Page 68 of The Unassuming Curator

Robert closed the door and climbed onto his perch again. Mr. Fernsby took one step back from the carriage, and it rolled forward.

“Are we really leaving?” Emily asked.

“Yes.”

Panic welled. “But Henry . . .”

Aunt Millward raised her hand to stop her. “I refuse to turn around to give that odious man my attention, but you are faced the right way. Tell me, can you see what he is about now that we are on our way?”

Emily leaned slightly to her left. “He’s entering the hackney cab.”

“Excellent.” Aunt Millward leaned back in her seat. “If—as I suspect—he is headed to Lord Southbeck’s house, he will instruct the hackney driver to turn left at the gate. We shall turn right.”

It was true. To return to Aunt Millward’s house would require a right turn, but Emily did not wish to return to Aunt Millward’s house. Or to go to the milliner’s shop. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

“But what of Henry?”

“Did Mr. Fernsby turn left?” Aunt Millward asked.

Tamping down her frustration, Emily checked the window. “Yes.”

“Perfect.”

Emily could see nothing whatsoever that was perfect about their current situation, but without further explanation, Aunt Millward reached for a cane lying below her seat, raised it, and tapped the side of the carriage three times. The vehicle slowed, coming to a stop a few yards farther down the street.

“Drop the window, Emily,” Aunt Millward said.

Emily did as she asked, and moments later, Robert appeared at the door.

“You signaled, my lady?”

“I did.” Aunt Millward spoke through the open window. “Miss Norton and I have some unfinished business at the museum. Drive around the building and then take us back to the front door. The faster, the better.”

“Right away, my lady.”

Robert disappeared, and Emily barely had time to process what Aunt Millward had said before the carriage wheels began rolling at a far greater speed than before.

Chapter 25

Henry needed water. He tried swallowing, but his swollen tongue was blocked by the fabric tied around his mouth. Closing his eyes against the pain pulsating through his head, he pulled against the rope at his wrists once more. He could not see his hands—they were tied behind his back—but if the discomfort he was experiencing was anything to go by, his skin was raw and bleeding.

He had to hand it to Fernsby. The man had done a thorough job. Henry had no idea how he’d managed to get him into one of the recently emptied crates on his own, but if the throbbing in his right shoulder and hip was any indication, he’d been dragged and then dropped—more than once. His body barely fit in the confined space. His knees were bent and his shoulders hunched. Turning his head slightly, he groaned at the searing pain the slight movement produced, even as the gag in his mouth muffled the sound.

The angle of the light coming in through the chinks between the slats had changed since he’d first awoken to find himself trussed hand and foot in the confined space. If he had to guess, he would say the crate was still in the accessions room and that it was now nearing noon—which was dangerously close to the time of the board of trustees meeting. He tugged at the ropes around his wrists in futile frustration. It was highly unlikely that Townsend or Rutherford would have reason to enter the accessions room today, and the locked door would prevent any visitors from inadvertently stumbling in. The likelihood of his being discovered soon was bleak, at best; his chances of escaping on his own were almost none.

His thoughts turned to Emily, and his heart ached. He’d failed her. She’d begged him to be careful, to not approach Fernsby alone. He should have listened. She was probably at Aunt Millward’s house now, patiently reading a book while waiting for a messenger who would never come. Closing his eyes to the agony that vision produced, he offered a silent prayer. At this point, prayer was all he had left.

If Rutherford was surprised by Lady Millward and Emily’s hasty return to the museum, he was sufficiently well-trained to hide it. He opened the door, admitting them into the empty entrance hall with a bow. “May I be of assistance, Lady Millward?”

“You may,” Aunt Millward said briskly. “I require your keys.”

He stared at her. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“Your keys, Rutherford. Mr. Buckland is missing, and Miss Norton and I intend to search every room in the museum to find him.”

“I grant that it is highly irregular for Mr. Buckland to be absent without sending word ahead of time, my lady, but I am honor bound to uphold the rules of the museum, and they clearly state that guests cannot roam freely within the building.”

Aunt Millward stiffened, but before she could retort, Emily stepped forward. “Perhaps you could accompany us,” she said. “That way you could ensure that we do nothing untoward, and we would benefit from your knowledge of the building’s floor plan.”