Page 18 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

18

A killer bunion slowed a man down. Brudge knew that from experience. A dog bite and a gunshot, however, well ... that had stopped him in his tracks for a week. Blast that Price for putting armed guards around his property! He’d barely made it to his horse before those men had scaled the wall behind him.

Turning aside, Brudge spit out a wad as he limped over the broken cobbles of Cranham Street. The past week had been insufferable, what with Scupper moaning about his tender jaw from yet another rotten tooth. The man really ought to have them all yanked out and be done with it. Brudge swiped his hand over his mouth, annoyed with his hired muscle, the ache in his leg, and most of all Wormwell. Time was nearly out for paying back that villain.

A frown weighted his brow. Hopefully his boy, Neddie, was still alive. Would to God he’d had some other form of collateral to leave with Wormwell than his only son.

Next to him, Scupper kicked a stray cat out of his way, the screech of the wiry creature an affront to the ears. “Don’t quite remember it bein’ this far, guv’ner.”

“Quit yer whining.” He shot the big oaf a dark look. “Heaven knows I’ve heard enough.”

But apparently God didn’t agree, for ahead a costermonger yowled behind his cart, attempting to sell onions that were more mold balls than anything edible. Their decomposing stink added with the other pungent stenches of the Jericho neighbourhood. A fitting name for the slum of run-down hovels. It wouldn’t take an army of horn-blowing Israelites to cave in this rookery. A good wind could take it down any day.

Just past the end of the Black Raven, he veered down a narrow passage running the length of the nefarious pub. A door with a slot at eye level stood at the back, where he rapped once, thrice, paused, then twice. The metal covering the slot scratched open. A bloodshot eyeball appeared.

“Password?” The voice was as raspy as the slot casing.

Brudge sighed. What a tiresome game. Dandrae wasn’t that big of a player to require such security. “Noose and needle.”

The slot slammed closed. The door creaked open. He and Scupper passed by a man reeking of rum and unwashed stockings. Climbing the rickety steps took effort, wrenching a wince out of him with each lift of his sore leg. Though it was only afternoon, ribald singing from the public room haunted the narrow stairwell.

At the top of the landing, another man stood with a gun at the ready and a scowl on his face. Without a word, he eyed them, then banged his fist on yet another door. “Fresh fish for ya, Boss.”

“Send ’em in.” The words filtered out with a thick Jamaican accent.

The thug swung the door open. Brudge, with Scupper trailing behind, entered a thickly carpeted, multicoloured room. Fresh flowers perfumed the air. Bright textiles hung on the walls, woven with Caribbean motifs. Dandrae sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, the chair cushion at his back aswirl with reds and oranges.

“What are ye selling this time, Mr. Brudge?” There was a melodic lilt to his words.

Brudge shored himself up against a nearby bookcase, forsak ing the chair in front of Dandrae’s desk. He played by his own rules, and it was best to remind Dandrae of that. Besides, it was as hot as a blast furnace in here. Just the thought of parking his backside on the velvet-covered seat beaded sweat on his forehead. “I’m not selling. I’m buying.”

“Is that so?” The big man laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back in his seat. Not so much as a dot of perspiration glistened on his skin. “What ye in the market for?”

“A particular item about yea big.” He held out his hands, roughly sketching out the size of the statue he had yet to claim. A waft of his own body odour curled his upper lip. “The piece is made of gold. Got an eagle head and wings on the body of a lion.”

Dandrae narrowed his eyes, a knowing glint sparking. “Ye mean a griffin?”

He flung his hands wide. “I don’t know what the thing is called!”

“Sounds like a griffin, man.”

“Whatever it is, I want it, and I know who’s got it.” He hobbled over to the imposing desk and planted his palms on the top. “That snip of a Shadow Broker.”

“Then you are out of luck, man.” A wide smile split Dandrae’s face. “The Shadow Broker never sells, only buys.”

“Then we make the offer too tempting to refuse.”

Dandrae shook his head. “The Broker is not interested in coins, no matter how many ye got jingling in yer pocket.”

“Then what’ll tempt her?”

“She cares only for restoring Egyptian artifacts to the museum for the fancy of all folk.”

Straightening, Brudge swiped the sweat from his brow with a stained cloth. “I’ve got something she’ll want, then. Something she’ll be willing to hand over that hideous little statue for.”

“And what is that, man?”

He shoved his cloth into his pocket. “A promise.”

Though Edmund had asked her to leave, here she was, still at Price House three days later, and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing he could do about anything, actually, which grieved her. Despite sorrow and fatigue weighting her steps, she trudged up the stairs with a sense of gratitude. Though half the house was abed, stricken by illness, at least no one had died.

She set off from the kitchen with a tray of beef broth, oddly relishing the quietness of the house—the soft ticking of clocks, steady as heartbeats, and the occasional creak of a floorboard beneath her padding feet. Without guests or servants wandering the corridors, the great house was peaceful. In the midst of this tranquility, a question lingered like a shy child peeking round a curtain. ... Was there a value in this quietude that she’d never before recognized? That of simply being? It was freeing indeed to not have to prove herself to anyone, to merely live in the quiet moments where the world spoke in whispers. Perhaps—just maybe—all her striving to prove her intelligence and credibility didn’t matter a whit to God. If that was true, then perhaps her worth was in who she was, who God made her to be, instead of being measured by what she achieved. Dare she believe that?

Hmm. Now there was a thought she wouldn’t mind dwelling on instead of wondering just how many breaths Edmund might have left in him.

She climbed the stairs, clutching the tray and humming “Blessed Assurance” for all she was worth. Focusing on things for which she was grateful was the only way she’d gotten through thus far. If she dwelled on Edmund’s pale face and feverish skin...

Oh, Lord . . .

Once again tears welled, the song broken and bitter in her throat.

Please, Father, grant that Edmund will recover.

She sped past Mr. Fletcher’s closed door, a garish rendition of “The Blue Danube” pulsing behind it. As short-staffed as they were, he’d still ordered someone to haul the Swiss music box to his chamber. Selfish man. But at least it kept him occupied.

Sighing, she traveled the rest of the passageway to Edmund’s door. Visiting a single man’s bedchamber was nothing out of the ordinary for a housemaid—the role she’d added to her repertoire. And besides, there wasn’t the slightest chance of anything untoward happening, not with Edmund being so ill. Still, she hesitated before entering. Somehow, it just felt indecent. Not to mention pointless. He’d not been awake to eat since Saturday, shortly after he’d ordered her to leave.

Shoving aside the last of her reservations, she balanced the tray on one hand and fumbled with the doorknob. At the very least, she could swab his brow with a cool cloth, though reading from her story seemed to better calm him when he was restless. She’d nearly recited the whole tale.

She pushed open the door and, three steps later, froze. Bedsheets fell over the side of an empty mattress. A pillow lay on the floor.

And eyes the colour of faded twilight stared at her from an armchair near the hearth, where Edmund sat in a loose-fitting nightshirt, a lap rug drawn hastily over his bare legs.

“Ami?” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat several times. “Are you ... are you really here? Or is this another dream?”

“I hope not,” she whispered, hardly able to make her own words come out. He was awake! He was whole! Granted, he was paler than a New Kingdom mummy, but nevertheless, he would live.

The first real smile she’d owned in days stretched her lips. “Been dreaming of me, have you?” Closing the distance between them, she set the tray on the small table at his side. “But in answer to your question, yes, I truly am here, and it is good to finally see you stirring. You are feeling better, I take it?”

“Much.” His brows gathered, a dark line against his ashen skin. “But why are you here?”

“Bringing your dinner, of course.” She held out a spoon.

Ignoring the offering, he shook his head. “No, I mean you should be gone. I told you to leave.”

“You did. I didn’t. You took ill, as did Barnaby and much of the staff, and I couldn’t very well leave you unattended. Now, take this spoon and get some nourishment in you.” She shoved the utensil into his hand, then held up the bowl so he could scoop a few bites.

“You gave me quite a fright, you know,” she murmured as he ate. “Three days of seeing you confined to your bed, weak and helpless—” A tremble shook through her. “It felt like an eternity.”

His hand paused midair. “And you’ve cared for me all this time?”

“Well, that’s not all I’ve been doing. I’m still working on the artifacts, inching closer to finishing every day.”

“You are a wonder.”

“And you have broth on your chin.” Setting the half-empty bowl aside, she retrieved a cloth and dabbed away the liquid glistening on the stubble shadowing his jaw.

He grabbed her arm and planted a light kiss to her wrist, his gaze boring deep into hers. Oh, how she’d missed those eyes, that look ... this man.

“Thank you,” he rumbled, genuine appreciation warming his tone. “Not many women would do such a thing.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been told I’m not like other women. But all the same, you are very welcome.” She pulled her hand away before she gave in to running her fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.

He leaned back against the chair cushion, weariness sagging his shoulders. Clearly he was overdoing it.

Ami tossed the cloth onto the tray and took the spoon from his fingers. “Looks like you’ve had enough for now.”

“Mmm. I think so,” he muttered. “Tell me, how are the maids who first fell ill faring?”

She smiled. “On their way to recuperation. Barnaby, however...” That grin faded. “He yet concerns me and the doctor, not to mention Mrs. Buckner. I’ve never seen a housekeeper so aflutter on his and the rest of the staff’s behalf. She’s been the true heroine during this whole trial. A regular force to be reckoned with. You should give her a pay raise—once your friend Sanjay is on financially solid ground, that is.”

“She’s not taken sick?” His gaze drifted over her face. “Nor you?”

Ami shook her head. “Not a sniffle. Neither has Mr. Fletcher suffered anything more than a hangover, though I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s quarantined himself in his quarters with loud music and a crate of rum. Says alcohol keeps influenza at bay.” She shrugged. “Keeps him out from underfoot. Oh, and surprisingly, the Anubis statue hasn’t budged a whit this whole time. Apparently the curse is too busy keeping everyone under the weather.”

“Sickness, curses, snakes ... is there nothing that frightens you?” Though he no doubt intended humor, fatigue thinned his voice.

“You gave me a great scare when I thought you might never open your eyes again. Now, I suggest you don’t overdo. Let me help you back to bed.” Rising, she held out her arm the same way he’d offered his several times in the past.

He frowned. “I shall make it back to my bed by my own power once you leave. I am no invalid.”

“I can see that. Still, if you wish to be up and about soon, the more rest you get, the quicker that will happen.” She shoved her elbow closer.

“If you continue with such insistence, you may witness more than you anticipate, my dear, for I am not actually dressed for the occasion.” Amusement flickered in his eyes.

Fire flamed in her cheeks as her gaze shot to his bare legs, the idea finally lodging that the man wore only his nightshirt. She toed the Persian rug, unwilling to look at anything other than the tip of her shoe. “I didn’t think, I mean I didn’t consider you weren’t wearing any—” She slapped a hand to her mouth. What a dolt.

He chuckled, drowsy yet good-natured. “Did you know your freckles darken when you’re embarrassed? It’s quite endearing.”

She shook her head vehemently. “Not according to my nursemaid. I spent the first five years of my life having my face scrubbed with lemons.”

“So that explains your aversion to the fruit.”

She angled her head, finally daring to peek at him. “You noticed?”

His gaze burned into hers. “I notice everything about you.”

This time heat fired a line from head to toe. She turned her back to him, making a great show of gathering up the tray. “Yes, well, since you’re finished, I’ll be leaving.” She hastened to the door lest he witness the effect of his words.

“Ami?”

She paused with her hand on the knob, still refusing to face him.

“Thank you again. I owe you much.”

“You owe me nothing, Edmund. I am happy to have helped.”

She fled the room. Short-staffed or not, this was the last meal she’d deliver to his bedchamber.