In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (48 page)

She tried to reason out the possibilities, but her brain wouldn’t function. She was operating on autopilot, her feet moving mechanically, her body numb. She had no evidence now, nothing to back up her story. And Van Weldon was still in pursuit. She could change her name a hundred times, dye her hair a hundred different shades, and still she’d be looking over her shoulder, wondering who might be moving in for the kill.

Victor Van Weldon had won.

It would almost be easier just to walk into his office, meet him face-to-face and tell him, “I give up. Just get it over with quick.” She wouldn’t last much longer, anyway.

Even now she was scarcely aware of the faces on the street,
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much less able to watch for signs of danger. Only the firm guidance of Jordan’s hand kept her moving in any sort of purposeful direction.

He pulled her into a taxi and directed the driver to Brook Street.

Gazing out dully at the passing traffic, she asked,

“Where are we going?”

“To get that second opinion. There’s a chap I know, has a shop in the area. He’s done some appraisals for Uncle Hugh in the past.”

“Do you think Mr. Jacobs could be wrong?”

“Wrong. Or lying. At this point, I don’t trust anyone.”
Does he trust me?
she wondered.
The dagger’s a fake.

Maybe he thinks I am, as well.

The taxi dropped them off at a shop in the heart of Mayfair. From the exterior it did not look like the sort of establishment any family as lofty as the Tavistocks would patronize. A sign in the window said, Clocks and Jewel-lery—Bought and Sold. Behind the dusty plate glass was arranged a selection of rings and necklaces that were obviously paste.

“This is the place?” asked Clea.

“Don’t be fooled by appearances. If I want a straight answer, this is the man I ask.”

They stepped inside, into a dark little cave of a room.

On the walls were hung dozens of wooden cuckoo clocks, all of them ticking away. The counter was deserted.

“Hello?” called Jordan. “Herr Schuster?” A door creaked open and an elderly gnome of a man shuffled out from a back room. At his first glimpse of Jordan, the man gave a cackle of delight.

“It’s young Mr. Tavistock! How many years has it been?” 448

Tess Gerritsen

“A few,” admitted Jordan as he shook the man’s hand.

“You’re looking very well.”

“Me? Bah! I am twenty years on borrowed time. To be alive is enough. And your uncle, he is retired now?”

“As of a few months ago. He’s enjoying it immensely.” Jordan slid an arm around Clea’s shoulders. “I’d like you to meet Miss Clea Rice. A good friend of mine. We’ve come to ask you for some help.”

Herr Schuster shot a sly glance at Clea. “Would this perhaps be for an engagement ring?” Jordan cleared his throat. “It’s rather…your expert opinion we need at the moment.”

“On what matter?”

“This,” said Clea. She unwrapped the bundle and handed him the dagger.

“The star sapphire in the hilt,” said Jordan. “Is it natural or man-made?”

Gingerly Herr Schuster took the dagger and weighed it in his hands, as though trying to divine the answer by its touch. He said, “This will require some time.”

“We’ll wait,” said Jordan.

The old jeweler retreated into the back room and shut the door behind him.

Clea looked doubtfully at Jordan. “Can we trust his opinion?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re that sure of him?”

“He used to be the leading authority on gemstones in East Berlin. In the days before the wall came down. He also happened to work as a double agent for MI6. You’d be amazed how much one can learn from chats with the wives of high Communist officials. When things got dangerous, Uncle Hugh helped him cross over.”
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“So that’s why you trust him.”

“It’s a debt he owes my uncle.” Jordan glanced at the door to the back room. “Old Schuster’s been keeping a low profile here in London ever since. Touch of paranoia, I suspect.”

“Paranoia,” said Clea softly. “Yes, I know exactly how he’s lived.” She turned to the window and stared out through the dusty glass at Brook Street. A bus rumbled past, spewing exhaust. It was early evening now, and the afternoon crowd had thinned out to a few shop girls strag-gling home for the night and a man waiting at the bus stop.

“If it is a fake,” she said, “will you…still believe me, Jordan?”

He didn’t answer at first. That brief silence was enough to send despair knifing through her. He said at last, “Too much has happened for me
not
to believe you.”

“But you have doubts.”

“I have questions.”

She laughed softly. Bitterly. “That makes two of us.”

“Why, for instance, would Delancey have bought a replica? He certainly had the money to spend. He would have insisted on the genuine item.”

“He might have been misled. Believed it was the real Eye of Kashmir.”

“No, Guy was a discerning collector. He’d get an expert’s advice before he bought it. You saw how easily Mr.

Jacobs identified that stone as man-made. Guy would have learned that fact just as easily.”

She gave a sigh of frustration. “You’re right, of course.

He would have had it looked at. Which means whoever appraised it was either crooked or incompetent or…” Suddenly she turned to him. “Or he was right on the money.”

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Tess Gerritsen

“I told you, Guy would never buy a reproduction.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. He bought the real Eye of Kashmir.”

“Then how did he wind up with a fake?”

“Someone switched it for the real one.
After
Guy bought it.” She was moving around the room now, her mind racing.

“Think about it, Jordan. Before you buy a painting or antique, aren’t you very careful to confirm it’s genuine?”

“Naturally.”

“But after you’ve bought it—say, a painting—and you’ve had it hanging on your wall for a while, you don’t bother to have it reauthenticated.” Slowly Jordan nodded. “I think I’m beginning to understand. The dagger was replaced sometime after Guy bought it.”

“And he didn’t realize! He has so many collectibles in that house. He’d never notice that one little dagger wasn’t quite the same.”

“All right, time for a reality check here. You’re saying that our theoretical thief commissioned an exact replica.

And then he managed to switch daggers without Guy’s knowledge? That would require a hell of a lot of inside knowledge. Remember how much trouble we had, locating the Eye? Without Whitmore’s help, we never would’ve found that hiding place.”

“You’re right, of course,” she admitted with a sigh. “A thief would have to know exactly where it was hidden.

Which means it had to be someone very close to Delancey.”

“And that would eliminate an outside thug. Van Weldon’s or otherwise.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to say ‘the butler did it.’ But I think the list of suspects is rather short.”

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“What about Guy’s family?”

“Estranged. None of them even live in the neighborhood.”

“One of his lovers, then?”

“He did have a few.” He aimed an inquiring glance her way.

“I wasn’t one of them,” she snapped. “So who
has
Guy romanced in the last month?”

“Only one woman I’m aware of. Veronica Cairncross.” There was a long silence. “You’re the one who knows her, Jordan,” said Clea. “You two are friends….” He frowned, troubled by the possibilities. “I’ve always considered her a bit wild. Impulsive. And not altogether moral. But a thief…”

“She’s someone to consider. There’s the household staff, as well. Come to think of it, anyone could’ve slipped into that bedroom. I got in. So did you. If it hadn’t been for old Whitmore, we would have slipped out without anyone being the wiser.”

Jordan went very still. “Whitmore,” he said.

“What about him?”

“I’m thinking.”

She watched in bewilderment as he muttered the name again, more softly. With sudden comprehension he looked at her. “Yes, Whitmore’s the key.”

She laughed. “You’re not back to saying the butler did it?”

“No, it’s the fact he was
home
that night! Veronica assured me it was Whitmore’s night off. That the house would be empty. But when I broke in, he was right there.

All this time I assumed she’d made a mistake. But what if it wasn’t a mistake? What if she
wanted
the butler home?”

“Why on earth would she?”

“To raise the alarm. And notify the police.” 452

Tess Gerritsen

“What would be the point?”

“There’d be an official record of a break-in. If Guy ever discovered the real Eye of Kashmir was gone, he’d assume the theft occurred that night. The night Whitmore raised the alarm.”

“A night Veronica had an airtight alibi. Your sister’s engagement party.”

Jordan nodded. “It’d never occur to him that the switch was made earlier.
Before
that night. By an acquaintance so intimate she knew exactly where the Eye was hidden. An acquaintance who’d been in and out of that bedroom.” Jordan slapped his temple in frustration. “All this time I thought
she
was the thick one.
I’m
the idiot.” Clea shook her head. “You’re giving Veronica an awful lot of credit. How would she manage to commission such an accurate replica? It would take time. The forger would need to work from the original. I hardly think Guy would let her borrow it for a week. So where would this replica come from?”

“There’s always the previous owner,” said Jordan.

Clea’s mouth went dry.
Van Weldon. The previous
owner was Van Weldon.

She went to stand beside him, close enough to lean her cheek against the fine wool of his jacket. Softly she said,

“Veronica. Van Weldon. Could there be a link?”

“I don’t know. She’s never mentioned Van Weldon’s name.”

“He has connections everywhere. People who owe him.

People who are afraid of him.”

“It seems unlikely.”

“But how well do you really
know
her, Jordan? How well do we really know anyone?”

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453

He said nothing. He stood very still, not reaching for her, not even looking at her. Aching, she thought,
Oh, Jordan.

How well do I really know you? And what little you know
of me is the very worst….

They stood just inches apart, yet she felt cold and alone as they both gazed out at that street where the shadows crept toward dusk. She reached out to him. His shoulder was rigid. Unresponsive to her touch.

“Clea,” he said softly. “I want you to go into the back room. Ask Herr Schuster if there’s a rear door.”

“What?”

“There’s a man standing at the bus stop. See him?” She focused on the street. And on the man standing there. He wore a brown suit and carried a black umbrella, and every so often he glanced at his watch, as though late for some appointment. No wonder. He’d been waiting for his bus a long time now.

Slowly Clea backed away from the window.

Jordan didn’t move, but continued to gaze out calmly at the street. “He’s let two go past now,” he said. “I don’t think he’s waiting for a bus.”

She fought the impulse to run headlong through that rear door. She had no idea if the man could see them through those dusty front windows. She managed to stroll casually to the rear of the shop, then she pushed through the door, into the workshop.

Herr Schuster was at his jeweler’s bench. “I am afraid the news is disappointing. The star sapphire—”

“Is there a back way out?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Another exit?”

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Tess Gerritsen

Jordan stepped in behind Clea. “There’s a man following us.”

Herr Schuster rose to his feet in alarm. “I have a back door.” At a frantic shuffle, he led them through the workshop’s clutter and opened the door to what looked like a closet. Dusty coats hung inside. He shoved the old garments aside. “There is a latch at the rear. The door leads to the alley. Around the corner is South Molton. You wish me to call the police?”

“No, don’t. We’ll be fine,” said Jordan.

“The man—he is dangerous?”

“We don’t know.”

“The dagger—do you want it back?”

“It’s not genuine?”

Regretfully Herr Schuster shook his head. “The sapphire is synthetic corundum.”

“Then keep it as a souvenir. But don’t show it to anyone.”

A buzzer suddenly rang in the workshop. Herr Schuster glanced toward the front room. “Someone has come in the door. Hurry, go!”

Jordan grabbed Clea’s hand and pulled her into the closet. Instantly the coats were slid back in place and the door shut on them. In the sudden darkness they blindly fumbled along the rear door for the latch and pushed.

They stumbled out into an alley. At once they tore around the corner onto South Molton Street. They didn’t stop running until they’d reached the Bond Street Underground.

Aboard the train to Tottenham Court Road, Clea sat in stunned silence as the blackness of the tunnel swept past her window. Only when Jordan had taken her hand in his
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did she realize how chilled her fingers were, like icicles in the warmth of his grasp.

“He won’t give up,” she said. “He’ll never give up.”

“Then we have to stay one step ahead.”
Not we,
she thought.
I’m the one Van Weldon wants. The
one he’ll kill.

She stared down at the hand now holding hers. A hand with all the strength a woman could ever need, could ever want. In a few short days she’d come to trust Jordan in a way she’d never trusted anyone. And she understood him well enough by now to know the gentleman’s code of honor by which he operated—an absurd concept under these brutal circumstances. He would never abandon a woman in need.

So she would have to abandon him.

She chose her words carefully. Painfully. “I think it would be better if…” The words caught in her throat. She forced herself to stare ahead. Anywhere but at Jordan. “I think I would be better off on my own. I can move faster that way.”