Page 2 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

2

Wut soft lite doth brake be-ond,

A donning, a yonning, a yell-oh

Hmm. A yellow what?

Frond?

Wand?

Vagabond?

Bah!

Tipping his head back against the velvet railcar seat, Edmund Price closed his eyes and gave in to the clickety-clack-clack of the train’s wheels. It wasn’t much more than half past nine in the evening, but even so he was weary of such a long journey. Usually poetry engaged his mind. Not tonight.

Outside the door to his private car, feminine giggles tittered like a gathering of hens. He opened one eye, and as he expected, a folded slip of paper slid beneath the door. A sigh deflated his lungs. He didn’t need to retrieve the thing to know it dripped with some sort of floral eau de toilette. Loopy handwriting would entreat him to rendezvous in the dining car or invite him to call at such-and-such an address whenever he chanced to be in town. Such was the case ever since word got out that he’d left India. Women in gowns of all sizes, shapes, and colours had dogged his heels halfway across the world.

Knuckles rapped against the door. “Mr. Price?”

A male voice at least.

Setting aside his notepad, he opened the door. Behind the porter a few squeals rang out.

“There he is!”

“Ooh, he is a looker.”

“Off you go now, ladies. Mr. Price has business to attend.” The porter shooed them away with a flick of his fingers, then held out a white card to Edmund. “Here you are, sir. Oh, and we’ll be arriving at the station shortly. I’ve made arrangements for a coach to be waiting for you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to let your superiors know what a fine job you’ve done for me.” Edmund swapped a few coins for the telegram before retreating to read the message—which took some time and effort. Why could letters and words never behave themselves? Were it not for his business partner, Gil, in London and his crack secretary, Anil, in India, he’d never be able to manage the correspondence portion of his business dealings. After several tries, though, he was finally able to decipher the thing.

Concerning our conversation, viz., your future as a prospective member of the House of Commons. I see no impediments, particularly not if you’re a member of the family, and my daughter, Violet, has no objections to that. Will speak soon on the matter.

Well, well, well. Edmund set the message on the desk, then poured a glass of lemon water. Sipping the tart liquid, he mulled over Lord Bastion’s proposal. Becoming a member of Parliament would be a stamp of success, but was the cost of a willful blond worth the price? Of course he didn’t love her—would never love a woman again—but did such a concession have to rule out marriage? Weren’t most unions marked by shallow conversations and cool looks across a dinner table? His parents certainly had perfected that art. He ran a hand over his face. My, how cynical he’d grown.

Still, there were other concerns to tackle first. He returned the glass to the drink cart, then doubled back to the desk and picked up a small piece of amber. Lamplight glowed through the specimen, highlighting the outline of a scarab—the only item he’d retained from the Egyptian shipment soon to arrive at his house. He frowned at the insect. Who knew what else was in that salvaged lot he and Gil had acquired from the failed venture with the Alexandria Merchant Fleet. He’d have preferred to be paid the debt owed him in pounds. If the cargo contained nothing but items such as this beetle caught forever in some hardened tree sap, resale would be a challenge.

And he needed that money.

He rubbed his thumb over the smooth surface of the resin. He was a man of business, savvy in buying low and selling high, but none of that experience would do any good with this load. He had no idea how to price such a bauble or—God willing—rare antiquities. He’d have to hire an expert to catalogue and value the relics, for there’d be crates upon crates of them ... enough to put a huge grin on his business partner’s face. And by the sounds of Gilbert Fletcher’s recent correspondence, Gil had news that would make him smile as well—news he’d only tell face-to-face. Though Edmund was anxious to hear of it, Gil was tied up in a deal on the Continent. The soonest he could make it to Oxford was the end of next month.

Edmund closed his hand over the resin, the material now warmed to his body temperature. God had been good to him in many ways and yet sometimes not. A mystery, that. One he’d asked about in prayer many times and not once received a reply. How long would he sojourn in this land of uncertainty between gratitude for providence and the enigma of unanswered questions?

Brakes screeched, pulling him from his thoughts. The train juddered, and he grabbed hold of the table until the wheels stopped. The second they did, he pocketed the stone and dashed for the door. Thankfully the aisle was empty. Relieved, he grabbed his hat from a hook and darted to the exit, where a porter he’d not seen before dipped his head.

“Hope your journey suited you, Mr. Price.”

“It did, thank you. But I’m afraid I’m in a terrible rush.” He angled his head toward the door.

The porter swung the door wide. “Mind yer step.”

Just as he’d feared, Edmund descended into a swirl of skirts and lace handkerchiefs. Bah! Such a gathering was completely beyond his control—which chafed, for he was accustomed to being in charge.

“Mr. Price! Remember me?” Eyelashes fluttered on the woman nearest him. Light from the station’s gas lamps painted her very prettily, but he honestly didn’t recall her face. “My cousin once removed said he’d mentioned me to you at a house party several years ago.”

Behind her stood a stern-faced matron who’d been cajoled—or perhaps bribed—into allowing her charge out so late at night.

“I am sorry, miss. I do not recollect, but I am sure his words were kind.” He edged past her, only to come nose to nose with a plump brunette.

“Welcome back to bonny England, Mr. Price. My father intends to hold a dinner in your honour. Naturally, I look forward to sitting next to you at the table.”

“Yes, well ... until then.” He gave the woman a tight smile.

And so went the next eternity, all the way across the platform and through the station, until he finally—blessedly—reached his waiting carriage and sank against the leather seat. This mauling by the fairer sex was exactly why he preferred India to England. As the driver’s tongue clucked and horse hooves clip-clomped, he couldn’t help but wonder if coming home to Oxford had been the right thing to do.

Yet if he expected to land a seat in Parliament, he had no other choice.

A mad dash from the cemetery to the train station left Brudge with a throbbing bunion, a stitch in the side, and a very smelly Scupper. The big man sat across from him, filling the compartment with a most pungent body odour mixed with leftover gardenia. Brudge dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. They couldn’t reach London soon enough.

But at least he was returning with a bag of money and the means to make more. The sooner he paid off Wormwell, the easier he’d breathe. Scupper was a mite of a man in comparison to that cully, and time was running out to give the most notorious smuggled-goods dealer in all of London his due.

The train lurched into motion, the jolt of it smacking Brudge’s head against the seat. He tucked away his handkerchief as he peered out the window, not sorry in the least to see the lights of Oxford pass by the glass. A good foot soak was what he needed, that and several pints of ale.

He cracked open the window a few inches, letting in fresh air while hopefully sucking out Scupper’s stink.

“Will ye be needin’ me any more in London, then, guv’ner?”

He turned to the big man. “A time or two, I should think. We’ll pull the same sell and snatch, draining what we can from this ugly little lump until I have enough money to pay my debts.” He patted the bag at his side.

Scupper leaned forward, poking the small leather satchel with a thick finger. “Could I see it?”

“Ain’t much to look at.” Brudge shrugged. “It’s just a clay doll hardly bigger than yer palm.”

Eyes dark as boot blacking stared at him. “Why would anyone give a coin for it, then?”

“Pish. There’s no accounting for some people’s tastes. I once sold a stuffed patch-haired possum to a fellow with cages in his sitting room—and every cage held a different dead animal.”

“Don’t seem right, guv’ner, not for that stack o’ bills ye collected.” Scupper toyed with the curl of his moustache. “Maybe the value isn’t in the item itself but what’s inside.”

Huh. Now there was a thought. “Good point. Could be more to it than I credited. Shame to break the thing open only to find it empty, though. We’d miss out on the resale.”

“A risk, true enough.”

But a risk he ought to take? If something costlier were hidden, he could pocket even more money. “I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to look the thing over.”

He pulled the bag onto his lap and snapped open the clasp. Light seeped into the dark cavity, and rage leached into his soul. With a roar, he wrapped his fingers around a dirty chunk of rock.

“Guv’ner?”

“Conniving little vixen! No wonder she stayed in the shadows.” He threw the rock across the compartment, nicking the paneling hardly an inch from Scupper’s head. “We’ve been had!”

Scupper’s long arm snagged the money bag from off the floor and pulled out a wad of bills. He fanned it in front of his face. “Appears to be all here.”

“Let me see that!” Brudge seized the stack and counted each bill. “The full amount, what do you know?” He shoved the money inside the bag and slammed it to the floor. “Still, we’re going back. I’ll not be cheated. That little doll can and will bring me a coin or two more.”

“Is it really a cheat, though, guv’ner?” Scupper’s brow scrunched, making his thick forehead even more prominent. “Seems a fair deal. You got yer money. She got her goods.”

“It’s not a fair deal to my pride.” He jammed his thumb into his chest. “Cyrus T. Brudge will not be bested by a woman.”

“My mum used to say pride is a blind alley, the dead end bein’ yerself. And she oughtta know. Kissed the grave ’cuz she were too stubborn to admit she were sick. Shoulda seen Doc Bones like I told ’er.” Scupper sucked on his teeth. “But that’s no nevermind when a coin’s to be made, I s’pose.”

Brudge scrubbed his face, irritated that Scupper always man aged to lob truth nuggets at the most inconvenient times. It could be a death sentence to double back and swipe that blasted trinket from the girl, for it would eat up a day or two that might be better spent working a different angle to get Wormwell his money. Then again, if that smuggled relic did contain a hidden gem...

He blew out a long breath and folded his arms. “You’re right, it is no nevermind. We will find out the identity of that woman, and when we do, I’ll show that so-called Shadow Broker I’m not one to be trifled with.”