French cavalrymen to ensure that his fellows escaped.
The top of the stairs opened to another long room, very much like the one below, but this ceiling was lower. At the end of the aisle lay yet another door, closed.
“Jove,” Eden said. “You’d think with all this space, they could fashion an office a little closer to the stairs.”
Brewster guffawed behind him.
The lackey tapped on the far door and opened it after we heard a gruff, “Come.”
We entered a large room that was indeed an office. In contrast to the rest of the building, this chamber radiated luxury. Soft woven carpets covered the floor, and tapestries in bright blues, yellows, and reds hid the rough brick of the walls. The tapestries were not modern copies, I could see—my friend Lucius Grenville had a piece of tapestry from twelfth-century France, a hand-woven masterpiece. These were similar.
Furniture ranged from a desk of rich mahogany to a settee in the latest Egyptian style—carved ebony upholstered in gold-and-cream striped silk with small ivory medallion studs. Wing chairs exuding comfort sat next to delicate Hepplewhite, shield-backed dining chairs.
Plants took up the rest of the space, from palms to tall grasses, all contained in pots and containers. The room had a cool humidity, like a greenhouse, refreshing after the bleak emptiness of the warehouse without.
A man sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. The desk had been situated facing the door but a bit to the left of the room’s center. So that, I realized, if anyone tried to fire a weapon as they burst in, they’d have to sidestep and adjust their aim. This would give anyone at the desk time to take cover or for the lackey to disarm the intruder.
James Denis kept his desk sparse—I rarely saw anything more on it than one piece of paper or perhaps a book. This man had covered his desk’s surface with piles of books, ledgers, and papers, some of the papers rolled into scrolls. Pots of ink and several pen trays were in evidence, as though the man mislaid his pens and ink often and called for replacements.
Books filled shelves behind the desk and formed piles on the floor where the shelves ran out. The only piece of furniture not filled with clutter was a table, on top of which reposed a chessboard set up and ready for a game. It was not missing a queen, and the pieces looked to be made of jade, not ivory.
Denis never looked up at me whenever I was ushered into his presence, busying himself with making a note or finishing a letter, or at one time, partaking of a meal. I’d have to wait until he finished whatever he was doing, as though a call from me was of no importance, even when he’d sent word requesting my immediate attendance.
This man stared straight at me as I entered and rose when I approached the desk. Mr. Creasey was of a slight build with slender limbs and older than I’d expected, with a lined face and iron-gray hair.
Nothing elderly or feeble showed in his eyes, however. Those, which were a light shade of gray, regarded me with the coldness of a steel blade, no matter that his lips bore a slight smile.
“You’ve come from Mr. Denis, have you? I am curious as to why.” Creasey gestured to chairs before his desk, two of which were Chippendale style armchairs and one ebony with gilded arms and legs that was supposed to be Egyptian. It was clear its maker had never been to that part of the world.
“Indeed, Denis sent me. I am Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service, sir.” I clicked my heels and gave him a military bow.
“Lacey. Ah, yes.” His manner said he’d heard my name, but under what context, he did not say. “I am Mr. Harlow Creasey. Importer. Are these your servants?”
Creasey knew bloody well that Eden could not be a servant. Brewster was not exactly one, but he didn’t bristle. Brewster didn’t nod either, standing stolidly by, waiting to see what would happen.
Eden made a similar military bow. “Major Miles Eden,” he said coolly. “A friend to the captain.”
“I see. Please sit. These chairs are my own and not for sale, and I like to see them used.”
I decided to be gracious and settled myself on an armchair. Eden took the other armchair—the Egyptian style one looked most uncomfortable. Brewster remained stubbornly on his feet.
Mr. Creasey returned to sit behind his desk and