Pandora(61)

Edward clears his throat. She is not sure if it is with annoyance or unease.

‘Please, Dora, do not mind him. Anything you wish to say to me can be heard by Cornelius.’

She does mind. But that, she decides, is a discussion for another time.

‘The woman, Lady Latimer, wants the pithos for a soirée she is holding on Saturday night. Themed. Exotic, she says, which is why she feels the pithos is the perfect centrepiece. She is to pay a great deal of money for it.’

‘How much?’ Mr Ashmole asks.

Dora hesitates, dislikes his presumption at asking such a thing, but she answers all the same.

‘Three hundred pounds.’

Edward whistles. He retrieves a glass from the table beside him, takes a long sip. The liquid is dark brown, a hint of red in it. Brandy, perhaps?

‘The pithos will be taken to her on Friday. I am to accompany it at Lady Latimer’s request and I had hoped, Edward – Mr Lawrence,’ she corrects quickly when she perceives Mr Ashmole send her a sharp look, ‘that you would come with me.’

Edward looks pleasantly surprised. ‘Of course.’

Dora sighs in relief. ‘Thank you, thank you so very much. I confess I do not wish to be alone with my uncle when it is taken. I would feel much safer if you were there.’

Edward smiles and she feels a warmth go through her, a pleasurable feeling that dips and turns in the seat of her belly, only for it to be rudely interrupted by Mr Ashmole clearing his throat. Dora blushes, looks away, finally takes a sip of her wine.

‘Tell me,’ says Mr Ashmole to Edward, his voice a pointed drawl, ‘have you heard back from Hamilton?’

That awkward silence again. Dora blinks across her glass. Edward clasps his between both hands.

‘I left a note, as I already told you,’ he says carefully, ‘but have had no response as yet.’

‘Who is Hamilton?’ Dora asks.

Edward takes a breath, sends a pointed look to Mr Ashmole which the gentleman greets with a smile and an arrogant cock of his head.

‘The expert I mentioned. The one I asked if you would object to my seeking advice regarding the pithos.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Dora remembers. ‘But surely there is no need for him to advise you now?’

Another look passes between the two men. No, something is not right, she is sure of it now. What is amiss here? What part does Mr Ashmole play in her business?

‘What exactly did your uncle say when he discovered you had been in the basement?’ Edward asks, interrupting the train of her thoughts.

Dora blinks. ‘He did not react in the way I expected, did not seem much put out at all by the mention of the black-market.’

‘But you are convinced he is involved?’

‘Absolutely positive. If you had been there, you would have seen from his manner he was hiding something.’

‘Did you ask him about the safe?’

‘No. We moved so swiftly on to the pithos that I forgot to ask.’

‘And what did he say about that?’

Dora frowns at the memory. ‘It was most odd. He asked if I had opened it. He looked almost fearful when I said I had.’

Edward frowns too. ‘Fearful?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because you opened the pithos?’

‘Yes.’

‘How extraordinary,’ says Edward.

They fall silent again. In the hall Mrs Howe hums a baleful tune, painfully off-key.

After a moment Mr Ashmole crosses his booted legs, stretches them out, rests his heels against the tiger’s head and he looks at Dora then, and Dora does not like the direct way in which he does it.

‘Well,’ he says slowly, stretching the word out over his tongue, ‘there must be a reason why he was so particular about it. Has it not occurred to you there might have been something inside?’

Disliking his sardonic tone, Dora decides to match it. ‘But there was nothing in it, sir.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

She gives a short, disbelieving laugh, angry now at his audacity, his arrogance, his assumption that he has any right to question her on the matter at all.

‘What is it to you?’ she asks sharply.

His eyes widen slightly. For a moment Dora thinks he is impressed at her spark but then she notices Edward, his look of discomfort, of embarrassment, of shame, even, and all of a sudden Dora is weary. It will not do to bring herself down to Mr Ashmole’s level. It will not do at all.

‘Yes,’ she answers, softening her tone, ‘of course I am. There was nothing. I’d have noticed, I’m sure.’

‘Then,’ Edward’s friend replies, ‘this may for ever remain a mystery.’

From the small table at his side Mr Ashmole raises his drink, smiles into it. The afternoon sun streams like rods through the windows. One of the beams lights upon the liquid in Mr Ashmole’s glass, and the crystal patterns amber diamonds against his chin.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX





‘What is wrong with you?’

The door has barely shut on Dora’s skirts before Edward turns on Cornelius. He feels mortified, completely mortified that a woman he so admires can be treated in such a cold, unfeeling manner.

‘How could you behave so rudely to Miss Blake?’