected,” Fogarty replied, his chest heaving as he pulled in air.

Emma reached us, supported on one side by Jacob. He jostled her and she shook him off. “That’s enough. Georgia, are you all right?”

I realized I was still hanging on to the duke for support. I straightened and jumped forward guiltily, feeling the loss of all the warmth and security that had enveloped me. “Yes. The smoke took my breath away.”

Embarrassed, I turned to Adam Fogarty. “Where did you lose Lord Hancock?”

“A few blocks away. He might have doubled back, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“Any idea where he intends to go?”

“None.”

“Where’s Sumner?” Emma asked.

“Here.” Sumner stumbled into the light. Dark liquid puddled between his fingers where he clutched his arm. Sweat beaded along his hairline, and he was missing his hat.

“Oh, no.” Emma ran and put an arm around him.

I covered my face with my fingers. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

Sumner gave Emma a grimace and turned to the duke. “Stupid mistake. He was waiting in the branches of a tree. Jumped down on me. I got stabbed by my own knife. Lost him.”

The fire was dying down and under the control of the fire brigade. The police didn’t need us any longer. Jacob handed over Emma’s tiara and then he and Fogarty departed in the unmarked carriage that had been lent to us by the duke. Sir Broderick would be waiting for details of the night’s misadventure and could use help sorting through the letters purchased from Drake.

After traveling to the duke’s home to drop off Sumner for medical care and the jewels for safekeeping, Emma and I were escorted to Lady Westover’s by the Duke of Blackford in his ancient carriage. We were silent the entire trip, and Emma kept twisting her fingers.

Although she met us wearing a dressing wrap over her nightgown, I suspected Lady Westover had not gone to bed. She appeared wide awake when we arrived, ordering her sleepy-looking servants to fix tea while her lady’s maid helped us out of our ruined gowns and into our everyday shirtwaists and skirts.

As I looked at the burns and tears in the Fire Queen costume, I felt my eyes dampen and my throat tighten at the loss. I hadn’t expected to wear that dress again. I wasn’t born to be a queen. But my dream of waltzing with the duke and being admired by men and women alike was not to be.

I caught Emma hiding a yawn, which started me yawning. Lady Westover came in and frowned at my wide-open mouth. “Come along. The sooner you tell my grandson and me what happened, the sooner you can get to your beds.”

We found the Duke of Blackford and Detective Inspector Grantham waiting in the parlor, brandy glasses in their hands.

“Do you want tea or would you rather have brandy?” Lady Westover asked.

“Tea. I can barely stay awake now,” I told her. “How much have you heard, Inspector?”

“I’ve learned about the letter Mr. Drake stole from Miss Daisy and how Lord Hancock couldn’t allow anyone to know his late brother created the formula. How any evidence that his brother created the compound would have been in the laboratory Hancock never let anyone into, and that has now burned down. The surviving Hancock made the fortune he subsequently lost and his reputation from his brother’s formula. I take it this is why Drake was attacked and then disappeared. Blackmail is a dangerous game,” Grantham said.

“Drake swears he never tried to blackmail Hancock,” Blackford said.

“Then he was the only person in your club he didn’t try to blackmail,” I said in a peevish tone. It was late, I was tired, and I had run out of patience for circling the truth.

“Drake is a known blackmailer?” Inspector Grantham asked, looking at Emma and me.

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” Blackford said. When I glared at him, he said, “Not provably. None of his victims will admit to it, in part because most of them have managed to extricate themselves.”

“Are you telling me there’s no sense starting an investigation?” the inspector asked.

“There’s no proof of a crime,” Blackford said.

“What about the letters and papers Drake sold to you tonight?” I asked.

“They’re not proof of a crime unless someone wants to come forward and press charges.” Blackford gave me a cold smile over his brandy snifter.

“And no one will press charges for blackmail against the wishes of a duke.” I gave him a hard stare.

“Georgia,” Lady Westover began in her remember where you are voice, “you must be overwrought from the dangers you faced tonight. Your ball gowns were all sooty and torn. Surely you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

“Sir Broderick and I plan to return all of the letters to their rightful owners, or burn them if the owners are dead,” Blackford murmured.

I nearly jumped to my feet, and then remembered where I was. “You did all this—the dresses, the jewels, the invitations—to buy back letters you had no intention of keeping?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Do you want sainthood? Or just the power to make people leap at your every command? I don’t think a good night’s sleep will help this, Lady Westover.”