Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,57

that’s not necessary.”

She lifted her slender shoulders. “I’d like to though.”

There it was again—that heat crackling between us. Surrounded by rich book thieves, there was no room to bicker or fight or even compete. And now I wanted to slide my fingers into that blonde hair and kiss her breathless.

“Julian? Birdie?”

Ward stood at the foot of the table, face a mask of regal self-righteousness. Freya and I quickly mirrored the poses of those around us—who all stood nobly, hands clasped to their chairs.

I knew Ward’s type—humble beginnings he used for show, and a life spent perfecting his social performances. “The formal dinner is about to begin. Welcome to Philosopher’s Hall, which has dutifully housed The Empty House for fifteen years. Our inner circle has certainly changed, but there are always thirteen of us—thirteen who have met at Reichenbach Falls and still believe in a man’s word above all else.” He rocked back on his feet, looking briefly like the humble rancher he styled himself as. “Hell, I’m not sure there’s anyone I trust more than the twelve people standing in this room right now.”

“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.