A study in scandal (9 page)

“No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done.”

A Study in Scarlet

C
olin looked up from his notes for what seemed to be the hundredth time. He could not concentrate. Something was preventing him from keeping his thoughts on task. Not something, but rather someone.

And a particular activity he’d enjoy with that someone. He had questions in his mind about that particular activity, though; questions that until answered would prevent him from getting work done. So he put his notes aside and stood.

He knew it was here somewhere. He’d run across it once when he was moving his father’s books into his office, but he hadn’t allowed himself even so much as a peek. Colin knew that releasing the primal side of him could only lead to destruction.

It was why he hadn’t pursued a relationship with a woman in many years. Hadn’t so much as paid for a lady’s companionship to ease his needs. Instead he simply poured that energy into his work and fought to keep his urges under control.

Amelia had awakened those urges with her passionate kiss, and he’d had to taste her one more time. Much to his surprise, the kiss had lived up to expectations. It was as he’d remembered. Sweet, fiery, hot, and wet. His loins burned and all he wanted to do was bury himself deep within her.

He ran his hand against the back of his neck and peered at the shelf before him.

Where was it? He read over two full shelves, and it was nowhere. Then he remembered where he’d put it years ago when he’d moved into these rooms. Top right shelf on the very end so as to not draw too much attention. Why he had even kept
the tiny volume, he did not know. It certainly was not because he thought he’d ever need it.

He climbed onto the ladder and reached over and pulled down the small red book. He waited until he was seated before opening the cover and taking in the first image he saw.

Well, he could certainly never do such a thing to Amelia. It seemed wrong to bend a woman into such an awkward position. Since he wouldn’t be putting Amelia into any position, awkward or not, there was no reason to even look at this book.

But that didn’t persuade him to set the book aside, so instead he turned the page. Again. And again.

In one image, the man had the woman bent over a table while he entered her from behind. He casually held a feather in one hand—presumably to spank her bottom—and the woman’s face was contorted in pleasure.

Image after image he pored over until he thought he would burst. He slammed the book closed and tossed it into the other chair. Why torture himself with things he could never have?

He was certain that Amelia was a virgin, and he couldn’t possibly justify seducing a virgin. And he
couldn’t offer any more than a simple seduction, so this was a futile situation.

He should cease his thoughts about kissing her. Cease his fantasies of what a nice round bottom she would have and how he’d like to swat it gently merely to see the surprise in her eyes. Or how he’d like to take his tongue and trace it over every curve of her body, exploring her nooks and crannies.

This line of thought was making his trousers most uncomfortable, and since he was not a man to pay for that sort of release, he was at a crossroads. Relieve it himself. Pay for a companion. Or be an utter cad and seduce the object of his desire.

What was a gentleman to do? None of those options sounded civilized just now. He supposed he could ignore it and it would go away. Eventually. He shifted in his seat.

He needed to channel this energy into something worthwhile. Something that wouldn’t hurt anyone or do permanent damage.

He glanced over at the book and longed to reach for it. He groaned out loud. Channeling his energy elsewhere while fantasizing about Amelia’s warm mouth on him might prove the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

They sat in Monsieur Pitre’s outer office and Colin tapped his umbrella on the floor. In a perfect cadence. Amelia noted that he seemed rather distant today, as if afraid to even speak to her. Perhaps today wasn’t the perfect opportunity to propose they become lovers. She might need to wait a day or two more.

She glanced sideways at him and noticed his jaw was set in a tight line.

“Do you have another appointment?” she asked.

He turned his head to face her. “No. Why?”

“You seem anxious.”

“No, but I do find it rude to be kept waiting. Especially when we have an appointment. Is he always this rude?”

Not being an overly prompt person herself, but not wanting to draw attention to that fact, she considered her words before answering. “I believe Monsieur Pitre views time a bit differently than we do.”

“That is a yes.”

“He’s French,” she added, as if that were supposed to explain everything. “Perhaps he is busy.”

He raised both eyebrows. “And we are not?”

“You’re exactly right. I’m sure he’ll be with us momentarily.” Surely that wasn’t the only thing
irritating Colin. He’d been agitated since they met earlier. Long before Monsieur Pitre was late.

Within three minutes, they were escorted into Monsieur Pitre’s private offices. Amelia had been here before, and she was struck by the disarray of the place. In the past, it had been the very definition of tidy. Much as Colin’s office was. But today crates were everywhere, and nearly every surface was covered with an artifact. Were she here on any other purpose, she might enjoy looking about.

“Please pardon the mess. We only yesterday received a new shipment from Cairo. What can I do to help, Miss Watersfield?” Monsieur Pitre asked. The tall thin man eyed Colin from his boots to the top of his head. He sucked in his cheeks and turned to face Amelia. “And please introduce me to your friend.”

“This is Inspector Brindley. He’s working on my father’s case.”

There was a long pause before the curator spoke. “Ah, yes, your father’s missing statue.” He glanced at Colin. “I’ve been telling Mr. Watersfield for years that the chances of that statue being authentic were marginal. I’m afraid whomever has stolen the bust will discover that it is a fraud as soon as he tries to sell the piece.”

“You know we disagree on this matter, Monsieur Pitre, but what is important is that this case be solved for my father’s sake. He loves that statue regardless of its authenticity, and we want to find her.”

The curator nodded. “Whatever pleases Mademoiselle. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Inspector. Please,” he said as he motioned to the chairs across from his desk.

Amelia sat and Colin followed suit. His eyes took in the office around them, and she could tell he was taking notes, mentally. It was as if she’d awakened inside a Sherlock story and she was getting to see, firsthand, how the genius worked.

She fought the urge to smile, as there was no need to let either man know what she was thinking. But she loved this. Loved knowing Colin. Loved working with him. Loved kissing him, but that was a different matter entirely.

“I am assuming you have some questions for me, Inspector,” Monsieur Pitre said.

“Indeed.” Colin flipped open his notebook and penciled a few things down before looking back up at the curator. “So it is your opinion that the piece in question is not authentic?”

“Yes.”

“What leads you to believe such a thing?”

“It is not so much how it is made. It is a well-made artifact, and I do not question that it is Egyptian or that the piece was carved during the rumored time of Nefertiti. What I do question is whether or not it is actually Nefertiti. The queen herself is little more than a legend. I find it difficult to conceive of this statue resembling more than someone’s imagination. Or it could easily have been a simple Egyptian girl.”

“But it could have been Nefertiti,” Colin stated.

The curator pursed his lips. “It is an unlikely possibility.”

Colin made some additional notes before continuing. “How long have you worked here?” he asked before looking up.

“Three years.”

“And before then, where did you work?”

“I was the assistant curator at a small private museum in Paris.”

“Is that where you are from originally?” Colin asked.

Monsieur Pitre’s eyes narrowed. “Outside of Paris.”

“What brought you to London?”

“I prefer your fair city to my own.” Monsieur Pitre’s lips turned up in a snarl.

Back and forth they went. One questioning, the
other answering. And each clearly disliking the other. Amelia thought to step in, but so far Monsieur Pitre seemed to be answering Colin’s questions without too much hesitation. Although it was evident that he was rather annoyed.

“Do you have family, sir? Here in London?”

The curator straightened a stack of papers on his desk. “No. But I have many friends. I’m not quite certain I’m following this line of questions. Am I to believe you think me a suspect in this case?”

“I’m considering several options at the moment,” was all Colin would say.

Amelia watched Monsieur Pitre puff up in his seat much like a long and skinny bird. She placed her hand on Colin’s arm, then sat forward slightly in her seat.

“Monsieur Pitre, Inspector Brindley is questioning everyone who had access to my father’s study. Myself included. Please do not be offended. We merely wanted to see if you would assist us with some information.”

He pursed his lips and took a few short breaths before nodding curtly. “Very well.”

“I am assuming that you have other associates in town, other collectors with whom you are familiar. Collectors similar to my father.”

“Yes.”

“Splendid. Might we have a list of their names?”

He looked truly offended. “Absolutely not. It is not my right to share such information.”

“I see. Well, then perhaps you can at least lead us in the right direction. Are there other Egyptian antiquity collectors in London?”

“There are two that I know of. Your father. And the other I believe you are familiar with as well.”

“Lady Hasbeck?” Amelia asked.

“Yes.”

“No one else?” she asked.

“No.”

“Strange,” Amelia said. “We heard the other day of someone else, and I was certain you’d know of him, since you are generally so well informed. A fellow who thus far prefers to be anonymous. You haven’t heard of him, then?”

He paused awhile before answering. “If it is the same man—and I am reluctant to share this with you, since I know so little about him—but if it is the same I’ve heard about, he is new to town. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to meet him. He sent me a post introducing himself and inviting me to view his collection. But we have been quite busy here at the museum, so I have been unable to visit his pieces.”

“Of course,” Amelia said. “Can you tell me his name? I could contact him, not to intrude, but merely as one collector to another.”

His lips thinned to a white line.

“Oh, please, Monsieur Pitre. Certainly you have more loyalty to my father and me than to this man of whom you have not yet made acquaintance?” She smiled at him then, hoping to calm his ruffled feathers.

His shoulders sagged slightly, and he offered her a tight smile. “Of course, mademoiselle, you should not even have to ask such a question.” He retrieved a sheet of parchment from his desk and wrote out a name and address, then passed it to her.

“Mr. Quincy,” she read aloud. “Mr. Quincy.” She looked at Colin, but he was busy recording something in his notebook.

“Well, thank you, Monsieur Pitre, you’ve been most helpful. And we certainly thank you for your time.” She stood, and waited for Colin to do the same. When he did not, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

He showed no sign that he’d noticed, merely finished his note, put his notebook away, then stood as if he’d always meant to stand at that precise moment.

“Now then, shall we go?” he asked.

He said nothing as they made their way back to the waiting carriage. His silence continued as the carriage lurched forward to return her home. Perhaps he was reviewing their meeting and would reveal his perceptions once he’d had time to evaluate everything.

He looked rather normal, as would any man sitting in a carriage and looking out the window. Well, any man who was naturally more thoughtful than most. So while he didn’t seem unusually pensive, he was always thinking, she’d wager.

Things had not felt right with Monsieur Pitre. He’d behaved rather peculiarly. Ordinarily, he was charming—flirtatious, even. But today he had been different.

Colin still sat looking out the window. She tried to maneuver herself into his line of sight, but found that to be impossible, unless she wanted to plop herself onto his lap. Perhaps this was what inspectors did, they mulled things over before discussing them.

Well, if that was the case, then she would mull as well. She glanced at Colin. This mulling business was actually more difficult than she had anticipated. Nothing would come to her. Nothing
save the fact that she wanted to talk. Wanted Colin to say something. Anything. Surely he’d noticed Monsieur Pitre’s odd behavior.

Oh, blast it! She couldn’t take the silence any longer.

“He was acting peculiar. Do you not agree?” she asked.

He turned his head slowly to face her. “Who?”

“Monsieur Pitre.”

“I honestly couldn’t say. Having never met the man before, I have nothing by which to judge today’s behavior.”

“Well, I suppose that is true. He was behaving oddly, of that I am certain.”

“In what way?” Colin asked.

“He seemed agitated. Nervous, even.”

“What do you make of that?”

Her nerves fluttered. She sat forward slightly. “I think he was hiding something.”

“Something about this case?”

Amelia thought a moment. “Perhaps.”

“The Mr. Quincy he spoke of, have you heard anything about him?” he asked.

“No, I don’t believe I have heard of him.”

“Do you think your father might have? Is there any communication between the collectors—
perhaps someplace they meet and discuss their collections, or a journal they use to place advertisements?”

“He hasn’t left the house since Nefertiti went missing, so if this Mr. Quincy is very new in town, then my father would not know him. He has, on occasion, gone to his club to meet with some other collectors. I’ve never accompanied him, so I’m not even certain where it is, but I could ask.” He was looking at her so intently now that she worried about her hat sitting straight and whether or not she had anything stuck in her teeth.