The River Knows by Amanda Quick

aside with a short, chopping movement of one hand. “A little nobody. Stalbridge must have used her for some purpose. Probably as camouflage to hide his real reason for being in that part of the house in the event he was discovered coming out of the bedroom.”
    “I don’t think it’s wise to jump to conclusions,” Quinby said.
    “Surely you are not going to suggest that Mrs. Bryce cracked that safe,” Elwin snapped.
    Quinby’s shoulder rose in another one of his annoying shrugs. “Never pays to underestimate a woman.”
    “It strains credibility to the breaking point to think that dull female is a skilled safecracker,” Elwin said, “but someone opened my safe last night. Whoever he was, he certainly knew what he was about. There was nothing to indicate that anyone had even been in my bedroom. If I had not opened the safe this morning I still wouldn’t know that certain very valuable items were missing.”
    Quinby lounged against the corner of the desk with the insouciant ease of a man who felt as if he were in his own home. “Calm yourself, Mr. Hastings. We’ll get this sorted out.”
    Another burst of rage flashed through Elwin. “Don’t you dare patronize me, you criminal bastard. Remove yourself from that desk at once. I’ve had enough of your insolence. Who in bloody hell do you think you are?”
    Quinby’s jaw jerked. His eyes turned very, very cold. He rose slowly from the corner of the desk, uncoiling like a cobra.
    A small, breathless whisper of dread swept through Elwin. He reminded himself that Quinby and Royce took orders from Clement Corvus and that Corvus had instructed them to guard him. Nevertheless, the fact remained that both men held their current positions in Corvus’s organization precisely because they were capable of cold-blooded violence.
    Royce’s blunt features screwed up into an expression that was no doubt intended to express polite curiosity.
    “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” he said. “As you just said, by all accounts, Mr. Stalbridge is a wealthy gentleman. Why would he want to break into your safe? He doesn’t need your valuables.”
    That, of course, was the question here, Elwin thought. He released his death grip on the chair and forced himself to concentrate. There was only one thing that connected Stalbridge and himself: the death of Fiona Risby. And that damned necklace was the only piece of jewelry that had been taken. Coincidence? What in blazes was going on here?
    For a time after Fiona was pulled from the river rumors had circulated to the effect that Stalbridge was not convinced that she had committed suicide. But even if he did suspect that Fiona had been murdered, why did he care? By all accounts, he had been about to terminate the engagement, anyway. There was even gossip that he had found her in bed with another man. What possible interest could he have in avenging her? And why would he wait this long to act? And if Stalbridge was the thief, why did he also help himself to the extortion items and the business papers?
    It was all so bloody bewildering. He felt hopelessly muddled and very, very uneasy. Something had gone badly wrong.
    He stalked to the window and stood looking out into the garden. He wished he could discuss the problem with someone he could trust. He certainly did not intend to confide in Quinby and Royce. He was playing a dicey game with their employer at the moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make a slip that might get back to Clement Corvus.
    In the old days he would have sought Victoria’s advice. She had possessed an extraordinarily clever mind when it came to fitting together the pieces of this kind of puzzle, but Victoria was gone, and so was Grantley, the only other person he could consult. There was no one else he could trust.
    He hesitated. There was always Thurlow, he thought. Victoria was the one who had chosen him as the seducer par excellence to compromise the various young ladies in their extortion scheme. Thurlow had