His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp
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don’t think our experience with the suffragists today would encourage her to accompany you,” Olivia remarked.
“It isn’t as if there are always abductions at them,” the duchess protested.
“One would hope not,” Reed commented drily.
“What did you find out from the kidnappers?” Con asked, turning toward Stephen and Rafe.
“Pah!” Kyria’s husband let out an exclamation of disgust. “Nothing of any importance. They were hired hands.”
“Nor were they particularly bright,” Theo put in. “They had no idea why they were paid to abduct the women. They swore they didn’t even know who the ladies were.”
“He couldn’t even give us a description of the man who hired them,” Stephen added. “Said it was all done by way of letter, brought by a messenger.”
Con cocked an eyebrow. “Do you believe that?”
“Strangely enough, we did.” Theo shrugged his shoulders. “He seemed sufficiently demoralized. I think Mother terrified him more than Rafe. She does wield a wicked pitcher.” Theo’s green eyes twinkled.
“Really, Theo, you know I abhor violence. But I could hardly stand by when someone threatened my children.”
“What did the Dearborns say?” Con asked.
“They vehemently denied it,” Rafe said.
“Even when Rafe threatened them with various sorts of bodily harm,” Stephen put in.
“I’m less certain that I believe them,” Rafe put in. “They let us search their house after a big show of British affront, but that only proves they were careful enough to keep their distance from the crime.”
“I can’t think of anyone else with a grudge against us,” Reed said. “At least, no one who isn’t already in jail.”
“The Dearborns are obviously desperate for money.”
“That’s the peculiar thing.” Uncle Bellard spoke up. “We never received a note asking for a ransom.”
“It is odd,” the duke agreed.
“Perhaps they didn’t get a chance to send it before the ladies got away.”
“Maybe,” Megan said doubtfully. “But what sort of criminal wouldn’t have the note ready to go as soon as they grabbed their victims?”
“An incompetent one,” her husband suggested. “Which these men certainly seemed to be.”
“Maybe they wanted to make Father wait and worry, so he’d be ready to give them whatever they asked for,” Reed suggested.
“But I would have done that at once,” the duke replied.
“I don’t think they were after money.” Every head in the room turned toward Olivia at her words. “They interrogated Kyria. Twice. They were after information.”
“Interrogated you?” Rafe stiffened, looking at his wife in alarm. “What did they do to you?”
“Nothing, really,” Kyria said calmly. “So you needn’t get murder in your eye. They shouted a good deal, but they didn’t physically harm me. They just kept asking about the blasted key.”
“Key? What key?” Rafe asked.
“Exactly.” Kyria gave a sharp nod. “I asked them that very thing, but they had no response except to ask me again in a louder voice.”
“Why didn’t they describe it or tell you what it was for?” Desmond asked, frowning in puzzlement.
“They just said that I knew which key they meant. The one my father gave me.”
“I gave you?” The duke’s voice rose in astonishment. “Why would I have given you a key? To what? How very odd.”
“That was my thought,” Kyria agreed.
“I don’t know anything about any key,” the duke went on. “Except for a Greek key, of course, but I wouldn’t think they were interested in ancient motifs.”
“Perhaps they meant the key to your collections room,” Bellard suggested.
“What would a gang of ruffians want with Greek and Roman pots?”
“And why would they target Kyria?” Con added. “Why would she have the key to Father’s collections room?”
“Maybe they didn’t specifically target Kyria. Maybe they were told to grab one of the women, and any of them would have done.”
“Then why didn’t they ask the rest of us about it after Kyria proved recalcitrant?” Thisbe pointed out. “That would be the logical thing to do.”
“Maybe they meant to take Emmeline,” the duke suggested. “And they grabbed the wrong redhead.”
The duchess smiled at her husband. “Dear Henry. I think even those men would have noticed that Kyria was far too young to be me.”
“One of them had the nerve to say I was too old!” Kyria said indignantly.
Her brothers laughed, and Con said, “I suppose that’s the one you wanted to bash over the head.”
“It is. I heard them arguing in the hall after the last time he questioned me. One of them said some rather uncomplimentary things about my stubbornness, and the other said he could make me talk. But then Ruffian One—the one Mother demoralized—said that no, they couldn’t hurt me. I think he had realized how much trouble they were in. That’s when Ruffian Two said I was too old. And the first one told him he was daft, and they fell into arguing over which of them was more stupid.”
“Which would, admittedly, be hard to determine,” Theo put in.
“They ended it with Ruffian Two stomping off downstairs. He was really a most obnoxious man. He kept complaining because Thisbe cracked him over the head with a parasol. I ask you, what did he think we were going to do?”
“I am sorry I broke Sabrina’s parasol, though,” Thisbe said. “It was such a pretty thing.”
“I should have taken Papa’s umbrella instead,” Kyria mused. “It’s much sturdier. Next time I’ll know better.”
Con frowned. “Wait. Kyria was carrying Sabrina’s parasol?”
“Yes, I picked it up as we left the house because I’d forgotten mine.”
“It’s a very distinctive parasol, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it has a lovely painted scene.”
“So it’s the sort of thing one might use to identify someone. And he said you were ‘too old.’ I think they took the wrong person. Maybe they meant to kidnap Sabrina.”
LILAH WENT TO bed thinking about Con’s kiss and woke up with it still on her mind. It was disturbing, even more so because it had also been so exciting. Con had a way of confusing things.
She disapproved of him. He was rash. He had the most outlandish notions. He didn’t care a whit how he appeared to others. Indeed, he seemed to delight in making a spectacle of himself. She thought of the exaggerated mustache and garish suit she had seen him wear the first time she visited Broughton House. As if that weren’t peculiar enough, he had been consorting with people who were certain the world was going to end that week.
What did it matter that he was handsome and witty or that his smile did the most peculiar things to her insides? It didn’t make him any more normal or acceptable or dependable. He was, in short, odd. Just look at his name: Constantine. It was decidedly not British.
Con liked her no more than she did him. He considered her annoying and her beliefs antiquated. They could not be around each other for two minutes