City of Glory (40 page)

“Emperor of Austria,” Astor supplied. “And king of Hungary and Bohemia.”

“That’s the one. Speaks German, they tell me, so you’re the natural one to correspond with him. And because the letter comes from a New Yorker of such splendid prestige and influence as yourself, this emperor, this king of kings, will accept our magnificent—nay, our priceless—gift, and we will be…How shall I put it? We will be anointed. We will be a nation.”

“Wunderschön,”
Astor murmured. “It is a plan of such…such audacity, Mr. Blakeman, that words I cannot find to comment.”

“Audacity? Yes, I suppose it is. But we can only thrive over here if we understand the Europeans over there. I trust, Mr. Astor, you do not forget that.”

“I do not, Mr. Blakeman. You may count on the fact that I do not forget most things which are important.”

“I never meant to imply that you did, sir. My apologies.” Damn! Bend over, Mr. Bloody Astor, and I’ll lick your German-English-American arse for you. Anything to be sure you’re my ally and not my enemy. “Indeed, it is because I know that your reputation is as great abroad as it is here that I am asking you to arrange these matters.”

Astor didn’t say anything. He leaned forward and stared at the diamond for what seemed a very long time.

The box had never left Blakeman’s hand, and he was growing weary, but he waited until Astor had pulled back before he snapped the lid shut. “So, Mr. Astor,” he asked softly, “are you with us?”

“It is not a decision a man makes in a few minutes, Mr. Blakeman.”

“Perhaps not, but time, sir, is not on our side. The New Englanders are pressing me.”

Ja,
and you want to be able to tell them that you bring to the table the richest man in America, so they will give you more respect and you will be chosen president when the governors make their selection.
Das ist doch ganz klar, nicht?
Yes, entirely clear. Only exactly how he should reply was not clear. “Say that I write this letter you suggest. And say we find a way to get the letter where it must go, despite the blockade—”

“I’ve a ship as has run the blockade before.” But not the captain who made it happen. God rot his wretched hide. Still, there are other captains, some bound to be as good as O’Toole.

“…given the natural way of men’s unbelief, what do you suggest I tell them?”

“About the diamond?”

Astor jerked his head in an impatient nod.
“Ja, ja.
Of course about the diamond.”

“It’s called the Great Mogul and its story is well known among collectors of the world’s great gems. Fellow called Jean-Baptiste Tavernier saw it in sixteen-something, in India. Next thing we know, it was in Persia.”

“But it is not in Persia now. How does it happen, Mr. Blakeman, that the Great Mogul is here in New York, with you?”

“Because, Mr. Astor, by the time I became involved, the Great Mogul was in Canton. Everything finishes up in Canton sooner or later. A man like yourself surely knows that.”

“
Ja.
But I too have business in Canton, and it never—”

“Aye, so you have. But this time my joss was better than yours. I knew somebody as knew somebody, as knew somebody else. And word came to me that the first somebody was in need of a great deal of money, and desperate enough to offer a treasure at a tenth its value. I’m sure, sir, you know that last year I sold scrip in my coaching business.”

Astor nodded.

“Supposedly, I needed cash to buy more rolling stock, since I’d just been given the exclusive right to the route between New York and Philadelphia. Truth is, I got the coaches on a promise, and used the money to arrange for the purchase of the stone, and to finish outfitting the fastest merchantman afloat and lading her with the kinds of goods as set the city agog just three days past. So now, Mr. Astor, you know the whole story. How much longer do you think you’ll need to decide if you’re with us?”

“Not very much time, Mr. Blakeman. A day or two, perhaps three.” Once he knew whether Madison was safe, what the British army was planning—news that might be on the way to him even now—it would be easier to deal with Gornt Blakeman. “First, one other thing occurs to me. You have told me the story of the Great Mogul is well known. But why should the emperor believe this diamond to indeed be the Great Mogul?”

“For one thing, sir, as you have seen, the stone is its own best argument. It is magnificent, is it not?”

“That we have established. Truly magnificent it is.”

“Very well. In addition, I have taken steps to document its pedigree. There will be a certificate of authenticity written by the city’s finest jeweler. He will swear that this stone is genuine, and that it matches exactly the description in the book by the great Tavernier. I expect to have the certificate tomorrow. Then we will have a copy made and send it with your letter.”

Astor stood up. “So, Mr. Blakeman, a man of foresight you have shown yourself to be. One who thinks of everything. I have no doubt it can be profitable to do business with such a man.”

“Is that a commitment, sir?”

Astor smiled for the first time since coming upstairs to Blakeman’s private quarters. “Not yet, sir. A few days, as I said. I will send you word and we will meet again. Now…” He gestured toward the door to the stairs. “You can please insure that I am permitted to leave without tasting the whipper’s kiss.”

Blakeman accompanied him to the door, opened it and called softly down the stairs. “My guest is leaving, Mr. Clifford. Show him out.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Blakeman.”

He waited until he heard the front door close behind Astor, then Blakeman again shut the door that led to his attic. He wanted to shout out loud with triumph, but he only raised his voice slightly and pitched it to the dark far corner of the room. “So, what do you think?”

“I think you’ve got him.” Bastard Devrey came out of the shadows into the lamplight. “I think you baited the hook and threw the line and reeled him in.”

“He’ll join us? You genuinely believe so?” He didn’t really need Bastard’s affirmation, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it.

“I absolutely believe it. He knows this war is squeezing the life out of every man of property in the nation. Why in God’s holy hell would he not join us? He’s a business man, same as you and me.”

“Not exactly the same as you,” Blakeman said.

“Don’t ride me, man. Don’t make me sorry for the bargain I’ve made.”

“Now why should you be sorry for that, Bastard Devrey? You had to choose between Gornt Blakeman and your upstart young cousin with only one hand and not many more coins. You chose me, just to prove your brain wasn’t entirely addled by your run of bad luck. Why in hell’s name should you be sorry for that?”

Rivington Street, Near Midnight

Sweet Mary and all the saints, according to Joyful he’d smelled like a spilled keg o’ rum hours before, and though he’d had a fair amount since, Finbar O’Toole was still mostly sober. God help his sorry soul. O’Toole blessed himself with the sign of the cross and muttered a pious incantation, then put his hand in his pocket to be sure the coin was still there. A single golden lady, last bit o’ money he had. Spent everything else that godrotting Peggety Jack, may his soul be damned to everlasting fire, had left him on rum mostly, and a few hands o’ cards. In the normal way o’ things a guinea was silver, and worth twenty-one shillings, some two and a half dollars American. But a golden lady, that was twenty dollars probably, though there were some as would give more. All there was between Finbar O’Toole and a pauper’s grave. Didn’t make much difference when he couldn’t manage to get drunk whatever he spent.

One lucky roll o’ the dice, that’s all it would take. Holy Savior, hadn’t he seen it happen times enough? Even to himself on occasion. One lucky roll o’ the dice or turn o’ a mahjong tile and there you were, a rich man again.

The Dancing Knave shimmered in the starlit dark of semideserted Rivington Street. Candles in every window and no curtains to hide their glow. A beacon it was, and from the look o’ things plenty had homed in. There were carriages parked up and down the street, and at least half a dozen horses tethered to nearby hitching posts. O’Toole mounted the steps that led to the front door and lifted the brass knocker.

“Good evening, sir.”

“The same to yourself.” O’Toole squinted into the brightness of the vestibule. New lad this, brawny enough but young and without that air of menace as hung about the chucker-out as used to be here. “Where’s Vinegar Clifford got himself to?”

“He’s no longer in Miss Higgins’s employ. I take it you wish to join us, sir?”

The sounds of the tables, the clatter of dice and the ruffle of cards, reached him from the Gaming Salon only a few feet away. O’Toole’s palms began to itch. “Aye. That’s my—”

“Just a moment, Preservation. The gentleman is an old friend as you recall.” Delight came to the door and spent a few seconds regarding her latest caller. “You seem in better form than you were last evening, Captain O’Toole. I’m glad you decided to return. Step aside, Preservation. Let the captain come in.”

O’Toole was extra conscious of his movements. Very straight. Very steady. One foot after t’other. No point in letting her change her mind and decide he was drunk after all. Didn’t want to get chucked out now he’d come this far. He fished the golden lady out of his pocket. “One roll o’ the dice, Miss Delight. One lucky roll, that’s all ’twill take.”

“Happiness,” Delight said softly, “is always one roll of the dice away. Isn’t that your experience, Captain O’Toole?”

“You might say, Miss Higgins. You might…” The word suddenly evaded him. He had to think on it for a few seconds. “You might shay,” he mouthed at last. “Yesh ma’am, you might shay.”

Damn the man! He was as drunk as he’d been the evening before, only this time he’d fooled her long enough to get in. Delight looked to her chucker-out, then paused. Each and every gaming table in the salon was surrounded by a clutch of players. The Ladies’ Parlor was empty, while every one of the little rooms on the second floor was occupied. A night of rare profit, and one thing sure—Finbar O’Toole would not go quietly a second time, not now he’d actually gotten in. It would take all three of the Irish lads probably. They’d get the job done, but not until they’d made a ruckus that would draw the attention of every man in the place. Expensive pleasures, Delight had long since learned, were best enjoyed without time taken to consider their cost. “I wonder if you might not like to rest a bit before you visit the gaming tables, Captain O’Toole. I have exactly the right lady in mind to keep you company. She’s an infallible lucky charm. Any number of gentlemen have told me so. Preservation, go and find Cecily and bring her here at once.”

“I think she’s busy up—”

“Here. At once.” Delight moved closer to O’Toole and put her arm through his. “You will adore Cecily, Captain O’Toole. I guarantee it. Beauty and luck besides. What more can a man ask?”

Ah, hell. Why not? He was more tired than he’d realized. And there was nothing to rob him of, so he could let the lass pleasure him, and sleep for a bit, and worry about naught. When he woke up, the tables would still be there. And as long as he still had his golden lady…“Tell you what, Mish…Miss Higgins,” he held out the coin. “You keep this for me. So’s I can roll the dice whenever this young lady and I are…When I’m enough rested.”

Delight took the coin. Preservation appeared with a yellow-haired girl who was still adjusting the ribbons of the dressing gown she’d wrapped around her plump nakedness. “Here she is, Miss Higgins.”

“I was with a gent as always leaves me a bit extra,” the girl sputtered. “How come I—”

“Because I said so. And because I trust you to handle those as need a bit of coaxing.” Handle, Delight thought, was indeed the word. “You’ll thank me, Cecily,” she murmured as she gave O’Toole a gentle shove in the girl’s direction. “You’ll be at least fifty coppers richer, I’ll see to that, and I’ve no doubt it will be over before you can blink. Take him up to the third floor, the little bedroom beside my private parlor.” She didn’t usually allow her business activities to spill into her personal quarters, but just now that was the only bed other than her own that was empty.

Tuesday, August 23, 1814

Chapter Sixteen

Brooklyn, the Inner Harbor, 1
A.M.

I
T WAS WELL KNOWN
that there were ghosts aplenty in the shallows of Wallabout Bay off the Brooklyn coast. During the Revolution, the notorious British prison ships had been anchored here—hundreds of men packed together in reeking holds, starved, regularly beaten, afflicted with cholera and dysentery, and since only two at a time were allowed on deck to relieve themselves, forced to lie day and night in their own filth and that of their neighbors. The rotting wooden hulks of some of the ships yet remained. Sailors swore that some nights, out on the water, you could hear the cry that greeted every dawn in those fearsome years,
Prisoners, turn out your dead!

Tintin’s oars slipped rhythmically in and out of the water, and he did not turn his head as he rowed past the skeletons of those vessels of horror. Eugenie did not look either. She sat in the small boat’s bow, facing the pirate. Feeling herself all but naked.