Page 25 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
It was a sapphire or topaz, some sort of deep blue stone, and it was set in filigree and hung from an earring hook. It was exquisite; by far the most precious thing that she had ever held in her hand. But that wasn’t what gave her pause. There was no question that it was a woman’s piece of jewelry. Perhaps Mr. Whitby kept it as the relic of some doomed love affair, or an acquaintance had lost it and he had yet to reunite it with her. Or perhaps there was a more sinister explanation. Slipping it into her pocket, Tabby gently closed the box and returned it to its place on the desk. To stay any longer would be to press her luck too far, and even if the jewel was nothing, it was the closest thing she had found to a clue.
“Looking for something?”
The voice stopped her heart in her chest, and she spun around. A dark shape in the doorway stepped forward, revealing every intimidating inch of Mr. Whitby. “Miss Cooke, what a charming surprise.”
No matter what he had seen, there was nothing she could do to explain her presence in his study in the middle of the day. Her tongue was suddenly thick, her feet slow. She just stared at him.
Moving into the room with lethal grace, Mr. Whitby came right up to her until she thought he was going to grab her by the shoulders and shake her senseless. But he continued moving past her to a sideboard and picked up a glass.
“You seem to have an inordinate amount of interest in me,” he said casually as he fixed himself a drink. Did she have enough time to make a dash for the door? Before she could find out, Mr. Whitby turned, drink in hand, and placed himself between her and the only exit. “First following me on the street and now appearing uninvited in my study. I won’t flatter myself that you have any sort of romantic designs on me, but I must say I find it curious that you make such an effort to put yourself in my path.”
She forced herself to return his cold, unyielding gaze. “You killed Rose.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. What was she thinking? The last thing she ought to do was provoke him. As the air between them grew hot and prickly from the accusation, some animal instinct inside of her screamed for her to flee. But before she could obey, he was lunging toward her, hands reaching for her like the talons of a bird of prey.
He was going to kill her, she thought numbly as his glass shattered on the floor. She had always prided herself on her survival instincts, had always thought that she was made of stronger stuff, but as she watched him approaching her at lightning speed, all she could do was shrink down into herself and pray that she was wrong about his intentions.
Stumbling back, she would have hit the desk except that elegant hands grabbed her by the collar and jerked her back up.
Time stopped and she froze in place, his hands still at her neck. “How dare you,” he hissed. His cold blue eyes were mere inches from hers, his breath hot and unpleasant on her skin. “You come into my house, rifle through my belongings, and then accuse me of murder.”
Tabby’s heart beat furiously. He was guilty, she was sure of it. But all her intuition would not help her if he decided to kill her, which right now it was looking very much like he wanted to do.
Her anger was stronger than her fear, though. It bubbled up and overflowed. If she could have spit venom like a snake she would have, but she had only her words and her outrage. “You let them lock up Caleb! He...he thinks you’re his friend.” The sickening injustice of it made her blood run hot. She had to warn Caleb.
The vein under Mr. Whitby’s eye throbbed, and she knew that whatever reprieve she had just been granted was now gone. She might not be so lucky a second time.
“Let go of me!” She twisted and flailed, but he pinned her wrists, neatly avoiding her attack. “Let me go this instant!” Surely the house servants would hear her protests. But then, she was the one who had broken in like a common thief. Who would come to her defense?
He took her by her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You can’t possibly imagine that I can let you run back to young Mr. Bishop with these unfounded accusations now, can you?”
Her throat tightened as the reality of her situation slowly spread over her, her legs going wobbly. He gave her a mocking look. “Oh, come now, Miss Cooke. Don’t think me a monster. I have no desire kill you.” His assurance brought her no comfort, not when his piercing eyes bore through her as if she were no more than a rabbit caught pillaging the vegetable patch and in need of poisoning.
He was taller, stronger than her. She darted her gaze around the room, frantically looking for her best chance of escape. How could she have been so foolish to come in here without having an escape route planned?
As if sensing her plans to flee, one hand went around her neck, tightening just under her chin. “I don’twantto kill you, but you seem determined to smear my good name.”
The voice inside of her was screaming now, and she didn’t even have to think. Groping blindly behind her, she struggled to find something, anything, with which she might fend him off. Her hand found the inlaid box and closed around it just as he was tightening his grip around her neck. With monumental effort, she brought it up and landed a glancing blow on Mr. Whitby’s temple. He reeled backward, a bead of blood welling up on his hairline. “Goddamn you!” he spat.
It wasn’t enough to knock him unconscious, but it bought her just enough time to free herself and make a dash for it.
He took a sidestep at her, his fingers grazing her skirt as she flew past him. She bolted back out into the hallway, practically knocking into a servant with an armful of linens. Running out into the street, she blindly wove around pedestrians and horse carts. She ran until the harbor stopped her, her heart pounding and her throat hoarse from gulping in air.
She had escaped with her life, but for how long?
13
IN WHICH FREEDOM IS SHORT-LIVED.
CALEB HAD JUSTemerged from the smoky interior of his club, five dollars the richer after trouncing Debbenham at cards, when a dark-haired young woman waved him down from across the street. His eyes were still adjusting to the daylight, but she didn’t look familiar. She made a frustrated gesture when he didn’t return her wave, and then began weaving her way toward him. It wasn’t until she was darting across the busy street that he recognized her from the cemetery as Tabby’s friend.
He frantically searched his memory for her name before landing on it just as she stopped in front of him. “Miss O’Reilly, what a pleasant surprise. I—”
The young woman stopped him with an impatient flutter of her hand. “Have you seen Tabby?” she asked, still breathless from her dash across the street.
He finally noticed the frantic look in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and the disheveled curls coming loose from her straw bonnet. He was just about to tell her that of course he’d seen her, they’d had coffee and buns just the other day, but then he closed his mouth, a feeling of dread creeping over him. He’d told Tabby in no uncertain terms that day not to get involved. If something had happened to her, he would never forgive himself. “Not since Tuesday,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry.
Miss O’Reilly closed her eyes and nodded, as if he had just confirmed her worst fears. “She was supposed to assist me with a laying out this morning, but she never came. Tabby may be a creature of strange habits, but she always keeps her word.”
