Parsons smirked. “Are they, now? I imagine the duchy agent or customs man might have somethin’ to say about that.”
“Those are not taxable goods.”
“What about these coins?”
“Those are old ducatons. No longer legal tender, as far as I know.”
“Could be melted down for the silver. It’s a waste to let them sit here.”
“I found them.”
“And now I found them.” He took a menacing step toward her.
Boots scraped the flagstones behind her. Laura whirled.
Alexander appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wary eyes shifting from her face to the man standing near her. “Good day, Miss Callaway. Showing Mr. Parsons your collection?”
The man smirked. “Somethin’ like that.” He stepped toward Alexander. “Now I’ve seen what I come fer, I’ll be on my way.”
Alexander’s focus landed on the silver in the man’s hand, glinting by lantern light. “Give the lady back her things.”
“Stay out of this, man. It don’t concern’ee.”
“Actually it does.” Alex jerked the flask from Parsons’s hand. Parsons swore and reeled back a fist.
“Stop it!” Laura called, stepping between them. “Mr. Parsons, if you want those coins so badly, then take them and go. But I don’t ever want to see you in here again. Understand? Next time, I will report you to the constable.”
Parsons pocketed the coins and took a last glance around the cellar. “Very well. Most of this stuff looks like rubbish anyway.” He picked up his lantern and sauntered up the stairs.
Alexander frowned after him, then turned back to her. “Why did you let him take those?”
“I don’t want him to have any reason to return. He thinks the rest of this is worthless, and that’s for the best.” With that thought, she decided to take the salamander brooch back to the house.
Apparently, Alexander had a similar thought about the flask, for he kept it in his hand and started for the stairs. A moment later, he slipped it into his pocket.
Bile soured her mouth. Was he thinking if Tom Parsons could get away with it, why not him?
“The flask . . . ?” she prompted.
He turned, guilt written on his features. “You found it after the wreck of the Kittiwake, did you not?”
She nodded. “Is it yours?”
He hesitated, clearly conflicted. “No.”
“Then why on earth would you take an empty flask? It cannot be worth that much. If you need money, I—”
“It is not empty—at least I hope it’s not. I apologize, but please, let me explain.”
Setting down her lantern, she crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “Very well, I am listening.” Was she a fool to do so?
Releasing a relieved sigh, he began, “When the gale blew up and we realized the ship was in trouble, I saw François roll up a letter and shove it inside a silver flask. I tried to take it from him.”
“Why?”
“Because he led me to believe the contents could save my brother. François and I fought for the flask, but the ship heeled and I fell. When he escaped by boat, I assumed he took the flask with him, and all my hopes of saving my brother with it. Imagine my shock and elation to see it again.”
“My goodness,” she breathed. “You might have said so instead of trying to sneak it out.”
“Yes, in hindsight I should have. But I wasn’t sure you would be willing to part with it.”
She lifted her chin. “If that flask belongs to Monsieur LaRoche, then your taking it is stealing. He claims to be here in our country legally. Can you say the same?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “It is . . . complicated. But if it absolves me at all, François stole that flask from a crewman.”
“And the letter?”
“No, that was his.”
Incredulity swamped her. “How could his letter save your brother?”
“I . . . would rather not say.”
She shook her head. “You had better tell me everything, and it had better be true, or I will report you to the militia myself.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I will tell you everything, I promise. But—”
A voice called from above. “Our Laura?” It was Jago, sounding concerned.
“We’re coming,” Laura called up the stairs. She turned back to Alex, held out her hand for the flask, and whispered, “I will hold on to it for now. We can look at the contents together, and then I will decide whether to restore it to you or to Monsieur LaRoche.”
His eyes glinted, and he pressed his lips together tightly. “Very well,” he acquiesced, though obviously not pleased.