Chapter 21
I left the ballroom and headed down a darkened hallway away from the other guests towards the back of the house, trusting that the servants’ staircase was somewhere nearby, as was usually the case in great houses like this.
After taking a few wrong turns and opening the door of a closet, I finally found what I was looking for.
The staircase was even darker than the hall and lit only by a single dim sconce.
I pulled back my veil and hesitated, but then Mr. Dorian appeared.
“Having second thoughts?”
I bristled at his smug tone. “No,” I said pointedly and began to climb the stairs.
“Try the second floor,” he said after a moment, and I glanced back, though his face was mostly hidden in the shadows.
“All right.” I suspected this was not merely a guess on his part, but did not question him.
When I reached the second floor, I slowly pushed open the door and peered out into the hall.
It was empty. I opened it wider and exited the staircase.
Mr. Dorian was close behind me, and together we crept through the silent hallway.
“Third door on the right,” he murmured by my ear.
“You certainly came prepared,” I muttered as I quickly stepped towards it. Then I turned the knob.
Locked.
Before I could even speak, Mr. Dorian had nudged me out of the way and was on his knees.
“Is that a lockpick?” I asked.
“I’m not sure why you sound surprised,” he said, while keeping his gaze focused on the task at hand. After a moment, something clunked within the lock, and he looked up at me with a grin. “I did come prepared, after all.”
“I didn’t realize picking locks was a skill you possessed,” I tossed off, since the man looked so ridiculously proud of himself.
Mr. Dorian kept his gaze on mine as he rose. “Oh, I have a number of other skills you haven’t even begun to imagine.” Then he shouldered open the door with an easy smile.
I will admit this answer shocked me a little, and it was a moment before I followed him into the room.
A low fire glowed in the hearth, casting off a dim orange light.
It looked like any other wealthy man’s study: dark wallpaper, heavy leather furniture, and shelves filled with books and other assorted bric-a-brac.
I barely took in the smaller details, as I was here on a mission.
Mr. Dorian was already behind a large desk and had turned on the lamp.
I reached his side and immediately began pulling open drawers.
He placed a hand on my wrist. “Quietly, now. Try the bottom one. It’s larger.”
“Fine,” I said tightly. I tugged on it, and, unsurprisingly, it was locked. I stepped back and waved a hand at it. Mr. Dorian bent down and got to work. Within moments, he had opened the drawer, which was filled with files, and began riffling through them.
“They’re organized by year,” he said.
“Try 1889.” It was the year before Oliver left the service.
Mr. Dorian glanced up at me, but I avoided his gaze. He pulled out the file and stood, placing it on the desk. I immediately opened it and began scanning the documents. Mr. Buckley had been right. Sir Armstrong-Hughes did keep excellent records.
“This is a monthly inventory of every item auctioned off,” Mr. Dorian said. “Look, he even includes the country of origin, the buyer, and the amount paid.”
“And the seller,” I added, pointing to the column with my finger.
Mr. Dorian let out a low whistle. “I recognize some of these names. This man works for the British Museum. And this one is a famous conservationist.” He let out a disbelieving laugh.
But I didn’t care about any of that. There was only one name I needed to find.
I quickly ran my finger down the column for the country of origin, and while there were a number of entries for Greece, nearly every time I looked to the seller column, only an X was listed.
This appeared in a few other columns as well, but most often for Greece.
I let out a cry of exasperation and stepped back. “There’s nothing in here. Let’s look at another year.”
“Minnie,” Mr. Dorian said as I bent down, looking for the file for 1888. “What makes you think it will be any different? Clearly Sir Armstrong-Hughes is protecting someone.”
“And I need to know who it is,” I snapped. I pulled out the file and had just set it on the desk when Mr. Dorian froze.
“Wait,” he said and tilted his head, listening for something.
Then I heard it. The faint sound of footsteps down the hall. “Maybe … maybe they are going somewhere else,” I said in a strangled voice.
“Are you willing to take that chance?” he said. “Because I am not.”
Mr. Dorian looked remarkably calm as he quickly organized the file, took the other from my hands, and placed them both back in the drawer. Then he turned the lock and switched off the lamp. The footsteps were louder now. My heart was in my throat.
A cold sweat broke out on my neck, and blood roared in my ears. “What are we going to do?”
He took my hand and pulled me away from the desk over to a chaise in the corner.
I looked around the room wildly, but there wasn’t anywhere to hide.
Mr. Dorian placed his hands on my shoulders and forced my gaze to meet his. “If we’re caught, they can’t know why we are really in here.”
I nodded. “Yes. Quite right.”
He gave me an imploring look. “Then you understand what we have to do.”
I was so tense with nerves that it was a moment before I grasped his meaning. My eyes widened, and Mr. Dorian let out a humorless laugh. “You’ll need to look a good deal more enthusiastic than that if we’re to convince anyone.”
I frowned. This was not the time for jokes. The footsteps were very near now, and it was highly likely that this study was the destination. “You as well,” I shot back. Then, before Mr. Dorian could make a pithy response in return, I slid my arms around his neck and pulled his head down to mine.
The last thing I saw was a faint look of surprise cross his face before I closed my eyes and pressed my mouth to his.
The only other man I had ever kissed was Oliver, so it had been some time since I found myself in such an intimate position.
Luckily, my body seemed to remember the particulars well enough.
As soon as Mr. Dorian’s lips met mine, I felt something crackle within me.
Like a Roman candle flaring to life on a warm summer night.
Once Mr. Dorian recovered from his understandable surprise, he slid his arms around my waist and pulled me flush against him.
And while our embrace must have looked rather scandalous to the observer, he was a gentleman in every other way.
The kiss was surprisingly gentle, which I appreciated.
It was only towards the very end, after I became aware that someone was in the room with us and loudly clearing their throat, that the kiss became more insistent, as if Mr. Dorian forgot why we were doing this in the first place.
I had to push on his chest more than once before he finally stepped back, a dazed look on his face.
I raised an eyebrow, and he blinked, as if coming back to himself.
It was a remarkably good performance, I will admit, but rather more than was necessary to convince Sir Armstrong-Hughes, while I was certain that my own weak knees and racing heart were merely due to the heightened excitement of the situation.
Mr. Dorian tore his gaze away from me to address our host. “Hello,” he said with a sheepish smile.
However, the man was not in the least bit charmed. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
I turned around then and gave him my most apologetic look.
“Please don’t blame him, Sir Armstrong-Hughes,” I began in a low, silky tone.
“This is entirely my fault. I wanted to go somewhere quiet for a moment so Mr. Dorian and I could talk. I took him to the first open room I could find, and then I was simply … overcome.”
This was a terrible excuse, in my opinion. But I knew that most men were all too willing to believe that women were at the mercy of their emotions.
Sir Armstong-Hughes watched me carefully, and only then did I remember I was no longer wearing my veil. Hopefully, the room was dark enough to afford me some privacy. “Is that true, Dorian?” he asked, still keeping his gaze on me.
“Uh, yes. Yes, it is,” Mr. Dorian said quickly. “We would never have intentionally invaded your privacy. And for that I am very sorry.”
Sir Armstrong-Hughes finally looked to him then, his stern gaze full of disapproval. “Fine. But you must leave at once. And don’t come back.”
“Absolutely,” Mr. Dorian said. “Come along, my dear,” he said as he led me out of the room. We hurried down the hall as quickly as possible without looking back.
“Do you think he believed us?” I asked once we were downstairs.
“No,” Mr. Dorian admitted. “But he won’t find any evidence to suggest otherwise.”
I let out a breath of relief, and we continued down the hall towards the front door. Mr. Buckley rounded a corner, possibly returning from a trip to the water closet, and caught sight of us. “Leaving already?” he asked, disappointed. “But it’s just about to start.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Collins isn’t feeling well,” Mr. Dorian explained.
“That’s a shame. I’m glad I caught you then. I’ve just remembered something about Pearson that may be useful to you.”
Mr. Dorian tilted his head, attempting a look of only mild interest. “Oh?”
“There was a fellow that came with him to the auction sometimes. Not very friendly, though, and kept to himself so we were never properly introduced. But if you can find him, he might know more about who Charles worked with.”
“It will be difficult without a name,” Mr. Dorian said dryly.
“Sir Armstrong-Hughes might know,” Mr. Buckley suggested. But that avenue was quite closed to us.
“What did he look like?” I ventured.
The man paused to think. “Well, he was taller than Charles. And his hair was a similar color, though he always had a hat on.”