But then, people did assume a cigar was a choice, not a craving. He picked one from the box at random. It would give him the peace of mind to get through dinner.
He took his time inhaling peppery tobacco, smoking the cigar down to the stub and letting it take the edge off his irritation. Eventually, however, the thought of someone looking for him made him reluctantly stand from his seat. Marginally calmer, or at least no longer itching, he left the stub in an ashtray and went back into the hall.
But as he stepped into the hall, he saw Sir Harold again, opening the door straight across.
Christ, could Wesley not even get a smoke in peace? “This one is the smoking room,” Wesley said impatiently, to Sir Harold’s back.
Sir Harold visibly startled. “Fine, old boy, I didn’t realize you were up here,” he said, a bit blustery as he quickly turned around.
HearingFinefor himself, when it had always been his father, when it was always going to be his elder brother, was at least less sharp this time. “The earl has some rare cigars.” Wesley could see Sir Harold had opened the door across the hall, his hand still on the knob. “Were you just in there? But that door was locked a few minutes ago.”
“It wasn’t locked when I arrived,” Sir Harold said. “Perhaps you didn’t turn the knob fully, jolly easy mistake to make.”
“I didn’t make a mistake,” Wesley said flatly. “I turned the knob fully. The door was locked.”
“Then I bet the earl himself had it unlocked!” said Sir Harold brightly. “My valet told me Lord Blanshard’s main collection is in here, I simply couldn’t resist taking a peek.” He pushed the door open wider. “Here, come see for yourself. The earl’s got all sorts of things in here I’m sure he’d love for us to admire. Jewels, weapons, a pomander from fifteenth-century Spain.”
“What, those perfume balls people used to carry instead of bathing?” Wesley had as little interest in antiques as he had in art, and he rather doubted the earl would want them to admire a collection that had been behind a locked door.
But then, maybe the earlhadunlocked the door, because what was the alternative explanation, that Sir Harold or his valet were going around picking locks on antiques collections? That seemed patently far-fetched, and regardless, it was an excuse to be late to dinner and engage in even less conversation. What more motivation did he need?
The main collection was in a library of sorts, with teeming bookshelves along the walls. Delicate carvings and gilding bordered the painted ceiling. The mural was of wolves hunting animals—and frightened peasants, a rather morbid artistic choice. Beneath the gilded ceiling, the antiques were set on glass-domed pillars every few feet: jewelry, sculptures, weapons—several weapons, in fact, and some even more sinister items.
Wesley stopped short at one display. “Christ, are those thumbscrews?”
“Terribly wicked, isn’t it?” Sir Harold sounded more delighted than disturbed, like a child enjoying a scare at a carnival show, not a grown man seeing real atrocities.
Wesley eyed the screws for a moment more. Perhaps the earl fancied himself one of those carnival showmen, shocking his audience with a ceiling of wolves devouring humans and torture devices on open display, but Wesley frankly wouldn’t be shocked by anything less than sorcery.
Past the screws was a collection of rings, then a small crystal bottle with a carved ivory case, perhaps eighteenth century. It reminded Wesley of thesal volatile, the smelling salts that he’d seen as a child in the Yorkshire country doctor’s medical bag.
He quickly moved on.
The next display held a pendant on a chain, and then there was a stunning astrological clock, with dials for the Zodiac as well as time. A small display tag readVictor de Leon, 1498.Wesley took in the clock for several moments, grudgingly admiring it. The dials were rings of gold inlaid in circles of onyx black, accented with a bright turquoise that reminded him of the impossible blue-green of the Caribbean he’d once seen painted on a tourist advert for Puerto Rico. The poster had been fanciful nonsense, of course; how could an ocean ever be such a color?
A few more displays down was the pomander Sir Harold had mentioned. It was a sphere about the size of an orange, made of filigreed gold and silver with a delicate chain. The gold seemed exceptionally bright, shining like it had just been polished.
Wesley bent for a better look. The pomander was nestled in silk in an opened box and the glass box surrounding it seemed thicker than the other displays—leaded, perhaps.Gascon de Ayala, 1495, its display tag read.
“Blanshard has a lot of things from the Spanish Inquisition,” Wesley observed.
“Maybe that’s where the screws are from too,” Sir Harold said, with relish. He clapped Wesley on the bicep. “Best get down to dinner, then.”
“I don’t remember employing you to manage my schedule.”
Sir Harold held his hands up. “It was just a suggestion. Lady Newton is right; you’d do better with a wife, Fine.”
As if Wesley would ever saddle some poor woman with his rude, curmudgeonly presence for public appearances’ sake. There was no one left but him now, so that meant no one could argue if he chose to damn well stay a bachelor forever.
He heard Sir Harold’s footsteps disappear, but Wesley lingered at the pomander. He might have described the item asunpleasant, somehow, if that wasn’t a patently ridiculous thought. It was undeniably fine craftsmanship, after all. But it was just so frightfully well-preserved, seemingly untouched by age, as uncannily bright as if it had been made the day before.
“That’s my favorite item.”
Wesley glanced toward the doorway. It was the Earl of Blanshard himself, standing in the outline of the doorframe. As with the men in the portraits that lined his hall, Blanshard was a thoroughly unremarkable man, perhaps in his forties, particularly pale with dark blond hair and a pointed nose and chin.
He wasn’t looking at the pomander, however. His gaze was on Wesley.
How long had he been watching?
