The man’s dark eyes widened a fraction, and the door slammed shut, the bolt scraping into place. I turned to Brewster in mild annoyance.
“We may never see him again, Brewster. I want to be shot of this errand, my obligation finished.”
“Obligations are never finished with His Nibs. You know that.”
“Good Lord, who is this Mr. Denis?” Eden asked in bewilderment.
I was happy Eden had never heard of him. James Denis was a ruler of the London underworld, with his fingers in many pies from smuggling to theft to forgery. He also procured legitimate artworks for connoisseurs who might not have the connections to obtain what they wanted. Sometimes he did this legally, sometimes not. His clients never asked too many questions. He had connections in high places that kept the magistrates from looking too closely at him, and MPs and aristocrats in his pocket. Denis was unapologetic for his dealings and quick to sort out those who stepped in his way.
“No one you ought to meet.” My acquaintanceship with Mr. Denis was too complex to explain. “Necessity makes for strange bedfellows.”
Eden’s face creased with a weary smile. “Well do I know that. As a matter—”
The bolt rasping back and the door opening once more interrupted him. The lackey had returned.
“Inside.” The man jerked his thumb behind him. I trudged forward, Brewster and Eden following. The man growled at me. “Just you. Not the others.”
Before Brewster could protest, Eden preempted him. “We’ll not let our friend enter such a place alone. We accompany him, or your master speaks with us outdoors.”
Brewster folded his arms and became a bulwark, not about to let me enter without him. The lackey muttered a few foul words but dragged the door all the way open.
We entered a long, narrow space that was clearly a warehouse, but no goods filled it. Empty shelves ran along the walls, and thick wooden pillars lining the center aisle held up a lofty ceiling.
Our guide took us through the cold, echoing room to a door in the very rear of the house. This opened to a winding stair surrounded by brick walls. Brewster mumbled under his breath as I followed the guide, steadying myself with a hand on the cold and mold-streaked walls. Bartholomew would not be happy about the state of my gloves when I returned home, but I less still wanted to fall against that surface.
Eden, directly behind me, said nothing, but I found his presence reassuring. He’d been an excellent soldier, unafraid to ride straight at armed French cavalrymen to ensure that his fellows escaped.
The top of the stairs opened to another long room, very much like the one below, but this ceiling was lower. At the end of the aisle lay yet another door, closed.
“Jove,” Eden said. “You’d think with all this space, they could fashion an office a little closer to the stairs.”
Brewster guffawed behind him.
The lackey tapped on the far door and opened it after we heard a gruff, “Come.”
We entered a large room that was indeed an office. In contrast to the rest of the building, this chamber radiated luxury. Soft woven carpets covered the floor, and tapestries in bright blues, yellows, and reds hid the rough brick of the walls. The tapestries were not modern copies, I could see—my friend Lucius Grenville had a piece of tapestry from twelfth-century France, a hand-woven masterpiece. These were similar.
Furniture ranged from a desk of rich mahogany to a settee in the latest Egyptian style—carved ebony upholstered in gold-and-cream striped silk with small ivory medallion studs. Wing chairs exuding comfort sat next to delicate Hepplewhite, shield-backed dining chairs.
Plants took up the rest of the space, from palms to tall grasses, all contained in pots and containers. The room had a cool humidity, like a greenhouse, refreshing after the bleak emptiness of the warehouse without.
A man sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. The desk had been situated facing the door but a bit to the left of the room’s center. So that, I realized, if anyone tried to fire a weapon as they burst in, they’d have to sidestep and adjust their aim. This would give anyone at the desk time to take cover or for the lackey to disarm the intruder.
James Denis kept his desk sparse—I rarely saw anything more on it than one piece of paper or perhaps a book. This man had covered his desk’s surface with piles of books, ledgers, and papers, some of the papers rolled into scrolls. Pots of ink and several pen trays were in evidence, as though the man mislaid his pens and ink often and called for replacements.
Books filled shelves behind the desk and formed piles on the floor where the shelves ran out. The only piece of furniture not filled with clutter was a table, on top of which reposed a chessboard set up and ready for a game. It was not missing a queen, and the pieces looked to be made of jade, not ivory.
Denis never looked up at me whenever I was ushered into his presence, busying himself with making a note or finishing a letter, or at one time, partaking of a meal. I’d have to wait until he finished whatever he was doing, as though a call from me was of no importance, even when he’d sent word requesting my immediate attendance.
This man stared straight at me as I entered and rose when I approached the desk. Mr. Creasey was of a slight build with slender limbs and older than I’d expected, with a lined face and iron-gray hair.
Nothing elderly or feeble showed in his eyes, however. Those, which were a light shade of gray, regarded me with the coldness of a steel blade, no matter that his lips bore a slight smile.
“You’ve come from Mr. Denis, have you? I am curious as to why.” Creasey gestured to chairs before his desk, two of which were Chippendale style armchairs and one ebony with gilded arms and legs that was supposed to be Egyptian. It was clear its maker had never been to that part of the world.
“Indeed, Denis sent me. I am Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service, sir.” I clicked my heels and gave him a military bow.
“Lacey. Ah, yes.” His manner said he’d heard my name, but under what context, he did not say. “I am Mr. Harlow Creasey. Importer. Are these your servants?”
Creasey knew bloody well that Eden could not be a servant. Brewster was not exactly one, but he didn’t bristle. Brewster didn’t nod either, standing stolidly by, waiting to see what would happen.
Eden made a similar military bow. “Major Miles Eden,” he said coolly. “A friend to the captain.”
“I see. Please sit. These chairs are my own and not for sale, and I like to see them used.”
I decided to be gracious and settled myself on an armchair. Eden took the other armchair—the Egyptian style one looked most uncomfortable. Brewster remained stubbornly on his feet.
Mr. Creasey returned to sit behind his desk and rested his elbows on it, hands folded. If not for his watchfulness, he might have had no worries about this unexpected visit from strangers.
I withdrew the parcel from my pocket and leaned forward to set it before him. “I have looked inside. It is perfectly harmless.”
Creasey reached for it without hesitation. “It would be, wouldn’t it?”
If I’d received a mysterious box from Denis, and Denis appeared to be my rival, I’d be exceedingly nervous about its contents. Creasey merely set the package on top of a small stack of ledgers, unfolded the paper, and opened the box.
“Ah.” The sharp word brought the lackey out of the shadows. Brewster moved to intercept him.