Clay shifted in his chair. When he spoke his voice came out in a croak.
"I-she-she should have asked at the rental counter. They could've told her no one rented a car in my name that day. Anyway, I couldn't have been there. I was home with the flu."
"That's what I told her, Clay. You were home sick-she must have been mistaken. And that's what I'll tell anyone else who asks… I'll call Lisa Ferguson's agent and tell her thirty, okay?"
Clay stared at her glassily, like a stuffed owl. "Sure, Amy. You do that."
Amy stood up. "Oh-and, Clay, in case you're thinking how good I'd look at the bottom of a mesa-or under the IRT -I hope you remember Roxanne has an editor clause in her contract. And she's made it clear a dozen different ways that she won't work with you."
Clay's secretary came down to Amy's office a few minutes later. "Can you talk to old Mr. Jambon in Brussels? Clay's gone home sick again. I hope there isn't anything serious wrong with him."
Amy smiled. "He's fine. He just got a little overexcited this morning about Roxanne's new book."
The Blackmailer by ANNE PERRY
The butler closed the withdrawing room door behind him. "Excuse me, sir. There is a young gentleman called to see you." He held out the silver tray, offering Henry Rathbone the card on it.
Henry picked it up and read. The name James Darcy was only slightly familiar. It was half past nine on a January evening, and bitterly cold. The gas lamps in the street were haloed in fog, and the hansom cabs' wheels hissed in the damp, their horses' hooves muffled by the clinging darkness.
"He seems very agitated, sir," the butler said, watching Henry's face. "He begged me to ask if you would see him, as he is in some kind of difficulty, although of course he did not impart its nature to me."
"Then I suppose you had better show him in," Henry conceded. "I cannot imagine how he believes I may help." Nor could he. He was a mathematician and occasional inventor, a lover of fine watercolors which he collected when he could afford to, and an inveterate dabbler in shops which dealt in anything old. He liked the evidences of ordinary life, rather than the antiques of wealth.
The man who followed the butler into the room was of average height, fair coloring, and regular features. He was very well dressed. His cravat was tied to perfection, his boots gleamed, and in spite of his obvious anxiety, he bore himself with confidence.
"It is very good of you to receive me, sir," he said, extending his hand. "Most particularly since I have called at such an uncivil hour. To tell you the truth, I have been arguing with myself all afternoon as to what I should do, and whether or not I should approach you." He met Henry's eyes with disarming candor, and Henry saw the fear sharp and bright in them.
"Please sit down, Mr. Darcy," he invited. "A glass of brandy? You must be cold."
"Indeed I am. That is most kind of you." Darcy moved closer to the fire and stood for a moment. Then, as if his legs had collapsed, he sank into the chair, letting out his breath in a shaking sigh. "I am in a most terrible situation, Mr. Rathbone, and I cannot get myself out of it without the help of someone like yourself, a man of unquestioned honor. I am being blackmailed." He sat quite still, his blue eyes fixed on Henry's face, as if dreading his response, yet unable to move his gaze until he had seen it.
Henry poured the brandy and passed it across.
"I see. Do you know by whom?"
"Oh, yes," Darcy said quickly. "A man called James Al-bury. To my sorrow, I have a passing acquaintance with him."
Henry hesitated. He had never encountered blackmail before, but he was willing to do what he could to help this young man so obviously in distress. Whatever his weakness or failing, another man's attempt to profit from it in this manner was inexcusable. It was indelicate to ask, and yet in order to foresee the consequence of failure, he had to know the original offense.
As if reading his dilemma, Darcy spoke, leaning forward a little, the firelight warming the pallor of his face.
"I did not commit any crime, Mr. Rathbone, or I would not place you in the embarrassment of being party to it. If I tell you my story, you will understand."
Henry sat back and, without thinking, rested his feet on the fender. His slippers were already well scorched from the practice. "Please do," he said encouragingly.
Darcy sipped his brandy, cradling the glass in his hands.
"I was staying the weekend at the country house of Lord Wilbraham. There were several other guests, among them Miss Elizabeth Carlton, to whom I am betrothed." He took a deep breath and looked down. The flush in his cheeks was more than the reflection of the flames.
Henry did not interrupt.
"You will need to understand the geography of the house," Darcy continued. "The conservatory lies beyond a most agreeable morning room in which are hung some rather valuable pictures, most particularly some Persian miniatures painted upon bone. They are quite small, not more than a few inches across, most delicately wrought-with a single hair, so I have heard. There is no other door to the morning room except that into the hall."
Henry wondered where Darcy was leading. Presumably it had something to do with the miniatures.
Again Darcy seemed uncomfortable. His eyes left Henry's and he looked down at the carpet between them.
"Please believe me, Mr. Rathbone, I am devoted to Miss Carlton. She is everything a man could desire: honest, gentle, modest, of the sweetest nature…"
It occurred to Henry that these were euphemisms for saying that the girl was lacking in spirit or humor, and more than a little boring, but he smiled and said nothing.
Darcy bit his lip. "But I was rash enough to spend a great deal more of the evening than I should have in the company of another young lady, alone in the conservatory. I had gone in there, rather more by chance than design, and when I heard Lizzie… Miss Carlton, through the open doors into the morning room, I did not wish to be seen coming out with Miss Bartlett. She was… er… in high good humor, and… a trifle disheveled in her dress. She had caught her gown on a frond of one of the palm trees… and…" He opened his eyes wide and stared at Henry with wretchedness.
"I see," Henry said with considerable compassion. The truth of the matter might be as Darcy said, or it might not. It was not for him to judge. "Where do the miniatures come in to the matter?"
"Two of them were stolen," Darcy said huskily. "The alarm was raised as soon as it was noticed, and from the circumstances it was obvious that they were taken before Lizzie went into the morning room, although she said that she had not noticed their absence."
"And the blackmail?" Henry asked. "Is the suggestion that you took them as you passed through to the conservatory?"
"Yes. They were seen shortly before that!" Darcy's voice rose in anguish. "You perceive my dilemma? I was at all times with Miss Bartlett. She would swear for me that I did not, and could not, have taken them! But if she were to do so, then Lizzie would know that I was in the conservatory with Miss Bartlett… and I confess, Mr. Rathbone, that would be most painful for her, and some considerable embarrassment for me. Miss Bartlett's reputation is… less…"
"You do not need to spell it out for me." Henry leaned forward and poked the fire, putting on another two or three coals.
"Added to which," Darcy went on, "if I were to prove myself innocent, then it would leave poor Lizzie with the matter of proving herself innocent also. Of course she is! She is as honest as it is possible to be, and is an heiress to a considerable sum. It would not be more than unpleasant for her. No one could imagine… Nevertheless, I cannot…"