Silver Splendor by Olivia Drake

rising resentment. “I mean no insult to your daughter. Nevertheless, I cannot encourage Cicely to consort with bohemians.”
    “You’re just jealous,” Cicely burst out. “You may have gotten the looks in the family, but I was born with the artistic talent.”
    “Enough, all of you.” Elizabeth dropped the broken mandolin and stood, sending Nicholas an unhappy look that sliced straight to his heart. She turned those stunning violet eyes to her father and Cicely. “Can’t we discuss this later? So much has happened today; so much has been lost.” She gestured at the untidy room.
    Owen gathered her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Libby,” he said in an abashed tone. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll find the scoundrel who did this.”
    “I just don’t understand,” she murmured. “Why would anyone be so destructive?”
    “The Proverbs say, ‘The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,’” said Owen, brushing a hand over the loose cascade of her black hair. “Whoever did this possesses no human compassion. There are many people in this world like that, Libby. Far, far too many.”
    His eyes held a distant look that struck Nicholas as
odd: Something had soured Owen on life, something
that colored his views on aristocrats.
    His gaze moving to Elizabeth, Nicholas forgot all but the sharp longing to be the one comforting her, kissing away her sadness, fulfilling her every need until she felt no melancholy. But that was impossible.
    “Come along, Cicely,” he said brusquely. “You’ll wait in the carriage.”
    “But I —”
    “This is not a topic for debate.”
    At that quiet, chilling tone his sister meekly said her goodbyes and collected a clay soiled reticule from the floor. Silently Nicholas offered her his arm. Taking one last glance at Elizabeth Hastings’s forlorn face, he escorted Cicely down the narrow flight of stairs filled with the smells of food and rubbish.
    A small crowd gathered around the closed landau with its crest on the polished black door. A cluster of slatternly housewives gossiped behind their hands, several unkempt urchins played tag on the littered sidewalk, a pieman stopped and gawked at the sight of a lord’s fine carriage gracing this tumbledown neighborhood. Sitting stiff and regal in the coachman’s seat, Greaves held his whip at an angle that clearly discouraged anyone from so much as touching the vehicle.
    Pickering leapt from his rear perch, his face impassive as he opened the door. Nicholas gave his sister a hand inside.
    “Wait here,” he ordered, tossing his top hat beside her as she settled her skirts.
    Cicely looked startled. “We’re not going home?”
    “I’ll just be a few moments. And, by God, you’d best stay put until I return.”
    Leaving her pouting inside the landau, he gave explicit directions to Greaves regarding Cicely; then Nicholas again mounted the five flights of stairs to the Hastings flat.
    He found both Owen and Elizabeth digging through the rubble.
    “Was anything stolen?”
    Owen glowered. Elizabeth looked up, her brow furrowed. “As a matter of fact, yes,” she said. “I can’t seem to find the sketchbook with all the drawings of my mother —”
    “I meant money,” Nicholas said. “Or something of monetary value that would interest a common thief.”
    “Oh.” She waved a hand toward the overturned washstand as she continued to search. “The ginger jar was broken, but our money’s still there.”
    Frowning, he stepped carefully through the clutter to see the appallingly small amount of silver scattered amidst the broken bits of blue and white porcelain.
    “Perhaps we frightened the culprit away before he could steal the coins,” Owen suggested.
    “You would have seen him coming down the staircase, then,” Nicholas said. Hands on his hips, he studied the high norm windows; one stood open, the cool breeze of dusk stirring the papers on the floor. Outlined against the rose streaked sky was the flat roof of the next