Pandora(39)

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘A great deal, I should think.’

‘Ah. You think my head has been turned.’

‘Hasn’t it?’

Edward shrugs. ‘She is …’ He trails off, tries to put Pandora Blake into words. He thinks of their conversation, how closely she sat next to him on the bench, how he thought he could smell the faint aroma of lilies and how it made him unsure of himself, nervous, almost giddy. He thinks of her as he first saw her, standing at the door of Blake’s Emporium, her outmoded clothes, her dark haphazard hair kept in place by a ribbon, those magnificent eyes hidden behind wire oval spectacles. How she is taller than him and he must look up at her which does nothing for his confidence at all.

‘She is quite unlike anything I have ever seen,’ Edward says finally.

Cornelius snorts. ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘You believe my head has been turned. I cannot rightly say it has.’

And at that moment Edward believes it. He does not understand the measure of his emotions in regard to Miss Blake. It is his lack of experience with the fairer sex, Edward tells himself, which attributes to his shyness, nothing more. He leans forward in his seat – the mahogany creaks beneath him – and tries to mollify his friend.

‘She is not attractive in the typical sense of the word. She is no Sarah Siddons. But there is something about her, I admit. Her eyes …’

But Cornelius has turned his attention back to his dinner, is cutting into his leg of lamb with renewed vigour.

‘What of them?’

‘Like honey syrup.’

‘Brown, basically.’

Edward stares. ‘Why are you being so pig-headed?’

‘I’m not. I’m merely stating facts.’

A beat. ‘She has a pet bird,’ Edward tries instead, and this at least makes Cornelius pause.

‘No,’ he says, unbelieving.

‘She does.’

‘Is it an owl? A living Athena. How European of her.’

‘Not an owl. A magpie.’

Cornelius’ face creases with disgust. ‘Filthy creatures.’

‘Very clean, actually,’ Edward retorts, remembering how Hermes preened his sleek feathers in the shop. ‘But it has a temper. Bit me it did, see?’

Edward raises his hand, angles it so Cornelius can see the scab from across the table, the small bruise that has formed around the cut.

‘I wondered at that,’ he says. He wipes a drop of gravy from his chin. ‘You should have it checked. Teeming with diseases, carrion birds.’

‘You’re being ridiculous. It barely hurts.’

‘I’m not being ridiculous at all. But,’ Cornelius adds, throwing his napkin down onto his now empty plate, ‘I can see you’re becoming defensive. Ridiculous, you say? Well then, if you wish for a serious discussion –’ Cornelius pins Edward with an assessing look – ‘what do you plan to do if you find that this vase is genuine?’

‘Ah,’ Edward says, ‘we come to the crux of it. And it’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you before you went on your tangent.’

One of Cornelius’ eyebrows raises high. ‘Oh?’

‘I would appreciate it if you could set up a meeting between myself and Gough.’

‘Why?’

Edward hesitates. How to phrase it? The very mention of the term ‘black-market’ in antiquity circles is enough to put even the most stalwart of men on edge. Such a serious matter cannot be taken lightly.

He draws in a breath. ‘I would like to ask him his advice, see if it is possible that Hezekiah Blake might be trading in underhand circles.’ Across from him, as Edward feared he might, Cornelius sits back stiffly in his seat. ‘I know,’ he says, looking at his friend’s tight countenance, ‘but if I understood more about it, if I understood how such a crime is prosecuted, how blame is apportioned, then …’ Edward sighs, places his own napkin down beside his plate. ‘Trading of such a nature is the work of true villainy. Selling forgeries without admitting to the fact is one thing, but this? It seems so unlikely he would risk so much. The vase, the other items, might be genuine articles obtained via genuine means, and in that case there is nothing to worry about. I can write my paper with a clear conscience. But if they aren’t, then I need to know what I should do … without implicating Miss Blake.’

‘Edward.’ Cornelius’ voice is hard, measured. ‘What business is it of yours whether the family are crooks? Take what you need from her and be gone.’

Edward has to fight not to snap at him.

‘That’s not honourable and you know it.’ Cornelius pinches his lips. Edward carries on. ‘Even if the vase is merely a worthless forgery it would be the right thing to do, to help her. She is trapped there in that shop. Her drawings, Cornelius … Oh, you should see them. Quite spectacular. The level of detail! You would not call her an amateur.’

‘I never called you an amateur,’ he replies softly.

‘But my drawings are, nonetheless.’

Cornelius looks away. ‘What is your point?’

‘I could ask her to be my assistant. You know my own sketches are abysmal – any paper I write would be ruined by their inclusion. Miss Blake, however … she could still help me through when I’ve found a new project, if this one turns out not to be viable.’