“Eleven.”
It was Roy, looking smug and seedy at the very end of the table, directly across from Thomas and Cora. His presence tonight felt off to me, like an out-of-focus picture. Even I could tell he didn’t bear the same seriousness, the affinity for elegance and cloak-and-dagger bullshit.
“What did you say, Roy?” Ward’s voice was sharp.
He circled his finger around the room. “There’s eleven of us here.” He pointed to the chair right next to Freya, which looked slightly more ornate than the rest. “When are you going to tell us where the hell Bernard is?”
25
Freya
Just as Roy gave a ferret-like sniff and asked about Bernard, I felt my phone buzz in my clutch.
A long buzz, which meant an alert.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It was vibrating against my hands. And even though I was riveted by whatever the fuck was happening at this table, I was also riveted by an alarming thought.
Birdie Barnes could be getting messages on the Under the Rose site.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Ward asked.
The waitstaff stood at the ready, silent in the corners of the room. Food smells wafted in, blended with the birchwood fire. The room actually felt like history—from the 18th-century designs carved into the ceiling to the rows of academic texts that lined the walls. I would have been nerding out over the antique portraits if Sam and I weren’t currently pinned between Ward and Roy. And a missing Bernard.
“We can count, Ward. Where’s Bernard?”
Ward’s face was already flushing red. I was almost scared he would shoot Roy on the spot.
“Let’s sit,” Ward said—sharper this time. “Dinner is served.”
I watched them glare at each other, watched Roy finally look away, back down. Ward’s face became pleasant again, but the slick tension remained. Without music, only the pop and crackle from the fire served as background ambiance.
I wobbled a bit on my heels before lowering into my chair, pasting a fake smile on my face for Ward. The empty space between us felt even more conspicuous.
“What happens tomorrow evening?” Sam asked Ward. Anticipating my thoughts, as usual. In his tuxedo and perfectly neat blond hair, Sam looked like a classically handsome spy from the 1940s.
“You’ll see,” Ward said, placing his napkin on his lap. “The actual specifics are not up for discussion this evening, certainly not in such an accessible place as this.”
“Why does The Empty House choose Philosopher’s Hall to host this exquisite dinner?” I asked, switching subjects.
“Because they do a lot more than just host the dinner,” Ward said. He swirled amber whiskey, sipped it. “You see, the Philosophers see the value of what we do with The Empty House. Ensuring access to pieces of history—a democracy free from the oppressive hold of museums and libraries.”
“Isn’t this a museum?” Sam asked.
“It is not,” Ward replied. “But the equipment and facilities are still here. Which we’re grateful for, as you’ll soon discover.”
Buzz. Buzz.
My foot started to shake beneath the table. Nervous habit. The tremors worked their way to my knee. There was no way I could check this phone here, with the head of a secret society bearing down on me with a charming grin and a gun at his hip.
“Philosophers, academics, archaeologists,” Sam said, nodding at Ward. “Birdie and I have always found their sympathies lie with our own.”
“You know why that is, don’t you?” Ward asked. He leaned in closer—he smelled of whiskey and leather, reeked of ostentatious wealth.
Buzz. Buzz.
My whole leg was shaking now, fluttering the cream-colored tablecloth that draped across our laps.
“Please tell us,” Sam said. Casually, he placed his arm on my leg—elbow on my thigh, fingers gripping my knee. His arm was heavy, strong, skin hot through his jacket. His fingers squeezed firmly, quieting my nerves.
“Because we’re invested in the same profession. A profession that brushes up against the great works of history—art, manuscripts, maps. Do you know what it’s like to uncover a sixteenth-century tapestry and know that you’re the first to behold it in five hundred years? The first to touch it, to know the power that connects a modern-day explorer to a Renaissance master?” Ward’s face filled with greed. “It is an enchantment of the highest order.”
I could feel Sam’s touch and silently wished there wasn’t a barrier of fabric there. The slit in the dress rose above my knee—the side of his thumb was just brushing where bare skin met sequins. I was laser-focused on it.
“Do you believe an artifact can bewitch a person?” I asked.
“Like what, my dear?” Ward asked, enjoying himself.
“Like love letters,” I replied. “Do words of passion gain magical properties because of their history? Would two people reading those words fall in love?”
You gasping my name as we couple together is the only divine prayer I need.
“Is that why you’re fascinated with letters right now?” he asked.
My hands closed tightly around my fork and knife. Just tell me you fucking have them.
I looked at Ward, then down at Sam’s arm. Then back at the table, where half of the guests were openly listening to our conversation and staring at Sam touching me.
“Julian and I are available for bewitching,” I said.
Ward chuckled, looking between the two of us. “You know,” he said, “I once worked with an order of monks in Athens. Old monastery, magnificent. And they had the most beautiful Grecian artifacts I’d ever had the privilege to see. I was there on a mission for the university, studying religious art with a group of my archeology students.”
Sam’s thumb slipped beneath the fabric and caressed the side of my knee. Skin on skin. It was comforting and arousing all at once.
“And wouldn’t you know, Ms. Barnes,” Ward continued, “all of that art had been stolen.”
Sam’s thumb stopped.
“Stolen?” he asked, voice hard.
“Who would suspect monks?” Ward replied.
“Who would suspect an archaeologist?” I added.
Another chuckle from Ward. “The two of you are not what I expected. No wonder everyone is staring.”
Sam and I smiled, but his tone wasn’t entirely friendly. Jealousy?
Or suspicion?
Buzz. Buzz.
Sam’s thumb began working his magic again.
“But do we believe the antiquities in our private collections are imbued with a spirit?” Cora asked from the far end. “Could an artifact carry a curse instead of love?”
“Sure, it can,” Ward drawled. “There are tales that will set your hair on end about people stealing or disturbing an object that has cursed them. They might be superstitious folks, but I’m liable to believe them.”
“Why some objects and not others?” Thomas asked, face still red.
“Maybe the object isn’t theirs,” Ward replied. Embers in the fireplace popped, and I jumped in my seat.
“In that case,” Sam said, “wouldn’t we all be cursed?”
I admired Sam’s strong profile in the candlelight. When I used to feel panicky during undercover practice days at the academy, I would watch him take on the role of another person perfectly, like he was inhabiting their brain. It was like witnessing a concert pianist place their fingers on the ivory keys—that heady anticipation of genius.
Ward sipped his whiskey. Held Sam’s gaze for a tense five seconds. “Except the antiques in our collections want to be owned, Mr. King.”
Our plates were cleared, replaced with chocolate mousse and cordials and tiny cups of coffee. The staff carefully placed slips of thick paper and pens next to our chairs.
“You and I spoke of this in the basement just this afternoon,” Ward continued. He had lowered his voice but was undoubtedly aware the table was watching him. “But there are cracks in our little secret circle. My first edition o
f Don Quixote was stolen three months ago. Right from under my nose. A manuscript so rare it would fetch tens of millions at auction.”
Sam’s hand slipped beneath the material of my dress, his fingers closing around my knee.
“How could I forget?” he asked. “A true tragedy.”
“I guarantee you,” Ward said mildly. “The thief who took that damn book is probably up to his ears in curses right now.”
Sam squeezed my knee—still arousing, but there was a message there I read loud and clear.
Thomas. Who was sipping his cordial and chatting lightly with Cora—but I could see his jaw clench.
Buzz. Buzz.
I disengaged my leg from the comfort of Sam’s palm. “Be right back,” I murmured to him, hand on his shoulder. Slipped away from the table and asked the server in the corner where the bathroom was.
The minute I was out of that ornate dining room, I walked quickly, fingers already fumbling for my phone. The bathroom was on the second floor, up a wide staircase. I slipped out of my heels and ran those stairs, thankful the carpeting hid the sound. The second floor opened up into smaller sitting rooms filled with books and manuscripts in glass cases. One door I passed read Do Not Enter. The final door was the restroom. I sat on the toilet, propped my shoes on the edge of the sink, and scrolled through the ten alerts I’d received.
Two from Abe. Send any updates. Also, are you and Sam safe?
I sent a rapid chain of messages to my boss. George Sand love letters might be available tomorrow. Nothing confirmed, and not sure yet what “tomorrow” is. An auction maybe? The letters are definitely being talked about. Lots of interest.
I moved quickly, pulling up Birdie’s messages, trying to put out as many fires as possible.
She had five of them.
Palms sweating, I opened the first message. Another text from Abe popped up, blocking my view of the screen. Are you and Sam safe though?
The bathroom door creaked open, and I jumped out of my skin.
“Sam—” I started to say, hand on my chest, wheezing. “I was just—”
But it wasn’t Sam.
It was Thomas. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do,” he said. “Now.”
And then he locked us in.
26
Freya
“Th-Thomas,” I stumbled. “What are you doing here?” And did he hear me use the name ‘Sam’?
I hid my phone and stood, placing as much space between us as I could. But it was a minuscule bathroom with 18th-century dimensions. His presence triggered another burst of claustrophobia.
“I’m sorry to follow you like this. I’m not at my most dignified,” he said urgently. “But this whole thing is falling apart. The man knows, Birdie. He knows I took that Cervantes, and he knows I’m being punished for it.”
Holy shit. Had Birdie and Julian helped Thomas steal an incredibly valuable book from the man downstairs with the gun?
“Calm down,” I said, more for myself than him. “You know Ward. He loves a good show. Ignore him and focus on your plan.”
His nostrils flared. “Birdie, darling, you’re supposed to have the plan. That’s what we discussed.”
My stomach bottomed out. All those deleted messages, the gaps in the conversations. Birdie was a smart woman.
“Right,” I said, shifting on my bare feet. Without my heels, I was much smaller than Thomas. “Right, I know that. Things are tense down there. I’m a little…discombobulated.”
“Did you know he wasn’t going to show this weekend?” he asked. “We’re only in this mess because of him.”
“Who?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, who?”
Realization dawned on me.
“Bernard, you mean?”
“Yes, Bernard,” he hissed. “He wanted that Cervantes and he wanted those goddamn letters, and both put Cora and me in an extremely perilous situation. We could very easily take the fall for a lot of our leader’s misdeeds. This is why Roy’s blackmail threat cannot possibly be ignored.”
Blackmail. Cora and Thomas had been whispering frantically about it through the wall. What had Thomas said in the dining room?
It’s not about the money. It’s about the pride. Roy was blackmailing Thomas with the knowledge that he’d stolen Ward’s book. Loyalties in The Empty House shifted like sand on a windy beach. Who the hell could keep up?
“You’re absolutely right. Roy is a problem,” I said. “Maybe we should pay him off.”
“So you’re changing your mind then?” He took a step closer, a reckless gleam in his eye. There was no room to slide past him.
“We, uh, shouldn’t talk about this here. The guests will be wondering where we are.” I nodded at the door. “Let’s go.”
“Not until we figure this out. If we pay off that miscreant, he’ll never stop. He’ll drain us dry.”
He wasn’t wrong. Roy didn’t seem like a reasonable blackmailer.
“Bernard will know what to do once we inform him of the issue,” I said. “But he’s not here, therefore we can’t keep talking, Thomas.”
I tried to move around him, but he blocked my exit.
I stepped back again. Attempted a long exhale as my pulse fluttered. The walls were pressing closer. And closer. Goosebumps shivered along my skin.
I went for the doorknob. He grabbed it first.
“You and Julian could be in just as much trouble if Roy follows through on his threat,” he said. “Bernard cannot know about this. That’s what we discussed. We’ll only appear weak.” Thomas’s face was red. And growing redder.
“I know you’re upset,” I said slowly, “but you need to let me out of this bathroom, or I’m going to yell for help.”
He blinked rapidly, shuddered. He passed a hand over his gray hair and stepped to the side immediately. He looked utterly distraught. “Christ, Birdie, you must think I have no control over my actions.”
Yes, I fucking did.
“I’m sorry,” he continued. “Truly, truly sorry.”
“Don’t let it happen again. I will speak with you but at a more opportune time.” I kept my chin raised, spine straight.
He nodded, chastised.
And when he swung the bathroom door open, Sam Byrne stood there like a tuxedo-clad wrecking ball. His gaze burned ice-blue, his fingers flexed at his sides.
“Ju…Julian,” Thomas stuttered.
“Why were you trapping my colleague in a bathroom?” Sam asked, tone nonchalant but posture rigid.
“We were having a serious discussion, and I didn’t realize I was crowding her. I’m very upset.”
“And yet she expressed her discomfort multiple times.”
“How long were you standing outside?”
“Long enough.”
The man nodded. Gulped audibly. “I apologize again. It was not my intention to frighten you. Surely my wife is wondering where I’ve gone off to.”
Sam moved nary an inch, forcing Thomas to confront their six inches in height difference. Sam’s expression was murderous—like he wouldn’t hesitate to throw Thomas down the stairs and wanted to ensure he damn well knew it. Thomas practically ran down the echoing hallway, then down the carpeted staircase.
Sam gazed at me like I was long-lost treasure, finally discovered.
Long-lost treasure he was kind of pissed at.
“Will you feel comfortable if I close this door?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m not as claustrophobic when you’re around.”
Sam clicked it closed, and I twisted the tap on, drowning out our voices with running water.
“I need another minute here to delete messages that Birdie’s getting on the site,” I whispered. “Can you cover for me down there?”
“I can,” he said somberly. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Thomas told me that Bernard had him and Cora steal Ward’s book. And he said that Bernard demanded they steal the letters. That man is playing a mind ga
me I can’t figure out.”
He nodded again.
“And what the fuck is up with the vibe down there, right?” I blew out a breath, shaking my head. Sam’s massive body in this small space was starting to make me nervous. But not like Thomas had. “You and I will need to make a plan before midnight. Also, let’s admit it, the food was delicious. Those thieves know how to cater an event, am I right?”
“I told you not to leave my side.” His hands wouldn’t stop flexing—although his face was carved with worry. Had Byrne been worried about me?
“Hey,” I said, placing my hands lightly on his fists. “I’m okay. Thomas is a weirdo, but I would have kicked his ass from here to Sunday.”
“We’re in a dangerous situation, and you left my sight.”
“Our cover could have been blown, and I needed a safe place to make sure that didn’t happen,” I murmured. “I’m sorry I left you, but I didn’t have another option.”
“I thought you were hurt, Freya.”
Whatever space was left in that bathroom fell away, the outside world drowned out by running water and the blood roaring in my ears. The last thing Sam needed to be doing was saying my first name in a house filled with gun-carrying book thieves.
But the syllables sounded like pure, perfect magic on his lips.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. I was only trying to keep us safe. We’re partners now. I’ll always protect you. You’ll always protect me.” I touched his arm again. “That’s the deal.”
He stared at my mouth with a look bordering on fury. I could see the effort it was taking for him to restrain himself from acting—on what, I wasn’t sure. Until he closed the remaining distance between us. Gripped my face with those strong fingers.
Under the Rose Page 16
