Page 27 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

27

“Get out!”

The words were thunder. The viscount’s face black with rage. Edmund widened his stance in the storm, knowing full well it was a tempest of his own making. He never should have let Lord Bastion so much as entertain the thought he might marry the man’s daughter.

But it was too late for that now.

He held up a hand, more of an appeasement than a surrender. Showing any hint of weakness would be a death knell. “Allow me to make amends, my lord, to your daughter, to your guests. Explain that this was all a misunderstanding and—”

“You heard me, Price.” Bastion shot out his arm like an arrow to the kill, indicating the study door. “Pack your bag and leave at once while I mop up this mess. I will have nothing more to do with you and neither will Violet.”

“But, my lord, if we could just discuss—”

“Now!”

Inhaling deeply, Edmund hesitated a heartbeat longer, debating if there was anything more he could do to keep from jumping off this cliff. Hah! Not likely. It’d been a downward spiral ever since he told the viscount in no uncertain terms he would not wed Violet, even if his candidacy depended on it. Which it did. Or it had. There was no chance at Parliament anymore.

“Very well.” Sighing, Edmund strode from the room and signaled one of Bastion’s staff members standing by. “Please see that my valet is summoned and have him make arrangements for three rooms at the Langham Hotel. Then he is to accompany my luggage and the Daltons’ belongings over there. Is that clear?”

The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Thank you.” The low drone of the party followed him like a moaning ghost as he bypassed the gentlemen’s wing of the town house and trotted over to where the ladies’ quarters smelled of perfume—rose, lilac, jasmine. Sniffing, he stopped at the door with a faint scent of smoky cinnamon lingering on the air.

“Ami?” He rapped on the wood.

No answer.

“Ami, please.” He knocked again. “I saw you run off. I know you’re in there. Let me explain.”

And . . . nothing.

He dropped his forehead against the hard door, completely deflated. He could bear Lord Bastion’s fury. Could take all the humiliation the society page would dish out in tomorrow’s edition. But this was not to be borne. It cut too deeply, burned too hot to think of the hurt he’d caused this precious woman. Could she even hear him, or was she weeping into her pillow?

Swiveling his head, he pressed his ear to the wood. No sobbing whimpered from within. No anything, actually. Which in a way was worse. Was he already dead to her?

“Please, Ami, open the door.” His voice shook. His whole body did. “I understand how it must seem to you, but it’s not true. I am not engaged to Miss Woolsey. I do not love her. I love you. Do you hear me? I will have no one but you!”

Spent, he sagged against the wood. If she opened the door now, he’d fall against her. A dream, that. Heaven. And yet each second that ticked by was more hellish than the last.

At length, he straightened, giving it one last try. “We must leave here. Tonight. I’m booking rooms at the Langham, and we’ll return to Oxford tomorrow. I’ll be in my room packing, waiting ... hoping.”

It was a funeral march to his room, every step away from her a fresh grief. If Ami wouldn’t speak to him through the door, there was no way she’d seek him out in his room.

He yanked his suitcase off the top of the wardrobe and flung it on the bed, angry with himself. He’d let her down. And not just her. He’d let down all the struggling men who were in Sanjay’s same situation. Oh, he could still help his friend with the funds from the sale of the Egyptian cargo, but now he could do nothing to stop the new tariff from destroying other men’s lives. Just like his father always told him...

“You are a disappointment of the highest degree.”

He ripped off his cravat, relishing the burn of fabric at the back of his neck. Like Icarus, he’d aspired too highly, reached for things that were never meant for him. His once-optimistic aspirations were nothing but dung.

Wrenching out of his dress coat, he threw it at the suitcase, then lifted his face to the ceiling.

Why, God? Why did You let this happen? Ami doesn’t deserve a broken heart any more than those men in India merit certain death by poverty. It’s all my fault, and yet You could have stopped it. Why not? Why!

His head dropped, the last of his fury strangled by shame because he was right. This whole debacle had been his fault, not God’s. Flirting with power and fame was his own undoing. A deep sense of remorse draped over his shoulders, the weight of responsibility squeezing the breath from his lungs.

“Forgive me, God,” he murmured. “I ran ahead of You and made a mess of things. Heal the hurts I’ve caused. Protect the men I cannot. I don’t know how, Lord, but somehow would You make beauty out of this ash heap I’ve created?”

A sharp rap on the door abruptly ended his prayer. He sprinted toward it, hardly believing God would answer so quickly.

And yet that spark of hope was doused when he opened the door to a wild-haired man in a crooked bow tie.

“I thought I might find you here.” The professor swept a glance over him from head to toe. “Though I must say you don’t appear to be as ill as Lord Bastion claims.”

So that’s what the viscount had told everyone. A stalling tactic, one that didn’t bode well for it would give the man ample time to figure out how to crucify him. Edmund rubbed his hand over his face, weary of intrigue. “I am neither ill, Professor, nor engaged to Miss Woolsey.”

“I thought as much.” The man shoved past him without invitation and plopped into the overstuffed chair near the hearth. “Though I daresay Amisi could believe otherwise. Might I have a word?”

Edmund closed the door, dreading what this man might say. Better to make the first move himself. “I tried to explain, sir, to tell her she owns my heart, not Miss Woolsey, yet Ami would have none of it. She wouldn’t even open her door to me.”

“Nor to me.” The professor peered up at him, stroking his chin. “That’s why I tried the handle. She’s not there. She’s not in the ballroom, the dining room, the ladies’ lounge, and for good measure I even checked the conservatory out back. Dark as a pharoah’s tomb in there at this time of night.”

Alarm prickled up his backbone. If Ami wasn’t inside the town house, she must be wandering the dangerous streets of London at night. His gut clenched, and he grabbed his coat off the bed. “Have you any idea of where she might have gone?”

The professor produced a crumpled paper from his pocket. “I found this in her wastepaper bin.”

Edmund palmed the offering, arching a brow at the man. “Why would you be digging in her wastebin?”

“I know my daughter better than she thinks.”

He glanced at the short missive, though he may as well have been reading Sanskrit. “I don’t understand.” He glanced from the paper to the professor, looking for answers.

The man rose and, lacing his fingers behind his back, struck a lecturing stance. “Though you’ve likely already noticed, Amisi is not like other women. She doesn’t spend hours in needlepoint or at the piano. Her favored pastime has a decidedly more dangerous flair to it. In certain circles, she is known as the Shadow Broker, and she is no doubt going after the canopic jars mentioned in that note.”

“Shadow Broker?” he muttered, though even voicing it didn’t help to comprehend the words. He’d worked with brokers before. Most were determined, some ruthless, all intelligent. Edmund kneaded the back of his neck, thinking on what he knew of the fearless little Egyptologist. “What sort of negotiations would she...”

His words died. So did part of his soul. She was brokering a dangerous deal for the canopic jars. He’d bet everything he owned on it. His hand dropped lifelessly at his side.

“I see you’ve figured it out.” The professor looked down his nose at him.

“But this is foolishness!” He flailed his arms. “What sort of father allows his daughter to deal in such a treacherous fashion?”

The professor shot up his palm, staving off the accusation. “Amisi has a mind of her own, one that is not keen to bend to my will when she thinks there is a greater good at stake.”

“Thunderation!” he roared. “She’s gone to Whitechapel, hasn’t she? The most crime-infested rookery in all of London. We’ve got to get to her.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. I’m not nearly as intimidating as you. Shall we?” The professor angled his head toward the door.

Where yet another knock rapped.

Edmund’s pulse soared as he dashed to the knob.

Please let it be Ami. Please let it be!

But it was a fresh-faced footman in midnight-blue livery holding out a tray with a telegram perched on top. “For you, sir.”

Bitterly disappointed, feet itching to race out of there to find Ami, Edmund snatched the message a little too forcefully. The tray clattered to the floor, and he couldn’t work up one bit of sympathy for it. He wheeled back to the professor and offered the paper. “What do you make of this?”

The professor looked at him askance for a moment, as well he should. In times like these Edmund scorned his affliction more than any other, but it would take too long to sound out each and every word—time he didn’t have. Time Ami didn’t have!

Thankfully, the professor merely squinted at Barnaby’s telegram and mumbled aloud as he read.

“‘The curse has struck again—or rather Mr. Fletcher has. He moved the artifacts yesterday, leading Jameson and I to believe Mr. Harrison had purchased them. Not so. Mr. Harrison arrived tonight for a final viewing and is not happy to see the relics gone. Please advise.’”

His leg ached. So did his bunion. And Brudge’s fingers were working up a fairly strong cramp as well, especially in his pinky. Blast the struggling little Shadow Broker. She was more of a scrapper than he’d counted on.

Gritting his teeth, he limp-hustled along with Wormwell’s cribbage-faced escorts, one of them so pockmarked it looked as if he’d been hit in the face with a meat hammer. Brudge would have made it to the smuggling kingpin’s warehouse at least twenty minutes ago if it hadn’t been for lack of cabs from a sudden rain that’d broken and for Scupper. The traitorous wretch. Of all the places in all of London, what were the chances one of the big goon’s old mates would show up in Angel Alley for some late-night skullduggery? And worse, offered Scupper a fatter purse than he could supply the man. Well, good riddance! Him and his guv’ner this and guv’ner that. Scupper was a brainless wad of twaddle, and he’d told him as much.

Which hadn’t really helped the situation.

But that was neither here nor there. The fact was, he had about ten minutes until midnight to get Neddie and himself out of Wormwell’s clutches. With a little luck and a quick tongue, he just might be able to pull it off.

Inside the warehouse—which was really just a huge cavern of damp and darkness better suited to bats than men—the pile of muscles in front of him turned down a well-lit passage and stopped at a closed door. After a cursory knock and a requisite “Enter,” the big man slid the wide door aside, top wheels screeching on their track like a shaken cage of mice.

The guard behind him grunted. “Move it.”

Brudge lugged the woman inside the large room, her mumbled complaints worthless against the rag he’d tied around her mouth. A single chandelier dangled overhead, spreading a circle of light that he and the woman were prodded into. Ahead, in the darkness where the light didn’t reach, a single spot of burning red flared, the scent of cigar smoke acrid on the musty air.

“I was wondering if you’d make the deadline or if I’d have to send out a retrieval squad.” Wormwell’s bass voice was surprisingly dull thanks to the thick layers of Persian rugs covering the area. It was a little disconcerting, though, not to be able to see him as he spoke. “Five minutes to spare. Impressive. Your son has been waiting ever so patiently to see if you’d show. Bring the man in, Flick.”

Brudge tensed as the colossus who’d led them to the room disappeared out a side door. Neddie was still alive, but how much had his boy suffered over the past month and a half? At seventeen, his son was resilient, but not even a young brawler could last long drudging for Wormwell.

Moments later, the guard reappeared, this time with Neddie, one thick arm wrapped around his son’s neck. The other pressing a gun to his temple.

Sweat collected on Brudge’s brow, moist and cold. He shivered as he clutched the woman’s arm tighter, telling himself it was more for balance than for comfort in the face of such a threat. The Shadow Broker whimpered, and he almost did too.

But to show fear would get him and his boy killed.

“Let Neddie go!” he rumbled. “I’ve brought the payment before the deadline, just as we agreed.”

A bushel basket rolled out from the darkness, landing on its side in the circle of light.

“Put the money in there, and your son will be released.”

With his free arm, Brudge swiped his brow, mopping the sweat with his sleeve. He couldn’t very well wad up the woman and pack her in that basket.

“I didn’t bring money,” he admitted, then propelled the woman forward. “I brought something better.”

Outside rain dripped against the tin roof, hardly more than a thick mist yet almost deafening in the sudden silence. If he listened hard enough, he might even hear the steady sizzle of Wormwell’s cigar.

“A tasty morsel,” the dismembered voice said at length. “But if I wanted a doxy, I’d have picked one up on Flower and Dean. The money, Brudge, or your son pays your debt, the one that’s due in four minutes.”

The woman’s backbone straightened to a ramrod. She was on edge.

So was he, and without the woman to prop him upright, he leaned heavily on his good leg to keep the pain at bay in the other. “She’s not a moll,” he clarified. “She’s your ticket to wealth. The woman belongs to Mr. Price, the Price, wealthiest gent in all of Oxford. He’ll fork over a pretty sixpence or two to get her back. More than I could ever pay you. You’ll pocket a tidy profit because of me.”

Again silence. The red dot dulling somewhat, then flaring back to life after an ash had been flipped away.

“Do you think I’m stupid enough to extort such a prominent man?” Wormwell’s tone was a bucket of ice water. “I’d have bluecoats swarming all over my prosperous business here. I don’t need her. I need my money. And you’ve got three minutes to toss it in that basket, or your Neddie is done.”

Panic tasted sour at the back of Brudge’s throat. “Then don’t ransom her! Use her. She’s a historian who knows her trinkets. She can jack up your trade, give you credence, tell which pieces are fake and which are real.”

“Is that so?”

The dot disappeared, as if Wormwell had turned the thing around and was studying it while deep in thought. Could be. And if so, now was his chance to drive home his point.

“God’s truth! She’s an expert, she is, a renowned Egyptologist up in Oxford. Ask Dandrae. With her knowledge, you can mark your collection as authentic, not mere forgeries. It’ll fetch you more coin in the long run, earn you money that will overflow that little basket of yours.” He nodded at the bushel container lying like a dead soldier on the rug.

“One minute, Brudge.”

No! This couldn’t be happening. His gaze shot to Neddie, all gangly limbed and as grey as yesterday’s porridge. His son’s pleading eyes bored holes into his soul.

“Fine, then don’t take her!” he shouted into the darkness. “Take me. My life for Neddie’s. I’m the one what owes you!”

Genuine laughter rumbled in the shadows. The burning dot of red reappeared, waving in the black void. “Your life’s not worth a pot to spit in.”

“I’m the one who failed you, not Neddie. Take me and let him go. I’ll do whatever you ask, work off my debt. Serve you till my final breath if need be. Just spare my son!”

“You make me sound like a heartless devil. Is that what I am, boys?”

Eerie laughter crept out from every dark crevice. Dash it! How many men were in this room? Too many for him and Neddie to take on, that’s for sure.

And that’s when he knew.

There would be no escaping this situation.

Neddie would die here. He would die here. Even the woman wouldn’t get away with her life.

As if in agreement, the red dot blinked out, snuffed into oblivion.

Brudge pulled at his collar, unable to breathe.

“Release him,” Wormwell murmured.

In a flash, the muzzle of the gun tipped impotently to the ceiling. The guard’s beam of an arm dropped. Neddie fell to his knees, chest heaving, a string of spittle hanging from his lips.

“Off with you now, boy,” the disembodied voice ordered.

Neddie shot to his feet, his gaze seeking his father’s as he sped past Brudge.

Brudge teared up. What luck. What unmitigated, unadulterated luck! “Thank you, Wormwell. Oh, thank you! May this deed be spread far and wide. May your great name be hailed amongst men.”

“You see?” The voice floated placatingly out of the darkness, benevolent in tone, like a grandfather to a beloved heir. “I am not the unreasonable monster you make me out to be, but...”

The unfinished sentence hung on the air like an off-key chord.

The Shadow Broker edged back, leaving Brudge front and center.

Wormwell cleared his throat. “I find that neither can I allow the word you so dearly hope to spread on the street. It wouldn’t be seemly to appear soft. I have a certain reputation to maintain. So, yes, I will take your offer of service until the debt is paid, but as an astute businessman, that value will be better serviced by someone of keener intelligence than yourself. In that respect, the woman will work out just fine, I think. Better than you could ever hope to do.”

Brudge blinked, unsure of Wormwell’s meaning. Somewhere a clock struck. The low bongs throbbing inside the warehouse like the beat of a heart. One. Two. Three.

Could he leave the woman here and tag out on Neddie’s heels, then?

. . . Seven. Eight. Nine.

Oh, the relief. The blessed, soothing relief!

. . . Eleven. Twelve.

“So I am free to—”

A shot cracked out of the darkness.

And that was the last thing Brudge ever knew.