“Whew, is it hot in here, or is it just me?” he asked.
“It’s not you,” Caleb said. And setting his bag atop his lap for safety’s sake, he leaned back, closed his eyes, and dreamed his way through the long, aching night in the hope of a new day to come.
Chapter Twenty-Two
If you want to be remembered,
you must be memorable.
I, on the Past, Cornelius Ottersock
The sun wasrising among the still-dreaming towers of Oxford when the historians finally reached the city. It being Friday, the train station was packed with students heading off for weekend jaunts with a blithe disregard for the day’s lectures. Amelia, beyond exhausted from the drive to Lancaster and the consequent train journey to London, then Oxford, abandoned both Caleb and Ottersock to bustle at speed through the crowd before all the noise and smells and general peopling induced in her a nervous breakdown. Indeed, such a hurry was she in that she did not even see the man exiting the turnstile beside her until she crashed into him.
“Careful there, Professor,” he said as Amelia swayed from the impact. His voice sent a shock through her nervous system. She’d heard it only once before but would never forget it.
“Sergeant Sheffield!”
Suddenly, Caleb catapulted over the turnstile to reach her side, placing a hand against her back as he pointedthreateningly at Sheffield, who stared back with a detachment that did not entirely conceal glints of amusement.
“Don’t even think of touching her!” Caleb growled.
“What are you—” Amelia began, but the throng of passengers exiting the station was jostling around them with an impatience that neared violence.
“Come with me if you want Miss Tunnicliffe to live,” Sheffield ordered, and on that thrilling but perplexing note the three of them sidled hastily out of the traffic’s flow. Once in a quieter space, Amelia scowled at the sergeant.
“What are you talking about? And what are you doing here?”
“And did you just get off the same train as us?” Caleb added, looking confusedly back at the turnstile through which they’d all come. Sheffield gave a brusque nod.
“Missed the train from Staveley,” he answered with a Throckmorton degree of scorn for pronouns. “Galloped to Manchester, caught one from there.” Reaching into his jacket, he drew out a leather wallet, which he unfolded to display a small metal plate. “Home Office.”
“You’re joking.” Caleb tipped forward to peer more closely at the badge, then straightened with a look of surprise. “You’re not joking.”
“We got a tip-off that the Harroway house contained a number of dangerous items and that a team of historians was going to check them out. It sounded like the setup for a heist, so I was sent to investigate. Our suspicions were confirmed when Sir Nigel reported various objects missing. At first I thought you were the likely suspect…” He eyed Caleb, and the air seemed to ring with a laugh that was not uttered. “I considered Throckmorton next, but that man is nothing morethan a buffoon. As for Dummersby—he didn’t need to steal anything, since it was all going to his museum in the first place.” Sighing, he shook his head. “I’ve seen battle, but this has been the most exhausting assignment I’ve ever known. The rain. The boredom. I was beginning to think that some doodad in the house had killed me without my realizing, and that I was a ghost. Then Miss Tunnicliffe brought me back to life by snatching your teaspoon.”
“You didn’t suspect me?” Amelia could not help but ask, feeling oddly put out.
Sheffield turned to her, solemn. “Ma’am, you could do no wrong even if you tried.”
“Oh.” She blinked at such an unexpected compliment, her face heating with delight. “Oh.”
Caleb grinned, nudging her. “See? You’re an angel. Even Sheffield thinks so.”
“Professor Tarrant is a woman of excellent quality,” Sheffield agreed.
Amelia pressed a hand to the base of her throat in hopes that doing so might repress the warm tears that suddenly threatened. “You’re very kind, but—”
“An exemplar of female grace and intelligence,” Sheffield continued, speaking right over her.
“True,” Caleb said, although he took hold of Amelia’s hand in a way that made it very clear to any man in the vicinity, and Sergeant Sheffield particularly, that she belonged withhim.
“Decent, dignified, gracious, and elegant,” the sergeant continued nonetheless.
“Right, we get the idea.” Caleb maneuvered Amelia back several inches lest the man attempt a marriage proposal. “Sowhen you took the horse from us at the manor, it was to chase Vanity?”
“Yes. My source in the Harroways’ staff informed me of Miss Tunnicliffe stealing your teaspoon and fleeing the premises. I hoped I could save her from harm—”
“You mean fromdoingharm,” Caleb interjected.
