“Phinneas’s vision was right,” Agnes said. “He said a great one would find the map and lead the way to our salvation.”
Madigan reached into his coat and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. “I’ve given you his name and address. Unfortunately, that is all the information I have on him.” He placed his hand over Sabine’s. “It is imperative that you get that prophecy. Without the map, you have no hope of surviving the Chosen One.”
Sabine made no move to unfold the paper once he’d placed it in her hand. He’d given her this task. He was trusting her to retrieve the one thing her people had sought for years. She kept her eyes on the man in front of her. He was a few breaths away from dying.
“How long have you known about this?” she asked.
“About the man who has possession of our map? Not long. Initially I only knew it was an Englishman. It took me awhile to uncover his identity,” Madigan said.
“Will he sell it to us?” she asked.
“No. I already tried that a couple of months ago,” Madigan said. He grabbed her hand. “You can do this. We must have the prophecy.”
Sabine swallowed.
He eyed her aunts. “We have no other choice.”
Madigan had died that night in their storeroom, a most painful and terrible death. As a girl, Sabine had watched her mother die and now another guardian had perished. She would do whatever was necessary to keep Agnes safe.
So she did what any lady in need would do. She hid in a darkened carriage outside the gentleman’s home and waited for him to go out for the evening. She knew he planned to go out, as he’d readied a carriage for himself an hour earlier.
Madigan’s note had not given her much information about the Englishman in question, one Maxwell Barrett, Marquess of Lindberg. She knew where he lived and she knew that he had in his possession the legendary map of Atlantis. Madigan had been studying Mr. Barrett for a couple of months, but as it turned out, the man was rather mysterious.
Madigan had said the man would not entertain bids to purchase the map, which left her with two choices— she could break into the man’s home and, in effect, steal the map. Technically she could make an argument that the map belonged to her and her people, yet she doubted that she would make much headway with the authorities should she get pinched.
Or she could try to persuade him to allow her a peek. The latter seemed infinitely preferable to a small prison cell. One could not protect the world from a prophesied disaster if one were trapped in prison. But if tonight’s efforts proved to be a complete failure, then she would certainly reconsider the theft. A woman had to do what a woman had to do.
He was a member of London’s illustrious Society; certainly, that meant he was a reasonable fellow. She simply needed to make the gentleman’s acquaintance. Tonight seemed as good a night as any, plus she didn’t appear to have the luxury of time on her hands. If the ancient prophecy had already begun, then the hourglass had been turned, and the grains of sand were swiftly falling around her. Without the prophecy in its entirety, Madigan was right, they were basically fighting blindfolded.
If she were to persuade a man to do her bidding, she knew there were certain distractions she could use to her advantage. One was beauty. Though she had never been particularly comfortable playing the role of seductress, she had done her best to dress the part tonight. She’d donned a gown the English would deem appropriately attractive, an ivory gown sewn of the most luxurious of silks. It fit her perfectly, which in itself was remarkable, considering she’d purchased it from the display in the shop’s window. The cap sleeves edged with delicate lace revealed her upper arms. Then, from fingertip to elbow, she wore matching satin gloves. The gown’s plunging neckline lifted and squeezed her breasts until they were practically bursting through the material.
She’d also had Calliope do her hair up in light wispy curls that barely brushed her shoulders, just hinting at their softness. She very much looked the part of a proper English lady. She fidgeted with the necklace hanging around her neck. To others, it would appear to be a simple gold chain, but hanging from the necklace, and hidden beneath the bodice of her gown, was a crystal vial with a small amount of elixir. Agnes had given it to her months ago and instructed her to keep it with her always.
From her vantage point, she saw a man in a greatcoat, the black wool stretched across his broad shoulders. He put on a top hat as he stepped off the last stair and into the waiting coach. Then it rolled out of the driveway. She instructed her driver to follow.
She hadn’t yet figured out how she would sneak into the ball or soiree, or wherever he was going, without a proper invitation. Perhaps her lovely dress and a well-placed smile would grant her admission. She kept her eye on the carriage so she did not lose her man. But her driver stayed close. She wished she’d seen his face, though, as it seemed unlikely she would recognize him in a crowd. All men of wealth wore similar coats and hats.
It took less than twenty minutes for them to pull up outside a three-story redbrick building. The man walked up to the black door and entered. Sabine noted there were no identifying markers indicating the type of establishment, though she assumed from the neighborhood that this was a business and not a residence.
The street was quiet as she stepped down from her rig. Nerves fluttered wildly in her abdomen, and she pressed a gloved hand against her stomach to calm herself. Now was not the time for her to feel anxious.
She had a job to do; it was plain and simple. With a pinch of her cheeks and a tight nibble at her lips to pinken them, she made her way to the door. She would mill about, watch for a while, then find the gentleman in question. The heavy door opened, and Sabine found herself standing in a smoke-filled gaming establishment.
She nearly scoffed. The most prized artifact of Atlantis was in the hands of a gambler. She had half a mind to be utterly incensed, but perhaps this could work to her favor. With that thought, she went in search of the marquess.
CHAPTER2
Max picked up his hand and glanced at the cards, a lousy combination that on its own would win nothing. It was why he loved this American game—for the bluffing.
Even with a mediocre hand of cards, he could win.
His table mates were a motley crew, and he had very little difficulty deciphering when they held good hands or when they knew they would lose. Two of the older gentlemen had made excuses and left the table when the betting had increased. Now only four remained. A grizzled man with a full shock of white hair and a voice deep and cracked. A young man, perhaps one could even consider him still a boy, as not even a hint of whiskers appeared on his chin. And the Earl of Chilton sat across from Max, a fine opponent when he wasn’t drinking. Tonight, though, the man had had one too many sips.
The fourth player was, by far, the most interesting. A woman, dressed in a cream-colored confection with a plunging neckline that left very little to his well-developed imagination. She was the kind of woman one expected to see across a candlelit ballroom surrounded by suitors, not in a smoke-filled gaming hell surrounded by drunken fools. With her lustrous, mahogany-colored hair and her warm caramel eyes, she was nothing short of stunning. Though her darker complexion led him to believe she wasn’t originally from England, she had no accent to give him a hint of her homeland.
Though he’d never seen her before, she certainly looked like a refined lady, but he wasn’t completely convinced. While she had the mannerisms down and the look just right, something was different about her. And he knew he had never seen her before, as she was not the sort of woman a man forgot.
Initially, Max had found her distracting, but after losing to her two hands in a row, he’d straightened his seat and kept his eyes off her tempting cleavage.