The Girl from Everywhere (22 page)

“Think about it,” Slate urged. “There would be no risk to any of you. You could spend the money however you want, as soon as you want, without worrying that anyone might put two and two together.”

How on earth could he manage that sum without
robbing the treasury in the first place? I would bet double that amount he had no plan. That would be like him: promise something impossible, and expect me to come up with his solution.

Still. It was a more honorable option, and it was heartening to know Slate had given it thought. Maybe he’d even been swayed by me. This time, I was the one holding my breath.

For a while there was silence. Even Mr. D had no pithy response, but then Mr. T shook his head vehemently.

“No. No, sir! Do you not see the issue at hand? This is not about the paltry sum of a million dollars,” he said, his voice breaking in his scorn.

“Not so paltry, surely,” Mr. Hart said. His face had broken out in a fresh glow, and he had dropped his hand from his holster. My heart beat faster at the look in his eyes; he was going to take Slate’s offer.

“Do not be swayed by mere riches, sir,” said Mr. T. “This is about the very future of the islands.”

“Yes,” Milly said. “And we stand to make much more if all goes to plan.”

“The rest of you do,” Mr. Hart said. “I am not so well positioned.”

“You may always continue borrowing from us.” Milly raised his bushy brows. “Under the new government, we should have enough to suit even your wife’s prodigious appetite. At least, for money,” he added snidely.

Mr. Hart looked as though he was being strangled by invisible hands, and I waited for him to burst, to shout, to push back, but Mr. D stepped in firmly. “Gentlemen, let us put this topic aside, please.” He leaned in to Slate with a self-satisfied air. “I told you, sir, we seek stronger leadership. Money is not our aim.”

“Not our only aim,” Milly said. He made a move toward the brandy decanter, but Mr. Hart took it himself and set it down out of reach before taking a folded square of linen from his pocket and dabbing his forehead. Still, he said nothing more.

“We may all have different motives,” Mr. D said. “But we have a common purpose. We are not brigands, Captain. We are visionaries. Your money will not be sufficient.”

My father sighed. “Then,” he said, and my heart sank, “I have no choice but to agree.”

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B
ack out on the lawn, the night air made me shiver. I hadn’t realized how hot the study had been.

The meeting had dispersed shortly after Slate had acquiesced. Mr. T had been eager to discuss the plan then and there, but Mr. Hart refused to have the discussion in his own home, and besides, Milly was entirely drunk. Mr. D promised we’d meet again midweek to talk through the particulars in a place offering more privacy.

Mr. D escorted us back to the party, where the dancers still reeled as though nothing had changed. I gathered my thoughts. I had to find Kashmir and tell him where the map was. Putting what I hoped was a blithe look on my face, I asked Slate if we could stay.

He didn’t answer right away. We stood at the edge of the grass, beneath the cloud of lanterns, as numerous and
brilliant as if the fixed stars had dropped to earth.

“This is a good map, Nixie,” he said at last. “This is the one. I can tell.”

I sighed. “Dad—”

“I know it. This is the last one. I promise you that.” Something in his voice made me look up into his restless eyes, and when I saw his expression, I very nearly believed him. Gooseflesh rose on the back of my shoulders, but then he grinned. “Enjoy the party.”

The captain made his way back toward the house, stopping to talk to Mr. Hart on the patio. I scrubbed my hands on my skirt and scanned the crowd—where was Kashmir?—but instead, there was Blake trying to catch my eye.

“Miss Song,” he called as he approached, folding his arm in front of his waistcoat and making a neat bow. The color was high in his cheeks. “May I have this dance?”

I hesitated, but it was the height of rudeness in the era to refuse when asked. How could I do so without further arousing his suspicion?

So we danced, his right hand warm and gentle at the small of my back, just above the pink bow. At first, I was stiff in his arms, but he was smiling at me and his eyes were the blue of the open water, so for a moment I let myself imagine
we were simply two young people whose entire purpose tonight was to dance on the grass under a hundred paper stars.

Then the moment passed and the song ended, so I prepared my excuses. But rather than removing his hand to clap for the musicians, Blake pulled me closer, his cheek next to mine, his lips brushing my ear, and whispered, “Don’t do it.”

Suddenly the polite applause of the crowd seemed to roar like crashing waves. My first instinct was to run, to forget the map, to simply escape, but I couldn’t even catch my breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt.

“You don’t? Let me explain.” The next number began. He held me firmly as the dance started—a two-step. “The men you met with. All members of the Hawaiian League, which supports annexation by America. Interestingly, not a single Hawaiian among them. Now,” he said as we spun across the grass, Blake advancing as fast as I could retreat. “I’m not one to claim that
haoles
can never have the interests of the natives at heart, but I will insist it’s the truth about these
haoles
in particular. So whatever the business is between your father and those men, don’t let him do it.”

“Sugar,” I said quickly. “Your father needs someone to
carry his cargo to California.”

Blake lowered his chin and sighed, almost regretfully. “My father is not a plantation owner.”

I was hot and dizzy, my feet like anchors, and the music of the band like the shrieking of the wind in a gale. The more I spoke, the worse it got. “Excuse me,” I said, pushing away from him. “I need to powder my nose.”

“I’ll escort you,” he said, still at my side.

“Don’t bother.” I quickened my steps.

“No bother at all,” he replied, still behind me.

I glared over my shoulder, but before I could object further, I ran directly into a man’s broad back. He turned and looked down at me with those weak-tea eyes. I swallowed. “Excuse me, Mr. Hart.”

“Pardon me, I’m sure,” he muttered. Behind him, my father raised his eyebrows.

I practically fled across the patio, but Blake dogged me all the way to the great hall. “Miss Song—” He caught my arm and I rounded on him.

“How dare you accost me?” I mustered all the outrage I could. “Remove your hand!”

He did so, lifting it, palm open, his eyes wide. “Now
that
was very nearly convincing. Very nearly.” He stepped closer,
his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s your crewmate, isn’t it? What is he? An assassin?”

“A
what
?”

“Certainly he is no tutor! Please,” he said, taking my hand, his eyes softening. “I don’t want to have to bring him to the attention of the authorities, but if you go forward with whatever you are planning—”

“And what will you report?” I ripped my hand away. “That we came to a rather dull party?”

“I’m certain I could come up with something better than that. It doesn’t have to be true. It only has to be worth investigating.”

I glared at him. Was he bluffing? But as frustrating as Blake’s questions were, I was more furious at myself. A fine job I’d done of distracting, leading him right into the hall! “I’ll tell you everything,” I said, desperate to get rid of him. “But not here. They might see us. Meet me in the garden in ten minutes.”

He stared at me, and I tried as hard as I could to look truthful. “I have another idea,” he said. “In here.” Then he put his hand on the door to the study.

“Mr. Hart,” I began, but I was spared coming up with another excuse when we heard a little gasp, followed by
shushing. We both turned; the door to the next room was cracked open. I caught, in the shadows, the glint of blue silk on a bodice and the curve of a man’s black coat sleeve. Mrs. Hart was in the drawing room, and she wasn’t alone.

And Mr. Hart was still speaking to the captain on the lawn.

Blake was red to the roots of his hair. I stared him down, and he looked away. Then I tossed my hair and left; he did not follow me this time.

I rounded the corner and stopped, pressing myself against the wall. As I did so, I heard a light, trilling laugh in the hall. “Oh! Blake, dear, what are you doing so far from the party?”

“I might ask you the same question,” he said.

Mrs. Hart’s reply was immediate. “If you must know, I was enjoying a moment of solitude. You know how exhausting guests can be. But now I’m ready to dance some more. Come, dear, escort your mother back to the lawn.” The sound of their footsteps receded.

I peeked out around the corner. The hall was clear.

My God. Now I understood the sly eyes, Mr. Hart’s embarrassment, Milly’s little joke. “Capable host” indeed. Scratch the surface, and you’d find Victorians were nearly as
obsessed with sex as they were with death.

But who was in the drawing room with her?

I shouldn’t have done it, but I crept toward the door, which she’d shut firmly behind her. As I reached out for the knob, it twisted. I stepped back softly, softly, as the door cracked open and a man peeked out. He was facing in the other direction, but I recognized the slicked black curls, and my jaw dropped. “Kashmir?”

He startled, seeing me, his eyes widening. I stumbled away, my fingers cold, my face hot. He came toward me, one hand out; not stopping to think, I ran into the study and pulled the door closed leaning against it so he couldn’t follow.

Kashmir and Mrs. Hart! What a disgusting flirt—the both of them! All this time I’d been fending off Blake, and there he’d been, with her and her blond curls and her tiny shoes and her faux-charming mispronunciation of Arab, while we were supposed to be concentrating on the map!

The map.

I shoved Kashmir out of my mind. He’d found a completely different distraction. There was no time for me to do the same.

The portfolio was on the desk where we’d left it. I took
it up with shaking hands just as the floorboards creaked in the hall. Kashmir coming in? No . . . there were two men’s voices, speaking low, right outside the door. I darted left a step, then right, but there was no place to hide.

A latch clicked—the hinge creaked—my heart stopped—

“Amira!”

I whirled around. The side door was open, and Kashmir beckoned me from the next room.

I ran through, pulling the door shut just as the men entered the study. I leaned on the heavy mahogany door, my blood pounding in my ears, willing my heart to slow down.

“What were you doing in the hall?” Kashmir whispered fiercely, but before I replied, he put his hand over my mouth. The men were speaking behind the door.

“Sir,” Mr. Hart said, “I am in debt to every single one of them! If I comply, they forgive the sum, but if I do not, they will ruin me!”

“You would be far away, and more than rich enough, besides.” That was the captain’s voice. “You could pay the debt twice over if you chose!”

“I could,” Mr. Hart said slowly. “But if I were to betray them, we would have to leave immediately. Mr. D, he—he would contact the authorities . . . with lies, to be sure, but
you must understand, though my brother was a scoundrel, he was quite well liked—”

“We could sail this evening.”

“And where would we go?”

“Anywhere you like.”

“Anywhere?”

My back was pressed against the door, and Kashmir was pressed against me, the portfolio sandwiched between us, one of its corners jabbing my thigh. Slowly he lifted his hand away from my mouth. There was frustration in his eyes, and it made me furious. I responded by lifting the portfolio and raising my brows, but he only shook his head. Then he stepped back from me on quiet cat feet and picked up a roll of paper leaning against the side of a blue upholstered chaise, giving it a little shake.

The map.

I ground my teeth and leaned the empty portfolio against the wall. “When did you—”

He put his finger to his lips. Then he beckoned me to step away from the door, but I took one step and his hand flew up again. He pointed down near my feet.

The hem of my new dress was caught in the door

I grabbed a handful of the fabric to pull, but Kashmir’s
frantic gestures stopped me. He handed me the map and reached up over his shoulder, drawing a short knife out from under his collar.

Mr. Hart was speaking again. “But there is one more thing you must do for me.”

“If I can,” the captain said.

“If you cannot, there is no hope elsewhere.”

“What is it? Well?” Slate’s impatience was palpable.

“They say . . . you and your crew have access to . . . all manner of strange and mystical items. And it is . . . I am not proud to say it, but I—I require . . .” The pause was so long I wondered if they’d left the room, but finally Mr. Hart continued. “I require a love potion.”