“Anything I’d be interested in?” Harte asked, careful to keep his tone easy and light.
Jack nodded. “Maybe. A couple of the seals and tablets go back to ancient Babylon, and there’s at least one manuscript owned by Newton himself.” Jack smiled. “It won’t exactly be a burden to take a close look at those. Especially since they haven’t granted me access to the collections at Khafre Hall.”
“Still holding you off, are they?” Harte asked with a disapproving shake of his head.
“Of course,” Jack grumbled. “Only the Inner Circle has access to the records, and until I prove myself, my uncle’s not going to sponsor me. If this event goes well, though, maybe I’ll be a step closer. It’s not as if they can hold me off forever.” He glanced at Harte. “They know as well as I do that they’re all basically fossils. They don’t want to face facts—it’s only a matter of time before they’re completely obsolete. The world’s changing too fast to stay in the past.”
“It’s a damn disgrace,” Harte murmured, pretending to take another drink. “And they’re damn fools to underestimate you, Jack. ?You’re the best of the lot of them.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to it being over quickly, so you can get back to more important endeavors.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Jack lifted his glass, but he stopped before he could return the toast. “Speaking of damn fools,” he muttered as a trio of young men in well-tailored coats approached.
When they stopped at the table, three pairs of eyes appraised Harte with the kind of bored indifference that only the truly rich could affect.
“Gentlemen,” Jack said, reluctance tingeing his voice as he stood to greet them.
Harte followed suit. He recognized the three easily. Considering how often they were in the society columns, anyone would. One was a Vanderbilt, another was Robert Winthrop Chandler, who was a cousin of the Astors, and the last was the younger J. P. Morgan, Jack’s own cousin. These men were the sons of the city, kings of their world—or they would be when their fathers finally decided either to hand over the reins of their empires or die.
“Fancy meeting you here, Jack,” Chandler said with a cold gleam to his eyes. “Though I can’t say I know your friend.”
Jack made the introductions, but if any of the three recognized Harte’s name, they didn’t show it. They also didn’t bother to extend their hands in welcome.
“It’s an honor to meet you all,” Harte said, not letting his pleasant, impassive expression falter as he gave them a small bow, an answer to the insult of them not greeting him properly.
“Aren’t you going to invite us to join you?” J. P. ?Morgan, ?Jr. said, lifting one brow in challenge.
Harte could practically feel the reluctance rolling off Jack, but there was nothing for it.
“Please,” Jack said, waving at the empty chairs at the table. “Why don’t you join us?”
The men traded cool glances with each other and then, seemingly in amused agreement, took the offered seats. The three men were all older than Jack, closer to thirty than twenty. Harte immediately understood that they viewed Jack as a joke and Harte himself as an intrusion.
Not that they would say anything outright. Jack wasn’t the richest or the most powerful person at the table, but he was still one of them—even if his family had recently dragged him back home, humiliated, after he’d almost married a Greek fisherman’s daughter on his grand tour.
But their good breeding would only get him so far.
A waiter girl brought an extra chair for the table. She gave Jack a drunken smile and draped herself over his shoulders to whisper something close to his ear that made him roar with laughter. Her appearance only reminded Harte of how unique the other girl had been, the one responsible for his aching tongue. The one who had made him lose all sense before she disappeared.
He gave himself a mental shake. He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander back to the girl now. Not surrounded by these men—every one of them members of the Order. Every one of them more powerful than Jack himself.
Harte was careful to keep his face pleasant as they all waited for Jack to finish with the girl, who was now sitting squarely on his lap. The one sitting directly across from him was J. P. Morgan, Jr., the heir to Morgan’s fortune and his standing in the Order. The younger Morgan wore a knowing expression, as though he understood exactly how uncomfortable Harte felt.
Morgan lifted a neatly rolled cigarette to his mouth and took a long, squinting drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose as he spoke. “Jack’s mentioned you before. Says you’re quite the man to see perform.”
Harte inclined his head as though he hadn’t noticed the way Jack’s cousin sneered the word “perform.” Like he was no better than an organ grinder’s monkey. “I’m happy to hear that he’s spoken so well of me.”
Morgan, still squinting, gave a shrug. “He’s mostly mentioned how you’re wasting yourself—your talents—on the stage.”
Harte let his mouth curve up ever so slightly. “My talents were made for the stage. ?And the stage has done well enough by me in turn.” He gave his left sleeve another small tug, well aware that he was drawing attention to the jeweled cuff link that glinted there.
Vanderbilt leaned forward. “You’re quite the enigma, Mr. Darrigan,” he said. “What is that, Irish? Or is Darrigan simply your stage name?”
“I’m afraid it’s the only name I lay claim to,” Harte answered, his voice dangerously even.
“A man of mystery, are you?” Jack’s cousin drawled. “I’ve heard about you. A classic tale—come from nowhere and here you are, the toast of Broadway. Why, even my mother has seen your performance. She swears you gave the most amazing demonstration.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Insisted that you must have some sort of real power.”
“Your mother is too kind.”
“Is she? I’ve often thought she was rather flighty,” Morgan said with an indifferent shrug. “She was nervous, but I told her, of course, that it was impossible. We all know that if you were that sort of filth, you would have already been taken care of, don’t we?” The threat was clear. “The Order would have heard about it. So, it must be mere tricks you do, I told her. Illusions. Not true magic at all.”
Harte kept his face in that careful, pleasant mask that had been his ticket out of the slums and into the footlights. “I’m sure the Order would have already taken care of any threat if I posed one. I have the utmost respect for the work they do to keep us safe from those who would threaten our way of life. But I assure you, there’s nothing simple about my tricks,” he said easily, while dread inched along his skin. He was in too deep. There were many variables he hadn’t prepared for—first the girl, now this circling around magic.
Damn Jack for throwing me into this.