Ambrose thought the man looked like he belonged outside a west side speakeasy with a baseball bat in his hands, which Ambrose suspected provided some of the appeal for his brother. O’Brennan was younger than Ethan and a refreshing change from the ancient sages tenured in Israel’s company. Most of those old wizards spent half the day dozing at their desks and the other half explaining how and why most things he wanted couldn’t get done. Wanting a proxy and his own counsel, Ethan had gone out and hired the youngest and most ambitious lawyer he could find. Ethan said Declan was the only lawyer he’d ever met who’d find a way, who’d make it so, who said yes. O’Brennan had ensconced himself in the company with his decisive dealing with the Sandusky fire, and even Israel had been impressed. It reflected well on Ethan that he’d spotted talent in the outsider, and O’Brennan never forgot who had been his original benefactor. It meant O’Brennan was Ethan’s eyes and ears at Israel’s company now.
Somehow Ethan had twisted enough arms on the membership committee to get O’Brennan into the hunt club. It surprised Ambrose that a man like that would be interested in society, would be a joiner. Then again, Ambrose never needed to worry about joining anything. His invitations came by right.
Ambrose noted that throughout the afternoon May wouldn’t look at O’Brennan, and only addressed him when it was impossible not to, despite his many failed attempts to engage her—a pointed lack of sociability in the usually sparkling May. Even after the horse auction started and O’Brennan bought the first horse, a gelding called the Cad, May barely acknowledged him.
O’Brennan for his part was either impervious to these slights, or alternately too busy trying to recruit Arabella to his admiration society to notice. Arabella seemed a willing acolyte. She laughed at nearly everything O’Brennan said, her eyes locked on his face in rapt attention. Ambrose suspected Arabella wasn’t genuinely interested in what he was saying, but was delighted by his gaucheness.
And examples of his gaucheness abounded. It was whispered among the guests that though the club was dry, O’Brennan “was doing something about it.” Soon a generous silver flask circulated discreetly under the tabletops. And the man conducted his bidding with a flourish of crass bravado. He entered at the last moment, winning by a gasp-inducing, and unnecessary, one hundred dollars. And he spoke in an affected hush, as if he’d read somewhere that a gentleman was known by the low tenor of his voice. Chairs had to be rearranged to hear him.
Ambrose could feel the tension rising between May and Ethan as each successive horse was sold and Ethan’s paddle never left the table, even for the horses Ambrose knew were a bargain. May fumbled with the necklace at her throat. When a lull of quiet settled over the table, Loulou, who never could stand silence, turned to Ambrose.
“So tell me,” she said, “how much did you pay for that necklace?”
Ambrose thought the question rude, even among family. “Nothing. I stole it.”
“Yes, you’re very funny,” Ethan said, jumping in, obviously interested in this topic. “Tell us.”
“Why do you want to know?” Ambrose challenged his brother. “Feeling the need to pay me back?” Ethan had finally deposited the check for Ambrose’s loan. Monetarily, they were even.
Ethan poured a nip from O’Brennan’s flask into his cup. “Generous, extravagant,” he said, replacing the cork. “Little strange, don’t you think?”
“Well, you can’t repay me,” Ambrose said, and no one at the table failed to hear the defiance in his voice. “It didn’t cost anything. I bartered for it.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” May said, reaching for O’Brennan’s flask for the first time all afternoon. Ethan pretended to ignore her and handed it back to its owner. O’Brennan brazenly leaned across the table to give it to May with a courtly air, glad to have May receive something of his.
“I was invited to a small dinner at a maharaja’s palace, and after dinner his son, the prince, asked each of us to tell a story. He gave us gifts in appreciation, based on how well he liked the tale.”
“You’re like an epic Greek poet,” Loulou said, too excited. Ambrose wanted to tell her to calm down.
“Guests performing like trained monkeys,” Ethan said. “What will they think of next in the East? Harems, pleasure palaces . . .”
“What was the story?” May asked, kindly for once. The pleasure palace comment had displeased her.
“I think he planned on giving the gifts anyway, but I told a little story about a man who fell in love.”
“So novel,” May said flatly, and it didn’t escape Ambrose’s notice that Ethan glanced at her when she said it.
“Let’s hear it,” Ethan said, throwing down the gauntlet.
Ambrose began. “There was a young and penniless man who shared his last crust of bread with an old beggar woman shivering on the street. When the woman put the food in her mouth, she turned into a beautiful queen in flowing robes. She said, ‘Because you have shown kindness to me when you had so little, I give you this golden key. It can open any lock. But use caution, for some locks are not meant to be opened.’ The key itself was a beautiful thing, the bow inlaid with pearl and diamond and the bittings etched with ancient runes. When the young man looked up, the queen was gone.
“His first thought was to head directly to a bank, but on his way there he came across a bakery, closed for the night. With his stomach grumbling he used the key, his heart soaring when the lock tumbled and the door swung free. He ate his fill of pastries, leaving the rest and quietly locking the door behind him.
“In the days that followed he used his key, always at night and always taking only what he needed. He took a new suit from the tailor, new shoes from the cobbler, and a hat from the haberdasher. No one seemed to stop him with his new acquisitions during daylight, and so he became bolder. He took a bottle of fine wine, a box of cigars, and he even slipped into the museum one night and took his favorite painting straight off the wall.”
“Don’t you just wish?” May said, a little dreamily. “I know what I’d take.”
“Well,” Ambrose continued, a bit pointedly. “Having all he could want, the man had a thought for those who might benefit from his key. That first night he went into the bazaar and opened all the animal cages. The second night he went to the apothecary and unlocked all the medicines, placing them outside on the street for those in need. The third night he went to the jail and released all those who were falsely imprisoned.”
“I wonder how he figured that out,” Ethan said. “Sounds like one of those know-it-all types to me.”
“The key called to him now.” Ambrose ignored his brother. “He rarely passed a lock that he didn’t feel compelled to open. And so one night, as he walked in the city beneath the moonlight, he spied a small wooden door, carved with vines and flowers, in the side of a tall stone building. Unlocking it, a flight of twisting stairs led him high until he reached a tiny chamber where a woman lay sleeping—a woman so beautiful that even the moon wondered at her beauty. Around her chest, three thick steel bands encased her heart. She awoke and they instantly fell in love.”