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F or the first time since Constance had known him, Solomon was late.

At least she could laugh at herself, in all her opera finery, watching anxiously for him, like a neglected wife who knows her husband has strayed to a woman like Constance. At least she knew that was not true. But she also knew something was bothering him and he had excluded her from helping.

She could be miffed at that. And she couldn’t deny it hurt. But mostly, she was worried.

By the time she saw his carriage approaching, it was really time for the arrival of the house’s first guests. Constance ran down the back stairs to the kitchen area and left the house by the area steps.

By then, a couple of gentlemen were mounting the steps to the front door, politely ignoring Solomon, who stood by the carriage.

The sight of him with the lamplight flickering over his uniquely handsome face made her heart lurch, as it always did.

There was no sign of distress, so perhaps he had resolved whatever had disturbed him earlier. Or perhaps he was still hiding.

She took his hand and was assisted into the carriage like a lady. He followed, closing the door behind him, and they set off at a fast clip.

“I’m sorry to be late,” he said, so politely that her heart sank.

“Only by a quarter of an hour. We shan’t disturb the opera itself, though you might deprive yourself of some excellent dancing. Did you learn anything useful from the locksmith or the solicitor?”

“No,” he said, “but let’s not talk about the case tonight. This evening is ours.”

She slipped her hand into his and his fingers closed around her, firm and strong. Her heart eased once more, especially when he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

The new Italian opera house at Covent Garden had been opened only a few years ago and was a magnificent theatre.

Constance had attended many times before, for she loved music, and, professionally speaking, it helped with discussion in the salons of her establishment.

The men who frequented them often attended the theatre too, although they rarely acknowledged her.

She was glad that their entrance to the private box created little notice, for Solomon would not permit her usual discretion.

They sat at the front of the box, with the best view of the stage, lit up for all to see, if they cared to.

But the rest of the audience were too busy either watching the dancers or gossiping.

For the first time, she felt exposed. Worse, she felt Solomon was because of her. But she met the challenge head-on, lifting her gaze from the stage to the boxes and gazing around them.

She almost laughed, and touched Solomon’s arm. “The third row, almost directly opposite.”

He followed her gaze to the Lloyds’ box, murmuring wryly, “So much for being our evening. I see Grafton is with them.”

“That must be his wife beside Mrs. Lloyd. And there is Ben Devine with Jemimah and Sydney… Interesting who isn’t there.”

“Who?” she asked. “Fenwick?”

“Miss Lloyd.”

“Perhaps she does not care for opera.”

“And perhaps she is never invited.”

Constance glanced at him curiously. “Why should you think that?”

“Just an impression I had. I ran into her this afternoon when she was devoting herself to her good works. Am I unkind to think she would just make their box untidy?”

“She would not be untidy if she had a decent gown and a maid to dress her hair,” Constance said thoughtfully. “But then, if the family is so short of money that they let the child’s governess go, then a maid for the spinster aunt would be unthinkable. And perhaps the price of her opera ticket.”

The curtain went up then on the main opera, and Constance lost herself in the music and the tragedy. It was almost the end before she realized that Solomon had positioned himself so that he could easily see her face and the stage. And at the moment, he was focused on her.

He must have seen the play of emotions in her expression, known how it moved her. Oddly, she didn’t mind this invasion. It added a strange new intimacy to their bond. Did he know that it was all so much more to her with his presence at her side?

Perhaps he did, for as they drew into the shadows at the back of the box, he bent and kissed her lips before he opened the door and they joined the throngs in the corridor leading to the staircase.

The flickering gas lamps and the babble around them seemed very distant compared to the man whose arm she held, who guided her through the crowd as though she were the most precious and respected of women. And yet he had no illusions about her…

Or did he? The attraction, the inexplicable bond that had sprung up around them, was inconvenient to them both.

Had he endowed her with some illusion of purity to make their relationship bearable?

Somewhere in his heart, did he know that, and that was why he had told her nothing of his new concerns this afternoon?

These were thoughts to analyze later. Right now, she was content only to feel, to enjoy his attention and the comfort of his town carriage, which rivaled her own.

Neither of them had put on their gloves, and when he took her hand, the sparks played between them.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and loved the caress of his thumb against her palm.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said softly. “It has been wonderful.”

“For me too.”

“Then it helped?”

It was the only reference she had made to the trouble he was keeping to himself. And for a moment, she thought he would ignore even that. But he kissed her hair and her hand, which clung to his.

“You always help.”

She waited, her heart beating curiously fast in the silence. But when he spoke, it was about the performance, about the singers and Verdi’s stunning music, all subjects she was happy to discuss with enthusiasm.

But she had entered the front door of her establishment, and his carriage had driven on before she recognized the desperation with which he had avoided the opportunity to include her in his trouble. Even while he kissed her with such passion and such need.

I am not helping, not this time. But damn it, I will …

*

She made sure to arrive early at the office the following morning.

“Himself isn’t here yet,” Janey told her cheerfully, and chattered about the lack of progress on the case of Bibby’s locket. But she still had a few people to speak to, and Constance encouraged her not to give up hope.

As soon as Janey had gone, leaving a couple of letters behind, Constance rose from her desk, went into Solomon’s office next door, and opened the desk drawer where he had put the photographs.

The one that had disturbed him lay at the top.

But she took all of them and the magnifying glass back to her own room.

What exactly had he been looking at when the change in him occurred?

Presumably the treasure. She focused on the chest first, particularly on the treasure within, which was a little clearer beneath the glass, though she could see nothing that had not been described.

She moved to the second photograph in which the chest was closed and the metal catch locked in place.

The wooden chest itself and the metal catch revealed nothing she had not seen before except clearer dark patches of ingrained dirt.

And faint, small letters carved into the front of the chest, just beneath the fastened catch.

They looked like a J and a W—no doubt the initials of its original owner.

But she could see nothing that should have disturbed Solomon.

Turning back to the first photograph that had seemed to the one troubling him, she raised the glass to the faces of Lloyd, poised over the chest, and those posed behind them and crouched around—ordinary-looking seamen who might have come from anywhere, their faces weathered by wind and sun and constant work.

The last in the line, his face, slightly out of focus, looked no different until she held the glass over it.

She was looking at Solomon Grey.

The glass dropped on the desk with a clatter. For, of course, she was not looking at Solomon, who had been in this country when the photograph was taken.

“David,” she whispered.

*

It was another hour before Solomon arrived at the Silver and Grey office, unprecedentedly late.

By that time, she had written replies to several letters and added a prospective client to the appointment book for the following week.

She had also begun writing down everything they knew about the theft of the treasure and the whereabouts of all who could conceivably have been involved or had access to the keys.

Not that she did not remember these things, but sometimes writing it down and drawing the connections between facts and people helped her to see patterns she had not discerned before.

At the sound of Solomon’s voice in the hallway, she pushed her chair back, replaced her pen in the stand, and picked up the photographs and the magnifying glass.

She marched into his office and threw them down on the desk where he was just about to sit. He rose again, took her in his arms, and kissed her, which distracted her momentarily.

“I approve of our new habit of greeting,” she said a little huskily.

He smiled. “So do I.”

She slipped free. “ However . Don’t you dare tell me we are partners in business and in life when you keep such vital things from me. If you don’t trust me, say so and we end it now. All of it.”

She knew him now, the man with the direct and yet fully veiled eyes, and he was feeling his way.

“Silver and Grey?” he hazarded.

“Silver is fine alone.”

“Our engagement?”

“Over. You can go off around the world as you always intended. I will even wish you well on your quest and hope you find who and what you’re looking for.”

“I have found her,” he said evenly.