Chapter 18 - 18 b - The banquet pt 1

Let's answer some questions real quick. Nathan or someone in the Institute is most likely going to produce a vaccine for the Spanish flu, however that will he in about 10 chapters or so maybe a little more. Nathan Drake , founder of the institute, is supposed to slowly vanish from the public eye in the sense of eccentricity, giving the impression of a reclusive family, but one that still maintains control over the institute and its direction, eventually being taken over by his ' son and grand son and so on, it's simply a coincidence that they simply look eerily alike. I'll be answering the rest of your questions at the beginning of the next chapter.

Onto the chapter friends

...

The next morning he passed Walter Price's street beneath a sky that had settled into the colour of dirty pewter, the overnight rain reduced to a fine mist that seemed less to fall than to hang between the houses. It gathered along coat shoulders and hat brims, beaded on iron railings and made the cobbles shine darkly beneath the passing wheels of carts. Every carriage that came through sent a thin spray toward the pavement, and pedestrians picked their way around the deeper puddles with the distracted irritation of people who had already decided they were late for somewhere warmer.

The police had turned Walter's house into something public.

Two uniformed constables stood near the gate while a third attempted to prevent a loose collection of neighbours from crowding the front steps. It achieved very little. Those pushed away from the entrance merely migrated beneath the awnings opposite, where they could stare with the added comfort of shelter. Women who might ordinarily have exchanged no more than a nod with Mary Price had discovered urgent reasons to remain in the street, and several men from neighbouring shops stood outside in their aprons, watching the investigation with the solemn patience of people convinced that if they waited long enough the murderer might eventually be dragged through the doorway in chains. Two boys had already been ordered away once and had reappeared farther down the road, just beyond the point where a constable could chase them without abandoning his post.

Markus remained on the opposite pavement with a newspaper folded beneath one arm, giving the house no more attention than any passing gentleman might reasonably give a murder scene encountered on his morning walk.

"He was doing the accounts," Mary cried from somewhere inside, her voice carrying through the open door with the strange strength grief sometimes found after tears had exhausted everything quieter. "That's all he was doing. He'd had his supper, he went into the study with his whisky, and I heard that shot from upstairs. I heard it, and by the time I got down there he was—" Whatever she saw again in memory destroyed the rest of the sentence, and her voice collapsed into something raw enough that even the neighbours across the road stopped whispering for a moment.

Markus kept walking.

There was nothing inside Walter's house he needed to see. He already knew where the chair stood in relation to the desk, knew the position of the family photograph beside the lamp and the way the spilled whisky had crept through the open household ledger after Walter's hand struck the glass. He knew how the light had caught the rim of the tumbler, how Walter's mouth had opened around a breath that never became a word, and exactly how long the house had remained silent after the shot before the first floorboard creaked overhead.

Daylight did not improve any of it.

"Mrs Price, I know this is difficult, but I need you to think about whether anyone had threatened your husband recently," a plainclothes officer said from the hall, speaking with the deliberate calm of a man who had learned that frightened people often answered better when nobody sounded hurried. "Anyone who followed him home, anyone he'd argued with, any debtor who became particularly violent."

"Enemies?" Mary demanded as she appeared in the doorway, clutching an unfastened cardigan across herself with one hand while wiping angrily at her face with the other. Several strands of hair had fallen loose from a hurried pinning and hung damply around her temples, and exhaustion had hollowed her features enough to make her look years older than she had two nights earlier. "He collected money for Billy Kimber for half his bloody life. You want me to name everyone who hated Walter for knocking on their door? You'll need more paper than that."

The younger daughter stood several feet behind her, recognisable even without the sewing basket that had rested in her lap when Nathan last saw her through the window. Both arms were wrapped tightly around herself now, one hand clenched around the opposite sleeve hard enough to pull the cloth out of shape, while an older woman rubbed the same small circle between her shoulders again and again. The girl looked toward the street without seeming to see anyone standing in it.

"He wasn't some monster," Mary continued, her anger giving the words enough force to carry beyond the officer and out toward the neighbours listening beneath their umbrellas. "I know what he did for money. I knew it when I married him. He was still my husband. He had girls sleeping upstairs when somebody walked into our home and shot him in his own chair."

Markus had already passed the gate by then, though Mary's voice followed him for another half block.

He did not comfort himself with the familiar lie that he had somehow failed to understand what killing Walter would do to the people who remained. Walter had told him plainly enough. There had been girls upstairs. There had been a wife who would wake beside an empty space. There had been a household whose habits would continue for days before everyone inside finally stopped expecting one more pair of footsteps in the passage or one more hand reaching for a coat near the door.

None of that had been hidden from Nathan when the Colt rose.

It was simply louder when someone else gave the consequences a voice.

Farther down the road, three young men stood beneath the shallow overhang of a closed shop, close enough to watch the Price house without standing so near that the constables felt obliged to move them on. Markus recognised what they were before he heard a word. Two wore their caps with that familiar hard tilt, while the third kept both hands buried in the pockets of a long coat and allowed his attention to wander repeatedly toward the policemen at Walter's gate.

"Billy's not coming down here himself, is he?" the youngest asked, spitting into the gutter before glancing toward the house again. "Not today." He sounded as though he already knew the answer and merely wanted the others to confirm it.

"Walter wasn't some twelve-shilling collector," the smoker beside him replied, taking a long draw before allowing the smoke to escape through his nose. He looked older than the other two by perhaps three years and wore those years with the contemptuous authority of a man convinced they represented wisdom. "He was around when Billy still bothered walking half these streets himself. Show some bloody respect."

"I know who Walter was," the younger man said, knocking one heel against the bricks as though the correction itself had insulted him. "I'm saying Billy's got Whitmore tonight. He can't spend all day standing outside here while the coppers ask questions when half the money in Birmingham's going to be sitting under one roof."

Markus passed without slowing.

Whitmore meant nothing to him yet.

The rest of the sentence did.

"Coppers don't want Billy anyway," the third man said, lifting his chin toward the house as another officer stepped through the doorway. His hands stayed buried inside his coat while his eyes followed the policeman down the steps. "They want whoever walked into Walter's study and shot him while his family were upstairs."

"You reckon it's somebody coming after us?" the younger man asked, lowering his voice enough that the smoker turned toward him with open disbelief.

"Who's coming after you?" the smoker asked, flicking ash into the wet street while the third man began laughing. "Nobody knows who you are."

The younger man swore at both of them, which only made the laughter worse.

Markus had gone several yards farther when the conversation returned to the part that mattered.

"Vale'll be there tonight, won't he?" the younger man asked, apparently deciding a different subject might recover some of his dignity. "Saw him yesterday getting fitted for a collar looked like it was strangling him."

"Tom goes anywhere Billy wants people reminded who matters," the smoker replied, grinding the cigarette beneath his heel before straightening from the wall. His attention moved once more toward the Price house and then away. "Whitmore wants the steel men and foundry lot looking around that room and seeing Billy there with the rest of them. Billy wants them seeing the same thing."

"What does Whitmore get?" the third man asked, shifting his weight against the wall while the mist thickened just enough to darken his shoulders.

"Same thing rich bastards always want," the smoker replied, pulling his coat closer around himself. "Other rich bastards knowing he's got friends they haven't."

"Griggs going?" the younger one asked, glancing between the others.

"Maybe," the smoker said, and the uncertainty itself was useful. "Charlie's never been much good at a dinner unless somebody's being thrown out of it."

Their laughter followed Markus to the corner.

A tobacconist's window offered enough reason to stop without making it appear that he had stopped for them. Pipes, silver cigarette cases and rows of tobacco tins filled the display, while the glass returned the street behind him in a dark, distorted reflection. The three Birmingham Boys remained beneath the shopfront. Walter's house and its policemen stood farther beyond them, reduced by distance but still surrounded by the little audience death had assembled.

A banquet.

Whitmore.

Steel men and foundry owners.

Billy attending openly.

Vale beside him.

Possibly Griggs.

By the end of his first week in Birmingham, Nathan had expected to know more than he had on the first morning and considerably less than he wanted. That was the proper shape of an investigation. Over those days he had worked from the outside of the Birmingham Boys toward the middle, learning which boys carried messages before identifying the men who received them, then following collectors until older names began repeating themselves often enough to matter. Walter had finally given him the direct connection between Tom Vale and the order to kill James, and Nathan had expected the next useful step to require patience.

Instead Birmingham had handed him a room.

Not a back room above a betting shop where every unfamiliar face would be noticed, nor a warehouse where anyone arriving without obvious business became a problem before crossing the floor. Whitmore's banquet would be full of industrialists, financiers and businessmen from Birmingham, Coventry, Wolverhampton, London and probably farther still, wealthy men accustomed to meeting other wealthy men they had never seen before and might never see again.

Markus studied the silver cigarette cases another moment, then walked on.

The public house he entered several streets later stood far enough from Walter's neighbourhood that the murder had already begun acquiring details no one involved would have recognised. One customer insisted there had been two shots. Another had heard three men were seen running from the rear garden. A third knew somebody whose sister knew Mary Price and therefore considered himself qualified to state that Walter had been killed over gambling debts of his own.

Nathan bought whisky and allowed the dead man to acquire whatever new life gossip intended to give him.

"Whitmore?" Markus asked once the publican had finished explaining why the police were probably wasting their time, lifting his glass as though the name had only just surfaced from memory. "Industrial fellow?"

"Sir Frederick Whitmore," the publican replied, sliding Markus's coins into the till before resting both hands against the counter. "Engineering, steel, machine works, warehouses. If you can make it out of metal, Whitmore probably owns a company doing it badly and charging twice what it's worth."

Markus took a drink and waited rather than asking another question.

The publican continued willingly.

"Made a fortune before the war and another one since," the man said, taking up a cloth and dragging it through the damp ring left by somebody else's glass. "Machine tools, railway fittings, shell components, contracts from London. Got interests all the way toward Coventry if half the stories are true."

"Ambitious," Markus said, turning the whisky slowly beneath his fingers while watching the man through the glass rather than directly.

"Rich," the publican corrected, and the bitterness beneath the word suggested he considered the distinction important.

"I've noticed the two are often confused," Markus replied, drawing a short laugh before allowing his gaze to drift toward the shelves behind the bar. "He's entertaining tonight?"

"Banquet," the publican said, leaning one forearm against the counter now that he had information worth giving. "House in Edgbaston. Been planned for weeks."

"For what?" Markus asked, glancing back with just enough interest to encourage him.

"Showing off." The publican smiled faintly at his own answer before continuing. "Factory owners from Coventry, foundry men from Wolverhampton, railway people, munitions people, council men who'll pretend they're there socially and spend the whole evening talking contracts. Heard there's a few coming up from London too. Anyone with enough money that everybody else wants to say they met him."

"And Billy?" Markus asked, watching the faint tightening around the man's eyes when the name entered the conversation.

"Invited," the publican replied, lowering his voice despite the nearest customer being much too far away to hear. "Proper guest too. Through the front door with everyone else."

"Civilisation advances," Markus said, and the publican gave him a look before noticing the slight movement at the corner of his mouth.

"Whitmore's used the Boys for years," the man continued, polishing the same patch of counter after it had already become dry. "Deliveries stay where they're supposed to. Competitors get less enthusiastic. Strikes suddenly don't last as long as everybody thought they would. All very respectable once somebody writes security in the books instead of intimidation."

"And tonight makes the arrangement respectable?" Markus asked, lowering his glass.

"Tonight makes it visible," the publican replied at once, and the speed of the distinction made Nathan pay closer attention. "That's the point. Whitmore wants the other factory men seeing Billy standing in his house like any other guest. Billy wants them seeing it too. Nobody has to explain afterward who can do what for whom."

The banquet was not hospitality.

It was display.

Whitmore could show that the man protecting his interests entered through the same front door as railway directors and industrialists, while Billy could demonstrate that men like Sir Frederick considered him useful enough to be seen with publicly.

"Vale?" Markus asked, letting the name enter his voice casually.

"Tom Vale?" the publican replied, thinking as he put the cloth aside. "Wouldn't surprise me. Billy keeps him nearby when he wants people taking something seriously."

"Where does Whitmore live?" Markus asked, and the publican began laughing before the question was properly finished.

"You're thinking of going," the man said, shaking his head while studying him anew.

"I haven't said that." Markus rested one elbow lightly against the counter and looked faintly wounded by the accusation.

"You've got the look."

"I wasn't aware I had one."

"You've got several." The publican grinned despite himself and then gave him the road in Edgbaston, describing the house only far enough to establish that it would be impossible to miss once the carriages began arriving. "But you don't just walk in."

"How disappointing," Markus murmured, turning the glass between his fingers.

"Invitations," the man said, his amusement fading into something more cautious. "Proper ones."

Markus finished the whisky.

"You really are thinking about it," the publican said, watching him pull on one glove with the expression of a man observing a lunatic who had not yet become dangerous. "You'll get thrown into the road."

"That would crease the trousers," Markus replied, smoothing the glove over his wrist until the leather settled properly.

The publican laughed despite himself, though the sound faded once he remembered who else would be inside Whitmore House.

"And if Billy's people think you've walked in because of him?" he asked, lowering his voice again.

"Then I'll endeavour to look as though I've come for the soup," Markus said, setting the empty glass down before turning away from the bar.

The publican watched him leave with an expression divided almost evenly between amusement and suspicion.

That was fine.

Nobody needed to know who Markus Wright was.

They only needed to believe there was enough money somewhere behind him that asking too many questions might be impolite.

Nathan understood that kind of camouflage better than most. A poor stranger attracted scrutiny because every deviation from expectation required explanation. Where had he come from? Who employed him? Why was he here? How would he pay?

A wealthy stranger could become mysterious without becoming suspicious.

Perhaps he had inherited abroad. Perhaps his money came through investments nobody in Birmingham recognised. Perhaps there was a private patron behind him, one of those men whose fortunes had become so large they employed younger men to inspect opportunities, spend freely and return with opinions. Most people would never insist on learning which explanation was true while the banknotes in front of them remained genuine.

He did not return to the Grand.

There was no reason.

Markus did not need an office, a broker, a false company history or a collection of clerks willing to swear they had known him for years. His usefulness depended upon appearing only when Nathan required him and disappearing again before familiarity hardened into expectation. A handful of respectable sightings would be enough: a good tailor, an outfitter, a jeweller, a hired motorcar, money spent without hesitation and the suggestion of resources extending beyond whatever happened to be visible.

The commercial streets nearer the centre offered everything he needed.

He chose the tailor by the window.

Not because he knew the reputation, but because expensive shops had a particular way of advertising that price was beneath discussion. No figures appeared in the glass. Two suits occupied a display large enough for ten, surrounded by so much deliberate empty space that the absence itself became advertisement, while the brass lettering beneath the awning had been polished to a brilliance the neighbouring shops had surrendered to soot years ago.

The bell above the door gave a restrained little note when he entered.

A young assistant looked up from folding cloth and immediately began the polite assessment required whenever an unfamiliar man stepped into an expensive establishment. His eyes moved from Markus's coat to the gloves, down to the shoes and back again, trying to decide whether the stranger could afford to waste his employer's time.

"Your finest evening suit," Markus said, removing one glove and laying several Bank of England notes on the polished counter before the assistant could complete his judgement. The amount was enough to send the young man's eyes first to the money and then sharply toward the curtain at the rear of the shop. "I need it tonight."

"Tonight, sir?" the assistant asked, touching the notes only after Markus gave a slight nod. Whatever objection had been preparing itself visibly died the moment he understood the sum in front of him.

"Tonight," Markus repeated, glancing toward the fitting area while the young man began gathering the notes with considerably more care than he had shown the cloth. "Something suitable for dinner in Edgbaston. I have been informed Birmingham has decided to become social without consulting me."

A laugh sounded from behind the curtain.

An older man emerged with a measuring tape hanging around his neck and spectacles low enough on his nose that he could look over them without moving his head. His eyes went to the notes, then to Markus, and professional disapproval immediately began wrestling with commercial enthusiasm.

"Our finest is made, not taken from a rack," the tailor said, coming around the counter while the assistant quietly put the money somewhere it could no longer be mistaken for a joke. "If you want finest, sir, finest requires time."

"My benefactor has always considered time a difficulty other men should solve," Markus replied, removing the second glove while the tailor's eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly at the word benefactor. "Tonight I find myself sympathetic to the philosophy."

Curiosity appeared.

It did not become a question.

The money had already answered the part that mattered.

"What time?" the tailor asked, gesturing Markus toward the raised fitting platform while the assistant hurried to clear away a half-finished garment.

"Six," Markus replied, stepping up without hurry.

The tailor stopped dead.

"Seven if you intend to become emotional," Markus added, and the older man's mouth twitched despite himself.

"Where are you dining?" the tailor asked, settling the tape across Markus's shoulders while the assistant returned with chalk and a notebook.

"Whitmore House," Markus replied, raising his arms when instructed.

The tape paused for less than a second.

"Sir Frederick's banquet?" the tailor asked, his eyes lifting toward Markus's reflection.

"So I'm told."

"You're told?" The tailor moved around him and measured the chest, though the expression visible in the mirror suggested the answer had interested him.

"My patron considers industrial men useful," Markus said, allowing the tailor to turn him slightly by one shoulder. "I consider dinner useful. Between us, I expect the evening to justify itself."

The tailor laughed quietly.

His assistant listened with considerably more interest.

Nathan gave them nothing else.

The benefactor did not need a name. The lack of one improved the story. A well-spoken man appearing in Birmingham with cash, expensive clothes and some invisible fortune behind him was more memorable when people were allowed to invent the missing pieces themselves.

"Mr...?" the tailor asked, pencil poised over the fitting book after Markus stepped down from the platform.

"Wright," Markus replied, adjusting one cuff while the assistant wrote it.

"Mr Wright," the tailor repeated, testing the name once before turning toward the bolts of cloth he had already begun considering. "If I'm to commit a crime against tailoring and have this ready by six, you'll return at five for a fitting."

"I'll bring bail money," Markus said, pulling his gloves back on as the assistant laughed before the tailor looked at him.

Markus left without asking for a receipt, and the tailor did not consider one necessary after accepting enough money to cover the work twice over.

The important part remained behind.

Three respectable people would now remember Markus Wright.

They would remember the money first.

That was preferable.

The outfitter two streets farther along required even less effort.

"A formal shirt, collar, gloves, tie and whatever else prevents a man from being thrown out before the first course," Markus said, resting one hand lightly against the counter while the clerk looked him over and began retrieving boxes almost before the request was finished.

"Whitmore's dinner, sir?" the clerk asked as he measured Markus's collar, apparently having heard enough conversations that afternoon to know where Birmingham's wealthy intended to spend their evening.

"Is there another banquet worth dressing for?" Markus asked, allowing the man to turn the tape beneath his collar.

"Not tonight," the clerk replied with a smile, returning to the shelves. "Half the city seems to be going."

"Then I shall endeavour not to sit beside the dull half."

The clerk laughed as he returned with several pairs of gloves.

Another face.

Another respectable shop.

Another man who would remember the stranger because he spent more than the purchase required and behaved as though the amount meant very little.

A jeweller came next.

"These," Markus said, indicating a simple pair of platinum cufflinks rather than the ornate set the man had begun to remove from the case. "The others look like something a man wears because he's afraid nobody has noticed his money."

"Some gentlemen consider that the purpose," the jeweller replied, looking from the plainer cufflinks to Markus with the professional neutrality of someone accustomed to wealthy men having peculiar opinions about wealth.

"Then they should simply carry the banknotes on their forehead," Markus said, and the man's laugh escaped before he could make it suitably discreet.

Markus paid in cash, declined the offered case and had the cufflinks wrapped in tissue instead.

By the time he stepped back onto the street, he had been seen in three respectable establishments in little more than an hour and left essentially the same impression in all of them: money, confidence, an unseen benefactor and absolutely no inclination to explain more than necessary.

That was enough.

He did not need them to know where he slept. He needed nobody willing to swear he had been in Birmingham six months, because by the end of this first week Markus Wright was not supposed to have roots. If questions followed the banquet, the answers would be simple.

Yes, Mr Wright had been there.

Yes, he had money.

Yes, he mentioned a patron.

No, nobody knew who the patron was.

Because the money had been real, most men would shrug at the missing details rather than transform the gaps into an investigation.

The motor-hire office came next.

"A car at half past seven," Markus said, laying enough money on the desk that the clerk stopped reaching for the printed rate card. "Whitmore House. The driver waits until I leave."

"Could be late, sir," the clerk warned, glancing at the notes before looking back at him.

"So can the driver," Markus replied, and the man's mouth curled as he reached for the booking ledger.

"Name?" the clerk asked, dipping his pen.

"Wright."

The pen scratched over the page.

"Return time?" the clerk asked, looking up again.

"When I come out."

The man hesitated.

Markus added another note.

"Of course, sir," the clerk said, and the hesitation vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Markus was halfway to the door when the man called after him.

"Mr Wright, do you need us to collect you anywhere?" the clerk asked, his pen still poised above the book.

"No," Markus replied, looking back with one gloved hand resting against the brass handle. "I'll come here."

No address.

No hotel.

No house.

The clerk looked as though he might ask another question.

Then his eyes returned to the money.

"Very good, sir," he said instead.

Exactly.

Questions became surprisingly unnecessary once a customer had paid enough to make curiosity impolite.

The only thing Markus still lacked was a place inside Whitmore House.

That problem proved easier than the clothes.

The banquet had been designed to gather wealth and influence, and men gathering both rarely closed the door against the possibility of more merely because the name attached to it was unfamiliar.

Markus found Whitmore's Birmingham offices in a commercial directory at a stationer's shop, read the address once and returned the volume without buying it. The offices occupied part of a stone building whose entrance was crowded with polished brass plates, clerks moving through the lobby with the solemn urgency of men entrusted with other people's fortunes.

The receptionist inside Whitmore Engineering assumed business immediately.

That helped.

"Wright," Markus said, placing no card on the desk because he possessed none. "I require five minutes with whoever manages Sir Frederick's engagements for this evening."

"Do you have an appointment, sir?" the young clerk asked, his eyes dropping briefly to Markus's coat before returning to his face.

"If I had an appointment, I wouldn't require the five minutes," Markus replied, removing one glove finger by finger while the clerk looked toward the corridor beyond him.

"May I ask the nature of the business?" the young man said eventually, apparently deciding that moving the problem upward would be safer than attempting to solve it himself.

"My patron is considering British industrial holdings," Markus replied, allowing the last glove finger to slide free before folding the leather carefully into his hand. "I've been told tonight's dinner contains enough owners in one room to spare me a week of appointments. I would like to attend."

"Sir Frederick's dinner is private," the clerk said, though interest had already sharpened his expression.

"I assumed so."

"Invitations went out weeks ago."

"My benefactor is inconsiderate about timetables," Markus said, and the clerk's mouth almost moved.

Markus placed a folded note against the desk.

It was not precisely a bribe.

The distinction was mostly aesthetic.

"Have someone ask whether Sir Frederick objects to a gentleman representing private capital being added to the room," Markus said, leaving two fingers lightly over the note while the clerk looked down at it. "If the answer is no, keep that for whichever poor devil has to rearrange the seating. If the answer is yes, keep it anyway for enduring five minutes of me."

It was far too much money for five minutes.

Precisely enough to ensure the clerk remembered him.

"I'll speak to Mr Ellison," the young man said, taking the note before disappearing through the corridor.

Markus waited beside the desk while a clock ticked against the wall and clerks moved in and out without asking him who he was.

Three minutes later, a thin man in a dark suit emerged with the receptionist following half a pace behind. He was perhaps fifty, clean-shaven and carried the cultivated weariness of a private secretary who had spent years protecting another man's time from people who considered their money a sufficient reason to claim it.

"Mr Wright?" the man asked, stopping opposite him.

"Mr Ellison?" Markus replied, inclining his head.

The secretary noticed the absence of surprise.

"I'm told you wish to attend Sir Frederick's dinner," Ellison said, folding one hand over the other.

"I've been told I should."

"By whom?" Ellison asked, watching him closely.

"My patron."

"And your patron is?"

"Private," Markus replied, allowing the faintest smile to touch his mouth.

Ellison did not return it.

"Sir Frederick's guests are not anonymous," he said.

"I'm not anonymous," Markus replied. "I'm Markus Wright."

The younger clerk looked down at his desk.

The secretary's expression did not change.

"Who do you represent, Mr Wright?" Ellison asked.

"A man with more money than patience and a growing interest in British industry."

"That is not a name."

"No," Markus agreed. "It's an inconvenience."

Ellison studied him.

Nathan allowed the scrutiny.

The clothes were good enough. The gloves were new. Markus showed neither desperation nor awe at being inside Whitmore's offices. More importantly, he had not claimed friendship with anyone important, had not demanded a private audience and had not produced an elaborate biography that could be disproved before supper.

He wanted one chair at a dinner full of men trying to impress one another with money.

That was believable.

"What interests?" Ellison asked at last.

"Machine tools. Steel. Chemicals if the numbers aren't absurd. Railway supply if the management proves less tedious than most railway men," Markus replied, and the secretary's eyes sharpened.

"Substantial?" Ellison asked.

"My patron would hardly send me to Birmingham to purchase twelve shares."

For the first time, something almost like amusement threatened the corner of Ellison's mouth.

"You understand this is not a public investment meeting," the secretary said, the almost-smile disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.

"I was hoping there would be food," Markus replied.

The younger clerk coughed into one fist.

Ellison glanced sideways.

The young man became fascinated by a ledger.

Markus remained perfectly serious.

"Sir Frederick enjoys meeting people who may have business in the Midlands," Ellison said after another moment, and the conversation had quietly changed from refusal to negotiation. "But he dislikes surprises."

"So do I," Markus said. "We already have something in common."

Ellison breathed gently through his nose.

"Will your patron attend?"

"No."

"You speak for him?"

"When necessary."

"And if Sir Frederick asks his name?"

"I'll give him the same answer I gave you," Markus replied, slipping one glove back over his hand. "My patron prefers hearing terms before lending his name to them."

Ellison considered that.

It sounded sufficiently like the sort of vanity wealthy men tolerated in one another because any one of them might someday require the same indulgence.

"Seven forty-five," the secretary said at last, reaching toward the receptionist's desk for a sheet of stationery. "I'll place Wright on the secondary list. You'll be presented as representing private investment interests. If Sir Frederick decides he dislikes the ambiguity, rescuing the conversation will be your responsibility."

"I'm usually good with conversation," Markus replied, watching Ellison write.

"I had gathered."

Ellison wrote the name.

No address.

No company.

No references.

Markus Wright, with enough visible wealth to make the possibility of invisible wealth worth another place at dinner.

"Formal dress," Ellison said, handing him the slip.

"My tailor is suffering on my behalf as we speak."

That finally earned the smallest smile.

"Thank you," Markus said, folding the paper once.

"Don't thank me yet," Ellison replied, straightening one cuff. "You haven't met Sir Frederick."

"Is he dreadful?" Markus asked, pausing before turning away.

"He's rich."

Markus nodded gravely.

"I've survived worse."

The secretary watched him leave.

That was the entire trail Markus required.

A clerk would remember the outrageous gratuity. Ellison would remember the patron without a name. The tailor would remember being paid enough to perform a day's work in an afternoon. The jeweller would remember the man who mocked ostentatious cufflinks and then paid cash without asking their price. The motor clerk would remember the customer who rented a car for an entire evening and provided no collection address because he had no need to.

None of them possessed enough to construct a biography.

Together they possessed enough to construct an impression.

Money.

A patron.

Private business.

A man accustomed to being sent somewhere and finding that doors generally opened when he arrived.

That was better than paperwork.

Paper could be checked.

Impressions tended to authenticate themselves.

By five, the tailor's shop had acquired the atmosphere of a minor military emergency.

"Stand still," the older man said, crouching to inspect the fall of Markus's trousers while one assistant worked at the sleeve and another stood behind him with several pins between his lips. "If you move again, I shall send you to Sir Frederick with one arm longer than the other."

"I am standing still," Markus replied, looking at himself in the mirror while the tailor made a disgusted sound.

"You breathed."

"I'll stop."

"Do," the tailor said, and the assistant behind Markus failed to suppress a laugh.

The finished suit was excellent. Not perfect—perfection required more hours than even money could truly purchase—but good enough that no one at Whitmore House would look at the clothes and wonder whether the man wearing them belonged.

That was all Nathan needed.

"Your patron must be an impatient fellow," the tailor said, stepping back to inspect the coat while Markus adjusted one cuff.

"He has many virtues," Markus replied, watching his reflection. "Patience has escaped him."

"Must pay well," the tailor said before he could stop himself.

Markus turned his eyes toward him.

The older man immediately realised he had reached the edge of a question.

"Well enough that you're still working after five," Markus said, and the tailor laughed before allowing the curiosity to die where it stood.

Money made even boundaries polite.

The platinum cufflinks followed, then a fresh collar, tie and gloves. Nothing about him was flamboyant. The purpose was not to become the most memorable man at Whitmore's banquet; it was to ensure that anyone attempting to remember Markus Wright later discovered that the memory began with money and ended before biography.

"Sir Frederick's?" the assistant asked while brushing a nearly invisible piece of lint from Markus's shoulder.

"So I'm told," Markus replied, watching him inspect the coat one final time.

"My brother works kitchens near Edgbaston," the young man said as he stepped back. "Says they've had deliveries going in since yesterday. Wine, game, God knows what else."

"Then perhaps I'll forgive the late invitation," Markus said, and the assistant grinned.

The tailor held out the ordinary clothes Markus had arrived in.

Nathan folded them into a valise.

The Colt remained among them.

He considered carrying it for less than a second. A house full of servants, industrialists and Birmingham Boys was not improved by a pistol unless everything else had already failed, and if everything else failed, there were things beneath his skin substantially more useful than a Colt.

He locked the valise and paid the tailor to hold it until the following day.

Another detail.

Another respectable reason for a man to remember Markus Wright without ever discovering where Markus Wright lived.

At seven twenty, he entered the motor office.

"Mr Wright," the clerk said immediately, rising from his stool as the evening clothes confirmed whatever private story he had constructed during the afternoon. "Car's ready. Driver's been waiting ten minutes."

"Then he's already demonstrated more discipline than most governments," Markus replied, accepting the booking slip while the clerk smiled.

"Whitmore House?"

"Yes."

"Return whenever you come out?"

"Unless dinner kills me."

"I'll tell him to wait for a survivor," the clerk said, and Markus tucked the receipt into his coat before going outside.

The motorcar stood beneath a streetlamp with droplets from the afternoon rain still shining along the black bodywork. The rain itself had stopped completely, leaving Birmingham glossy beneath the evening lights, and for a little while the air carried the temporary clean smell that followed water before coal smoke reclaimed it.

The driver opened the rear door.

"Whitmore House, sir?" he asked, one hand resting against the roof.

"Yes," Markus replied, settling into the seat before the door closed.

As the car moved away, Nathan watched shops and offices slide past the windows and considered how little had been required to make Markus real for one evening.

A few hours.

Cash.

A name.

The suggestion of a benefactor wealthy enough that everyone assumed an explanation existed somewhere beyond their own need to know it.

No history was necessary. Nobody needed to know where he had been educated, where he had been born or how long he intended to remain in Birmingham. The tailor did not care because his money was genuine. The motor company did not care because the fare had already been paid. Ellison had cared only until the possibility of private capital became more attractive than the inconvenience of another chair.

By morning, if questions came, each person would remember a different fragment and none would find the missing pieces remarkable.

Rich men were permitted mysteries.

Men representing richer men were permitted even more.

The city changed beyond the window as they entered Edgbaston. Streets widened. Shops disappeared. Houses withdrew behind walls, trees and gardens, and wealth began expressing itself through distance rather than display. A man who could afford twenty yards between his front door and the road did not need a sign explaining what he owned.

Traffic provided the first evidence of the banquet.

Carriages moved in a slow line beneath the trees, lamps glowing beside their drivers while motorcars waited behind them. Gentlemen in evening dress abandoned stalled vehicles and walked the remaining distance. A policeman stood near the entrance directing arrivals with an expression suggesting that Birmingham's industrial wealth had already become personally offensive to him.

Beyond the gates, Whitmore House burned with light.

The lower windows shone gold against the wet grounds, and every time the main doors opened another bar of brightness stretched across the entrance steps. Footmen moved beneath the canopy receiving coats and directing guests while carriages rolled forward, surrendered their occupants and moved aside for the next.

"Busy," the driver remarked, glancing toward the line as the motor slowed.

"So it appears," Markus replied, watching a carriage ahead release a grey-haired gentleman and a woman whose necklace caught the entrance lights before both disappeared inside.

"Want me to take you right up?" the driver asked, looking toward the queue.

"That is generally why houses have entrances," Markus said, and the driver's grin appeared briefly in the mirror.

The car advanced.

Markus slipped two fingers inside his coat and touched Ellison's folded note.

Wright.

No address.

No company.

No patron named.

Only the promise of money somewhere behind him.

Enough to open the gate.

Walter's house returned to him for a moment: Mary standing in the doorway declaring that her husband had not been a monster while policemen tried to reduce half a lifetime of enemies to notes in a book. Less than twelve hours separated that street from this one, yet Birmingham had changed completely around him. Soot-dark terraces had become gardens and stone. Men who paid collectors in envelopes had given way to men wealthy enough to pay others so they would never have to see a collector themselves.

Billy existed comfortably in both worlds.

That was what Nathan wanted to understand.

Not Billy Kimber the bookmaker discussed over beer.

Not the distant name at the top of collection routes.

The man who could leave Walter Price to knock on frightened doors in Aston and then put on evening clothes and shake hands with industrialists in Edgbaston.

Tom Vale would be somewhere inside.

Perhaps Griggs.

And somewhere beneath Whitmore's chandeliers, among men whose factories fed the war, Billy Kimber would be performing respectability for people who understood exactly what he was and had invited him because of it.

The motorcar reached the entrance.

A footman approached the door.

Nathan looked once at the light spilling from the house and felt the smallest smile touch Markus's mouth.

By morning, several more people would remember Markus Wright.

None of them would know him.

That was precisely as it should be.

Whitmore's banquet possessed the peculiar ugliness of wealth trying too hard to demonstrate that it did not need to try.

The principal dining room and adjoining ballroom had been opened into one enormous space beneath chandeliers bright enough to flatten nearly every shadow. White linen covered the tables, silver caught the light at each place setting and crystal stood in such abundance that every guest seemed prepared for several different kinds of thirst. Flowers had been arranged low enough not to interrupt conversation because conversation, more than dinner, was the true purpose of the evening.

Men who owned foundries, factories, shipping interests, railway concerns and enough property to influence entire streets circulated with glasses in hand, each waiting patiently for the opportunity to explain why his contracts were larger, his factories busier or his acquaintance with Whitehall more intimate than whatever man happened to be speaking. A manufacturer near the fireplace had mentioned the size of his workforce three times in ten minutes. A Coventry man answered him with production tonnage. A railway director found a way to introduce the number of wagons under his control into a conversation that had begun with pheasant.

None of them appeared aware of how furiously they were competing.

The women among them had their own versions of the performance. Some were wives who had attended evenings like this for decades and mastered long ago the art of appearing interested without listening to a word. Others were younger, dressed in silk and jewels and seated beside men substantially older than themselves, their exact relationships varying from table to table and mattering much less than the fact that they were visible. A man could display the motorcar outside, diamonds at the throat of the woman beside him and an expensive watch beneath his cuff, then pretend none of it had been arranged to demonstrate what his money could acquire.

Markus took his assigned seat without hurry, crossed one leg over the other and accepted a glass from a servant without drinking. The face he wore settled naturally into its severe stillness, leaving little for anyone to read beyond the impression that Markus Wright found most rooms mildly disappointing.

Billy Kimber was easy to locate.

He stood beneath the far chandelier beside Whitmore and two industrialists, dressed properly enough for the evening without displaying the strained self-awareness Nathan saw in several men unaccustomed to formal clothes. Tom Vale remained a few paces away, close enough to intervene but distant enough not to resemble hired protection.

That arrangement told Nathan more than Walter's stories had.

Billy had not entered through a kitchen.

He did not wait beside servants for Whitmore to summon him.

People crossed the room to greet him.

One manufacturer shook Billy's hand with visible enthusiasm. Another greeted him with considerably less pleasure but greeted him nevertheless. Whitmore touched Billy briefly at the elbow while introducing him to someone else, the easy little gesture of familiarity looking entirely wrong if directed toward hired muscle and perfectly natural between men accustomed to doing business.

Markus watched only in fragments.

Billy in the reflection of a silver jug.

Vale caught briefly in the bevelled edge of a mirror.

A glance that moved past them and returned several seconds later to something unrelated.

Staring was amateurish.

He had just seen Vale accept a drink he apparently had no intention of touching when a man's voice came from beside his table.

"Forgive me, but I don't believe we've met," the gentleman said, resting one hand lightly against the back of the unoccupied chair opposite while holding champagne in the other. He was in his fifties, prosperous without having surrendered himself to softness, his evening clothes impeccably cut and his manner carrying the quiet assurance of someone accustomed to entering rooms in which his name needed no explanation. "And I'm ordinarily rather good with faces."

"Then tonight has provided you with an opportunity for humility," Markus replied, raising his eyes toward him while remaining comfortably seated.

The gentleman paused for perhaps half a heartbeat before amusement overtook whatever other interpretation he had considered.

"Harold Pembroke," he said, offering his hand with the easy confidence of a man who expected the name to carry its own weight. "Pembroke & Co."

The name required no elaboration.

Nathan had seen it several times during his first week in Birmingham without ever seeing the man attached to it. Pembroke & Co. was not one provincial foundry among many. The concern appeared on commercial notices, machinery contracts, brokerage arrangements, shipping interests and partnerships whose reach extended well beyond the Midlands. It was large enough that determining exactly where Pembroke & Co. ended and its associates began was considerably more difficult than proving its influence existed.

Nathan had never met Harold Pembroke.

Nothing in Markus's face suggested the name meant anything to him.

"Markus Wright," he replied, rising just enough to shake Pembroke's hand before settling back.

"Wright," Pembroke repeated, testing the name against some private catalogue of businessmen rather than searching for a local connection. His attention remained on Markus while he drew out the empty chair. "London?"

"Denmark," Markus replied, glancing briefly toward the young woman beside him.

"Danish?" Pembroke asked, interest replacing recognition as he sat without requesting permission. "Your English is damned near perfect."

"I learned it on purpose," Markus said, and the young woman's eyes dropped toward her champagne as she tried to hide the beginning of a smile.

Pembroke laughed. "Copenhagen?"

"Sometimes," Markus replied, giving him an answer that offered nowhere obvious to go.

Pembroke tried anyway.

"You're representing investment interests, I'm told," he said, resting one arm along the chair while Markus watched a servant rearrange cutlery two tables away. There was curiosity in him but none of the hunger Nathan had seen in men dazzled merely by the existence of money. Harold Pembroke had quite enough of his own. "Private capital."

"So Mr Ellison has decided."

"Whitmore's people do enjoy a useful description," Pembroke said, turning the champagne slowly in his glass. "Manufacturing?"

"Occasionally."

"Finance?"

"When manufacturing becomes tedious."

Pembroke's mouth moved faintly.

The evasiveness did not intimidate him.

It interested him.

"Whitmore has foreign investors here tonight," he continued, crossing one leg comfortably. "American, Dutch, Belgian. A Scandinavian interest would hardly be extraordinary. Who do you represent?"

Markus looked at him.

He did not answer.

Pembroke waited.

Unlike the clerks Markus had dealt with that afternoon, Harold Pembroke did not immediately become uncomfortable under scrutiny. His expression remained composed and his glass stayed loose between his fingers while several seconds passed.

Five became ten.

At perhaps fifteen, the faintest trace of amusement appeared in Pembroke's eyes.

Markus allowed the silence to continue nevertheless.

It was not intended to humiliate him. It merely established something Pembroke had not yet understood: Markus Wright did not believe every question required an answer merely because an important man had asked it.

At around twenty seconds, Pembroke gave a quiet breath through his nose and lifted the champagne.

"I see," he said, though the look in his eyes admitted that he plainly did not.

Markus turned toward the young woman as though Pembroke's question had reached the end of its useful life.

"Вы из России?" he asked in flawless Russian, and the transformation in her face was immediate.

Are you from Russia?

Her eyes widened.

Pembroke looked between them without understanding.

"Да," she replied after the smallest pause, the careful restraint of her English disappearing beneath genuine surprise. "Из Петрограда. Откуда вы знаете?" She leaned a little closer without seeming to realise she had done so.

Yes. Petrograd. How did you know?

"По лицу сначала," Markus replied, allowing more warmth into his voice than he had given Pembroke. "Но когда вы заговорили, я уже не сомневался. Вы слишком внимательно произносите английские гласные." He tipped his head slightly as though considering the memory of her first words.

Your face at first. But once you spoke, I was certain. You pronounce your English vowels too carefully.

She stared at him another second and then laughed, the sound freer than anything Nathan had yet heard from her.

"Я четыре года училась, чтобы никто этого не замечал," she said, one finger tracing absently around the base of her glass as amusement softened her expression.

I've spent four years learning so nobody would notice.

"Зачем?" Markus asked, watching her rather than the room now. "Вы проделали такой путь только для того, чтобы притворяться, будто родились здесь?" The faintest crease appeared between his brows, not mocking but genuinely curious.

Why? You came all this way merely to pretend you were born here?

Her smile changed.

It did not disappear.

It merely became quieter.

"Так легче," she replied, glancing once toward the chandeliers and the people beneath them before returning her eyes to him. "Англичане меньше спрашивают."

It's easier. The English ask fewer questions.

Markus's eyes moved briefly toward Pembroke.

"Не все," he said, and the dryness in his tone was enough to make her cover a laugh with the back of one hand.

Not all of them.

Pembroke looked from one to the other.

"What are you saying?" he asked, amusement colouring the question more than irritation now.

Markus did not answer him.

"Как вам Англия?" he asked the young woman instead, turning back toward her as though Pembroke's question had never been asked. "Вы счастливы здесь?"

How do you find England? Are you happy here?

She considered that more seriously than he expected.

"Это безопаснее," she said after a moment, looking past Markus toward the room beyond him. "Сейчас этого достаточно." The words were quiet enough that for the first time since approaching the table, Pembroke stopped trying to insert himself.

It's safer. For now, that's enough.

There was history beneath the answer.

Nathan left it alone.

He understood the value of doors remaining closed because the person behind them had chosen not to open them.

"А сегодняшний вечер?" Markus asked, following her gaze around the room. "Нравится?" His mouth shifted faintly as a nearby industrialist began explaining the price of his newest motorcar to another man whose expression suggested he owned a more expensive one.

And tonight? Are you enjoying yourself?

Her eyes moved over the banquet.

An elderly financier rested one hand along the back of a young woman's chair while discussing property loudly enough for three neighbouring tables to hear him. Another man had somehow worked the number of servants employed at his country house into a conversation about wartime rationing.

"Очень впечатляет," she replied with careful diplomacy, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Very impressive.

Markus looked at her.

She held the expression for perhaps two seconds before losing the battle.

"Вы лжёте очень вежливо," he said, and her laugh escaped before he had finished.

You lie very politely.

"Нет. Мне скучно," she admitted, lowering her voice while glancing down into the champagne as though the glass might conceal the confession.

No. I'm bored.

Markus looked around the room again.

A heavyset manufacturer had produced a gold watch from his waistcoat and was showing it to another gentleman who had demonstrated no desire whatsoever to see it.

"Что вы думаете обо всех этих жабах?" Markus asked, his expression remaining perfectly composed while the Russian concealed the insult from almost everyone around them. "Они раздуваются и показывают деньги так, будто деньги сами по себе делают человека богатым." He turned his eyes toward the manufacturer by the fireplace at exactly the moment the man puffed his chest beneath his waistcoat.

What do you think of all these toads? They puff themselves up and display their money as though money by itself makes a man wealthy.

The young woman stared at him.

Then she made the mistake of looking around the room again.

Her lips tightened.

The manufacturer near the fireplace thrust both hands into his waistcoat and leaned backward to laugh.

That ruined her.

She lowered her face toward the champagne and began laughing hard enough to disguise it as a cough.

"What did you say to her?" Pembroke asked, leaning slightly across the table now, his curiosity plainly genuine.

"Я думаю, тот у камина особенно хорош," the young woman whispered instead of answering him, casting another glance toward the broad manufacturer. "Посмотрите. Он даже стоит как жаба." Her shoulders shook again as she attempted to recover.

I think the one by the fireplace is particularly good. Look at him. He even stands like a toad.

Markus followed her gaze.

The unfortunate man remained short, broad and heavily jowled, leaning backward with his hands buried against his waistcoat.

"Это несправедливо по отношению к жабам," Markus replied, and she nearly choked on her drink.

That's unfair to the toads.

Pembroke watched them with the patient frustration of a man accustomed to understanding every conversation conducted in his presence.

"You realise it's rather rude to spend this long speaking another language in front of someone who cannot understand it," he said, though the attempt at reproach was undermined by the amusement pulling at one side of his mouth.

"Да," Markus replied in Russian, looking at her with a perfectly serious expression.

Yes.

She bit her lip.

Then Markus turned back to Pembroke.

"Yes," he repeated in English, folding one hand loosely over the other.

The young woman's shoulders shook.

Pembroke stared for a second before a reluctant laugh escaped.

"You are either deliberately impossible or entirely unaware of yourself," he said, settling back in the chair as though conceding that he had chosen to remain in the conversation and would therefore have to endure it.

"I've heard arguments for both," Markus replied, and that seemed to satisfy him more than an apology would have.

Markus allowed his attention to return briefly to the room.

Billy had moved nearer the central tables. Whitmore was introducing him to another man Nathan recognised from a newspaper photograph as the owner of a substantial metalworks concern. Vale stood farther behind, speaking with a Birmingham man whose face Nathan had seen near one of the betting rooms two days earlier.

Billy shook the industrialist's hand.

The other man smiled.

Not politely.

Warmly.

Nathan stored the face.

"Как вас зовут?" Markus asked, returning his attention to the young woman while Pembroke followed his gaze for only a moment before abandoning any attempt to discover what he had been looking at.

What's your name?

"Елена," she replied, setting her glass down. "Елена Воронцова." The name came with a small inclination of her head that made the introduction almost formal.

Elena Vorontsova.

"Маркус," he said, and she smiled because the introduction was ridiculous after hearing Pembroke use the name several times.

"Я знаю," Elena replied, the amusement returning to her eyes.

I know.

"Тогда мы прекрасно представлены," Markus said, and her laugh came quietly this time.

Then we're perfectly introduced.

"Why are you in England?" Pembroke asked in English, joining the conversation rather than dragging it away from her. The slight change in Elena's posture suggested he already knew the answer and she knew that he knew it.

"My family left Russia," Elena replied, and the carefully trained English vowels returned almost at once.

"Before the worst of the revolutionary trouble," Pembroke added after she had answered, speaking with the familiarity of someone who had heard the history before rather than pretending it belonged to him. "Her father was sensible enough to move a good part of his capital while he still could."

Markus looked at Elena instead of Pembroke.

"Он всегда добавляет к вашим ответам финансовые подробности?" he asked quietly, and her eyes widened.

Does he always add financial details to your answers?

"Он руководит Pembroke & Co.," Elena murmured, glancing at Pembroke before returning to Markus. "Думаю, он считает, что всё становится понятнее, если добавить деньги." Amusement tugged at her mouth again.

He runs Pembroke & Co. I think he believes everything becomes clearer once money is added.

Markus gave a tiny nod.

"Тогда сегодняшний вечер, должно быть, для него совершенно прозрачен," he replied, and Elena laughed into her glass while Pembroke watched them, plainly aware he had become the subject without knowing the verdict.

Then tonight must be perfectly clear to him.

"Mr Wright," Pembroke said, adjusting one cuff with the unhurried ease that had never quite left him, "you still haven't told me what actually brings you to Birmingham."

"Curiosity," Markus replied, turning toward him.

"Business curiosity?" Pembroke asked, watching closely now.

"Sometimes."

"About what?"

Markus allowed his eyes to move around the room.

At steel men and railway directors.

At owners discussing factories as though the thousands of people working inside them were another form of machinery.

At Whitmore displaying his association with Billy as carefully as another man might display a newly acquired painting.

"People," Markus said, settling his gaze on Pembroke again.

"People?" Pembroke repeated, one eyebrow lifting.

"They become interesting when they believe everyone in a room is impressed by them," Markus replied, resting one hand against the arm of the chair.

Elena lowered her glass.

The smile returned.

Pembroke watched Markus for a moment, plainly assessing whether he had been included in the observation.

Markus gave him nothing to work with.

"Вы ужасный человек," Elena murmured in Russian, though the amusement in her eyes made the accusation harmless.

You're a terrible man.

"Иногда," Markus replied, and the faint movement at the corner of his mouth almost became a smile.

Sometimes.

"И вы действительно считаете их жабами?" Elena asked, glancing around again.

And you really think they're toads?

Markus surveyed the room once more.

One industrialist was boasting about acreage. Another had taken the wrist of a young woman beside him and was displaying the bracelet he had purchased for her to two other men. Whitmore laughed too loudly at something Billy Kimber said.

"Нет," Markus replied, leaning slightly closer so only Elena could hear. "У жаб есть достоинство. Они не требуют, чтобы весь пруд восхищался тем, сколько у них мух." The composure of his face made the absurdity worse.

No. Toads have dignity. They don't require the whole pond to admire how many flies they own.

Elena made a strangled sound and covered her mouth.

Pembroke closed his eyes briefly.

"I'm beginning to regret sitting down," he said, opening them again as Elena attempted to breathe normally.

"You didn't ask before sitting," Markus replied, glancing at the chair as though this were a point of procedure.

"An excellent point," Pembroke conceded, resting one hand over the other.

"And yet you stayed."

"I run Pembroke & Co., Wright," Pembroke said, and for the first time there was something firmer beneath the amusement. "If I retreated every time a difficult man made conversation inconvenient, I'd have lost the company twenty years ago."

There was no boast in the statement.

That, more than the words themselves, interested Nathan.

He had watched plenty of men that evening use the size of their businesses as extensions of themselves. Pembroke spoke of his company the way a surgeon might speak of a hand—important, certainly, but not something requiring applause for existing.

Before Markus could answer, a servant passed near enough to announce that dinner would shortly begin. The room responded with the slow migration of people searching for assigned places. Chairs shifted. Conversations were reluctantly suspended. Women gathered skirts as they moved, and men consulted place cards while pretending not to have spent the previous half hour standing in entirely the wrong section of the room.

"Вы сидите здесь?" Elena asked, glancing toward the place card nearest Markus while one hand gathered the fall of her dress.

Are you seated here?

"Похоже на то," Markus replied, touching the card with one finger.

Apparently.

Elena checked her own.

Two places away.

Close enough.

"Хорошо," she said, and mischief returned to her expression as she looked toward the men across the room. "Я хочу узнать, сколько ещё жаб вы найдёте."

Good. I want to know how many more toads you find.

Markus looked past her toward Billy.

Vale had moved to the same table.

Whitmore was guiding another manufacturer toward them.

The evening had arranged itself rather well.

"Боюсь, нам не хватит времени пересчитать их всех," Markus replied as he unfolded his napkin, and Elena's laughter followed him as he settled into his chair, one leg crossing comfortably over the other while his expression returned to stone.

I'm afraid we won't have time to count them all.

Across the room, Billy Kimber had no idea he was being watched.

"How many languages do you speak?" Pembroke asked once the first course had begun disappearing from the surrounding plates, his earlier curiosity evidently having survived dinner. He rolled the stem of his wineglass between two fingers while studying Markus with the analytical interest of a businessman examining an unfamiliar mechanism. "English like an Englishman, Russian well enough that Miss Vorontsova has spent half the evening laughing at my expense, Danish presumably. How many more?"

"Most, when I need them," Markus replied, resting one hand loosely beside his untouched wine while his gaze travelled past Pembroke's shoulder for scarcely a second. Billy had moved closer to Whitmore and was listening while a heavyset manufacturer spoke with both hands, Vale remaining several paces behind with the patient invisibility of a man accustomed to being present without being included. Markus returned his attention to the table before the glance became observation. "Languages are tools. Counting them is about as interesting as counting knives in a kitchen."

"I speak German," Pembroke said, sitting a little straighter as though pleased to discover a piece of ground on which he could participate. "Quite well, actually. Spent several months in Essen before the war. Krupp people among others. Business discussions, dinners, the usual miserable negotiations where everybody spends three hours pretending a price has personally offended them and signs anyway."

Elena's eyes moved toward Markus.

Something in the look suggested she knew exactly what was about to happen.

"Fräulein Vorontsova, sprechen Sie Deutsch?" Pembroke asked, turning toward her with the pleased expression of a man unexpectedly given an opportunity to demonstrate himself.

"Ein wenig," Elena replied, saying that she spoke a little while her eyes returned briefly to Markus.

Pembroke continued in German, suggesting they might finally manage a conversation without Mr Wright keeping all of it to himself.

His German was good.

Better than Nathan had expected. The grammar was comfortable, and the sentence arrived without the painful pauses of a man translating each word before speaking it. The months in Essen had plainly been real.

One word, however, bore the unmistakable mark of an English tongue.

"Vielleicht," Markus corrected gently, turning toward Pembroke without ridicule and repeating the word properly. "You're putting too much force into it. Softer. Let the sound come forward instead of attacking it."

"Vielleicht," Pembroke repeated, concentrating so intently that Elena's mouth twitched.

"Better," Markus said, giving him a small approving nod.

Pembroke tried again.

"There," Markus said, returning to his meal.

"That was it?" Pembroke asked, faintly offended by how small the correction had been.

"One word."

"I've apparently been saying it that way for years," Pembroke said, lifting his brows.

"A German would understand you perfectly," Markus replied, cutting neatly into the food.

"That isn't the same as saying it correctly."

"No," Markus agreed, glancing up. "But correcting a man who is negotiating with you can be commercially unwise."

Pembroke narrowed his eyes.

"Someone in Essen told you your German was excellent, didn't he?" Markus asked, and the suspicion in Pembroke's expression deepened.

"He did, actually," Pembroke replied, setting his glass down. "Hoffmann. Charming fellow."

"He sold you something immediately afterward."

Pembroke stopped.

Elena's expression brightened.

"Two hydraulic presses," Pembroke admitted after a moment, and the memory seemed to irritate him anew. "I only intended to buy one."

"Then Herr Hoffmann almost certainly considered your German magnificent," Markus replied, and Pembroke stared at him for a heartbeat before laughing loudly enough to make the gentleman at the neighbouring table glance around.

"You're an unpleasant bastard when you apply yourself," Pembroke said, shaking his head while admiration displaced most of the offence. "All right. If languages are merely tools, what kind of work requires a toolbox that size?"

"You tell me," Markus replied, and rather than answer he allowed his eyes to move again toward the far side of the room.

Billy had turned enough to give Nathan a clearer view of his face while Whitmore introduced a newly arrived guest. This man approached Kimber with none of the reluctant courtesy Nathan had observed in several others. The handshake was firm and familiar, accompanied by the slight forward lean of men who had conducted business before.

Nathan memorised the face.

Then he looked back at Pembroke.

"How is the brokerage venture going?" Markus asked, lifting his fork again.

Pembroke's wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth.

Elena noticed at once.

"Which venture?" Pembroke asked, and although his voice remained perfectly controlled, the ease had gone out of it.

"The shipping and brokerage arrangement," Markus replied, setting his fork beside the plate as though the clarification were trivial. "The new structure inside Pembroke & Co. You're bringing more of the intermediary work in-house rather than paying outside firms to handle it, particularly on the Liverpool side."

Pembroke regarded him without speaking.

This silence belonged to him now.

Unlike Markus's earlier refusal to answer, it contained calculation.

What had leaked?

From where?

How much did Wright know?

Those questions entered his eyes before he asked another aloud.

"How do you know about that?" Pembroke asked at last, placing the glass down very carefully.

"Observation."

"That isn't public," Pembroke said, the amusement gone from his face now.

"No."

"The restructuring isn't complete."

"I know."

Elena looked from one man to the other, her amusement fading into genuine interest.

"You've seen company accounts?" Pembroke asked, leaning slightly forward.

"Not yours."

"Then what exactly have you seen?" Pembroke asked, and this time he allowed the silence after the question to remain instead of rushing to fill it.

Markus looked at him.

Pembroke waited.

He had learned something from their first exchange.

"The venture," Markus said after several seconds, shifting the subject as though Pembroke's question had ceased to be useful. "How is it performing?"

Pembroke gave a quiet, incredulous laugh.

"You are asking me to discuss a piece of my own company that you've somehow learned about without telling me how you learned it," he said, leaning back while one hand rested on the table. "And you expect an answer?"

"I hoped for one," Markus replied.

Elena's mouth curved.

Pembroke studied him for several seconds, then answered despite himself.

"Well," he said, the businessman overtaking the suspicious man by degrees. "Better than the board expected, which has been gratifying because several of them were convinced I'd decided to become a shipping magnate in my old age. The brokerage side justified itself sooner than projected. Freight is another matter. Expensive, vulnerable to delays and full of men who believe a timetable is a philosophical suggestion rather than a commitment."

"Liverpool?" Markus asked, though the answer was already obvious.

"Among others."

"Imported ore once European trade settles?" Markus asked, watching Pembroke rather than the table.

Pembroke's eyes narrowed again.

"That part isn't decided," he said.

"No," Markus replied. "But you're considering it."

"What makes you think that?" Pembroke asked, and the irritation in his voice had been replaced almost entirely by professional interest.

"Because if your only goal were reducing commission, you could have bought into an established brokerage house and stopped there," Markus said, settling one wrist against the edge of the table. "Bringing freight capacity closer to Pembroke & Co. only becomes worth the complication if you expect to control more of what enters as well as what leaves."

Pembroke did not answer immediately.

Elena looked at Markus with a new expression now.

Not merely amused.

Interested.

"You've thought about Pembroke & Co.," Pembroke said eventually.

"Briefly."

"That is your idea of briefly?" Pembroke asked, a short laugh escaping.

"I've had a busy week."

Pembroke watched him for another moment before the seriousness broke.

"God help whichever company earns your full attention," he said, reaching for his wine again.

Markus allowed the faintest suggestion of a smile.

"The arrangement?" he prompted.

"Profitable," Pembroke admitted, taking a measured drink before setting the glass down. "Potentially much more so after the war, provided every government in Europe doesn't spend the next decade inventing new ways to interfere with ships."

"Governments become lonely when commerce travels without supervision," Markus said.

Pembroke laughed softly.

"That may be the first sensible thing you've said all evening."

"I'll try not to repeat the mistake."

Elena concealed a smile behind her glass.

Pembroke shook his head before studying Markus again.

"Whoever employs you must pay extremely well," he said, watching for a reaction.

Markus met his eyes for just long enough to allow the assumption to exist without confirming it.

"Well enough that I don't discuss wages at dinner," he replied.

Pembroke accepted the boundary more easily than he had the first.

"You make every answer create another question," he said, resting one hand around the base of the wineglass.

"Only when the original question is dull."

"You know ordinary people occasionally tell one another things because they're conversing?"

"I've met them," Markus replied, and Elena laughed softly.

Pembroke looked toward her.

"Don't encourage him," he said, pointing faintly with the glass. "He'll be unbearable by pudding."

"He was unbearable before the soup," Elena replied, and the faint Russian softness beneath her careful English made Markus look toward her again.

"There," Pembroke said, leaning back with satisfaction. "At least someone at this table understands me."

"Он думает, что вы его понимаете," Markus murmured in Russian, turning toward Elena while Pembroke's satisfaction remained intact.

He thinks you understand him.

"Иногда," Elena replied, her eyes glimmering.

Sometimes.

Pembroke looked between them.

"You're doing it again," he said, though there was no real irritation left now.

"You should learn Russian," Markus replied in English, lifting his wine but only turning the glass between his fingers. "It would improve your evenings."

"I've already spent years learning German only to discover a salesman allowed me to pronounce it badly," Pembroke said, shaking his head. "I'm not giving another country the opportunity."

"Then avoid French," Markus replied, and Elena laughed again while even Pembroke smiled.

The conversation might have continued if Nathan had not seen Vale move behind Whitmore.

Nothing about the movement would have attracted attention from anyone not already watching him. Vale crossed behind two chairs, waited for a servant to pass and stopped beside a thin man with iron-grey hair who had spoken to Billy several minutes earlier.

Their hands met briefly.

Something passed between them.

Too small to identify.

Vale continued without ever approaching a servant.

Nathan watched through the warped reflection on a polished serving dish.

Interesting.

The thin man slipped one hand inside his coat.

More interesting.

Nathan waited until Vale had returned to Billy before turning fully back toward his own table.

"Pembroke," Markus said, placing his napkin beside the plate with enough sudden directness that the older man stopped halfway through lifting his glass. "May I borrow Miss Vorontsova for a moment?"

Elena looked at Markus first.

Pembroke looked at her, then back at him.

"Borrow her?" he repeated, amusement entering his expression while one eyebrow rose. "For what?"

"I need to speak to someone," Markus replied, fastening his coat as he rose. His gaze passed once across the room without settling on the cluster around Billy. "Unfortunately, crossing a room like this alone suggests either business or desperation, and I have no desire to advertise either."

Pembroke's brows climbed a little higher.

Markus glanced toward Elena and then back at him.

"I am missing something pretty to accompany my arm," he said with such complete composure that for a second Elena only stared.

Then her mouth curved.

Pembroke laughed, though Nathan noticed the brief hesitation underneath it, the reflexive appraisal of a man accustomed to considering who approached the woman accompanying him.

"You could ask her," Pembroke said, gesturing lightly toward Elena.

"I intend to," Markus replied, turning toward her at last and offering his arm rather than simply assuming she would take it. "Miss Vorontsova?"

"Мне идти?" Elena asked in Russian, looking up at him while amusement remained in her eyes.

Should I come?

"Только если хотите узнать, кого я весь вечер старательно не разглядываю," Markus replied, and for half a heartbeat the amusement vanished from her face.

Only if you want to know whom I've been carefully not staring at all evening.

Curiosity replaced it.

"Конечно," Elena said, rising and slipping one gloved hand lightly through his arm.

Of course.

Pembroke understood none of the exchange, but Elena standing told him enough.

"Don't disappear with her," he said, settling back into his chair. The instruction was phrased lightly, though there was enough seriousness beneath it to show that Harold Pembroke did not entirely surrender responsibility for someone merely because she had agreed to cross a ballroom with another man.

"I'll return her with all original parts," Markus replied, adjusting his sleeve beneath Elena's hand.

Pembroke stared at him.

"That is possibly the least reassuring answer available," he said, lowering the glass again.

"It wasn't intended to reassure you."

Elena lowered her face, laughing as Markus guided her away from the table.

They did not walk directly toward Billy.

That would have been a mistake.

Men with somewhere urgent to be crossed rooms directly. Men at banquets wandered. They allowed conversations to interrupt them, yielded to servants carrying trays, acknowledged people they scarcely knew and moved in gentle curves determined as much by the crowd as by destination.

Markus adopted the rhythm immediately.

Elena moved naturally beside him.

The result was exactly what Nathan wanted.

Alone, Markus Wright—the unfamiliar man who had somehow inserted himself into Whitmore's guest list at the end of his first week in Birmingham—crossing directly toward Billy Kimber might have interested anyone already inclined to watch him.

With Elena Vorontsova on his arm, pausing occasionally while murmuring something that made her smile, he became simply another wealthy guest circulating through a room full of wealthy guests.

"Тот человек?" Elena asked softly once they had moved far enough from Pembroke, following Markus's line of sight without making the mistake of turning her head toward Billy.

That man?

"Какой?" Markus asked, though he knew exactly whom she meant.

Which one?

"Тот, которого вы не смотрите уже почти час," Elena replied, keeping her eyes forward while the corner of her mouth lifted.

The one you've been not looking at for nearly an hour.

For the first time that evening, she surprised him.

Markus turned his eyes toward her.

Elena smiled.

"Вы не единственный, кто умеет наблюдать," she murmured, her hand remaining comfortably through his arm as they passed beneath the chandeliers.

You're not the only one who knows how to watch.

A genuine flicker of amusement touched Markus's face.

"Нет," he replied in Russian, guiding her around two men discussing railway contracts. "Очевидно, нет."

No. Apparently not.

Ahead of them, Billy Kimber had still not noticed their approach.