“But if I could just look at those records—”
“What?” he demanded with sudden exasperation. “You’ll find Oliver’s name written in one of the entries? It doesn’t work like that.”
“How would you know?” I said mulishly. “And maybe it won’t be Oliver’s name, but it will be someone’s name, which is more than I know right now.”
He let out a huff, as if this conversation was extremely inconvenient. “We can find out more information at another time.”
I bristled at this poor attempt to placate me. “But we’re here now. And this might be our only chance,” I pointed out. “Who else will have records like that?” He stared at me in silence as a muscle in his jaw ticked. I clenched my hands into tight fists and scanned the room. The auction would start soon, and I worried our absence would be noticed. There wasn’t time to wait. I looked back at Mr. Dorian and lifted my chin. “Either help me, or stay out of my way. The decision is entirely yours.”
Then I turned on my heel and stalked out of the room. I had a study to find.
Chapter 21
Ileft the ballroom and headed down a darkened hallway away from the other guests towards the back of the house, trusting that the servants’ staircase was somewhere nearby, as was usually the case in great houses like this. After taking a few wrong turns and opening the door of a closet, I finally found what I was looking for. The staircase was even darker than the hall and lit only by a single dim sconce. I pulled back my veil and hesitated, but then Mr. Dorian appeared.
“Having second thoughts?”
I bristled at his smug tone. “No,” I said pointedly and began to climb the stairs.
“Try the second floor,” he said after a moment, and I glanced back, though his face was mostly hidden in the shadows.
“All right.” I suspected this was not merely a guess on his part, but did not question him. When I reached the second floor, I slowly pushed open the door and peered out into the hall. It was empty. I opened it wider and exited the staircase. Mr. Dorian was close behind me, and together we crept through the silent hallway.
“Third door on the right,” he murmured by my ear.
“You certainly came prepared,” I muttered as I quickly stepped towards it. Then I turned the knob.
Locked.
Before I could even speak, Mr. Dorian had nudged me out of the way and was on his knees.
“Is that a lockpick?” I asked.
“I’m not sure why you sound surprised,” he said, while keeping his gaze focused on the task at hand. After a moment, something clunked within the lock, and he looked up at me with a grin. “I did come prepared, after all.”
“I didn’t realize picking locks was a skill you possessed,” I tossed off, since the man looked so ridiculously proud of himself.
Mr. Dorian kept his gaze on mine as he rose. “Oh, I have a number of other skills you haven’t even begun to imagine.” Then he shouldered open the door with an easy smile.
I will admit this answer shocked me a little, and it was a moment before I followed him into the room. A low fire glowed in the hearth, casting off a dim orange light. It looked like any other wealthy man’s study: dark wallpaper, heavy leather furniture, and shelves filled with books and other assorted bric-a-brac. I barely took in the smaller details, as I was here on a mission. Mr. Dorian was already behind a large desk and had turned on the lamp. I reached his side and immediately began pulling open drawers.
He placed a hand on my wrist. “Quietly, now. Try the bottom one. It’s larger.”
“Fine,” I said tightly. I tugged on it, and, unsurprisingly, it was locked. I stepped back and waved a hand at it. Mr. Dorian bent down and got to work. Within moments, he had opened the drawer, which was filled with files, and began riffling through them.
“They’re organized by year,” he said.
“Try 1889.” It was the year before Oliver left the service.
Mr. Dorian glanced up at me, but I avoided his gaze. He pulled out the file and stood, placing it on the desk. I immediately opened it and began scanning the documents. Mr. Buckley had been right. Sir Armstrong-Hughes did keep excellent records.
“This is a monthly inventory of every item auctioned off,” Mr. Dorian said. “Look, he even includes the country of origin, the buyer, and the amount paid.”
“And the seller,” I added, pointing to the column with my finger.
Mr. Dorian let out a low whistle. “I recognize some of these names. This man works for the British Museum. And this one is a famous conservationist.” He let out a disbelieving laugh.
But I didn’t care about any of that. There was only one name I needed to find. I quickly ran my finger down the column for the country of origin, and while there were a number of entries for Greece, nearly every time I looked to the seller column, only an X was listed. This appeared in a few other columns as well, but most often for Greece.
