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C onstance Silver approached the black-painted door, her stomach in knots. The shining brass plate beside the door, which proclaimed Silver & Grey , took on a massive new significance in her mind.

Several of the people who had crossed this threshold since the sign went up must have felt similar nervous attacks—wondering if their problems would be believed or accepted, cringing at the personal and family secrets they would have to reveal in order for their inquiries to be carried out.

Constance had no such excuse. She was one of the firm’s two partners and did half of the inquiring.

Since the last thing she wanted was to be seen hovering coyly by the door, she fished out her keys from her businesslike bag and let herself in.

It was foolish, of course, but she no longer had any idea how to greet her partner and friend Solomon Grey.

Because last night, he had asked her to marry him.

Or at least to contemplate the possibility. At any rate, they had agreed to consider themselves engaged.

It was utter madness on his part, of course.

He was a wealthy, respected businessman while she was not respectable at all.

Her personal wealth was founded on immoral earnings, her most notorious and successful venture being the discreet and hideously expensive house of ill repute nestling among the mansions of Mayfair.

She was acquainted with dukes and government ministers and bishops, but none of them acknowledged her in front of their wives.

And yet the trivial problem exercising her mind was how to greet her betrothed. Should she kiss his cheek in public or in private? Or merely say good morning?

The low murmur of a male voice came from the first office on her left—Solomon’s. Their expected client must have been early. Relieved to have her decision put off by the closed door, she began to take off her hat as she walked on toward her own office.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Janey said, bustling up from her cubbyhole where she kept the appointment book and managed the post.

Constance raised one eyebrow, for she could tell from the girl’s unusual politeness of manner that they were not alone. Janey jerked her head in the direction of the waiting room and grinned.

This really was excellent—a client with Solomon and another waiting in line.

Janey followed her into the office. “Got some water heating for fresh tea. And a fine gent in the waiting room—name of Mr. Lloyd. His card’s on your desk.”

Having hung up her hat and coat, Constance glanced at the good-quality card. Barnabas J. Lloyd, Esquire , with a good address on the edges of Mayfair.

“He didn’t have an appointment, just dropped in. Thought you wouldn’t be long, so I asked him to wait. Very civil, he is, with a twinkle in his eye.”

Janey noticed such things. Even when Constance had first taken her in, an excessively foul-mouthed prostitute, she had been observant.

Her ambition then had been to give up the old life that was killing her and become a lady’s maid.

She had begun by practicing on Constance, but since Silver and Grey had begun, she had found this position suited her much better.

Which left Constance without a maid, though Janey still appeared to bring her coffee in the morning and to unhook her at night.

“I’ll bring him in here,” Constance decided, “and you can bring us both tea. Tell Mr. Grey when he is free.”

“Right you are,” Janey said cheerfully.

Constance followed her from the room and crossed the hall to the waiting room, where a gentleman sat in one of the two armchairs, calmly reading a newspaper.

He was a healthy-looking man perhaps in his early forties, with chiseled features, sun-bronzed skin, and a very silky-looking moustache. He glanced up as Constance entered and rose at once to his feet.

He did indeed have a twinkle in his eye.

Well, Constance was used to dealing with those.

“Mr. Lloyd, good morning,” she said cheerfully, walking toward him with her hand held out. “I am Mrs. Silver. Would you care to come through to the office?”

He took her hand and bowed over it, undisguised admiration on his face. “How do you do? Thank you.” He released her hand, folded the newspaper, and laid it on the table before following her across the hall.

Leaving the door ajar—a concession to respectability that amused her—Constance chose to bypass the comfortable armchairs grouped by the fireplace and go straight to her desk. “Please, sit down and tell me how we can help you.”

He looked startled as she sat behind the desk, though at least he did lower himself into the visitor’s chair. “Is Mr. Silver about to join us?”

It was not the first time she had encountered this mistake. “There is no Mr. Silver, sir. I am the Silver half of the partnership.”

His eyes widened, though with more amusement than outrage. “Really? How very intriguing! I apologize for my misunderstanding. In the circumstances, I believe I shall wait until Mr. Grey is free.”

Janey entered with the tea tray, giving Constance time to smooth her hackles.

“Is Mr. Grey free?” Constance asked.

“No, ma’am,” Janey said, obedient to the unspoken instruction.

Constance smiled. “Be assured, sir, we consult and investigate each case together. It does not greatly matter which of us you speak to initially.”

She could tell from his fixed expression that it mattered a great deal to Mr. Lloyd.

At least he did not get up and walk out, but as he graciously accepted a cup of tea from her, she suspected the gleam of admiration in his eyes had little to do with her abilities and all to do with the way she looked. Appearance was a double-edged weapon.

She drew her notebook toward her. Though she remembered every conversation in detail, it generally impressed clients if notes were taken. And, in truth, they sometimes helped her to see connections and patterns.

“How might we help you?” she asked.

He met her gaze consideringly, but did not answer at once. In the silence, she heard footsteps in the hall, the opening and closing of the front door.

Mr. Lloyd sipped his tea. “Mrs. Silver—”

She never discovered if he meant to reject her or not, for a brief knock on the door heralded the appearance of her partner.

Solomon Grey was a tall man, slender and elegantly dressed, and the sight of him affected Constance with more than usual disturbance. Under any circumstances, he had the kind of charismatic presence that drew the attention. As his newly affianced bride, Constance was tongue-tied.

Fortunately, he was not. “Ah. Good morning. My apologies for interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Constance managed calmly. “This is Mr. Lloyd, who was about to explain his business with us. Mr. Lloyd, my partner, Mr. Grey.”

Lloyd rose to shake hands, his glance friendly and yet definitely assessing.

What did he see? A gentleman of his own class?

A servant yet to prove himself? Solomon could pass for a European or an African—unsurprising, since he had both in his parentage.

To most of Constance’s acquaintance this made no difference, sparking mere, occasional curiosity.

As a successful and wealthy shipping magnate, Solomon Grey had most of the world’s respect.

But she had also come across a few people who were shocked, or even outraged, that a person of his descent should regard himself as a white man’s equal.

She was glad to see that Lloyd shook hands with perfect civility. Although he appeared to be the quintessential Englishman, his skin was not dissimilar in shade to Solomon’s.

Solomon brought up another chair and sat at the corner of the desk.

Mr. Lloyd lifted his cup from its saucer once more. “Someone has stolen my treasure,” he said. “And I have no idea how to find it.”

Carefully, Constance and Solomon did not look at each other.

“What kind of treasure?” she asked pleasantly.

“Oh, the usual kind. Gold, Spanish coins, jewels, antiquities. Some silver. I returned with it aboard my own ship, removed it to the strong room of my own home, and in the morning, it was gone.”

“Then presumably very few people had access to it? Who had keys to your strong room?”

“Only myself. I keep it with my other keys, locked inside the drawer at my bedside—which can of course be unlocked easily enough, but not without waking me. I am, of necessity, a light sleeper.”

Constance pounced. “What necessity?”

“Preserving my life, of course. I have slept in some very hair-raising places.” He smiled faintly from Constance to Solomon.

“I should perhaps explain that I am something of an adventurer. To call myself an explorer is, perhaps, somewhat grandiose, though I have done my own modest share of that, too.”

“Your treasure is a result of this—er…adventuring?” Solomon asked.

“Indeed.”

“Over many years?” Constance asked.

“No, it was all one collection in its own chest, which I dug up on a small island off the east coast of Africa. No one lives there and it has never been named on the maps. I believe pirates buried it there some forty years ago.” He smiled.

“I know. It sounds like a children’s story, but I assure you it is true. ”

“Have you alerted the authorities to this theft?” Solomon asked delicately.

Lloyd appeared to understand at once. “Indeed. It was inspected by customs officials before I took it off the ship. And I reported the theft to the police yesterday. I gave them the same detailed description I will give you, should you decide to assist me, but they seemed to hold out little hope for the treasure’s discovery. ”

“One never knows where things will turn up unexpectedly,” Constance said, thinking of a recent case. “So there is always hope. When did you last see this treasure with your own eyes?”

“When we placed the chest in the strong room, the evening before last. When I opened the lid yesterday morning, everything had gone save one Spanish doubloon.”

Solomon stirred. “Tell me about your strong room. Does it have windows?”