by Robyn DeHart
Max looked down at Esme’s treasures. Normally he wouldn’t have given much thought to anything a woman had bought. Shouldn’t normally care about a lady’s trinkets or toilet items. But just as he was about to look away, something caught his glance.
He snatched up the jar of crème for a better inspection.
“See there, you’ve already ruined Lindberg,” Nick said.
Max shook his head, then he looked up at Esme. “Did you buy this at the little shop in Piccadilly Square?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes. A friend suggested it, said it’s all the rage right now. It’s supposed to remove unwanted lines from one’s face.” She smiled brightly. “Perhaps we’ll use some on you right here.” With her finger, she smoothed the skin between Fielding’s brows.
He swatted her hand away. “Those lines make me look distinguished. Otherwise I’d be just as pretty as Nick here.”
“Why do you ask?” Esme turned to Max.
“I had the opportunity to meet Miss Tobias recently,” he said.
“Isn’t she utterly charming? And so beautiful,” Esme said.
“Charming and beautiful,” Justin repeated. “You never mentioned that.”
“So she’s the lass who shot you?” Graeme asked.
“Not exactly,” Max said.
“Honestly, Max, you must be more careful,” Esme warned.
“I will endeavor to be so. Now if you would all excuse me, I’m going to see if Marcus is here.” He stood.
“Research library,” Fielding said. “He came in about an hour ago looking as stern and focused as ever.”
Max nodded and left the table.
He didn’t know Marcus Campbell well, only that he generally kept to himself, quiet and intently focused on his own particular research. That and he was building a unique machine that could be quite beneficial to Max.
As Fielding had said, Marcus stood behind a table in the research library poring over two large maps. He walked from one to the other, jotting notes in his notebook as he went.
“Marcus,” Max said as he entered the room.
Marcus didn’t acknowledge Max’s presence initially; he simply continued writing in his book. When he finished, he looked up.
“Ah, Lindberg, it’s you.” Marcus looked back down at the maps.
Max took a seat. “How goes the submersible boat, Marcus?”
Marcus looked up from his map. “I told you that you may not borrow my design.”
“Yes, you did. But you did not say whether or not I could actually borrow the boat.” Max shrugged. “Once it’s finished, of course.”
“For this Atlantis escapade?” Marcus set his notebook down. “I would need proof.”
“And more funding,” Max noted. “I heard the Americans are having another contest, awarding the winner two million dollars.”
Marcus scoffed. “They want war machines with torpedoes. What I am building”—he jabbed his finger onto his notebook—“is for scientific exploration.”
Max knew for certain that the plans for said machine were in that notebook—drawings, dimensions, and all of Marcus’s well-developed research. “Precisely why I would like to use it,” Max said, leaning forward. “I can assist with funding.”
Marcus was quiet for several moments before he spoke again. “You bring me proof, and we’ll talk,” he finally said.
“Proof,” Max repeated. “I’ll be in touch, Marcus.”
Without use of that submersible boat, Max would not be able to actually locate the lost continent. But to float above the sunken land, to get close enough to see the remnants of the buildings and the mountains, everything he’d seen illustrated in his map… That’s what he needed to do. He had to find some kind of proof, something Marcus could use that would convince him Atlantis wasn’t a lost cause.
Chapter Seven
Sabine sat quietly in the rented carriage. She took several deep breaths and waited for something to calm her rattled insides. Nothing did. She did not even know what had her so agitated. A healer should always check on her patients, and this man should be no different. Of course that wasn’t her true purpose, and he’d know that. Max Barrett was no fool. He’d see through her guise. Still, she didn’t know if he’d allow her to see the map otherwise.
She was out of time. Her nerves be damned; she had responsibilities. Without another thought, she opened the door and stepped down from the carriage onto the tree-lined street. Her gaze drifted down one side of the street and then the other. The houses were uniformly elegant and oversized. No doubt they were all as well appointed within as they were without. In the middle of all this ostentatious wealth sat the home of Maxwell Barrett. One of three residences, if Madigan’s research had been correct. He might be ridiculously wealthy and powerful by Society’s standards, but she would not allow this man to intimidate her. She was not without power herself, though hers was of a vastly different nature.
Dusk was settling as she climbed the stairs to the front entrance. The hazy blues and pinks of the sunset lit the horizon. She squared her shoulders, then slammed the large knocker against the black wooden door. The echoing sound seemed to mimic the pounding of her heart.
Before she knew it, she stood in the marquess’s foyer while his butler went to fetch him. She tried her best not to ogle the entryway with its high, painted Venetian ceiling and shiny marble floor. It was nothing short of breathtaking, and if she’d had any doubts before, this entryway spoke volumes about the marquess’s wealth.
One pat to her hair and then she smoothed her hand down the front of her bodice. Her new London attire was still a little unfamiliar to her, the way it molded to her body. She and her aunts had changed their dress when they’d moved here to better blend with the people. Her hand rose to her hair again, but she jerked it away. There was no need to preen for him, she reminded herself. It mattered not what he thought of her.
Still, as he entered the foyer, her heart leaped in her chest. The mere sight of him made her breath quicken and her pulse race. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she found herself utterly drawn to him.
“Miss Tobias.” Max’s sultry voice warmed her.
Annoyed, she brushed at her right sleeve, as if doing so would remove the effect his voice had on her.
It would do her no good to notice how handsome he looked in his starched white shirt and black coat. Nor the way his black trousers fit his long legs so well.
“I could make plenty of assumptions as to why you’ve come to visit me here at my home,” he said. “But perhaps you want to merely tell me so I won’t have to guess. It would go against the precedent we’ve set for our relationship, but let’s be daring, shall we?”
Her cheeks warmed in response to his effort to disarm her, but she refused to be charmed by him. She was not here to flirt or be wooed. “I came to check on your injury. How are you feeling?”
“You came all the way down here to inquire about my well-being? I’m touched, truly.” He flashed a knowing smile. “Well, if I must disrobe, we had best get out of the hall.”
She followed him into what she assumed was his study. It was obviously a man’s room, and the furnishings and fabrics stood out in dark blues and golds with rich woods. It smelled of brandy and tobacco and what she was coming to recognize as his scent. Hanging on the wall behind his desk was the map, huge and glorious. She longed to walk up to it and examine every tiny mark. The vibrant blues and greens of the alternating rings of water and land called to her, but she forced herself to look away.
“This is twice now you’ve gotten me to undress,” he said as he finished unbuttoning his shirt.
“You are incorrigible,” she said.
“Are you always so dedicated to your patients?” He shrugged out of the shirt and tossed it on the high-backed leather chair behind him.
She stepped up to him, ignoring his question, and touched near his injury. His skin was warm, but not feverish, and the stitches looked healthy, with the wound already beginning to close.
He moved his arm back and forth, then frowned. “It doesn’t hurt. I don’t think I noticed that all day.” He shook his head. “It hasn’t hurt all day. How is that even possible?”
She pretended to examine the wound further. “I told you it wasn’t very deep.”
“It hurt like the devil last night. Kept me up.” He looked down at his chest and ran his hand over the affected area. “Yet today it’s as if it were nothing more than a scratch.” He eyed her suspiciously. “My last gunshot took more than a week to heal, and it was little more than a grazing.”
“I gave you proper care. Those stitches are perfect,” she pointed out. “And you are in good health, so it stands to reason that you would heal quickly.”
“Not this quickly. What of that poultice you put in it? What’s in that?”
She shrugged and stepped away from him. “Herbs and other ingredients. It’s an old family recipe.”
“You always have an answer,” he said. It was quite evident he didn’t believe her. He grabbed her shoulder. “But that’s not why you really came here tonight.” He paused for several beats, and she felt very much like the mouse cornered by the cat. “You want to see my map?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, hoping she sounded casual.
“It is indeed a work of art.”
But the rogue didn’t so much as glance at the map as he spoke, instead choosing to stare boldly at her.
“The wager the other night, was I supposed to take that in stride? Not allow myself to become curious?” he asked.
“I told you everything you needed to know.”
He leaned against his desk, stretching his legs out in front of him. “No, you told me the absolute minimum.”
“You show up in my store demanding information.” She jabbed him in the chest. “Break into my store presumably to steal something. You, you kiss me,” she said indignantly, then added, “and now I’m supposed to simply answer your questions as if I’m to stand trial for something.”
“I did not steal anything, nor had I planned to do so. And I only went to your shop because of that wager you made. I am glad you finally admit you know something,” he said with a smile.
She opened her mouth, then promptly shut it. Damnation. Lydia had always warned her that her quick temper would get her into trouble.
“You are bloody stubborn, woman.” He held up his arms in defeat. “You came here tonight to see my map. Now you’ve seen it.” He motioned behind him.
But she needed more than a quick view, and he knew that. She said nothing, though. Instead she quickly tried to decide how much she could share with him, how much information she could divulge without putting herself or her aunts in more danger than they were already in. She glanced past his shoulder to the map.
“Answers are my price, Sabine,” he said.
What had she expected? For him to simply step aside and allow her to inspect his prized possession without ever telling him why? As much as it galled her, she was going to have to tell him something. It was the only way to find the prophecy. She had no choice.
“How about this?” he continued. “You ask me anything you want to know, I’ll answer. But then you must answer my questions.”
She squared her shoulders and tilted her chin, then met his gaze. It was a decent bargain. She couldn’t deny that she was curious. “Two questions; I’ll answer two,” she said.
“Fair enough.” His lips tilted in a quick smile.
“Wait, I haven’t decided if I’m curious enough about anything regarding you to make this bargain.” She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. Of course she was curious, but she didn’t want him to see her eagerness. Curiosity or not, she had to accept, but there was no reason to let him know of her desperation. She nodded.
She tried to decide the best questions to ask. Tried to wade past her own interest and instead focus on something that might assist her and her aunts. “Why do you have that map? What is your curiosity about Atlantis that led you to even search for it?”
“That’s two questions,” he teased, then he shrugged and answered. “I found that map many years ago after a childhood fascination with Atlantis. I’ve always had a curiosity about antiquities and myths, stories of lost treasure. The legend of Atlantis was my favorite. I suppose it simply stuck with me.”
“But why the fascination?” she asked.
“Treasure,” he said simply. “They say that Poseidon’s palace was made entirely of gold.”
She looked about the room—solid mahogany furniture, crystal decanters, fine leather-upholstered chairs. Even the way he dressed, despite his casual manner. The fabrics were all the best one could purchase. “You have plenty of wealth.”
A smile slid into place, then he winked. “There is always room for more.”
Questions asked and answered, yet she felt completely unsatisfied. She wondered now if she’d asked the right questions. Or if she should have agreed to three or even four. Perhaps she should have asked about why he had not followed his Society’s rules and married and produced an heir. Why he had kissed her the other night—but then none of those answers would have given her any useful information.
Then it occurred to her that he was probably lying. The night they’d played cards, he’d readily walked away from a lucrative wager to instead request nothing more than a kiss. Chances were he didn’t play at all to acquire wealth, but more for the sport of it. “Wealth,” she scoffed, then crossed her arms over her chest for added effect. “You could have made up a more believable excuse. If you want me to be honest, you must be in return.”
A muscle ticked ever so slightly in his jaw. “You are very perceptive, Sabine.”
“I never gave you leave to use my given name,” she said.
“I never have been good at minding my manners,” he countered with an arched brow.
“Answer my question honestly,” she urged.
“Very well. I went after that map to prove the existence of Atlantis.”
“So you admit that you are a scholar?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.
He chuckled, and the rich rumble was so authentic, so full of true humor, she fought the desire to smile in response. “Few would call me that. But I suppose there are less-fitting terms.”
“And did you?” she asked.
“What?” he asked.
“Prove the existence of Atlantis?”
Again she saw the slight muscle tense in his jaw line. “To some perhaps. But not everyone.” He pushed off his desk and crossed over to the chair where he’d earlier tossed his shirt. He slid his arms through the sleeves, but did not bother to rebutton it. Instead he left it gaping open. The resulting look was so sensual, so dashing, her mouth went dry. “There are those who still doubt, still believe the lost continent is nothing more than a piece of fiction penned by Plato.”
“But the map?” She ventured another peek at the map. “That is not proof enough?”
He made his way to the chair behind his desk. “A map is merely a drawing. I’ve heard rumors that Lewis Carroll has drawn maps of his fictional worlds, but no one believes those figments of his imagination prove the existence of Wonderland.” He said the words with such cavalier ease that she could not help but feel they hid great pain. Or perhaps she only imagined it because it fed her fascination with him.
“Indeed,” she said. She’d never spent much time investigating what it was that the rest of the world believed of her culture. Up until the last year, she’d lived in a small coastal village surrounded by other descendants of Atlantis, still living in much the same way as their ancestors had so long ago. Pride swelled inside her to think that there were people out there who longed to know the truth of the Atlantean people.
“Satisfied?” he asked her, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
“For now.”
He smiled broadly. “Now I ask the questions. Why are you after that map?” he asked. “The truth,” he reminded her. “I k
now you’re no map collector.”
It seemed safer to stay broad, see what he would accept, what she could avoid telling him. So she started at the beginning. “My ancestors were from Atlantis,” she began. “That map”—she pointed to emphasize—“is a family heirloom of sorts, and I only recently discovered it was here in London. With you.” That was all complete truth.
He leaned back in his seat and steepled his hands over his bare abdomen. In this position, his shoulders looked impossibly wide, his hands strong and firm resting against his tight stomach. As much as she wanted to deny it, she couldn’t help wondering what his skin would feel like if she ran her fingers down his torso, not in a medical capacity, as she’d touched him before, but a lover’s touch.
“You are a descendant?” he said. “From Atlantis?” There was nothing in either his tone or his expression that indicated how believable he found her story. Or if he’d decided she was utterly mad.
She nodded. “Yes. My aunts and I.” She paused. “Well, we are not the only ones, obviously. In fact, the people who escaped Atlantis and fled here before Atlantis’s Great War, well, they landed in several different ports along Britain’s coastline. They then mingled with the culture here at the time and, while some of us still live together in small pockets, others have been living with the English for so long they are no longer even aware of their heritage.”
She held her breath, waiting for him to laugh or toss her out. It was an admission she’d never made to anyone. Granted, she’d grown up among so many like her and her aunts, she hadn’t had much opportunity. Still, it was not something they discussed in the open. Their heritage, while not a secret, was fairly well guarded.
His left eyebrow slowly rose. Max watched her face for several moments, saying nothing. Then he opened his mouth to finally speak, but he paused as if considering something before he began. “I believe I’ll reserve my question until after you’ve examined my map.” When she made no move to look, he swept his arms open. “Please, look as long as you’d like.”
Excitement battered her insides as she made haste to the map. She stood as close as she could without pressing her nose to it. The prophecy was here somewhere. She only had to locate it. There were no words along the border of the map, nor in any of the corners. Perhaps it was on the backside, but she couldn’t very well take the thing off the wall and out of the frame. At least not yet.
