Pandora(48)

‘No, Cornelius, please.’ Edward looks up at him, notes the look of pained chagrin on his friend’s face. ‘Consider.’

‘Consider what?’

Edward feels ashamed of himself, knows he should not be thinking such selfish thoughts when he knows too what it all might cost Miss Blake, but …

‘This is my chance, Cornelius. Gough has never shown such faith in me before.’

They stare at each other. Then Cornelius releases his breath in one long sigh, runs a hand through his dark hair.

‘Remember your acquaintance with Miss Blake is in very short standing. I do not trust the woman, I’ve made no secret of that. You may shout her innocence to the skies, but how well do you actually know her? If you admit you’re collaborating with the Society to investigate the pithos’ origins then she may well become a danger to you. You can’t risk that.’

‘Miss Blake is trustworthy, I know she is.’

Edward cannot explain why he believes this so keenly. But Edward has always trusted his instincts, and his instincts tell him that Pandora Blake is of a completely different calibre to that of her uncle. She is innocent. He is sure of it.

A muscle clenches tight in Cornelius’ jaw. ‘All right. Let us suspend reality for one moment and say that your illustrious Miss Blake is blameless. If she found out you were writing about her uncle’s involvement in illegal trading do you really think she would let you near the shop?’

‘I …’ Edward pinches his eyes shut. ‘I would not worry her with such matters.’

The sharp stab of guilt he feels is almost a physical pain.

‘Edward.’

He opens his eyes to find Cornelius staring down at him, a dark eyebrow quirked.

‘I don’t know whether to be impressed or worried,’ he says, dry. ‘Deception is unlike you.’

‘I know.’

‘What is it you propose?’

Edward is silent a moment.

‘I am not yet willing to believe that the pithos is contraband. Miss Blake has already offered me the chance to use the pithos and whatever else I find in my studies, and so I shall continue along that vein until proven otherwise. In that way I have nothing to hide.’

‘And how do you intend to find out if it has been sourced illegally?’

He hesitates. ‘I need to discover how the pithos came to be in her uncle’s care in the first place. Beyond that, I do not know. I shall write to Hamilton as Gough advised. I must understand the implications for Miss Blake. If she were to be harmed …’ He trails off. Something shifts in Cornelius’ face. ‘I will not allow it. I must find a way to keep her name out of this and still write the paper for Gough and not have—’

Edward bites his tongue. He cannot say the rest. But he does not have to.

‘Not have Miss Blake find out.’

‘Yes.’

A pause. Edward looks up at his friend then to see his leonine features are set into an unforgiving frown.

‘Worried, I think,’ Cornelius murmurs. ‘Deception doesn’t suit you at all.’ Edward is unable to form a response, feels too choked with guilt to do so, and Cornelius folds his arms. ‘What worries me even more is that you are willing to risk so much for a woman you barely know.’

Again, Edward can say nothing. Not because he agrees with Cornelius, but because he does not – he is willing to risk so much, he knows, for his own selfish reasons.

And it is this that has him bowing his head in shame.





CHAPTER TWENTY





When Mr Lawrence arrives that evening on the skirts of the midnight toll and a fog that has in its essence the onslaught of choking damp, his eyes are uncommonly bright, as if a fever has taken hold of him. When Dora asks, Mr Lawrence presses her hand in his and says, only, ‘Wait.’

But waiting is difficult when one knows they are on the cusp of a thing, and by the time the basement is unlocked, the candles lit, and they are both sitting crossed-legged on the floor – the pithos looming before them like a sentinel – Dora is restless with disquiet.

‘Please, Mr Lawrence, you are quite worrying me.’

‘I do not mean to, Miss Blake. It is just …’

‘Yes?’

‘Forgive me, I fear of alarming you. There has been a development.’

There is something in his manner – why is it he looks so uneasy? – and Dora watches him struggle to form the words on his tongue.

‘It is the clay sample,’ he says finally. ‘I received the results today.’

She links her fingers to still them. ‘Is it a forgery, after all?’

Mr Lawrence hesitates. ‘It appears that it is quite the opposite. Miss Blake, it …’ He stops, tries again, gently. ‘This pithos. They can’t date it. Gough’s scientists claim that it predates history entirely.’

There is a beat of silence. A low crackle – as if the air has shifted and split – makes both Dora and Mr Lawrence jump. Movement catches Dora’s eye; one of the candles is flickering in its sconce. Nothing more, then, than a draught of air.

She takes a breath, looks to him once more.

‘Come now, Mr Lawrence,’ she says, ‘I sense a tendency for teasing in you, but this does seem a little extreme, don’t you think?’ And now Dora begins to anger. ‘Especially considering my predicament. This is a jest in poor taste, I dare say,’ she finishes and immediately he is raising his hands, palms forward, as if fending off a tiger ready to pounce.