“You are a disappointment of the highest degree.”
He ripped off his cravat, relishing the burn of fabric at the back of his neck. Like Icarus, he’d aspired too highly, reached for things that were never meant for him. His once-optimistic aspirations were nothing but dung.
Wrenching out of his dress coat, he threw it at the suitcase, then lifted his face to the ceiling.
Why, God? Why did You let this happen? Ami doesn’t deserve a broken heart any more than those men in India merit certain death by poverty. It’s all my fault, and yet You could have stopped it. Why not? Why!
His head dropped, the last of his fury strangled by shame because he was right. This whole debacle had been his fault, not God’s. Flirting with power and fame was his own undoing. A deep sense of remorse draped over his shoulders, the weight of responsibility squeezing the breath from his lungs.
“Forgive me, God,” he murmured. “I ran ahead of You and made a mess of things. Heal the hurts I’ve caused. Protect the men I cannot. I don’t know how, Lord, but somehow would You make beauty out of this ash heap I’ve created?”
A sharp rap on the door abruptly ended his prayer. He sprinted toward it, hardly believing God would answer so quickly.
And yet that spark of hope was doused when he opened the door to a wild-haired man in a crooked bow tie.
“I thought I might find you here.” The professor swept a glance over him from head to toe. “Though I must say you don’t appear to be as ill as Lord Bastion claims.”
So that’s what the viscount had told everyone. A stalling tactic, one that didn’t bode well for it would give the man ample time to figure out how to crucify him. Edmund rubbed his hand over his face, weary of intrigue. “I am neither ill, Professor, nor engaged to Miss Woolsey.”
“I thought as much.” The man shoved past him without invitation and plopped into the overstuffed chair near the hearth. “Though I daresay Amisi could believe otherwise. Might I have a word?”
Edmund closed the door, dreading what this man might say. Better to make the first move himself. “I tried to explain, sir, to tell her she owns my heart, not Miss Woolsey, yet Ami would have none of it. She wouldn’t even open her door to me.”
“Nor to me.” The professor peered up at him, stroking his chin. “That’s why I tried the handle. She’s not there. She’s not in the ballroom, the dining room, the ladies’ lounge, and for good measure I even checked the conservatory out back. Dark as a pharoah’s tomb in there at this time of night.”
Alarm prickled up his backbone. If Ami wasn’t inside the town house, she must be wandering the dangerous streets of London at night. His gut clenched, and he grabbed his coat off the bed. “Have you any idea of where she might have gone?”
The professor produced a crumpled paper from his pocket. “I found this in her wastepaper bin.”
Edmund palmed the offering, arching a brow at the man. “Why would you be digging in her wastebin?”
“I know my daughter better than she thinks.”
He glanced at the short missive, though he may as well have been reading Sanskrit. “I don’t understand.” He glanced from the paper to the professor, looking for answers.
The man rose and, lacing his fingers behind his back, strucka lecturing stance. “Though you’ve likely already noticed, Amisi is not like other women. She doesn’t spend hours in needlepoint or at the piano. Her favored pastime has a decidedly more dangerous flair to it. In certain circles, she is known as the Shadow Broker, and she is no doubt going after the canopic jars mentioned in that note.”
“Shadow Broker?” he muttered, though even voicing it didn’t help to comprehend the words. He’d worked with brokers before. Most were determined, some ruthless, all intelligent. Edmund kneaded the back of his neck, thinking on what he knew of the fearless little Egyptologist. “What sort of negotiations would she...”
His words died. So did part of his soul. She was brokering a dangerous deal for the canopic jars. He’d bet everything he owned on it. His hand dropped lifelessly at his side.
“I see you’ve figured it out.” The professor looked down his nose at him.
“But this is foolishness!” He flailed his arms. “What sort of father allows his daughter to deal in such a treacherous fashion?”
The professor shot up his palm, staving off the accusation. “Amisi has a mind of her own, one that is not keen to bend to my will when she thinks there is a greater good at stake.”
“Thunderation!” he roared. “She’s gone to Whitechapel, hasn’t she? The most crime-infested rookery in all of London. We’ve got to get to her.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I’m not nearly as intimidating as you. Shall we?” The professor angled his head toward the door.
Where yet another knock rapped.
Edmund’s pulse soared as he dashed to the knob.
Please let it be Ami. Please let it be!
But it was a fresh-faced footman in midnight-blue livery holding out a tray with a telegram perched on top. “For you, sir.”
