The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (13 page)

"Moral what?" My laughter was part surprise, part outrage. "You told him where to stuff his committee, I hope!"

"Not in so many words. Although I did invite him to the opening of the Fighting Arts Society building on Friday. Can't afford to burn that particular bridge, at least not yet."

I couldn't imagine why Goddard continued to beat the dead dog of his academic career like that. His Cambridge star had risen quickly and burned bright. It was unfair that it all should have ended, as his silence on the matter suggested, in scandal. But he had built a new life for himself, an enviable life by anyone's standards. He had enough money squirreled away in banks across the continent that he could have founded his own university, would he not have considered it cheating. And yet I had the feeling he'd have given it all up for another chance to prove himself to those bastards.

"I've spent twenty-five years of my life in colleges and universities," he said with a resignation that did not suit him at all. "It's about time I realized how little advancement has to do with either effort or qualifications." He squeezed my fingers and withdrew his hands. Smiling tightly, he said, "But I didn't bring you here to talk about my failures."

He reached into the pocket of his coat--the coat that covered his black
samfu
, still slightly damp and redolent with the heady smell of his exertion--and produced a small, wooden box, which he pressed into my hand.

"I've been waiting almost a year to give you this."

The box itself was a work of art in black wood--not stained or lacquered--with brass hinges that looked cast especially for it. No materials wasted, no extraneous frills, and yet everything fit perfectly, beautifully together, so very much like Goddard himself I wanted to laugh.

"Yes, yes," he said with an abashed wave of his hand. "I had it made to specification. Now stop looking at the box and open it."

"Oh," I gasped as I lifted the lid.

The wind stirred the leaves, allowing a thin beam of moonlight to dance over the ring held firmly between rolls of black velvet. It was a golden snake, wound twice around itself, its tail knotted just behind its head. Its body was embellished with engraved scales, and two perfectly matched diamond eyes glittered up at me from an elegant head.

"It represents fidelity, loyalty, and eternity," he said quietly. "The late Prince Albert gave a similar token to Her Majesty, but its eyes were only rubies. Parsimonious bastard," he added with a wink.

I ran my finger over the head. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I'd ever seen, and I coveted it with all my heart. But there was a question inherent in the gesture, and I wasn't certain I was prepared to answer it.

"By God," I breathed. "It must have cost--"

He closed my hand around the box.

"It did. So please put it on before Christmas comes early to some light-fingered gutterpup. You'll find it an exact fit for your left pinkie."

Loyalty, fidelity--I had accepted these as conditions of my residence at York Street. An eternity there was something I'd never have dared dream. Two years ago, Goddard had said the day would come when I'd have to tell him whether I could return his affection. That day had arrived, and his expectation hung heavy in the air. There was more at stake, much, much more, than a simple circle of gold.

He pressed my hands between his and leaned his forehead against mine.

"It's unfair to pressure you like this, I know," he said. "But I've made my feelings clear. It's time you did the same."

How I wanted that ring! Loyalty, fidelity, and an eternity of silk sheets and fine tobacco. All I had to do was pledge my heart. At one time it would have been easy to simply say the words and accept the ring, regardless of how I felt. But I had come to respect Goddard, to like him. I wanted to tell him the truth of my feelings. The problem was I hadn't any idea what the truth actually was. I wondered whether Nate had struggled with the same question with his Mr. Sinclair. Oh, Nate! I did hope he had found his way to safety! Goddard deserved the truth. He also deserved to be happy.
Do you love him?
Pearl had asked. Did it matter? In the end, if both people are satisfied with the arrangement, who gets hurt?

And perhaps I did love him after all.

"Do you really have to ask?" I murmured. "How neglectful I must have been, if the answer wasn't perfectly clear."

His face split into a grin as I slid the ring onto my pinkie. It was just as he'd said--a perfect fit. He wasn't a large man, but fighting practice had given his wiry limbs strength and definition. As he pressed me into the trunk of the tree, I felt like no harm could ever come to either of us.

"You should be careful, Dr. Goddard," I mumbled against kisses both ardent and sweet, "under Labouchere's law, one little kiss could bring down your entire empire."

"Then we should make it worth the loss. On second thought, dear boy, you already have."

We rode home in companionable silence through quiet avenues lined with stately houses and softly glowing street lamps. Though Goddard wouldn't hazard a look in my direction, a gentle smile played about his lips, and his thigh was warm against mine. I had made the right decision. Only a few small twists of fate had placed me at Goddard's side that night rather than in some Whitechapel alley or, like Nate, in a brothel. Even if my affection did not match Goddard's for ardor, it might eventually. Even if it never did, Goddard's happiness, as well as the continuity of my carefully arranged life, was worth this small deception.

Only two things marred the perfection of the evening--my worry for Nate and the fact that our blackmailer was still at large. Nate's plan to pursue the brothel's special customers would shut down the trade, at least temporarily, and provide some relief to the victims. But putting aside the terrible danger he was bringing upon himself--danger which might have found him the moment he left my sight at the Criterion--how did he intend to send those poor people home, when he'd no idea where their home was, nor even how to communicate with them? He had to be working with someone, but he'd mentioned no one. Perhaps Pearl had heard something.

Speaking to Lazarus might also prove fruitful, much as I hated to admit it. Nate had mentioned the owner of the brothel had, like Lazarus, been a surgeon in Afghanistan. No doubt dozens of surgeons had served Her Majesty there. However, a man of advanced age with a reputation for unnecessary cruelty would have stood out like a sore thumb. If Lazarus was able to identify him, I'd only have to point my finger and let Goddard's men do the rest. In fact, Goddard himself could be a greater help than the rest of them put together. Nate couldn't stay at York Street, but he could live almost anywhere else under Goddard's protection. And Goddard had no reason to deny it. It could be my wedding present.

As the driver turned onto York Street, Goddard sighed and shifted on the bench. His fingers brushed against mine. Catching my eye, he allowed them to linger there. Blood pounded in my ears. I closed my eyes, breathing in the faint traces of his cologne and the more insistent smell of his desire. As I followed him out of the hansom and up the stairs, I fingered the golden snake wrapped around my pinkie and allowed my thoughts to dwell on the second cause of worry. The ring would be meaningless if Goddard was in prison, worthless if I had to sell it to support myself, once the house and its contents had been auctioned off for a fraction of their worth. I had to find the porcelain dog. And I had to figure out what Mrs. Wu had to do with it, and how her father fit into the whole mess.

In the vestibule, Collins was already divesting Goddard of his jacket and hat. Goddard turned to me and smiled warmly. I nudged the front door shut behind me, and he reached out his hand. He took my fingers in his, and I worried no more.

∗ ∗ ∗

The peace did not last the night. For the first time in much too long, we'd consummated our passion without a thought to our blackmailer. After, we drifted off to sleep, loose-boned and sated in one another's arms. But when the clock in the vestibule chimed me awake at two, my mind was abuzz with morbid thoughts, and the insides of my thighs were burning. As I turned over once again, Goddard's hand closed around my arm.

"Sorry," I whispered.

He pulled himself against my back with a sleepy mumble. The air was fragrant with passion, humid with sweat. It was all I could do to not leap to my feet and pace. If that weren't enough, that crawling sensation was making its way across my most tender bits and making steady progress toward the back passage. I was grateful for the sudden distraction of furtive noises coming from downstairs.

City nights are filled with curious sounds, but some are more curious than others. When one has done his fair share of sneaking about, the stealthy creaks and shuffles of someone who doesn't want to be heard announce themselves as distinctly as the bells of the Great Westminster Clock. There was an intruder at York Street--someone with the nerve to rob the Duke of Dorset Street in his very lair, and the unparalleled brilliance to get past the modified self-locking Chubb detector locks with which Goddard had fitted the doors--locks which had proven, to Goddard's glee, impervious even to my deft fingers and trusty tools.

Approaching the matter alone, clad only in velvet slippers and a silk
robe d'interieur
was unutterably stupid. How different my life would be now, had I but asked Goddard to accompany me! But the more time that elapses without constant threats to life and health, the more lax one's judgment becomes. And with the diamond eyes of my precious token glittering reassuringly in the light of my lamp as I crept down the stairs, I was determined to assume my rightful place as one of two masters of the house.

The vestibule was deserted. I took a cautious step onto the checkerboard tiles and cursed the slippers' wooden heels. The runner on the stairs had swallowed my footfall, but the slippers seemed to echo infinitely on the bare floor. I jumped when the grandfather clock clanged the quarter-hour. I'd have bolted back up the stairs, if not for the little golden snake. The privilege of a home meant the responsibility for it. One way or another, I would see the problem through.

I left the slippers at the foot of the stairs and tiptoed across the vestibule to the hallway. The door of Goddard's
sanctum sanctorum
was locked, and no light showed through the crack between it and the tiles. The noises began again, and were coming from below stairs. I padded back across the vestibule to the servants' door. It, too, was locked. Another curious thing--one of the cardinal rules of Goddard's house was that the servants' door always remain open. But the lock was a silly thing. I made quick work of it.

Without my slippers, my descent down the servants' staircase was silent. I stopped halfway down and peered over the railing into the kitchen. Knife in hand, the manservant was hunched over the broad kitchen table with his back to me. To his left was a pile of shiny red seed pods. With quick, efficient movements, he grasped a pod, slit it open, and squeezed the insides into a bowl before carefully scraping out the husk. It was the scrapings that seemed to interest him. These he carefully wiped off the knife onto a plate to his right.

I took another step.

Collins was, of course, within his rights to potter about below stairs at any hour. On the other hand, cooking was Eileen's job. Moreover, it was far too early for anyone to be preparing breakfast. But he wasn't preparing food. I'd never seen raw opium being processed, but everyone knew that the first step was to slit the pods and extract the nectar. My heart quickened. Was Collins stealing from Goddard's stores? I'd thought Goddard only worked with processed opium--powder, syrup, brown paste dried into bricks--but he had kept me largely ignorant of the details of his doings. He could have had his own poppy field out in the country, for all I knew.

I held my lamp over the railing and leaned in for a closer look. The metal groaned under my weight.

"If the master knew about that," Collins said without looking up, "he would have the railing replaced, and thus deprive me of a most effective warning system."

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" I demanded.

I stalked down the staircase, trying my best to look imperious. He didn't turn when I came up behind him, but merely sighed, his beefy shoulders drooping as if my presence were the last straw.

"I'm doing my duty," he said. "Can you say the same?"

"I heard a noise."

He was still wearing his day clothes. Either he'd put them back on, or he'd never gone to bed. His usually crisp white shirt was soft with the day's grime. The sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and he wore Eileen's stained apron. Whatever he was doing, he didn't want the evidence ending up all over him.

"Does your duty include stealing your employer's poppies?" I went on. "You're wasting your time. There's not enough there for a rat to fill its pipe."

Even the dimmest thug knew it took a lot more than a soup dish full of opium pods to extract anything of use. What Collins hoped to gain from such a small yield was beyond me. But now I had an excuse to be rid of the man once and for all. However, instead of panicking, Collins just laughed.

"My God, you're a stupid boy. To think I actually worried when I heard your footsteps."

"I'll tell him," I said.

He hadn't bothered to look at me before that, but he stopped laughing. He turned slowly on his stool and considered me, twirling the knife idly in his right hand.