Harted leaned closer. “She believes someone found out what the baron was doing, how close he was to unlocking the secrets of divine power. Imagine what might be possible with that information. You could make the elements bend to your will.”
“Yes.” Jack licked his lips. “Imagine that. . . . But who would want to stop him from such a great discovery?”
“When I studied with him, the baron had suspicions he was being watched. He confided in me once that he worried there were those in the local village—Mageus—who didn’t want him to succeed. He’d made arrangements so his work wouldn’t be lost in case anything happened. If that trunk of hers contains what I think it might, it would be a discovery of amazing importance, Jack.”
“You think she could be convinced to share it with us?” Jack asked, his expression unabashedly hungry.
“That’s my problem.” Harte frowned. “We’re old friends—more than friends, really,” he said, imbuing his voice with a lecherous note, “but she hasn’t let me see what’s inside. I think she’s still testing me to see if I can help her. She’s tired of living on the edges of society. She’s the daughter of a baron, and while her father was alive she lived like one. But with his death, she lost her income and any standing in her town. So she’s come to this country, like so many come, to start again. She wants her old life back, to live like the daughter of a baron is entitled to live, and whatever’s in that trunk, she believes it’s enough to gain her entrance to the highest society.” Again he glanced around and then lowered his voice. “She’s been implying she wants to get the attention of the Order. Of course, I thought of you. With your help, with your connections, she might be willing to share her father’s work with us.”
“She might not have anything, though,” Jack said, frowning. “She could be leading you on. It’s in a female’s nature to be manipulative and deceitful.”
“It could be that she’s lying,” Harte acknowledged, “but she was the one who designed the effect you saw last night. It’s quite extraordinary what she’s able to do.”
“Designed it herself??”
“As much as it pains me to admit it, she still won’t tell me how she accomplished it. I think she’s been teasing me, withholding that information to get what she wants.”
“Well, we can’t let her get away with that, can we?” Jack said with a roguish grin.
“You have an idea?”
“Maybe with the right enticements, I could soften her up, find out if she’s being honest about what she has.”
“You’d do that for me?” Harte said, pushing down an unexpected jolt of jealousy.
“Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we, Darrigan?” Jack took another long drink. “And it’s not as though it would be a chore to breach her defenses.”
Harte’s hands clenched into fists beneath the table, but he kept his expression the picture of eager appreciation. “I’d be awful grateful. I’d hate to be made a fool of, but if she does have her father’s secrets, she could be very useful to me.”
“To both of us. Miss Filosik and her secrets don’t stand a chance,” Jack said, raising his glass.
“Not a chance at all,” Harte agreed pleasantly as he watched Jack finish off the last of the champagne. He couldn’t have scripted the evening any better himself. Jack had fallen for the bait just as they’d planned for him to, but Harte couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made a misstep somehow. He just wasn’t sure what it was, or how it might come back to bite him later.
Still, successes should be celebrated, so he pasted on his most charming smile and was about to call for another bottle when a shadow fell over his table. Harte looked up to find Paul Kelly standing over him.
“Hello, Darrigan,” Kelly said genially. He was dressed impeccably, as usual, in a crisp suit, but his eyes held a warning. “Fancy meeting you here.”
A moment of silence passed, where Harte was too shocked by Kelly’s appearance to utter a word. It was as if he’d awoken to discover all those months of freedom had been nothing but a dream. He was thirteen years old again, looking at his certain death.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Kelly asked expectantly, shaking Harte from his stupor.
Jack glanced at Kelly and then looked to Harte. “Do you know this gentleman?” he asked, and Harte could see the confusion in Jack’s bleary gaze as he took in Kelly’s well-cut clothes and his long-ago broken nose.
He was stuck. Kelly was making enough of a name for himself that Jack might recognize it, and if he did, it might destroy all the work Harte had done to make himself seem respectable. But if he refused, Kelly was sure to make a scene.
“This is an old acquaintance of mine, Jack. Paul Kelly, Jack Grew. Jack, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Kelly.”
Jack, who thankfully showed no sign of recognizing the name, shook Kelly’s hand, and then to Harte’s horror, he asked Kelly to join them. “We were just celebrating a mutually beneficial opportunity we stumbled upon,” he told them.
“Were you?” Kelly asked, taking the seat Esta had left open. He eyed the waiting glass of champagne. “I’m a bit of a businessman myself,” Kelly told him.
Jack sputtered a bit, making some excuses and trying not to reveal what they’d been talking about as Paul Kelly sat on the other side of the table with his usual cold-eyed stare.
Harte felt as though he couldn’t breathe. He’d risked everything—including his mother’s life—to keep Kelly away from Jack, and now they were sitting at a table together. He needed to get out of there, he thought as he glanced again to the floor below, hoping for some sign of Esta’s return.
“You have somewhere to be?” Kelly said as he took a slim cigarette from a silver case.
“No,” he lied. “Nowhere at all.”
Before Kelly could call him on his lie, a whistle sounded from the floor below. Harte turned in time to see a squad of helmeted policemen making their way into the ballroom, the beginning of a raid on the prostitutes that strolled the floor and the illegal gambling that often took place in the back rooms.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Kelly, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised at the raid. “I think it’s time we make our exit.”
THE MISSING KNIFE
Bridget’s face was shadowed, but Esta could still make out the remains of a purplish bruise across the side of Bridget’s cheek.
“I came for my knife,” Esta said, realizing as the words tumbled from her mouth how absolutely stupid they sounded.
“What knife?” Bridget asked, looking both harried and confused at the same time.
“The one you took from my boot,” Esta insisted.
“I didn’t take anything,” Bridget said, glancing beyond Esta, toward the entrance of the passageway. “You’re mad if you think I did, and you’re mad for coming back here after I went to the trouble to get you away.”
“There was a knife,” Esta said as ice settled into her veins. There had to be. Because if there was no knife, there might be no Dakari. But Bridget didn’t seem to be lying.