The damp grass chilled her immediately, reminding her all too well she was clad only in her aging night rail.
“You’re not going anywhere, you little bitch.” Thatcher pulled her to her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. In one swift movement he had dumped her on the dirty floor inside the carriage. Then he jumped in right behind her as they began jostling down the street.
“Get up on the seat,” Thatcher snarled at her. When she didn’t move, he lifted her and shoved her onto the seat. “You can’t ride on the floor like that. We have a long trip ahead of us.”
She kept her legs pulled to her chest, trying to warm her body. But the shivering would not still. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed this scenario away. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Upon opening her eyes, though, it was all too real. Both villains were in the small confines with her. She pushed the curtain back as best she could with tied hands. If she couldn’t escape, the least she could do was find out where they were taking her.
The dimly lit streets of London sped by, and she tried to keep a running catalog of all the roads they passed. But soon they turned down a road she didn’t recognize and then another until she was thoroughly lost. She let the curtain fall back into place.
Esme was certain that the men could hear her heart pounding, so loudly did it beat in her chest. She willed her pulse to slow, taking steadying breaths. Esme closed her eyes. Perhaps if they thought her to be asleep, they would let their guard down just long enough for her to escape.
“What will we do with her?” Waters asked.
Thatcher cracked his knuckles. The sickening pops echoed against the small carriage walls. “We’ll take her with us to the dungeon. Then we’ll bring her to the Raven; he’ll get her to talk.”
CHAPTER 2
Fielding Grey stared blankly at the note in front of him. He’d read it at least ten times, and still the words remained the same.
Mr. Grey,
We have business to discuss. It is in your best interest to make yourself available. Contact us at your earliest convenience to schedule a meeting.
Sincerely,
The Members of Solomon’s 28 King Street
Fielding pocketed the note and glanced once more at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, wondering again why he’d bothered to come. Solomon’s. Until the impromptu meeting in Egypt, he hadn’t thought of this place, nor the men within, for a very long time.
These men with their pious attitudes and dreams of artifacts fooled themselves into thinking they sought treasure for moral reasons. They’d fooled his father with that nonsense, convincing him to chase after one such treasure. Ultimately, the chase had led to the destruction of their family coffers, followed by his father’s untimely death.
The room he sat in was typical of any gentlemen’s club, with its large leather chairs that were heavily buttoned, ashtrays and pipe stands on every table, a sideboard with trays of brandy, port, and scotch, and a quiet atmosphere. These clubs were meant to be refuges where men could escape the noise and bustle of their nagging wives and crying children.
And this club, in particular, was where his own father had escaped his family.
Fielding stood and walked to the back of the room where framed photographs hung against a mahogany-paneled wall. He scanned the images. Some were faded; others looked new and sharp. These were the men of Solomon’s. He recognized quite a few of them. Marquess Lindberg, who was rumored to be quite the rogue. Nick Callum, a second son, whom Fielding had known in school.
Each of these men represented a legend, or rather an obsession. Solomon’s was the most secretive club in Lon- don and the most exclusive. It was rumored to have been started by King Henry VIII, a man who himself was seduced by the thought of hidden treasures. Each member of the club was invited to join only after proving themselves experts in the study of a particular legend or myth. Every man was held up to the light, and his obsession, as well as his intentions, was heavily scrutinized.
Only the pure at heart could darken the doorway of the prestigious club.
No one with practical motives such as earning funds to pay off debts was ever considered, making it all the more ironic that he himself stood in this very room.
Fielding knew all about Solomon’s. These men would do anything for the opportunity to touch whatever treasure they sought. It mattered not if a member left a wife and son at home waiting and wondering if he would return.
Then a particular photograph caught his eye. Speaking of the devil. Fielding stepped closer to the wall for a better look. Second row from the top, fourth picture over—his father. Wearing his ridiculous hat and dusty clothes, he looked more like a servant than an aristocrat. Not much different, Fielding supposed, than he himself looked most of the time.
Damnation!
The similarities between he and his father ended there, he reminded himself. Fielding was not a dreamer.
Why had he come here? Mere curiosity, he’d told himself when he left the house this morning. Yet, standing here, facing his father’s photo and the ghosts of his own past, Fielding realized it was far more than that. There were answers he needed within these walls. The men of Solomon’s would pay for what they had done to his family.
The clock chimed the hour. Footsteps sounded down the hall. Perfect timing. From them, he expected nothing less.
A door to his right opened soundlessly, and a butler stepped forward. “Mr. Grey, they will see you now.”
Fielding took one last look at his father’s picture, then allowed the butler to show him into the room. The door closed behind him.
