Silver Splendor by Olivia Drake Page A

tenement, easily reached by an agile burglar. “Unless, of course, he exited through that window.”
    Owen followed the earl’s gaze. “Bless my soul… Libby, we didn’t leave that window ajar, did we?”
    Elizabeth glanced up, a sheaf of drawings in her hand, a distracted expression on her face. “I don’t remember. All I want is to find that sketchbook. You know the one I mean, Papa. You and Mama gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday — the cover is royal blue with gold embossing.”
    Owen sifted through the papers, his whiskered face oddly frantic. “It must be here somewhere,” he muttered. “It must!”
    A peculiar intensity underscored his words, an intensity Nicholas might have ascribed to fear had that not been absurd. Surely losing a few drawings of Elizabeth’s late mother would be cause for sadness, not alarm. Unless Owen was hiding something? Could he have known what the thief was really after?
    Nicholas pushed away the unlikely idea. Owen Hastings’s mood was probably based on worry for his daughter’s safety. After all, had they surprised the burglar, the episode might have ended in tragedy…
    The thought made Nicholas’s blood run cold. Not only would Cicely’s life have been endangered, but Elizabeth’s as well. He wondered suddenly if her neck were still bruised beneath that lace fichu.
    “Miss Hastings.”
    She glanced up. “Yes?”
    In the fading light her eyes were the deep, distinctive hue of damson plums. Her quaint mulberry gown and the flowing hair caught back at her temples lent her an aura of unadorned sensuality. Desire flared in him. Had she any notion of how seductive she looked?
    Tersely Nicholas asked, “Did you report that first incident to the police?”
    She tilted ner head to the side. “The hansom cab? No, should I have?”
    “What cab?”
    “The one that nearly ran me down —” She paused, confusion clouding her eyes. “I’m sorry, of course you meant that dreadful man who tried to strangle me. Yes, I did draw the police a likeness, but the inspector seemed doubtful he’d be apprehended.”
    Nicholas wasn’t surprised. A criminal could easily vanish into the nearby Seven Dials rookery, a nucleus of crime riddled with dark alleys and winding passageways, a place into which even the police were reluctant to venture.
    Feeling taut as an overwound clock, he said, “Tell me about this incident with the cab.”
    “Now see here,” Owen declared, straightening his stout frame and glaring at the earl. “I’ll take care of my daughter. There’s no need to meddle in our affairs.”
    “It’s all right, Papa. I don’t mind telling him. After all, he did save my life.” Sitting on her heels, Elizabeth plucked a glob of clay from the floor and manipulated it absently as she related the story. “I’m sure it was just an accident,” she concluded with a wave of her clay smudged hand.
    But Nicholas wasn’t so certain. Deep in thought, he righted a crooked drawing tacked to the wall. It seemed incredible that three times in two weeks calamity could strike Elizabeth Hastings.
    Disquieted, he addressed Owen. “This neighborhood is far too dangerous for your daughter. You cannot in all conscience keep her here.”
    “That’s simple for you to say.” Owen kicked at a chisel; the tool went rolling through the debris. “Did you ever stop to think some of us can’t afford a fancy mansion in Mayfair or Belgravia?”
    “Papa will find a job soon,” Elizabeth said. “Then we’ll move.”
    “In the meantime,” Nicholas said, “don’t you have relatives to whom you can turn?” Reaching into the pocket of his morning coat, he drew out the signet ring and held it in the palm of his hand. “What about the owner of this?”
    Owen stared, his face paling. “Where did you get that?”
    “I gave it to the earl, Papa.” Elizabeth rose gracefully, the lump of clay clutched in one hand. “To reimburse him for ruining his coat sleeve when he rescued me.”
    “Why,