The young men nodded, as did Reginald, and their employer gave a worried smile, then entered the office. “This is disastrous,” he said, pushing the door closed. It didn’t latch tight. “We have to find that engine.”
“Why would anyone bother?” Mr. Royce asked. “The blasted coachwork wasn’t even finished.”
“Why do you think?” Rolls replied. “Sending spies sniffing around, trying to best us. Whoever it was, they stole it because they couldn’t build anything close to what we have.”
“Problem is, it’s still in the prototype stage. If they get it out there before we do, we lose it all. Every investor we have will pull out.”
“Good point. What if we lose the patent?” Rolls said. “We have to get that car back before the Olympia Motor Show.”
“The policeman suggested we hire a detective.”
Mr. Rolls made a scoffing noise. “Not sure we want that to get out to our investors. Can’t even keep track of our own products before they find their way into the hands of our competitors.”
Jonathon Payton started to speak, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and started again, saying, “What about those parts we sent out to be machined? If we could get them back in time, we might have a chance to finish that other forty-fifty.”
“Brilliant idea,” Royce said. “They’ve got to be ready by now. Give them a ring, Payton. If they’re ready, see if they can’t get them on the next train. We might just save this company after all.”
One week later . . .
Just before sunrise, ten-year-old Toby Edwards and his nine-year-old brother, Chip, picked their way down the street, avoiding the low spots where the rain flowed down from the previous day’s storm. They stopped at the entrance to the alley. “Wait here,” Toby said, moving his brother into the shadows. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Why can’t I go? I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
“Just wait. If anything happens, run back.”
The boy nodded, and Toby moved off. The last time he’d stolen something from the bakery, he’d nearly gotten caught after stepping in a deep puddle. The water had soaked through the worn soles of his boots, squeaking with every step he took. A customer was the one who’d heard, calling out to the baker that a thief had broken in, then chasing after him.
He wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
Worried the baker might catch him again, he’d stayed away for several days, until hunger drove him out once more. This time when he reached the back of the shop, he wiggled his toes, grateful that they were dry. He glanced back, could just make out his brother in the dark. Satisfied he was waiting as he should, Toby moved in.
The waiting was the hardest part. He breathed in the scent of fresh-baked bread drifting into the alley. Every morning, the baker opened the back door a crack, just enough to let his gray tabby in and out. The door was locked tight, and Toby wondered, after nearly getting caught, if the man had realized it left him ripe for theft. Every minute that slipped by, Toby despaired. About to turn away, he heard the door open. The cat slipped out, its tiny paws silent on the wet cobblestones as it walked toward him, then rubbed its whiskered face against Toby’s patched trousers.
When the cat meowed loudly, Toby crouched beside it, petting the feline’s head, feeling it purr against his fingertips. “Hush, you,” he whispered, watching the door.
Finally, he heard the faint tinkle from the bell that hung on the shop’s front door, followed by the baker’s deep voice greeting whoever it was that had walked in. Usually it was the servants from the big manor houses that ventured out this early, those who didn’t bake their own bread.
Toby edged over, listening, before slipping through the door. He was immediately enveloped in heat, wishing he could find a spot under the table to spend the night where he wouldn’t be seen. To be that warm while he slept . . .
Right now, food was more important. Suddenly he stopped, his heart sinking. The basket the baker had always left on the table with the burned and broken loaves wasn’t there.
The table was empty.
His eyes flew to the door that led to the front of the shop, just able to make out the perfect loaves stacked in baskets on the counter.
For a moment, he wondered how hard it would be to race out there, grab one, and keep running.
He could never do that. It was one thing to take what was going to be tossed out, quite another to brazenly steal something the baker made a living from.
Stomach rumbling, he backed from the room, his foot hitting a wooden crate near the door. He froze, grateful when no one came racing into the kitchen. When he turned to leave, he saw what was in the crate. Nearly a dozen rolls, the tops a bit too brown, the bottoms black as coal.
Unable to believe his luck, he stuffed several rolls into his pockets, resisting the temptation to take every last one of them.
Slipping out the door, he raced down the alley, pausing to grab his brother’s arm. The two boys darted around the puddles, then out to the street, where massive brick warehouses lined the railroad tracks. Toby and Chip lived in the orphanage on the other side. After a quick look behind them to make sure no one was following, Toby guided his brother that direction. When they reached the corner, he saw a man astride a black mare champing at the bit. The horseman, struggling to keep his mount under control, looked their direction.
Toby grasped Chip’s hand, holding tight. Instinct told him to continue on past, as though that had been their intention the entire time.
As soon as they were out of sight, they broke into a run. Up ahead, Toby saw an alcove and pulled Chip into it, hiding his brother behind him.
A few seconds later, he heard the staccato clip of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. Toby peered out, caught a glimpse of the man, and pressed back against the wall, praying the shadows would hide them.
“Who’s that?” Chip asked.
“Quiet.”
“I’m hungry,” Chip whispered. “And cold.”
There was a familiarity about the man when he’d looked over at Toby.
As though he’d seen him before.
And this was what bothered Toby. Something told him that if he didn’t find out who the man was, his brother and sisters wouldn’t be safe.
After their father, a coal miner, died of black lung disease, their mother had moved them all to Manchester, working in one of the textile mills. But then she’d taken ill, too, and could no longer care for them. They’d lived the last year at the Payton Home for Orphans. Had it not been for Toby’s trips to the bakery, he and his siblings would have starved.
He had to get back to his sisters, but the only way to the orphanage was across the railroad tracks. Seconds ticked by, and the low rumble of an approaching train grew louder. Suddenly the horseman turned and galloped back toward the tracks.
“Wait here,” Toby said, tucking his brother safely in the shadows.
* * *
—
THREE DAYS AGO, if someone had told Toby that he’d be brave enough to follow a horseman in the dark to see what the man was about, he might have laughed. He was the least brave person he knew. But his mother had made him promise to look after his sisters and brother, and that’s exactly what he intended to do.
He’d gone no more than a few feet when Chip appeared at his side. Toby backtracked, taking his brother’s hand. “I told you to wait.”
“I don’t want to stay by myself.”
Toby considered taking him, until he remembered that feeling of terror when he’d almost been caught stealing from the bakery. “Hold these for me,” he said, pulling three of the four rolls from his pocket and helping his brother put them in his. When he pulled out the fourth roll, he held it up. “If you stay here until I come back for you, I’ll let you have the extra one.”
Chip’s eyes went wide as he stared at the burnt bread. But then he s
hook his head. “If I have that, what’ll you have?”
“Ate one in the kitchen before I got out,” he said, hoping the rumble of his stomach wouldn’t give him away. “So hungry, I couldn’t wait. But you want that extra one, you have to stay here.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want Lizzie or Abigail to see you eating it. You think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
When Toby gave him the last roll, he gripped it in both hands, holding it up to his nose.
“Don’t leave here until I come get you,” Toby said, gently guiding his brother back to the alcove. As soon as Chip was safely tucked away, Toby started the other direction, keeping to the shadows.
As he neared the tracks, he saw a wagon stopped just on the other side, a stack of lumber strewn across the rails. Stars faded from the predawn sky, still too early for anyone to be out to help the driver who’d spilled the load. The man seemed unconcerned about moving the wood, instead just sitting there, holding the reins of his team, as the train approached.
Why would someone be moving lumber at this hour . . . ?
His eyes flew back to the horseman in time to see him lifting a mask over his face. In the distance, on the other side of the tracks, he saw two other horsemen, both masked.
“Blimey . . .”
The train squealed to a stop, sparks flying up from the rails. He looked at the men, saw the pistols they held. Fear coursed through his veins. He pivoted, about to run off, when someone grabbed him from behind, clamped a hand over his mouth, and dragged him beneath the wooden staircase near the corner building.
Toby clawed at the hands, trying to squirm free.
“Quiet!” The man pulled Toby back, his hand so tight Toby could barely breathe. “You want them to hear you?”
Several terror-filled seconds passed before he realized the man wasn’t there to hurt him. He whispered in Toby’s ear again. “I’m going to let go. Not a word, lad. Understand?”
Heart thudding, Toby nodded. The man lowered his hand, and Toby sucked in air, stealing a glance at his captor. He was tall, in his late twenties, and dressed all in black, a bowler covering his brown hair. “Who are you?”
“Will Sutton,” he said. “Been following this gang since last week. Thought they were just after engine parts. Turns out, they had something bigger in mind.” His blue eyes were focused on the horsemen racing toward the stopped train.
Toby peered between the splintered stairs as the engineer stepped out from the locomotive, the first horseman pointing a gun at him. The engineer lifted his hands, backing up. The brakeman appeared behind him, his hands going up as well. The other two horsemen rode past, stopping three cars down, boarding. They climbed to the top of the car, opened a trap door, and disappeared below.
“Interesting,” Will said. “I’d think it would’ve been locked.”
Toby had no idea what he was talking about. His attention was on the first horseman. “I know him.”
“What?”
“That man with the gun. Seen him in the orphanage, I have.”
“You’re sure?”
Toby nodded. “That’s why I followed him.”
Will kneeled in front of Toby, holding him by the shoulders, his eyes boring into him. “Did he see you? Out there in the street?”
“I— Maybe.” He thought about it. Surely the man had been too far away? “I don’t think so.”
“If he comes back to the orphanage, make sure he doesn’t see you.”
“Why?”
The rattle of wagon wheels caught their attention. The driver shook the reins, the team of horses pulling the wagon around to the freight car, next to the two waiting horses. The freight door opened, and the two men started tossing heavy wooden crates into the wagon bed, each landing with a thud. They followed with large canvas bags, which landed with a metallic ring.
When they’d emptied the car, the two men jumped down and mounted their horses. The wagon driver cracked his whip. The team of horses took off down the street, followed by the two horsemen.
The third horseman, the one Toby recognized, watched his men, then turned back to the engineer and brakeman. “On the ground. Now!”
They kneeled, both lying facedown near the tracks. The horseman circled the two men, his gun pointed toward their heads. He fired twice. The gunshots cracked, the sharp report echoing off the bricks of the warehouse.
Unable to look away, Toby’s knees buckled and he sank to the ground. A soft whimper grew louder.
“Quiet, lad,” Will cautioned.
But Toby wasn’t the one whimpering.
His brother, the half-eaten burnt roll in hand, stood in the middle of the street, crying. “T— Toby . . . ?”
The horseman pulled at the reins, whirled his steed about, his eyes landing on the boy. He lifted his gun, aiming.
Will swore, darted out. The first shot missed. He grabbed Chip, swinging him around, practically throwing him at Toby, as another shot rang out. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees, just a few feet from Toby, as the horseman fired again. When he fell forward, he looked right at Toby, mouthing something he couldn’t hear.
Trapped beneath the staircase, tears welled in Toby’s eyes as he gripped his brother’s hand, unable to move, transfixed by the dark stain growing on Will’s back, only vaguely aware of the horseman breaking open the pistol, reloading.
“Boy . . .” Will said, his voice a soft rasp.
Holding tight to his brother, Toby took a step forward, not sure what to do.
“Run!”
1
PEBBLE BEACH, CALIFORNIA
CONCOURS D’ELEGANCE
The present day, August
A salt-tinged breeze swept in from the water, rippling the white canvas tents where spectators stood, drinking champagne. Beyond the tents, sunlight glinted off the hoods of the classic cars parked on the newly mowed emerald green grass. Two young children ran between a blue and white 1932 Auburn V-12 Boattail and a white 1936 Auburn Speedster, laughing as their parents raced after them, catching their hands, then drawing them back away from the cars.
Sam Fargo guided his wife, Remi, out of the parents’ and children’s path, her attention fixed on the auction book she held. “Anything of interest?” he asked.
“Besides very rare cars?” Remi cleared her throat. “It says there’s a 1929 Bentley, owned by Lord Albert Payton, Viscount Wellswick. Please tell me your mother’s not expecting us to bid on that?”
“Of course not.”
She looked over at him, her green eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, her auburn hair tucked beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. “You have no idea why we’re here to talk to him, do you?”
“I know it has something to do with cars.”
“That narrows it down,” she said, focusing on the program, turning the page. “Viscount Wellswick has three cars listed for auction. Why on earth would he bring them all the way over here when he lives in Great Britain?”
“The cars aren’t here, he is.”
She closed the book, taking a look around. “I’m beginning to think he’s very rare. Your mother did say he was meeting us at ten?”
Sam checked his watch. It was nearly eleven. “Maybe I got the time wrong.” He slipped his phone from his pocket, calling his mother. “Hi, Mom—”
“Did you talk to Albert?” she asked, before he had a chance to comment.
“That’s why I’m calling. We were wondering if you’d heard from him.”
“No, but I’m sure he’ll be there. I’m at the dock or otherwise I’d get you the name and number of the motel he’s staying at.” He heard the sound of a boat engine in the background. His mother, Eunice “Libby” Fargo, ran a charter boat in Key West for snorkelers and deep-sea fishing. What had been a hobby for her when his father had been alive was now her passion. It wasn’
t all that long ago that she’d spent more days on land than on sea. Now in her seventies, the reverse was true, and she wasn’t willing to drop anchor anytime soon. “It’s possible I got the time mixed up,” she said.
“Any chance you know more about what he’s looking for?”
“Just what I told you the other night— Have to go. Taking a group out now. Call me back if you don’t hear from him soon.”
She disconnected.
“Well?” Remi asked.
“Still a mystery.”
The only thing he really knew was that according to his mother, Albert Payton, the 7th Viscount Wellswick, was a distant relative of his. “He’s family, and he’s in financial trouble” was what she’d told him when she’d called a couple of nights ago, asking if he and Remi could meet with him when they were in Pebble Beach for the Concours d’Elegance.
Sam wasn’t the type to walk into anything unprepared, but when he’d tried asking her what sort of trouble, she said it had something to do with a car and finances.
It was the reference to finances that had bothered him, not that he was about to mention this to his mother. He and Remi were self-made multimillionaires, partly due to Sam’s inventions, including an argon laser scanner, a device that could detect and identify mixed metals and alloys at a distance. These days, he and Remi tended to focus most of their energy working for the charitable foundation they’d set up. Amazing, though, how every time an article that mentioned their fortune appeared in some magazine or on the internet, there was no shortage of friends and relatives who suddenly remembered vague connections to Sam and Remi, looking for funds to invest or hoping for a handout.
As much as Sam wanted to believe that someone wouldn’t try to get to him through his mother, he knew better. Up until two days ago when his mother had called, he’d never even heard of Viscount Wellswick. “Probably not even a real viscount,” Sam said, dropping his phone into his pocket. “What sort of British royalty stays at a motel?”