Wicked Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 3) Page 13

  “Keep in touch.” The president waved as he walked backward toward his front door.

  Eric slammed into the steamcoach a bit too hard. “They’re not doing anything about it, are they?”

  Garth stretched his legs across the narrow interior as the vehicle lurched forward. “We don’t know that.” He sensed it, though, sensed it hard, the way he knew when a thunderstorm rolled in the distance.

  “I’ll work on it myself,” Eric mumbled.

  “Good, but what else is the president doing that he shouldn’t?”

  “Grand fun.” Jas pumped one fist in the air and whooped. “It’s been too long since I had my last adventure.”

  Clark leaned against the door of the prince’s open top buggy. “You sure you want to come?”

  “Adventure, Clark. I’ve been too stuck too long.” He leaned over to tap Jolene’s chin. Amethyst tightened her arms around the baby.

  The Bromi driver started the steam buggy’s engine and in the initial roar, Clark said, “I’ll be your brother, Am. You and Jas be husband and wife. When we get to the orphanage, I’ll slip off and find whatever Clara Larkin wants me to take.”

  “How sweet.” The prince lifted his hand to cup Amethyst’s cheek.

  She bared her teeth as if she would bite and he laughed.

  “Don’t forget,” Clark said. Jas tended to forget. Then he made his own plans, or he remembered all along and preferred those haphazard plans.

  The queen adjusted the silk floral wreath on her head. “I have always enjoyed crafts. Did you know I used to knit scarves for the army?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Zachariah stared at the basket of silk flower supplies and swore under his breath. He was not sewing.

  “I also knit socks for hospital patients.”

  He wasn’t knitting, either.

  They hadn’t offered him the chance to return to Hedlund. They’d just expected him to stay at the plantation with the queen.

  Would it be wrong to tell her he was leaving?

  “What would you like to craft?” She nodded at him, her dangling pearl earrings bobbing.

  Zachariah gulped. “Excuse me?”

  “To craft while we wait. What would you like to do?”

  He gulped again.

  “Toys.” The queen clapped her hands. “We’ll make toys and donate them to the orphanages. Can you work with wood? You can build little wooden soldiers for the boys, and I’ll sew little dolls for the girls. How perfect.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The others had better hurry back.

  screw fell off the bottom of the steamcoach. Dust from the wheels settled around it, as if trying to hide its presence. Clark helped a female passenger down, but his gaze stayed on Jas and Amethyst. They had to make the act believable, yet each time she touched his arm or smiled at him, Clark’s skin crawled.

  At the moment, at least, she gaped at the screw in the dirt. “The steamcoach is falling apart!”

  Clark chuckled, but Jas scowled. “What’s that mean? Honey.” He added the last like an afterthought.

  “The bottom’s falling out.” Clark’s wife pointed under the vehicle. “Huge hunks are coming off!”

  Clark grasped the hand of the female passenger to guide her down the narrow wrought iron steps. She offered him a smile in her wrinkled face. “Thank you, sir. Good luck at the orphanage.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He bowed at the waist as he released her. She’d accompanied them on the steamcoach from the train station, on her way to visit her son and newest grandson in Faithburg. She’d fawned over Jolene and chatted up horses —her late husband had owned a horse ranch. The company could have been far worse. The elderly woman had made it easy for them to practice their new roles.

  “Faithburg is up the hill.” Jas stepped away from the steamcoach, yanking Amethyst behind him. She squawked at the sudden pull and Jolene giggled.

  Dust coated the street and left a dullness to the buildings lining the street. The two-story clapboards and hitching posts out front made Clark pause. Home had looked like that. Even though Faithburg dwelled on the border between west and east, it had the feel of a forgotten town in Hedlund.

  A man in a green felt hat slumped outside the post office with an empty glass bottle in his hand. Another man stood with his hand on the reins of his horse, talking to the steamcoach driver. A woman in a red calico dress walked down the middle of the road with a covered basket slung over her arm. On the journey from the train station, they’d past fields of rippling wheat and cloudless blue sky that seemed to never end.

  His heart clenched and Clark loosened his cravat. What he wouldn’t do to ride for hours on a steamcycle savoring the taste of the wind.

  “You’re going too fast!” Amethyst’s cry made the man with the horse glance at them.

  Clark stuck his hands into his pockets as he followed them toward the path leading up the hill, where a gray stone building shadowed Faithburg. Time enough for steamcycles when they were home.

  “Marie Gregory,” the woman said. “I’m the orphanage’s matron. How can I help y’all?”

  Clark kept near the meeting room’s doorway, one foot inside on the plush carpet and the other on the scuffed hardwood floor. A damp draft skirted down the narrow hallway behind him to raise the hairs along his arms.

  Jas stepped toward the matron while pushing Amethyst, with Jolene, onto the only settee. She gasped and the baby giggled again, reaching out for her Uncle Jas, as he’d taken to calling himself in the steamcoach.

  “Matron Gregory, my wife and I are looking to adopt a second child.” Jas swept off his top hat and bowed to the middle-aged woman. “My wife was an orphan and she wishes to give a handsome life to an ill-fated babe.”

  “W-what?” Amethyst sputtered. “I… I…” She pursed her lips.

  Marie nodded, blond curls streaked with silver tumbling around her face where they had loosened from her chignon. “I’m happy to hear that. Very happy. Most families who seek an orphan do it for an extra hand around the farm.”

  “Never.” Jas touched his gloved hand to his chest.

  Marie glanced past him to Clark. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

  “I’m the brother.” Clark grinned. “Here for moral support. We’re a close family.”

  “That’s very sweet.” When Marie blinked, Clark almost caught tears in her eyes.

  “May we see the children?” Jas asked.

  Marie crossed the room to open the single window. A warm breeze counteracted the castle’s chill. The tassels on a lion tapestry —the only decoration on the stone walls —wiggled. “Would you mind waiting until suppertime? The aids can get the children cleaned, and they’ll all be in one spot.”

  A good point, but Clark needed time to search for the facts. “Would you rather see them being natural kids and not stuffed up?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, certainly.” Amethyst rose from the settee, shifting Jolene to her opposite hip. “We would prefer to see the children now.”

  “Any ages,” Jas added. “We’re not picky. Whoever we connect with.”

  Marie scratched at her wrist and her sleeve slipped down, revealing a striped linen shift. “Very well. We can start in the kitchens. The older children take turns preparing meals.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Clark said. “I don’t want to taint your opinions. You’ll get me when you’ve decided?”

  “But,” Marie began.

  “Yes.” Jas clapped him on the shoulder and swept Marie out by the arm.

  “Good luck,” Amethyst whispered as she passed Clark.

  A little boy around ten stood with a younger girl in the hallway, both gaping at the meeting room. As Marie headed toward them, the boy yanked the girl into the nearest doorway. Clark wiped his hand over his mouth. He’d been like that with Mabel.

  Without their mothers, they might’ve ended up in a cold castle of an orphanage.

  Clara Larkin shimmered into reality beside the settee. “Are you ready?”

&
nbsp; Clark ground his teeth. Ghosts needed to be more forthright. “Where do I go?”

  Clara Larkin faded through a closed door down the hall from the meeting room… and a girl around thirteen-years-old in a blue calico dress wandered toward him. Brass glass. Clark folded his arms and leaned against the wall, nodding to her.

  She paused, her white shawl slipping down her arms. “Afternoon, suh. Can I help ya?”

  “Just waiting.”

  She tugged on one of her two brown braids. “Ya sure? I can go get one o’ the aids.”

  “Positive. Have a lovely day.” Clark touched the brim of his hat.

  She paused, kicking at the floor with her bare feet, before she continued down the hallway. He waited until she’d turned before crouching in front of the lock. He kept his ears trained for the slightest sound, but only noises from upstairs drifted to him as he worked his lock picking tools. Somewhere a child screamed.

  The brass lock clicked and Clark turned the knob. He slid inside and shut the door behind him before anyone ventured down the hall. Desks of wooden drawers and towers of metal filing cabinets covered the office. Light filtered through a small window high toward the ceiling, the glass coated in dust.

  He stood, tucking his kit back into his jacket pocket.

  Clara Larkin hovered by the metal filing cabinets. “Look in here.”

  “The bottom drawer.”

  “One of the drawers. The doctor would have kept his notes in here. He was careful how he stored them. He didn’t want anyone to track him down for them, so he kept everything hidden with the orphanage records. No one cares about orphanages.”

  Clark crouched to pull on the bottom drawer. It stuck fast. Locked. “Brass glass.” He felt for his case of picking tools.

  “If not the drawer, then one of these,” Clara reiterated.

  Bloody lovely.

  Zachariah wondered if he should attack. He could jump on the man in the crisp blue suit, tackle him to the floor, and scream for help.

  Only, the man in blue was the help. Sort of.

  “On behalf of the president,” the stranger repeated, “you, Queen Melissa, and your son, Prince Dexter, are arrested for treason.”

  The words spiraled around Zachariah until they tightened off his oxygen. He had to protect the queen. He was a soldier.

  But the man in blue was a special agent of the government. He held up an arrest warrant and a silver badge.

  “What is your name, young man?” The queen smiled with each word. She remained in her parlor chair, her hands folded in her lap. Her bodyguards stayed in the doorway, behind the special agent, their arms akimbo and frowns on their lips.

  No one moved to strike.

  “My name is Jonathan Montgomery.” The special agent stepped forward to hand her the arrest warrant.

  “Mr. Montgomery, I would like you to explain these charges of treason.” She set the paper on the table beside her without looking at it.

  She must have been used to such actions. She’d seen her husband thrown from the monarchy; she’d had her possessions ripped away. Zachariah bit his lower lip, his hands itching to do something to defend her.

  She sewed handkerchiefs for the homeless, may the steam be cursed. She couldn’t be part of treason.

  Jonathan cleared his throat. “Ma’am, you and your son will be tried for poisoning the country’s main river.”

  The queen shook her head. “You must be mistaken. We have not done that, nor would we, nor do we have such means.”

  Jonathan turned toward the door, where a young woman in a yellow dress waited with the ten soldiers he’d brought along. “This is my wife. She will be your female company on the journey to prison.”

  Mrs. Montgomery curtsied. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, your highness. My husband and I will make the trip as comfortable for you as possible. You have our word.”

  “Yes,” Queen Melissa murmured. “Your word. Well, I’m afraid my son isn’t here. He’s visiting friends.”

  Jonathan straightened. “When will he return?”

  “I wouldn’t know. The prince isn’t one to keep in touch regularly.”

  Jonathan jerked two fingers toward his soldiers. “Search the plantation for the prince. Question everyone to ensure he is where his mother claims. Visiting friends.”

  Zachariah almost spoke out against the harsh words, but the man didn’t know the queen as well as Zachariah did —if his acquaintance with her counted. Jonathan probably believed that the royal family had poisoned the water.

  The indignity of having her home searched because the government thought she lied.

  “If I must leave, I would like to plan accordingly,” she said. “I need to speak with my managers to assure my affairs are handled. I will also need to conduct with the press a form of, shall we say, damage control.”

  “None of that will be necessary, ma’am.” Jonathan pulled a pair of handcuffs from inside his jacket. “I will ask you to rise please. You’re under arrest by order of the president.”

  Zachariah almost choked on a breath. He’d been on arrests before with the army, little stints involving drunken bank robbers or horse thieves, and if they couldn’t get their affairs in order, it meant they weren’t coming back to those affairs. Denying her access to the press could only mean the president wanted to monitor how much the people learned.

  He edged toward the back of the parlor, where the glass doors opened to the flowered veranda. Jonathan allowed the queen to stand on her own before he snapped the handcuffs in place.

  They might not arrest Zachariah thanks to the Treasure name, but they might keep him for questioning. They might monitor what news he could send and receive.

  Once on the veranda, he turned toward the front gate. No one shouted for him. No footsteps sounded in his wake. Zachariah walked to the end of the wood to avoid unneeded sound and once his boots touched the dirt, he ran.

  pocket light would have been helpful, or Clara Larkin could have glowed. Instead, the light in the closet grew dimmer as night drew closer.

  “Is this it?” He flicked the papers at Clara where she floated over his shoulder, expressionless. Most ghosts had horrified or needy expressions; she stuck to stoic.

  At least she helped. That was good. They needed that.

  “Is this it?” he repeated in a growl.

  The tab at the top of the manila folder read “Receipts.” It had to be the most obvious of the folders she’d had him pull. “Ishi” had been his notes reflecting on his test subjects, his handwriting so cramped it had made Clark’s head pound attempting to read it. Clara had recognized it, though. The “Kroe” folder had contained ingredients and recipes, different concoctions the doctor had tried while perfecting his serum, as Clara called it.

  Clark held open the folder for her to read the pages inside.

  “Yes,” she said. “Those are the receipts from the president showing that he’d purchased the serum.”

  Clark snapped the folder shut and set it on top of the pile. “What else should I look for?” They had to hurry before Jas and Amethyst ran out of things to discuss on their tour.

  Clara shook her head. “That is all. There might be more notes somewhere…”

  Clark groaned. He’d already checked all but three filing cabinets. “Should I keep going?”

  “No. There should be enough proof.”

  How convincing that sounded. Clark unbuttoned his jacket and shirt to get to the tight leather vest he’d purchased. Into that he buttoned the folders and redid his outfit.

  After he proved what the president had done, he would take Jolene and Amethyst to stay with his parents. They hadn’t gotten to do that much yet. Garth and Judith seemed to need the time to ogle each other, and while seeing them hold hands made Clark grin wider than that time he’d found a whole sack of food abandoned near a campsite, it made his stomach churn, too. They’d lost each other for some many years when they could have been in love —had been in love. It seemed wrong for him to
shove into their lives.

  To the steam with all that. They were his parents. He was going to sit between them on their front porch, stare at the prairie, and love it.

  Amethyst sucked in a breath through her teeth. It whistled, reminding her of wind racing through willows.

  A little boy, perhaps five-years-old, knelt in the corner of his room wearing only beige slacks. Bread crumbs covered his hands, and he held them out to a rat. The rat kept closer to him from beneath the cot, its small nose twitching at the scent of food.

  “That’s a rodent,” she sputtered. “Get him away from that child!”

  The matron sighed before stepping into the room. “Theo, stop. You’re not allowed to feed the rats or mice.”

  The rodent darted back under the bed, and the boy glared at the other humans from beneath his shoulder-length black hair. “It’s gotta eat!”

  Marie pulled him to his feet by his arms and brushed the crumbs across the hardwood floor. “Not your food. They can find plenty for themselves outside, I’m sure.”

  “It’ll starve!” A tear slid down the boy’s freckled cheek.

  “Hush now, it won’t starve.” Marie pushed him toward the doorway. “Get to your lessons. I’m sure there’s something for you to do.”

  He kept his gaze down as he ran between Jas and Amethyst. She tightened her grip on Jolene, who waved at his bare back. Never would Jolene wear such scant clothing; never would a rat live under her bed.

  The children didn’t have those luxuries.

  “Do they have pets?” Jas asked.

  Marie ushered them out and shut the door. “We don’t allow pets here, but there’s a cat who lives in the kitchen and others out in the barn.”

  “What was his name?” Amethyst asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t remember them all. When you see one you’re interested in, we can take that child back to my office and I’ll fetch the paperwork. They always know their names, of course.”

  Bile rose in Amethyst’s throat and she gulped. With one teacher and aids who forced them to work —they’d passed children scrubbing the windows and floors —when did they have time for pleasures? Did the little boy only enjoy feeding pests?