The Vanishing Thief(13)

A cheery fire burned and Sir Broderick had parked his wheeled chair where he would gain most of the heat. I stepped toward him, feeling sweat begin to border my scalp and my spine as I moved closer to the blasting fire.

After his “retirement” into his wheeled chair a dozen years before, Sir Broderick had found his days to be never changing. With time on his hands, he’d gradually organized bored record clerks, antiquarian booksellers, policemen forced into retirement, and others with specialized knowledge into a formidable organization. He was the one who kept us marching in step.

While he said he acted to bring justice to this world, I knew he needed to be active, to have a purpose for living. Crippled in the prime of life, he was too young and alive to spend his days collecting antiquarian books and solving word puzzles.

And as our leader, it would be Sir Broderick who would have the task of correcting me for my mistakes if the group found I’d mishandled the interviews.

Sir Broderick held out both of his chubby hands. “You’ve had an unsettling day. Dominique, a cup of tea for Miss Georgia and a couple of scones. She’s looking thin and wan.”

I reached for his hands and felt his callused palms and his firm grip. Hope flickered. Dominique’s scones could never be considered punishment.

“Sit down, Miss Georgia. Dominique will take good care of you.” The West Indian accent of the woman with skin the color of tea rolled over me, easing some of the tension from my shoulders.

“Thank you, Dominique.” I settled onto a chair at a distance from the fireplace, shifting on the upholstered yellow and orange seat in a failed attempt to find a comfortable position. “Sir Broderick, the client I sent you the message about lied to me. I’m confused by what I’ve learned.”

“We’ve been lied to during many of our successful cases. Don’t let a client telling tales worry you. I’ve called a few of the members to hear your information so we can decide how to proceed from here.”

I took a sip of tea to wet my dry throat and breathed in the fragrance of buttered scones. The buzzer sounded and a voice rang out in the front hall. “Terrible night out, Jacob. Am I late? Do we have a case? It’s been weeks since I’ve done anything adventurous.”

Then heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of Frances Atterby. She came in with a general greeting and enveloped Sir Broderick in a hug. “Ah, scones. Dominique, you are a lifesaver.”

“Made especially for you, Madame Atterby.” Dominique grinned and faded into a dim corner by the bookcases.

Frances savored a bite of scone while still standing by the tea table. “You look very fetching tonight, Miss Emma.”

“I thought I should dress up, since Georgia spent part of the day with a duke.”

Frances swung both chins from Emma to Georgia and back. “Any luck there?”

Emma briefly lifted her eyebrows. “He’s single.”

I stared at my employee. I’d spent the time since I’d returned to the shop resisting the urge to research the Duke of Blackford in Debrett’s. Emma, who’d not been subjected to the duke’s forceful personality, had eagerly searched for information on the man and his lineage.

So what if he was single? I didn’t want to waste my time trying to comprehend the powerful, arrogant, mesmerizing, fascinating duke. Yet why, instead of Nicholas Drake, did my thoughts keep drifting back to the Duke of Blackford?

Frances walked over and sat on the sofa next to Emma. “Tell me all.”

“You’ll have to ask Georgia.” Emma gave me an encouraging smile.

Enough of this nonsense. “Are you ready for me to begin?”

“No. We’re still waiting for Fogarty. In the meantime, enjoy your tea.” Sir Broderick adjusted his lap robe and smiled through hooded eyes at the group.

The buzzer sounded again, and as male voices were heard in the stairwell, Frances returned to the tea table for another scone. “Might as well tuck ourselves in for a long meeting.”

I doubted they’d spend much time on Drake’s possible disappearance.

“All right, the Archivist Society members I’ve summoned are now all here. Shall we begin?” Sir Broderick said, breaking into my thoughts as he wheeled his chair around to face me.

I looked around the study, the warmest, most brightly lit room I’d ever entered. Jacob had joined us, his legs stretched out from a settee, a plate of scones balanced on his lap. Adam Fogarty leaned against a bookcase, drumming his fingers on a shelf. Frances sat next to Emma, scone crumbs spread across her ample chest. Dominique had vanished.

I began by telling them everything Edith Carter had told me and my impressions of the woman. I passed around the photograph Miss Carter had given me of Nicholas Drake, and then Jacob set it on the desk to be taken to an Archivist Society member who was a photographer to have copies made.