As a boy, he’d longed for an invitation to enter this room. His father had told him many stories about the important decisions that were made here, such as who would or wouldn’t be invited to become a member. “Only those who are worthy,” his father had said. And now, worthy or not, Fielding finally stood within its four walls.
Fielding shoved the memories aside; he didn’t have time for ghosts today.
Dark wood paneling covered the walls of the room, and a large table surrounded by straight-backed wooden chairs dominated the space. Swords hung on one wall along with a tapestry depicting a damsel in distress being rescued by a knight, his chest emblazoned with a red lion. As if the men of Solomon’s believed they were the bloody Knights of the Round Table.
When he noted only three men gathered around the table, Fielding asked, “You didn’t invite the others?” He did nothing to disguise the mockery in his voice.
“The others, as you put it,” the eldest said, “are fully aware of our meeting.”
“Do you require tea?” the butler asked.
Again the same man responded. He held his hand up, his long fingers withered with age. “That won’t be necessary. The brandy”—he motioned to the crystal decanter at the center of the table—“will suffice.” He was nearly Fielding’s height, which was something considering that Fielding was tall for an Englishman. This man, however, was at least thirty years Fielding’s senior, and while he certainly looked aristocratic with all his sharp facial features, Fielding doubted the man had ever been considered handsome.
Without an ounce of pretension or an invitation to do so, Fielding sat and stretched his legs out in front of him. The men followed his lead. Again the tallest one spoke, gesturing to his left. “Mr. Grey, this is Maxwell Barrett, the Marquess of Lindberg.”
Lindberg nodded. “We’ve met before, I believe,” he said.
Fielding remained silent. He knew very little of Lindberg, only that he had a reputation as a lothario. Fielding suspected Max’s golden hair and blue eyes made seduction rather easy.
“This is Mr. Nichols,” the tall man said, pointing to the man on his right. “And I am Jensen.”
“Merely Jensen?” Fielding asked.
“It is enough,” Jensen said. The man’s heavily lined face showed no emotion, but his shrewd black eyes—so black it was impossible to determine a difference in color between iris and pupil—spoke volumes. This was not a man one trifled with. He was used to getting his way, and he would do whatever it took to ensure that happened.
Well, Fielding wasn’t so easily manipulated. He’d dealt with men far more powerful than these.
Max poured himself a drink, then stood. “We have a business proposition for you.”
“So your associate informed me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Impressive that you tracked me all the way to Egypt.”
“We are aware of your existing profession as well as your previous . . . employment with the Raven,” Mr. Nichols said, his voice wavering like a nervous hen’s. The short, round man mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. “It is your experience with such matters that makes you uniquely qualified for our offer.”
Fielding leaned forward, resting both arms on the table.
“Are you offering me a position?” he asked. “I wasn’t aware that Solomon’s kept a staff.”
“Aside from those in our employ who work at our club, no, we are not generally in the business of employing staff,” Jensen said, his tone even and flat. “We try to keep our name and our existence as quiet as possible.”
“But since I already knew about you . . . ,” Fielding inferred.
“Precisely,” Max said.
Fielding understood what they meant, what they weren’t saying. They didn’t want him to be here any more than he wanted to be. They’d invited him out of sheer desperation. Satisfaction spread through him. He would most certainly refuse their offer. No matter what the task.
He’d be a liar, though, if he said he wasn’t the least bit curious. That was the one trait he shared with his father, and no matter how he tried, he hadn’t been able to rid himself of it.
To hide his curiosity, he leaned forward and poured himself a drink. “What is it that you wish me to do?” Fielding asked.
“It has come to our attention that the Raven has potentially located a specific and rather valuable antiquity. We cannot allow him to keep or sell it,” Jensen said. “Your uncle, after all, is not known for the most scrupulous of associations.”
That was putting it mildly. “You want me to steal it from him?” Fielding sat back in his seat and pondered the idea.
“You cannot deny you have experience with this very thing,” Jensen said.
“Stealing from my uncle?” Fielding laughed. “No, I can’t.” Solomon’s had had conflicts of interest with the Raven in the past, but the men here had never resorted to thievery. Whatever the artifact they were both after, it must be worth a fortune. He waited only the briefest of moments before asking, “What is the item?”
The three men exchanged glances as something went unsaid between them. Finally Max leaned forward and leveled his gaze on Fielding. “It’s Pandora’s box.”
