without hesitation. “You might be a very good criminal, which doesn’t say much about your character.”
He sighed. Perhaps he was getting old, or tired, or jaded, but there was just something about the woman that shouted innocence. If she’d cheated on a test and lasted ten minutes without a full confession, he would have been surprised. He stood and gestured toward the sofa.
“Leave your gear, Miss Drummond, and please come sit. Let’s see if the kitchen is still willing to prepare something for us to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
She looked at him for another moment or two in silence, then she set her backpack down by the door. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I haven’t eaten very much today.”
“Let’s remedy that.”
She crossed the room, then sat as far on the opposite end of the sofa from him as possible. He fetched the menu, had a look for himself, then handed it to her. She named something very small indeed, which surprised him a little.
He was beginning to think he had seriously misjudged her.
He ordered enough for four people, then sat and shifted to look at her.
“How did you know it was me?” he asked, because that was what interested him the most.
“Set of your shoulders,” she answered absently. She had picked up the menu again and was obviously adding things up in her head. “I’ve fitted my father’s costumes for years.” She glanced at him. “I’d suggest shoulder pads in your jackets, but maybe you don’t want to go that far.”
“Most people aren’t that observant.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I’m beginning to suspect that.”
She looked at him then, bleakly. “I feel like I’ve fallen into a bad dream and can’t wake up.”
“Trust me,” he said, with feeling, “I understand.”
“I’ve never been kidnapped before.”
“I’m not kidnapping you now.”
“I don’t hold your driver responsible,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, “because he’s probably just doing what he’s told to save his wife and dozen children.”
“Living in Dickensian squalor,” Derrick said wryly. “And he only has four, all grown up and moved on.”
“You know, for all I know, you’re a thug who just wants that lace,” she continued. “Maybe you stole it in the first place and this is all an elaborate ruse to get it back from the unsuspecting patsy.”
“You read too much.”
“Prove me wrong.”
He started to tell her he absolutely wouldn’t when he realized he had basically said the same thing to her. He rubbed his hands together, not because they ached, but because he was tired and needed something to eat.
“I could tell you what I do for a living.”
“How about you show me instead,” she said pointedly. “A website for your business. Maybe a business card.”
He shook his head slowly. “Don’t have either. We’re very exclusive.”
“Most high-end thieves are.”
“And you would know?”
“I can read the news, just like everyone else. And who’s we?”
He supposed he owed her that at least. He sighed lightly, then attempted a smile. “Let’s begin with introductions—”
“After all we’ve been through?” she asked. “Why bother?”
He considered. “I saw that Elizabethan ghost in the great hall at the Castle.”
Her eyes almost bulged. “You didn’t,” she breathed. “Really?”
“Really,” he said. “He did good work on your boyfriend.”
“Dory’s not my boyfriend.”
Then the wench had at least some amount of taste. He looked at her seriously.
“My name is Derrick Cameron,” he said, “and I am the, ah, owner of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.”
“The Ah Owner? Is that something British I don’t understand?”
He was torn between scowling and smiling. “It’s a recent thing.”
“And you’re not comfortable with it yet.”
“Actually, no, I’m not,” he agreed.
“What sort of business is it you’re uncomfortable with?” she asked. “Or should I not be curious?”
He lifted an eyebrow briefly. “We deal in the very rare and hideously expensive. Antiques, mostly.”
“Would my brother know you?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m afraid he would, but I wouldn’t suggest you go to him for a character reference.”
“Steal something filigreed from him?”
“Salt cellars,” Derrick clarified. “And I didn’t steal them. I used my impressive powers of persuasion and vast amounts of charm to convince the owner to give them to me instead of to your brother.”
“That couldn’t have been too hard,” she said with a snort. “Gavin has no charm and a lousy personality.”
“But he drives a hard bargain,” Derrick said. “He wasn’t pleased.”
“He rarely is.” She assessed him. “Did you give this Lord Epworth the lace in the first place?”
“I sold it to him, aye,” Derrick said. “It came from a private collection.”
“How did