Page 75 of A Duke's Keeper
“It was two broken armsanda broken leg, and Scarlet had to spoon-feed you until your splints came off.”
Syd scowled. “Your memory is infuriating sometimes. You could have justaskedfor the vase. I’m sure the viscount would have handed it over, along with that Turkish rug from the hall, and the pharaoh’s staff from the case in the library.”
“Syd!”
“I didn’t stealanything.” She sniffed and glanced at Camille out of the corner of her eye. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think they owe you some priceless piece of china or two.”
*
The contented airand restoration of bright sunshine from the country fell away the instant London bridge came into view with its swirling smog hanging over the iron and stone like a bastardized painting of heaven’s gate. It was nothing but a kaleidoscope of greys against a starless, black sky.
Syd took in a lungful of heavy air. “Smells like home.”
Camille couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm. “Smells like the textile mill down the road.”
Syd rolled her eyes. “Don’t take out your moodiness on me because Madam dragged you away from you lover duke again.”
Camille wouldn’t deny her irritation. Interruption after interruption had kept her from a much-needed discussion with Renard. If she were a believer—which she was not—she’d say God was playing games for His own amusement.
“Strange that Madam called you back so suddenly,” Syd said. “Think it’s another body?”
She’d thought long and hard about Madam’s note. “No. If Hawkins’s body had been found, she’d have said as much.” The waiting was maddening. Two killings in Dockside wasn’t uncommon as far as criminals and gang activities, but multiple murders with the same signature, it was enough for even the worst of the runners to lie low. No one who frequented the streets had yet lost the instinctual caution after the killings seven years ago. This new string had the potential to be much worse.
But if Madam’s letter had nothing to do with the recent murders, something must have happened to her mother.
“You think he’s next?”
Camille glanced at Syd. “What?”
“Hawkins,” she said. “I thought after Lucien denied his involvement, it meant Grey and Flank were a coincidence.”
Camille left useless conjectures over her mother aside and mentally backtracked. Shehadconcluded Lucien had no stake in the killings. Except for some widely known gambling debts attributed to the trio, there was no other reason to connect the murders to one another. But something—that fallible gut again—told her this killer wasn’t done, not with the three connected men and not in terrorizing the people of Dockside.
“I don’t know,” she said finally.
They came to the back entrance of the Prodding Pony, the flickering light of the lantern adding tension to their morbid discussion.
Camille wished they’d returned to London in the daylight. Her gut tightened at the unnatural quiet on the streets, a quiet that whispered of violence to come.
More disturbing, despite her gut’s incessant interruptions, her mind appeared to agree.
*
Hearing straight fromSensa that there’d been no messengers from St. Giles regarding her mother, Camille rifled through Madam’s desk until she found an envelope and letter addressed to her hidden under the monthly expenses. Frowning, she read the letter Renard had left at the club for her before he’d left for the country, a letter—nearly legible—explaining his obligations to his sister and how he’d return from Lux estate after he’d fulfilled his duty. A letter that had been opened and read, most definitely minutes before the note demanding her return to the club had been sent to the Quickners.
It wouldn’t take much for Madam to realize any invitations to a garden party by the Quickners would be extended to the neighboring Lux estate. What did Madam think? She’d have a run-in with Renard and dismiss her duties to the club?
Renard had made sure to inform her,through action, where he’d gone. Her heart squeezed. Next time she saw Madam, she’d tear out her powdered hair.
She rubbed her temple, irritated her wrath must be postponed. She should have known Madam would be abed at this hour. Standing outside the club door, she contemplated rousing the meddlesome woman at her residential addressaround the block, but it was late, and she should return to her flat to relieve her landlord of his duties overseeing her mother.
Her anger would keep.
“Syd?” Camille squinted up at the dark rooftops, surprised her shadow hadn’t dropped to the street the instant she’d locked the club door behind her.
Maybe Syd had made a run to the Den to check in with Pops, thinking her conversation with Madam would take longer. Clever girl.
It was the knowledge of that cleverness that let Camille turn in the direction of St. Giles; Syd would know she’d gone home by the lack of smoke from the chimney.
