something valuable goes missing, people tend to look for it. That’s a danger to us. If we supply copies, there is a reasonable chance they won’t look, at least not right away. That means less danger.”
“So what are you implying?” Harriman asked, a touch belligerent.
“I’m implying that you should get the workers to process these last crates immediately. If there is something that they cannot finish in time, we should simply leave it alone.” Bancroft’s tone was growing sharper. He sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself not to bang Harriman’s head on the desk.
“Do you mean that I should tell Keating the last crates have arrived?”
“In a word, yes. We can’t afford to have him looking high and low for his missing pots.” Bancroft leaned back in his chair, doing his best to look relaxed and in control. “Will there be time to do your business before Keating wants these new arrivals for his gallery opening?”
Harriman shrugged, looking sulky. “For some of the items. I’ll start the workers on them right away.”
“Now is not the moment to get careless.” The forgeries had to be meticulous, and for that Harriman had hired the finest company of Chinese metal workers. One or two were master goldsmiths who directed the others, but each one was highly skilled at some aspect of the work. They were excellent, obedient, and had been made available to work full time on the project.
First, the craftsmen made casts of the solid gold and silver pieces Schliemann had unearthed from the dusty Greek soil and re-created them in copper. Then a thin layer of the original metal was applied over the copper using some sort of wizardry involving electricity and cyanide. Gems were replaced with glass. Bancroft didn’t understand every last detail, but when the job was done, only an observant eye could tell the real object and its twin apart. Since Keating never saw the two together—and was not nearly the expert he thought he was—the deception was seamless. The Gold King became the Gold Plate King.
Then the originals were melted down and divided among Harriman, Bancroft, and four other investors who had bankrolled the scheme. The return on investment was staggering. Unfortunately, this particular golden goose had a short life span.
Harriman folded his arms defensively. “But I didn’t come here to speak of the schedule.”
There was a surliness in his tone that made Bancroft clench his teeth. “Then why are you here?”
“To speak frankly.”
“About what?”
Fear flickered behind Harriman’s eyes. The man dropped his voice so low he was barely audible. “To put it bluntly, your girl is gone. This isn’t the time to break in a new courier. I need you to come and get the final payment yourself.”
“You came today. Why not bring it to me?”
“No. I chanced it once. That might be interpreted as a social call by anyone watching. After what happened to the kitchen maid, I’ll not risk it again.”
“That’s nonsense.”
Harriman’s gaze grew furtive. “You’re in disfavor with my cousin. I can’t afford to be seen seeking your company. This time, I need you to do what I say.”
Bancroft bridled, but held his tongue. On some level he knew that Harriman, always the last and least of their pack of villains, was enjoying the moment. Finally, he had the power to give the orders. It was bitter, but it was medicine Bancroft knew how to swallow if it meant bringing the forgery scheme to a problem-free close. He would lie low and wait for his moment. “When do you want me to come?”
“I’ll send word to come when the time is right.”
Bancroft sucked in a breath. He could feel his gut roiling with anger, but his mind was utterly clear.
Harriman’s mouth tightened. “Bring a pistol.”
“Then I will bid you good day.” The man rose.
Bancroft rose, reaching across the desk to shake the man’s hand. It was clammy with perspiration.
Gold and secrecy were both so damned hard to get. He wondered how much the bastard would make him pay.
Chapter Thirteen
WEST END
Nick stretched his spyglass to its full length, balancing its end on the window frame of his fourth-floor perch. With a sense of satisfaction, he adjusted the brass tube slowly, pulling and pushing the slide until the image came into focus. There it was; the front of the tailoring shop on Old Bond Street, the tidy facade washed in spring afternoon sunlight.
The street ambled through the West End—the section of London that was home to the finest shops, gentlemen’s clubs, and fashionable residences. A steady stream of carriages and pedestrians passed up and down the avenues, but it was a leisurely sort of bustle, and one with lots of coin at its beck and call. Looking down on the scene, focusing in on his quarry, Nick had a flash of kinship with a hawk spying a flock of lazy, overfed pigeons. Lucky for them he was there to watch, not to hunt.
His vantage point was perfect. He crouched in an empty room in an empty building across the street and down from the tailor’s. It looked like it had been Disconnected. Dust clung to the corners; the oak floors were gritty with sand. By the few bits of furniture left, the place had once been a counting house. From its empty shell, he could see without being seen.
“Steam for a ha’penny,” came the cry from the street. It floated through the broken window like the fading memory of a dream. “Pennies for power.”
Nick winced. That crier wouldn’t last long if the streetkeepers found him. Rogue makers sometimes cobbled together engines small enough to move around on a wheeled cart, selling the power for everything from illegal forges and machinery to powering back-alley surgeries. Some used the steam hawkers because they’d rather buy from a person than from a company. Some simply couldn’t afford what the barons charged.
And there were always rebellious fools. From time to time, Nick got into trouble, but he was careful about whom he made his enemy. Speak courteously and finish every fight, that was his motto. Never leave an angry man behind you.
Two nights ago, Dr. Magnus had saved Nick from the police in return for information about Tobias Roth. Nick had spent the day paying that debt. He didn’t fancy owing a man like Magnus.
However, in the first hours of his researches, Nick hadn’t made a lot of progress. He’d followed Bancroft for a day and found nothing of interest, so today he’d decided to focus his attentions on the son and heir.
Nick knew next to nothing about the prat, except that he occupied the same house as
Unfortunately, today the rich boy had gone only as far as the tailor’s shop. Roth was still inside, taking so long that Nick began to wonder if they were weaving the cloth for whatever His Nobship was buying.
Nick swung the spyglass a hair to the left. A pair of steam cycles whirred by, moving twice as fast as any horse. He followed the sight of a pretty girl until she was handed up into a freshly painted Victoria drawn by a single gray mare. She was at least worth watching.
Although there was only one dark-haired beauty he truly wanted. Going to see Evelina had reopened wounds that were deeper than he remembered, and the fact that she’d grown to womanhood only made them throb the worse. All their history aside, the simple fact was that she had always been the only girl who’d ever made his whole being come alive just by walking into a room. He had recognized her scent like the return of
