Page 29 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

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How could it possibly be? Ami bit her lip to keep from gaping at the priceless artifacts being unloaded by men who wouldn’t know an amulet from an ax-head. These items should have been in Mr. Harrison’s possession, not here in a dirty warehouse smelling of dead fish and sweaty men. Besides an engagement to Violet, had Edmund kept this sale a secret as well?

She rolled the thought around in her head as the brute beside her led her closer to the treasures. But, no, the idea of Edmund negotiating a deal with Mr. Wormwell was even less plausible than him wedding a pampered princess he couldn’t possibly love. Surely he’d have gotten more money from that private collector than a criminal like Mr. Wormwell ... wouldn’t he?

Then again, Mr. Dandrae had been known to outbid the Ashmolean when there was a piece he wanted for himself, and he operated on a much smaller scale than it appeared Mr. Wormwell did.

The brutish man hustling her along stopped in front of what appeared to be a side office and pulled a slate off a nearby hook. A broken piece of chalk was tethered to it by an unraveling piece of string, and he shoved it in her hands. “Get to work.”

She clutched the board lest she anger the fellow. “I must know who brought in this shipment. Who is the seller?”

“Yer to price the lot, not ask questions.” He rammed her shoulder with a thick finger, prodding her toward the unloaded crates.

She stumbled, then planted her feet. “It is imperative I know where these relics came from in order to give Mr. Wormwell the value he desires.” A lie. Sort of. It was helpful to know where items came from to provide context for historical and cultural significance, which tied into price ... not that this thug needed to know she already knew the answer, however.

And the more she stalled, the more time she’d have to figure out a way to escape.

God, please, help me think of a way!

“Ask the man yerself, and be quick about it,” he grumbled. “Ye’ve a load o’ work to do by sunup. And if ye don’t get it done, Wormwell will have you fer breakfast. Ye’ll find the hawker waitin’ fer his due in here.” He hitched his thumb toward the office door, then shoved his face into hers. “But mind ye don’t run off. This wharf belongs to Wormwell, and he don’t take kindly to runners. Neither do I.”

She clutched the slate all the tighter to keep from whapping him over the head with it, for such an action wouldn’t do any good. Even if she managed to crack his skull, the other men would see and come to his aid.

She strode the few steps to the closed office door, fighting to keep her composure despite the fear weakening her legs. She never should have fled the Bastions’ town house. What an impetuous move! Her father and Polly had warned her that shadow brokering would catch up to her someday.

And this was the day.

Angry with herself, she yanked open the door—flinching as a gunshot split the night outside. Apparently there was just as much danger on the other side of these walls. She strode inside the office.

Then gaped.

“Mr. Fletcher?” The name on her lips made about as much sense as seeing Edmund’s business partner pacing in front of a scarred hulk of a desk. His trousers were muddied. His hair stood on end, wilder than her father’s. A grey pallor shadowed his face as if he might swoon dead away.

Concerned, she set the slate on a nearby chair and approached him. “Mr. Fletcher? You look unwell. Perhaps you ought to sit down.”

Stopping in his tracks, he turned frenzied eyes upon her, and a shiver snaked down her spine. She’d witnessed a rabid horse put down for just such a look.

“Miss Dalton? What the devil are you doing here?”

“I would ask the same of you. What happened to the sale with Mr. Harrison? How did you get involved with Mr. Wormwell?”

His eyes narrowed. “How did you?”

“I have nothing to do with the man! I just wish to leave. Can you help me?”

“Ha-ha! I can’t even help myself.” He sagged against the desk. “I’ve dealt with Wormwell’s associates before but never him—and now I realize I shouldn’t have. He didn’t pay me up front as he said he would, and I need that money. I need it now! You would think the most notorious smuggled goods dealer in all of London would know the value of a load right off. But no! I’m shut in here, left to sweat and wonder if he’ll pay me or pop me off. Blast it all!”

He pulled at his hair, sweat raining from his face, so caught up in his own misery she wondered if he even knew she was there.

She stood stock-still, unsure if she ought to advance and comfort the pitiful man or retreat from the horror of him. “Why would you need money? Mr. Price says you’re a good businessman.”

He threw back his head, rough laughter pouring from his mouth.

Ami frowned. What sort of mess was this? “Mr. Fletcher, I demand to know what is going on right now.”

“Demands are naught but smoke in the wind.” Stepping away from the desk, he puffed a stream of air at her, the stink of rum on his breath. “See? Gone.”

Alarm prickled the nape of her neck. Something was definitely not right about him. Suddenly she preferred the pockmarked Mr. Flick to this unpredictable man. She edged toward the door.

Mr. Fletcher rocked forward to his toes. “Would you like to know how I did it?”

“Did what?” She humored him as she took another step backward.

“The curse, of course. After all, you were the one who gave me the idea.” He tapped his temple. “Oh, the look on your face, my dear! As priceless as Miss Bastion’s screams when I set up the makeshift magic lantern I created in her bedroom. Didn’t even hear me doing it, so effective was the laudanum I slipped in her drink. I’m surprised you didn’t find the broken spectacle pieces that I crafted the lens from when I made my hasty escape.”

She paused, stunned as the puzzle pieces he threw out started to form a picture. “And the whispers I heard?”

“Easy enough.” He shrugged. “I paid off a servant. Handsomely, too, thanks to the set of scarabs I pinched when you weren’t looking. Brought in a pretty penny, bought me enough opium to get me by for quite a while.”

Her stomach sank. So. That’s what this was about. The man was an addict. What sort of Egyptologist had relics stolen from right under her nose for the purchase of such a devilish substance? “And the Anubis statue? There’s no way you could have moved that.”

“A magnificent feat, was it not?”

“So it was you!” Her mind whirled. Even with ropes and levers, he couldn’t have pulled that off single-handedly. “But how did you manage it all alone?”

“Ah yes. Same servant. Loves a good prank, he does, and an added bottle of gin. Not so difficult after years of practice.”

She shook her head. “But you didn’t have years. You didn’t have any time at all. You arrived at Price House after I did.”

He spit out a curse. “Try moving chests of opium bricks and you’ll gain the skills quick enough.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” He advanced, his head twitching one way, then the other, as if he were losing control of his own body. “You know, you’re very pretty with your rabbity nose.”

She backed up another step, almost to the door. If she kept him talking, she could make it out of here, not that a warehouse of Mr. Wormwell’s men was much better, but at least they were more predictable.

“The workman with the broken leg.” She flourished her hand in the air, hopefully distracting him as she slid her foot back another step. “The frightened maid. You couldn’t have had anything to do with them.”

“I didn’t. Ha-ha! Good fortune, though, eh?”

“As was the influenza?”

“So intelligent.” His voice dropped an octave. “So attractive.” He licked his lips, a predator on the prowl.

So much for keeping him talking.

She spun, bolting for the door.

He beat her to it, blocking the exit. “Come with me. Yes, yes! That’s it! Once I sell this load to Wormwell, I’ll have enough to sail to China. Right to the source. Do you have any idea how much opium can be found in a Shanghai warehouse?”

Ami sucked in a breath. So that was his game. Steal Edmund’s artifacts, sell them, then run with the money. What a cad! “How can you do this to your business partner? Mr. Price would never cheat you in such a foul manner.”

“Then he shouldn’t be so easy to dupe. Stupid man.” He took another step toward her.

Heart pounding, she backed up, a quick glance over her shoulder revealing a window. No good, though. Beyond the glass were iron bars, protecting the office from break-ins. But she could swing around the desk and Mr. Fletcher behind it, then she’d have a clear shot at making another pass to the door.

“So China, hmm?” She forced a pleasant tone to her voice, the rest of her shaking like a leaf in a gale.

Maniacal laughter ripped out of him, spittle spraying from his mouth. “You do fancy me after all, eh?”

He lunged.

She bolted around the desk, straight toward the slate on the chair.

Fingers dug mercilessly into her arm, jerking her away from the only weapon in the room. Though she wrenched and wriggled, Mr. Fletcher’s hold was superhuman. “You’re hurting me!”

He yanked her to him, the reek of spirits so strong she gagged. “Ha-ha! I know all about hurt. And I will be the one to teach you.”

Edmund paced in front of Sergeant Newell’s desk. He shouldn’t have taken time to come to the police station. Should have just gone straight to Wormwell’s warehouse and demanded Ami’s release. And yet...

He closed his eyes as a ragged sigh leached out of him. The professor had been right in that neither of them was trained in anything other than clawing at dirt with pointy tools or wielding a sharp business deal.

“Sit down, Mr. Price!” The sergeant bellowed behind his desk. “I don’t appreciate the rut you’re wearing into my floorboards. I’ve sent my two best men, so trust the process.”

“That’s just it,” he grumbled under his breath. “I don’t trust the process.” He whumped so hard into the chair the thing wobbled back on two legs.

Leaning aside, the professor laid a hand on his forearm. “Amisi is a resilient girl. This isn’t the first time she’s gotten in over her head, and she always lives to talk about it. I am certain the fine officers the sergeant sent to retrieve her shall return with her any minute now.”

Edmund pulled away from the man’s touch, antsy, angry, agitated beyond measure. Despite it being the wee hours of the morning, it was abominably hot in this stuffy little office, which only added to his irritation.

“Are you not the slightest bit worried about your only daughter?” he snapped—and instantly regretted his tone of voice. Ami’s father didn’t deserve his contempt. The brigands who held Ami did.

The professor tugged at his bow tie, magnanimously ignoring the tetchy words. “In my line of work, Mr. Price, one becomes accustomed to uncertainty. I have learned over the years that worrying doesn’t accomplish anything other than a headache. Besides, Amisi is like her mother, able to read people, understand their motivations, and rearrange bad situations to her advantage. I have no doubt she can and will survive the harshest of circumstances.”

Edmund narrowed his eyes. “And yet you’ve never once taken her on a dig with you. Why is that, I wonder?”

“The world of archaeology is a cutthroat sort of existence, filled with rivalries, academic politics, personal agendas. I’ve always tried to protect her from the ugly side of the profession.”

He couldn’t help but snort. “It seems to me she’s currently facing a threat far more dangerous than an academic rivalry.”

“Indeed.” He stroked his chin. “A fact that makes me reconsider.”

Shouts boomed in from the main hall, followed by a few choice curses. Edmund shot to his feet as quickly as Sergeant Newell. He tagged the man’s heels out the door only to see one of the two “finest” officers helping the other one sink onto a bench. Blood soaked that man’s trouser leg, his face as pale as the waning moon outside. Edmund shot a glance beyond him to the door.

No sight of a perky brown-haired woman.

His gut clenched rock-hard. “Where is Miss Dalton?”

“What the blazes happened?” the sergeant thundered.

The officer yet standing faced the sergeant. “We din’t make it through the door a’fore Hobson here got popped. Whatever Wormwell’s sittin’ on, he ain’t gonna part with it so handily. We’ll need more men to get into that warehouse, Sarge.”

For such a large man, Newell nipped into action faster than expected. Orders rose to the rafters. Blue-coated figures appeared from all corners of the station. Granted, not as many as Edmund would’ve liked to see going after the woman he loved, but for this unearthly time of day, it was a surprising number.

In all the hubbub, Edmund grabbed hold of the professor’s arm and tugged him to the door. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” The professor huffed beside him as he tore down the street.

“I’m not leaving Ami in that thug’s clutches for another minute.”

The professor stopped cold. “What can we possibly do? You saw that officer back there.” He flung his arm toward the station. “If this Wormwell had no qualms about shooting a man of law, what do you think he’ll do to us?”

Edmund gaped. “What do you think he’ll do to Ami?”

“Look, Price.” He squeezed Edmund’s arm. “I know you find this hard to believe, but I care about my daughter as much as you appear to. Even so, we will do her no good if we’re dead. There has to be another way that doesn’t end in our demise.”

Edmund’s mind raced with a torrent of thoughts. The professor was right, but he had to do something. He didn’t have time to plan, to scheme. The urgency of the situation pressed down hard on his shoulders, compacting his frustration. Honestly, there was nothing for him to do but pray—and actually, somehow, this time that option didn’t seem like a failure but more like a beginning.

God, please. I am helpless here. Give me an idea. A way to rescue Ami. Use me for Your purposes, not the other way around, and may You grant that Your purpose is to spare all of our lives.

Inhaling deeply, he collected what faith he could find and faced the professor. “I understand the risks, Professor. But every moment we waste puts her in greater danger. I would willingly give my life for her, a sacrifice I am prepared to make, and yet I hope it doesn’t come to that. If I can reach the warehouse ahead of the officers, perhaps I can spy a safer way for them to enter and avoid needless violence. Clearly knocking on the front door didn’t work. So”—he pulled away, trusting that God would allow for some sort of provision in this fiery furnace—“are you coming or not?”

“You’re as bullheaded as she is.”

“Then we make a good pairing.” Wheeling about, Edmund dashed down the cobbled lane, surprised and gratified to hear the professor’s footsteps echoing behind him. He veered into a smaller, dimly lit lane leading to the ominous Rotherhithe wharves, keeping to the shadows as he approached the row of hulking warehouses. It had stopped raining, but everything smelled like a freshly dug grave. His heart raced, keeping time with his pace. Even with the professor at his back, he felt an overwhelming sense of solitude as he plunged into the unknown. He was a businessman, after all, not a hurly-burly brawler. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

God, go with me. Provide a way in that doesn’t begin and end with bloodshed. This is something I cannot do on my own—and I freely admit it. Please, keep Ami safe until I reach her.

Tall structures loomed ahead, windows like dark eye sockets peering into the night—save for the two buildings closest to the end of the stretch. Faint light flickered inside those, small fires in the belly of the beast. Had to be Wormwell’s. He clung to the far side of the narrow lane, eyes darting nervously as he scanned for signs of trouble.

“I don’t think we should go any further,” the professor whispered, caution roughening his voice. “Let’s wait here for the police.”

He glanced from Ami’s father to the foreboding warehouse, where dark shadows moved inside. The professor’s words resonated in his gut. There was no telling how many men were in that place. Monstrous odds! And yet that’s where Ami was. His fists clenched involuntarily, fingernails digging into his palms. He had to get to her. Find where she was being held. Ensure she was unharmed and usher her to safety.

Determination and desperation warred within, the words slipping past his lips as taut as a bowstring. “No, you wait here.”

He took off before the professor could argue against him. Giving the black monolith a wide berth, he crept from shadow to shadow, his heart pounding against his ribs. Each step was a calculated gamble, each movement a possible giveaway of his presence. He reached the edge of the building and paused, senses on high alert. Swiveling a look from side to side, he detected none of Wormwell’s men, so he darted across the road and flattened against the side of the building. Just in time too. Coarse laughter barked out of a man exiting the front door, the sound slicing the night air like a blade. If he’d crossed that lane a moment later, he’d have been spotted.

Thank you, God!

He duck-walked to the nearest window, then rose ever so slowly. Inside was nothing but black upon black, so he skulked to the next. Faint light dribbled into the area, backlighting large boxes on rows of shelves. But that was all. No men. No woman either.

At the next window, his breath hitched. The warehouse opened into a cavernous expanse, where men hefted crates from the back of a wagon with practiced efficiency. He pressed his face to the glass, taking it all in. At the far end, doors stood open, allowing another wagon passage out the back. No brown-haired figure in a peacock gown met his sweeping gaze. This could be the perfect spot for the police to swarm through. He could turn back now. Clue in the bluecoats the moment they arrived. And yet ... his jaw hardened.

Oh, Ami.

Sweat popped out on his brow, his unease growing. The possibility that Wormwell might be hiding her somewhere else gnawed at him. And then a worse thought ... What if the thug back at Angel Alley had given him false information, and she wasn’t here at all?

No.

No!

Better not to think such dire thoughts. Better to focus on the task at hand.

Two more windows remained on this side. It wouldn’t hurt to finish what he had started, especially if he could catch a glimpse of her. Despite what he’d told the professor, he moved on.

The next window gave him a better view of the ham-fisted men unloading only God knew what. On the other side of the wagon, another team of Wormwell’s workers pried off lids with crowbars. He squinted, but it was too hard to make out what they unpacked through the grimy window. Which was neither here nor there. Ami took priority over whatever illegal shenanigans Wormwell might be up to.

He crouch-walked to the final window on this wall and eased his head just past the sill—and his blood turned to ice.

Inside, Gil clutched Ami to his side, her face turned from his, her eyes squinched shut.

White-hot fury burned along every vein. This was no longer a mere rescue mission. This was a battle against time to save Ami from the grasp of a man he never should have trusted.

And there was no way he could wait around while she was in such danger.