“Here.” Leaning forward in her chair, she slid the journal across his desk. “My sister, Claire, would have done a much better job. She’s the artistic one in the family. But this should give you a fair idea of what the ring looks like.”
Kincaid picked up the journal. His brows drew together. Joanna was right. She wasn’t an artist. But her rudimentary sketch gave him a clear picture of what he was searching for.
Sort of.
“Is the ring on a large boat, or…”
Joanna’s eyes narrowed. “That is my mother’s hand.”
“Ah.” Kincaid tilted his head and squinted. “Yes, I see it now.”
“Give me that.” Snatching the journal back, she pressed the tip of the pen between her lips—dear God in heaven—before adding a few lines to the drawing, then a few a more. She held the journal back out. “There. That should be better.”
“Thank you,” Kincaid croaked as he took the journal.
“The ruby is a vibrant red.” She tucked the pen behind her ear. “Mr. Bernard, the jeweler, said it was a marquise cut, and quite old.”
“An heirloom, no doubt. In the peerage, it’s common for certain pieces of jewelry to be handed down through the generations. If it was given to your mother without the family’s knowledge or permission, that might also explain why they went to such lengths to have it returned to them.”
A tiny notch appeared in the middle of her brows. “But you said the ring rightfully belongs to me and my sisters.”
“Morally, it does.”
“Morally?”
“British law is…complicated. Particularly when it involves the aristocracy.” Kincaid shifted his weight in his chair as, at long last, the blood in his groin began to recede. Nothing like a healthy law discussion to quell a man’s arousal. “I should forewarn you that even if we manage to find who took the ring, they may be under no legal obligation to return it.”
Anger swirled in the depths of Joanna’s gaze. “That’s not right. They stole the ring. Theyhaveto give it back.”
“Hopefully, they will.”
“And if they don’t?” she demanded.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. As I said, I will have the opportunity to examine theQueen Mary’smanifest this afternoon. If I find anything of interest, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He closed his journal. Cleared his throat. “It looks to be a clear, sunny day. You and your sister should do some sightseeing.”
Joanna stood when he did. “Are you dismissing me, Kincaid?”
Damned right he was.
The sooner his office didn’t smell of violets, the better. Maybe then, he’d actually be able to focus on her case instead of stealing glances at her breasts like some lovesick young pup.
“I can recommend Hyde Park,” he said as he opened the door. “There are several miles of walking trails. There’s also Trafalgar Square where you’ll find the National Gallery. I believe they’re currently showcasing an exhibition featuring new European artists. There’s one in particular I like, although I doubt you’ve ever heard of him. Claude Monet?”
“No, I am afraid not.”
“If you enjoy watching plays, the Gaiety Theater shouldn’t be too far from your boarding house. The acting troupe that’s currently touring there is quite entertaining.”
Joanna tilted her head. “Do you enjoy the theater, Kincaid?”
“Occasionally.” Back when he was a peeler, Kincaid had worked, gone to bed, woken up, and returned to work. There’d simply been no time to take a stroll through the park, or admire paintings at the National Gallery, or see a play. After he was let go (as kind a way to put it as any), he’d drank himself into oblivion. When he’d finally surfaced from the self-inflicted haze of cheap gin, he had found himself with nothing to do.
Needingsomethingto fill the long, empty evenings that gnawed at him like a dog on a bone, he’d followed Sterling’s suggestion and attended the theater. Better to spend his money on that, he’d supposed, than a bottle of gin. To his surprise, he’d actually enjoyed himself, and had seen several plays since.
“They’re debuting an operetta tonight, I believe.” A combination of humor and vocal talent, operettas were shown exclusively at the Gaiety Theater as they weren’t considered prestigious enough for The Globe or Charring Cross, both of which appealed to a more exclusive set of people than Kincaid preferred to run with. “You should go see it, Miss Thorncroft. Take in a bit of the local talent during your stay.”
Her blue eyes brightened. “What a nice invitation, Kincaid. I would love to accompany you.”
“What?” he said blankly. “No, I didn’t…that is to say, I wasn’t…”
