A Curse of the Heart

Wellford laughed. “Then I suggest you run. I have it on good authority that there is no such thing as a curse.”

Chapter 18

Gabriel sat behind his desk, flipped open the ledger and checked the columns for the fifth time. If only he could stumble upon a mistake, a grave error to occupy his mind and reinforce the feeling that his house was nothing but an institute, an emotionless vessel for his studies.

He heard Higson’s heavy gait trudge along the hallway and his thoughts flew back to Rebecca, his stomach performing somersaults at the prospect of seeing her again.

Pushing his hand through his hair, he took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the tears that would inevitably accompany any conversation involving the painting.

Higson rapped on the open door and stepped over the threshold. “I’m all done at the museum. The basement door’s been fixed and is secure like you asked.”

Gabriel’s gaze drifted beyond the man’s shoulder to the empty space behind him, to where he expected to see his flame-haired temptress with her luscious lips and sultry smile. Disappointment flared in his chest.

“How is Miss Linwood?” he said batting down the need to ask why the hell she was still at the museum.

Higson shrugged. “I think she’s bearing up under the circumstances.”

The man was as free with his information as he was his emotion.

“I assume she’s upset.”

Thankfully, Higson’s answer amounted to more than a few words, although the cryptic response proved just as frustrating. “The problem is, she looks on her possessions as though they are living things. She said it feels like her mother has died all over again.”

Guilt twisted its knife into Gabriel’s heart. He should not have let her go alone. He should have been there to offer support, to offer a shoulder to lean on.

“I left her in the storeroom, sorting through some wooden crates,” Higson continued, “sending that curator of hers running here, there and everywhere doing her bidding.”

A sense of relief should have swamped him; at least she’d not taken to her bed consumed with grief. Yet he could not help but be plagued by thoughts of his own inadequacy, by the uncomfortable feeling that she didn’t need him.

“Did she not ask to return here with you?”

“She never mentioned it, and I never asked. She seemed right enough to me.”

Gabriel struggled to hide his frustration. “Thank you, Higson. You may return to your duties. I won’t need the carriage again today.”

What was he supposed to do now?

Should he just sit and wait for her to knock on his door in the dead of night? Should he try to push aside the image of a mysterious intruder attacking her in her bed?

Forcing himself from the chair, he paced the room, waiting for the answer to pop into his head. He could not leave her there alone, and so had no option but to visit her in Coventry Street.

The clock on the mantel chimed three.

If he left now, no one would question him entering her house. He would just be another visitor to the museum. If he took one or two small antiquities, he could continue with the charade of being a partner in the business. At the museum, they were less at risk of causing a scandal — and no scandal meant no marriage.

Some thirty minutes later with his parcel in hand, he made his way on foot, walking down through Swallow Street and onto Piccadilly as that was the quickest route.

By the time he arrived at the museum, there were still a dozen people perusing the exhibits.

Gabriel spotted Mr. Pearce explaining the history of the stone tablets to a few who had gathered around to listen. He waited for the group to depart before calling out to the curator. “Mr. Pearce, a moment of your time, if you please.”

The man scurried over to meet him, his eyes flitting about in their sockets, moving left and right, up and down before settling on Gabriel’s chin.

“I have brought a few antiquities to display,” Gabriel said gesturing to the parcel. “Is Miss Linwood home?” It was not really a question, as he presumed to know the answer.

“No, Mr. Stone. Miss Linwood has gone out.”

“Out?” He had not thought to say the word aloud but supposed it was better than saying — where the hell has she gone?