“Maybe.” She looked troubled. Arthur wondered if she was thinking of the burn mark on the statue too. “You’ve got Pavel’s potions?”
“Right here.” Arthur pulled the cigarette case out of his tuxedo jacket and held it temptingly out to Rory.
“How’s that case gonna stop aura-sight?” Rory reached for it. “It’s just silver—” He hissed and yanked his hand away. “You coulda said you put lead in it!” he said, and shook his fingers out like he’d touched a live wire.
“I had to make sure it worked, and your subordinate psychometry was the best test.” Arthur tucked the case away. Rory was still giving him a dirty look, so he winked and said, “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Yeah, you will,” Rory said meaningfully. “And I got ideas on how, starting with that thing you just did in the foyer—” He slapped a palm over his mouth and looked at Jade, wide-eyed. “Sorry,” he mumbled behind his hand.
She sighed, but Arthur could see another grudging smile forming. “Ace, get back in your cab. Rory, with me. Let’s get you in that mansion.”
Rory bit his lip, gaze going to Arthur. Then he took a breath and nodded.
Arthur’s heart stuttered at the brave face Rory was putting on. “Find me as fast as you can,” he said, with a fresh pulse of anxiety for Rory’s safety. If Mansfield was willing to commit treason, to sell the relic to the Germans, what would stop him from selling Rory and his psychometry with it?
As Rory took Jade’s bag from Arthur and turned away, Arthur bent his head to Jade and whispered, “This is the worst plan we’ve ever had.”
Her eyes said she knew it too, following Rory as he walked down the alley. “We have two missions at odds with each other.”
Use Rory to steal the relic. Keep Rory safe. “You’re certain Plan B will work?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to it.” Jade set her mouth in a determined line. “But if it does—I’ll make it work.”
The cab took Arthur back to Fifth Avenue and up to Mansfield’s mansion, a Gothic structure rumored to be the subject of a bidding war among eager developers. Arthur glued a smile to his lips as he was shown into the mansion’s enormous reception room to greet his host.
“Arthur Kenzie.” Mansfield’s cold eyes lit. He was flanked by four men, none matching Rory’s description of the henchman with the knife. “You decided to grace my party with your presence. Your father must be in a fit,” he added with relish.
Arthur reluctantly shook his hand. “Luther, how are you,” he said tonelessly, in his most vacant party voice.
“Never thought I’d meet a Kenzie with a lick of class,” Mansfield went on, “instead of one kowtowing to the immigrants that swarm this city like roaches.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, how dare refugees knock politely at customs and ask not to starve. They should show the good manners ofourancestors and murder their way through this land. How gauche to not even bring slaves.”
Mansfield jabbed a finger at him. “You think you’re clever, but you’re just parroting your father’s politics. Use your head, boy. If you let everyone with a sob story in, soon America’s a ruin like Europe.”
Bit rich coming from a man whose fortune relied on exploited immigrants, to now rant about ruin from a Fifth Avenue mansion. Arthur forced a shallow society smile. “Lucky us, then, getting here while they still let sob stories in. If she’s cute in a skirt, why should I care where she’s from?”
Mansfield huffed loudly. “Idiot boy,” he muttered.
It was plenty loud enough for Arthur to hear, but he ignored it; if Mansfield thought him a fool, so much the better.
He left Mansfield behind as he moved into the open space with marble floors and an enormous chandelier and up the grand staircase curving up to the first floor. He needed to get eyes on Gwen, if he could—or, more accurately, make sure Gwen didn’t get her eyes on Rory.
Entering the grand salon, Arthur lifted a glass of sparkling grape juice off a passing waiter’s tray, eyes peeled for the fraudulent waiter he wanted to see.Give Rory time, he reminded himself.
He headed straight for the wall, where he’d have the best view of the room. By the west windows, a string quintet played a lovely arrangement of Vivaldi’s “Winter” and a table displayed hors d’oeuvres around a jellied salad of cabbage, sliced green olives, and diced tomatoes.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. He’d trade the lot for one pork bun from Dragon House. Or if Rory truly cooked Italian food, he could certainly make something far more enticing with those tomatoes—
“Arthur!”
He turned at the familiar voice. “Mrs. Younger,” he said to the lovely woman, one of his sisters’ longtime friends. Marie Younger’s dark bob was accented with a feather that perfectly matched her sequined gown. He took her hand in his own. “I knew this room seemed unnaturally radiant.”
“Always such a terrible flirt,” Marie said, smiling. “Alice didn’t tell me her favorite brother was coming tonight.”
Arthur raised a brow. “Harry’s here?”
“You wretch. You know you’ve been everyone’s favorite since you were born.” She tugged his arm. “Half the Vassar sisters are here and you look an absolute dream. Let me show you off. Josephine is going to cast a kitten when she sees Alice’s baby brother in a tux.”
