• • •
When Richard walked into the police station, two of his men jumped up.
“Sir,” one said, “we need to talk.”
Richard tensed. Had his duplicity been discovered? He kept his voice level as he asked, “What is it, Officer Edwards?”
Edwards and the other man?—Underwood?—led him past the bullpen, toward the individual holding cells. “We’ve been tracking down the staff who served the party,” Edwards explained. “We found this in one of the valet’s homes. He hadn’t had the chance to pawn it yet.”
Richard squinted at the small item Underwood held up: a pearl earring, set in white gold. He didn’t recognize the jewelry, but given the context, he concluded, “This belongs to Poppy.”
Underwood nodded. “When we asked him how he got the earring, he said she gave one to him and the other to his fellow valet, if they promised to tell no one that they’d seen her. We’ve tried beating him, sir, but he won’t change his story.”
Richard was silent as he shuffled through the pieces of the story to accommodate this latest development. A revelation dawned on him, one so powerful he had to fight back a smile. He had pleaded to the Founder, and the Founder had granted him a boon.
“Find the other valet,” Richard ordered. “If he can corroborate the first man’s story, then we’ll know they aren’t lying.”
“But what if they’re working together?”
“I have reason to believe they aren’t.” Richard hardened his voice. “If you cannot do the task, Officer Edwards, I will see to it myself.”
The other man paled. “No, sir, I didn’t mean to?—I’ll find the other valet, Captain.”
“Good. One more thing. Did the valet say she was with anyone when she left?”
“She left the party alone,” Underwood answered, “but the valet said one of the caterers exited right after, in the same direction as her. If he returned to the party, they didn’t see it.”
“Officer Underwood, have a sketch artist sit with both the valets and have them describe the man?—separately, mind you,” Richard instructed. “Come to me when it’s been done.”
“Will you share your theory with us, sir?” Underwood inquired.
Normally, Richard would have lambasted the man for his presumptuousness. But in this case, it would be to his advantage if word spread. He inhaled deeply, twisting his lips into a grimace, as though it physically pained him to speak. “I believe Miss Sutherland has fallen in with the wrong crowd,” he whispered. “She has a generous nature. I have cause to believe that she has grown sympathetic to the cause of a particular criminal in the city.”
Edwards’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean the Jackal?”
Richard nodded, pleased that the other man had caught on. “The very same. I believe that it was he who followed her from the party. They must have arranged to leave separately, to avoid suspicion. She is likely with him as we speak.”
“But, sir, why would she go with him?”
“To extort her father.” Richard shuddered. “The Jackal is notorious for manipulating others. Usually, he bullies the poor, but he must have seen Poppy as bait to hook a much larger fish. Sheltered as she is, she likely does not even realize she’s being used.”
Richard let silence fill the hall for dramatic effect. Then, he said, “You must tell no one. It’s only a theory, and I would not have my fiancée’s reputation tarnished without proof.”
“I swear it,” Underwood said. Edwards echoed the affirmation, which all but guaranteed that by tomorrow, the entire precinct?—and soon the nobility?—would doubt Poppy Sutherland.
The only thing he had left to do was to prove there was a connection between her and the criminals, something public and irrefutable.
And if there wasn’t proof, he would create it.
Chapter Seventeen
The Eighth Day
On the eighth day of Poppy Sutherland’s kidnapping, Richard Montrose responded to their ransom letter.
Zeyar burst into Hasan’s room for the first time since their argument, dress shirt untucked, hair askew. He came up short, taken aback by Hasan’s bruised, slightly crooked nose. Hasan prepared to concoct a lie?—he’d never admit that a cosseted noblewoman had gotten the better of him?—but Zeyar didn’t comment on it.
He waved the letter in his hand. “Montrose wants us to meet at the Marnapur Museum of Modern History tomorrow night,” he said. “We’ll go just before closing and trade hostages.”
