The Vanishing Thief

“Because he was my half sibling, the same as Margaret. His father was the old duke. He’s family, even if he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, as they say. His mother was a parlor maid who had a long and loving affair with my father. My mother hated her and made her life hell. After the maid died in childbirth, my mother transferred her hatred to Nicholas. My mother died and was replaced by Margaret’s mother, who was kind to the boy. Out of gratitude to her mother, Drake was always loyal to Margaret.”

He looked out the carriage window and shook his head before he continued. “Drake was present at the first ball Margaret attended. At first, moving to London had improved my sister’s state of mind, but by the time of the first ball, she was slipping badly into old habits. Sudden fits of temper, claiming to hear things that weren’t there, making up preposterous tales. Something small set her off at the ball. Before I could reach her, Drake was there. He managed her beautifully. There was no scene to blot our family name, and she was fine the rest of the night.”

“You were grateful to him.” I knew I would have been if I were the duke.

His gaze stayed focused on the passing traffic. “That night, Margaret made me promise not to tell anyone about Drake’s true parentage. Perhaps that was her greatest problem. I refused Margaret nothing. Drake kept warning me I was driving Margaret away by being too strict with her, and then giving her whatever she wanted. She confided in Drake.” And then he added in a whisper, “She trusted him.”

“Drake found out about Margaret’s death almost immediately. He showed me copies of her letters and demanded my silence about his parentage in return for his not telling anyone about Margaret’s death or her insanity. I took the easy way out and went along with his request. Until very recently, I didn’t know he was doing anyone harm.”

Staring into my eyes, he said, “As soon as I heard Drake was blackmailing others, I moved to get all his material returned to its rightful owners. It was my fault and my responsibility to correct.”

“You’re an honorable man, Your Grace.” If an idiot for giving Dalrymple his wife’s letters and letting Margaret’s feud with Victoria get so far out of hand. He was a brilliant man, but not too bright.

“No. An honorable man wouldn’t have encouraged others to press charges. But I’m a fair man. I’ll see his wife gets a new start if she wants it.”

“And the man I want to find?” The duke’s help could prove invaluable.

“I’ll look into the matter and see what I can learn.”

The carriage came to a halt and a footman opened the door to help Emma and me descend to the crowded sidewalk. Emma headed not for the bookshop, but for the flat. No doubt she needed to tell Phyllida about her adventure and bury herself in the older woman’s concern.

Door key in hand, I took our first mail delivery from the passing postman before I turned to face the open carriage window. “Thank you, Your Grace,” I called up to him.

“No, Miss Fenchurch, thank you. Until next time.” The carriage waited to pull into traffic while I glanced at the three letters in my hand. The top one was addressed to me in a firm, tight script and marked Private.

I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of expensive paper without a letterhead.

I’m sorry we won’t have a chance to meet during my current trip to London, Miss Fenchurch, but business calls me away. You appear to have done well for yourself, moving both your home and your bookshop to better locations in the past few years. I’m sure your parents would be proud of you.

Your move without finding the Gutenberg Bible tells me your father didn’t hide my property for Mr. Lupton. While I realize you blame me for your parents’ death, it was not my fault. I was simply seeking the return of my property. Instead, blame those who have separated me from my prize possession.

I hope you enjoyed the Duke of Arlington’s ball. Perhaps you will tell me about it on my next trip to London.

No. The letter was unsigned, but my racing heartbeat told me I knew.

He couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when I finally had a chance to find him. To capture him. And all this time he’d been following me.

London’s busyness and traffic faded. I looked around, expecting to see the remembered face as a winter’s chill invaded my body. I backed up, putting my shoulders against the glass window of my shop for the feeblest of protection. I felt vulnerable in the midst of the swarm of people along the street.

I looked for the duke’s carriage, but it had disappeared into the traffic on Charing Cross Road.

Quickly unlocking the door to the bookshop, I slipped in and flipped over the sign to Open. It was time to attempt getting back to normal. To the day before the duke entered my life and the murderer reappeared before me.

I refolded the letter and hid it under the counter, but I couldn’t get rid of my desire to look over my shoulder. I knew someday both the Duke of Blackford and the killer would return.

I pla