Roses in Moonlight

chapter 9





Samantha stared up at the façade of the Ritz as the very nice car she was sitting in slowed to a stop in front of it. She had spent the ride thinking about how she might best get away from her—well, she couldn’t decide if she should call him her rescuer or her captor. He had certainly hoisted a sword in her defense and he had gotten her away from those very unpleasant-looking men who seemed to be wanting to have a little chat with her. Then again, he had also shoved her into the back of a car and driven off with her, which she couldn’t say was a point in his favor.

She forced herself to take deep, even breaths, then decided she would make a list of events, because making lists always made her feel more in control of her life. And if there were ever a time in her life she needed some control, it was then.

The first item of interest was the fact that she had just spent an unusual half hour in the midst of some weird, reality-show-like street fair complete with extremely unsettling sewage-like props. Second, she had been rescued by a man who had borrowed a rapier from someone else, then fought with it as if he’d known what he was doing. Third, after a few more thrills and chills that felt far too paranormal for her taste, she was being let out of a very expensive car in front of a hotel that she never would have gotten closer to than gawking at it online.

She was going to have to examine all of those at greater length, but first she had to get herself somewhere safe. And at the moment, if her choice was staying out on the street where she was potentially in the sights of very unpleasant-looking thugs or going inside the hotel where she could maybe go hide in the ladies’ room and start screaming in order to be rescued, she would take the inside route.

The door was opened by a bellhop. She might have considered bolting right there, but that Derrick person had suddenly materialized next to her and taken her by the arm. She allowed that and continued on into the lobby, hoping a handy escape route would present itself sooner rather than later.

It was hard not to feel like a country bumpkin when she walked through sheer luxury. She was acutely aware of her dress, which had acquired a few suspicious substances during her trip through the street fair, and her shoes, which had unavoidably encountered an open sewer on the same jaunt. The truth was, she smelled, and not in a good way.

She clutched her bag to her under her apron and didn’t protest when Derrick, last name unknown, took her by the arm and led her over to the concierge’s desk. He at least didn’t seem to be bothered by her outfit. Then again, the sleeve of his shirt was wet with something so dark that either he had run into a glass of burgundy or he was bleeding. That didn’t seem to faze him, either.

He looked at the man behind the counter. “I believe we have a reservation.”

The concierge looked first at him, then at her, as if he just wasn’t quite sure what to make of either of them. He started to speak but was immediately hip-checked out of the way by an older, more distinguished-looking gentleman.

“Her Ladyship phoned ahead,” he said. “I am Maurice. It is, of course, a pleasure to serve any guest of the Countess of Assynt.”

Samantha suppressed the urge to stick her fingers in her ears. “Who?”

Maurice looked at her and a slight pucker formed between his eyes. “The Countess of Assynt. And you are—”

“Someone very famous,” Derrick said smoothly. “She prefers anonymity.”

Samantha felt her mouth fall open. “No, I wouldn’t—”

“She would,” Derrick insisted. He leaned forward slightly. “Method acting and all that, of course. Elizabethan part, as you can see by the costume. We’ve been rehearsing an abduction scene.”

“We’re not rehearsing anything,” Samantha exclaimed. “He’s kidnapping me—”

“For the scene,” Derrick interjected. “Of course.”

Maurice looked slightly alarmed. “If I might ask—”

“Or perhaps not,” Derrick said with a smile. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “I can’t mention names and this one is too modest to, but she’s a very famous American actress.” He nodded. “Yes, that one.”

“She doesn’t look like her—”

“None of them look like themselves without their stylist, do they?” Derrick said dismissively. He straightened and was again all business. “I need to get her out of the range of any photographers. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course, Mr. Cameron.”

Samantha was starting to get dizzy from looking back and forth between them and trying to get her mouth to form words. Before she could, unfortunately, Maurice had beckoned and an assistant of some kind was instantly there.

“Show them to their suite without delay, Shawn.”

“Ever so good of you,” Derrick said. “I’ll be sure and let Her Ladyship know the sort of service we received.”

More compliments were exchanged. Samantha found that she could do nothing besides continue to splutter helplessly, all the way across the lobby and into the elevator. Derrick, whoever he really was, still had hold of her elbow, but she managed to rip her arm away from him and glare at him. He only smiled indulgently, then nodded meaningfully at their escort.

Samantha considered furiously. Things were rapidly going downhill inside the hotel, but she wasn’t too dumb to realize they wouldn’t be any better outside. Her options were limited to either calling her brother again or calling the police. She wasn’t sure the police would be a good option given that she was currently in possession of a very expensive piece of lace, but Gavin hadn’t seemed all that interested in helping her, either. Given that he likely hadn’t found any enthusiasm for the idea of helping her since the last time she’d talked to him, maybe she was just on her own.

She exited the elevator with Derrick the Gripper resuming his hold on her arm and kept her eyes peeled for a way out of her current predicament. It wasn’t as if she could bang on a door and hope—

Or maybe she could. She contemplated that as she walked down the hallway. There might not be anyone willing to open up to her, but just that gave her what she was fairly convinced was an idea even Carson Drew would have approved of.

She waited until she was standing in front of what was apparently the end of the line for her, then smiled at their escort. “Thanks so much. I’m being kidnapped, you know.”

“Isn’t she droll?” Derrick said in accents so posh, she thought they all might cut themselves on them. “Still in character, even here in the hallway.” He looked at her lovingly. “I believe we should hurry inside and finish the scene, darling, don’t you agree? We wouldn’t want Scotland Yard offering an opinion on—”

Samantha pushed past the man sent to accompany them, jumped inside the room, then turned and shoved the door shut. She bolted it for good measure, then leaned her forehead against the wood.

There was silence on the other side for a moment or two, then a very stern voice that came very clearly through the door.

“Open the door, Miss Drummond. It’s time to come out of character.”

“Go to—” She chewed on the word for a moment or two, then cast caution to the wind. “Go to hell,” she said firmly.

She could hear voices outside, discussing the dilemma. She turned, then leaned back against the door.

Then she jumped half a foot.

A woman rose from the couch, someone who could only have been a Bond girl. Samantha was starting to feel as if instead of falling into a bad crime drama, she had become part of some slick British television show. She wished she could have patted her sidearm meaningfully or given her companion a cool look of disdain, but all she could do was gape at her.

The Bond girl crossed the room to her, then held out her hand. “I’m Emily,” she said, her accent betraying her as French. “Who are you?”

No wonder she looked so effortlessly chic. Samantha wasn’t sure that her Renaissance garb was very stylish, but she was very sure that her normal middle-aged-scholar style would have left Emily wincing involuntarily.

“I’m Samantha,” Samantha managed. “And I’m—”

“A thief,” Derrick growled from the other side of the door.

Samantha pointed back over her shoulder. “He thinks I’m a thief.”

“You are a thief!” came the accusation, muffled, through the door.

“Please, sir, the other guests—”

“The other guests be damned!”

Emily pursed her lips, then laughed a little. “I think, chérie, that perhaps we had best let him in before he lands himself in trouble.”

“He kidnapped me,” Samantha said quickly. “I need help.”

Emily looked utterly surprised. “Kidnapped?”

“Well, what else would you call it? He’s been following me for days, he chased me through a street fair, then he threw me into a car and brought me here.”

“That does sound suspicious,” Emily agreed, “but maybe he was trying to rescue you.”

“I want my lace back!” came the voice very clearly through the door.

“Derrick, be quiet,” Emily called.

“Is this part of the scene, Mr. Cameron?” said the concierge’s assistant. “Or should I call the police?”

“Yes,” Samantha said loudly.

“No,” Derrick said firmly. “Emily, open the door!”

“No, don’t,” Samantha said quickly.

Emily frowned. “What are you afraid he’ll do?”

“I’m afraid he’ll take me off somewhere and lock me up until he’s decided what he’ll do with me.” She paused. “Which he seems to have already done.”

“At least the surroundings are lovely.”

Well, there was that. And honestly, she couldn’t imagine even a highly paid thug taking his prey to the Ritz. And what sort of guy would have someone as chic as Emily the Bond girl babysitting that room? She considered, then looked at Emily.

“He’s not dangerous?”

Emily shook her head.

“But he won’t listen to me.”

Emily drew her away from the door. “He will listen to me.”

Samantha put her hand on the door and kept it shut. “I don’t trust him.”

Emily paused, then looked at her seriously. “I cannot blame you, of course, but I will tell you that I would trust Derrick Cameron with my life. I have trusted him with that life in the past, more than once.”

Samantha didn’t want to believe that, but Emily looked so reasonable that she was beginning to doubt her doubts. She frowned at Emily. “Who are you?”

“I work for Robert Cameron, the Earl of Assynt,” she said. “Doing odd jobs, attending to his wife, things they both need me to take care of.” She smiled. “We are trustworthy.”

Samantha wasn’t entirely sure she could count Derrick in that group, but at least Emily looked trustworthy. If things went south, she could hide behind Emily and call the cops.

And again, she was standing in a gorgeous suite at the Ritz. If Derrick had been a thug, she would have been in a crappy hotel in the wrong part of town. Sort of like where her stuff was currently residing.

She stepped away from the door and allowed Emily to open it. Derrick thanked their escort, then walked into the room and shut the door behind him with exaggerated care.

“Good evening, Emily.”

“Bonsoir, mon cher,” Emily said, leaning over to exchange kisses on both cheeks with him. “How has your day been?”

“Interesting,” Derrick said politely. “I don’t suppose Cameron would splash out for supper, would he?”

“I imagine he would, since he’s billing you for the room.”

“Unsurprising.” He leaned back against the door and looked at Samantha. “Good evening, Miss Drummond. I suppose the least I can do is feed you before I throw you back out to the wolves.”

“Derrick,” Emily chided, “stop it. This sweet girl here told me she had nothing to do with anything of yours.”

Derrick snorted. “Don’t believe her. She has a habit of prevarication.”

Samantha blinked. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“You,” he said crisply. “Saying you were an artist. You’ve a bloody degree in history and textiles, Miss Drummond, not art. I doubt you’ve ever picked up a paintbrush.”

Samantha felt her mouth fall open. “How do you know anything about me?” She looked at Emily. “Who is he? Some sort of private detective?”

Emily smiled. “The second coming of Sherlock Holmes, rather.”

Samantha would have burst into tears, if she’d been the type to do so. With her mother, she’d never really had the opportunity to. Her mother was a tsunami of personality and activity, leaving her with no chance to do anything but hold on to something solid and hope she survived. Her father, well, her father was who he was. But tears weren’t allowed. Shakes, though, were looking like an appealing option. If they were done artistically, she supposed even her father would have approved.

“This is kidnapping,” she managed, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

“And theft is a felony,” Derrick shot back.

“Derrick, don’t be difficult,” Emily warned.

He looked like he was ramping up for a good bout of it. Samantha decided abruptly that she’d had enough. They could keep her in that room, but they couldn’t keep her silent. She dug around in her bag for her phone, fully intending to dial 911 or 999 or HELPME; whatever worked.

But her phone wasn’t there.

Obviously she’d dropped it, but she couldn’t think of where. She looked at Derrick. “Did I leave my phone in the car?”

“How the hell do I know where you left your phone?” he said, sounding rather angry.

She thought she might want to sit down fairly soon. The next thing she knew, she was sitting down on the couch with Emily peering intently at her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’ve lost my phone,” she said slowly. She ignored Derrick’s noises of impatience and Emily’s concern and ran back through the afternoon and evening’s events. She had, she had to admit, suffered a moment of panic and pulled the embroidery out of her purse and . . . well, that was probably when she’d lost her phone.

Emily pulled her phone out of her purse on the coffee table. She started to hand it over, but Derrick reached out and took it before she could. Emily looked at him in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want her calling anyone until she’s given me the lace.”

“I don’t have the lace,” Samantha managed.

Derrick waved Emily’s phone at her. “At least you admit that you know what I’m talking about.”

She wondered how someone so good-looking could be so stubborn and unreasonable. “Is it your lace?”

“No,” he said shortly. “It belongs to my client.”

“Are you a cop?”

He pursed his lips. “No.”

“Then how do you know anything about it?”

Derrick looked at Emily. “I’m finding it difficult to believe I’m having a conversation with a thief. Tell me why I just don’t rip her bag out of her hands and get back what she’s stolen?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Samantha said.

“No, you were working for other people who stole it,” he said, shooting her a dark look, “which I’m sure you knew.”

“But I had no idea—”

“Ha,” he said triumphantly. “Then you admit you have it.”

She started to protest but realized that maybe there was no point. She took a deep breath. “I had it,” she said. “But I had no idea that I had it. It was hidden inside a piece of Victorian embroidery that I was asked to bring south to London.”

“Unbelievable,” he said with a gusty sigh. “And you didn’t think to question any of this?”

“Why would I?” she asked. “The Cookes are friends of my brother’s—”

“Who has terrible taste in friends,” he muttered. He dragged his hands through his hair and looked heavenward. “At least the lace is safe. We can worry about the rest of it later.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take it and make sure it gets back to the right place.”

“And why in the world would I trust you with it?”

“Because I have been charged by its owner, Lord Epworth, with getting it back,” he said, with exaggerated patience, “and get it back I shall. Now, do the right thing and hand it over before I call Scotland Yard and counter every thing you’ve said.”

“You work for Lord Epworth?” she asked in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said in a perfect American accent. “Relinquish it so I can ring up the poor man and ease his mind.”

She was on her feet without quite knowing how she’d gotten there. She paced a bit, then turned and looked at the other two in the room. Emily was sitting on the couch, the picture of elegance. Derrick was frowning at her, as if he couldn’t decide whether to shout or simply take her bag and get the lace himself. She took a deep breath, but that didn’t calm her nerves any.

“I don’t have it,” she said.

“Of course you do,” Derrick said.

“No, I don’t.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Prove it.”

She supposed since she didn’t have a phone, there was nothing in her bag that was really worth saving except her wallet, which was uninteresting, and her notebook, which she was just going to display, not hand over. He’d already flipped through her notebook and handed it back to her in the car, so she supposed there was nothing else she had that would shock him. She pulled the strap over her head, then emptied the bag onto the coffee table. Derrick only looked down, then at her.

“Where is it?”

“Probably with my phone,” she said, “which I probably dropped while hiding the lace.”

He blinked. “You did what?”

“I hid the lace,” she repeated slowly. “You know, as in putting it somewhere out of the way?”

“You hid the lace?” he asked incredulously. “Where?”

She gestured behind her, because she had a very good sense of direction. “Back there. In that street fair.”

He swayed. “You hid a priceless piece of Elizabethan lace in a street fair?”

“Under a planter,” she said defensively. “And it was in archival quality plastic, not a paper bag. It’ll be fine.” She paused. “Actually, I’ll admit that the location worried me, because that seemed to be a rougher part of the fair than I started in—”

“What?”

She looked at him. “Where you and that guy were swordfighting. I’d hidden it just before I walked into that group of, well, bad guys.”

He blanched. She had never seen the color disappear from someone’s face like that before. It was, she had to admit, a reaction that seemed a little more than circumstances called for, but then again, it hadn’t been her lace she was hiding.

But she would probably be liable for losing it.

She realized she was swaying only because Emily had caught her by the arm and was holding her up.

“I think what you need, chérie, is a hot bath. Let’s get that started, then I’ll order something for you to eat.”

Samantha went with her because Emily was an irresistible force of manners and chicness and actually the thought of a hot anything sounded good. She looked back over her shoulder before Emily drew her inside a bedroom. Derrick was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands.

She couldn’t blame him for that. She wasn’t exactly sure she hadn’t assumed that very same position when she’d realized what she had in her bag.

She sank down onto the edge of the bed and watched as Emily opened up a suitcase full of clothes and laid things out. Maybe she intended to put on a fashion show for Derrick.

“You have your bath, Samantha,” Emily said, nodding toward the bathroom. “I’ll go keep watch in the sitting room.”

Samantha could hardly believe she had found any sort of ally in a world gone mad. She simply looked off into nothing for a moment or two before she turned to Emily. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I don’t think you’re a thief.” Emily zipped up the suitcase and set it on the floor. “You look a little lost to me.”

Samantha pointed toward the door. “He still thinks I’m a thief.”

“Derrick can be intense.” She looked at Samantha. “Is that the word I want?”

“I think jerk is a better choice,” Samantha muttered. “I’d say I would reserve judgment, but I don’t plan on being in his august presence for that long.” But while she had answers, she supposed she couldn’t be blamed for wanting them. “Who is he?”

“Just a man.”

She shot Emily a look. “Please.”

“He’s not nefarious, if that’s what concerns you. His cousin is the Earl of Assynt, after all, and he’s a very lovely man.”

Samantha wondered if things could get any stranger. She was being kidnapped by a man who was related to an earl and she was being taken in hand by that earl’s employee. She looked over her shoulder on the off chance there was a ghost there to add a bit more character to the party. She was very relieved to find there wasn’t.

“I’ll leave you your privacy,” Emily said, “and remind our Derrick to find his manners.”

“I’m not going to be here long enough for him to manage that.”

“That is, of course, your decision,” Emily conceded. “I will keep watch, though, if you’d like to change.”

Samantha gestured to the clothes on the bed. “Who do those belong to?”

“You, chérie,” Emily said.

“How . . .”

“I will tell you,” Emily promised, “but perhaps not now. You’re perfectly safe here. I’ll see to it.”

Samantha considered that. At least she could maybe exit the place looking so different that no one would recognize her and follow her.

She was definitely starting to feel as if she’d wandered into some sort of Impressionist painting. Everything around her was starting to take on a sort of splotchy, color-driven, shapeless kind of form. She watched Emily walk toward the door, then waited until the door was closed before she locked it, then looked around for something to put in front of it. A chair seemed rather less substantial than she would have liked, but she stacked a very expensive-looking crystal vase on it. At least that way she would hear it when it crashed. What she would do then, she had no idea, but maybe something would come to her in the moment.

She walked over to the window and looked down. Too high to jump and no ledge to crawl out on. She was stuck.

She headed for the bathroom. Maybe water would help her think. It usually did.

Though she had the feeling that not even a shower to be found at the Ritz could possibly manage to inspire her with a solution to her current problem.