“I admire what you and your colleagues at the Academy are doing for science,” Caradon said. The phaeton passed North Bishop street and the cathedral. Zan kept her gaze steadily on the stone structure, consciously noting the thin, glass stained windows and the gray-black gothic columns. A small party of devoted worshippers, perhaps pilgrims from the Continent, slowly moved across the front courtyard to the front doors of the cathedral. Perhaps they were visiting to see the knuckle bones of Saint Sebastian. “But I think there are definitely things in this world which science cannot explain.”
Zan doubted the knuckle bones belonged to the illustrious Saint Sebastian. More likely, the bones were of some poor soul who had originally been buried in a mass grave in the holy lands. Perhaps a mercenary crusader several centuries before had dug them out and sold them to some gullible monks. Finally, she shifted her gaze as the cathedral passed and the park came into view. “Maybe those things which you allude to, Mr. Caradon, are phenomena that we cannot explain presently because we currently lack the tools and understanding to do so.”
“You do not believe in miracles? In magic? In beings not of this world?”
“Miracles and magic? They are either tricks of the slight-of-hand sort or phenomena that we haven’t adequately explained yet. The Ancients believed that lightning were the weapons of the gods. Now we know it is a weather phenomenon in which peculiar air particles—or charges—are attracted to each other causing the lightning, which is a form of electricity. I have confidence that things we cannot explain yet will be explained.”
The park starkly contrasted with the depressing atmosphere of Old Amanthus—it was a bright green lawn with carefully tended beds of roses and dahlias and pines and cedar. It was a garden paradise simulating the Queen’s country, the Old Country, the Mother Country. Zan had never visited the place. She considered the Far East, the place of her birth, the true Mother Country. The park was an artificial place. The Island’s actual landscape was dry—a bedrock of limestone overlaid with a red sandy soil. The forests consisted not only of pines and cedar, but also cypress, and along the coast, groves of olive trees. Scent from the blooming flowers wafted in the air.
“And what of the beings not of this world?” he repeated.
This time, she gave him a close-mouthed smile. “Not of this world? You believe in demons and angels?”
“I haven’t seen demons or angels. Or at least I don’t think so. But I’m keeping an open mind.”
“There are people who are not what they seem,” she said slowly. “But I would be inclined to think that any differences are more biological than magical or divine. It would be a more sensible explanation.”
“And you dismiss magic and religion so easily?”
“I subscribe to a rational view of the world.”
“You’re an unusual woman, Miss Hu. Most women I have an acquaintance with believe in ghosts and fairies and other things supernatural. It’s quite fashionable nowadays to attend séances to make contact with departed loved ones.”
“It’s a pity that most people are disinclined to believe that such things are actually hoaxes designed to take advantage of the grieving and part them from their money.”
“And I thought I was the cynical one.” Caradon gave a half-hearted laugh before he continued, “My mother believed in such things. Spirits. Ghosts. Gui. She had the habit of going out at night to commune with the dead.”
“Your mother?” Zan said cautiously. She wasn’t completely oblivious to gossip although she rarely paid any attention Society’s self-absorbed nattering. But she had heard that Caradon’s mother had been a prostitute. How he became a businessman with that sort of background was something of a mystery.
“Have you not already heard the story?” he said in feigned boredom. “My mother was a courtesan in the Emperor’s court. My father met her when he was stationed at the embassy in the Far East as an ambassador. After he was called back by the Queen, my mother found out she was with child.”
“So you grew up in the Emperor’s court?”
“No, she left the court. When I was old enough, she sent me to a school. During my last year, she developed consumption. Now, she’s with those ghosts she always talked to.”
In sudden sympathy, she put her hand on his wrist. He looked down at her fingers and then into her eyes. She let go of him. “Why didn’t your mother tell your father about you?”
“She was stubborn and she didn’t want to leave her home. As soon as I was able to obtain the necessary funds, I went in search of Peter Caradon. The Earl of Gasmere was not what I expected. But I suppose we got on well enough despite the fact that he never got around to making me his legitimate heir. Which is just as well. I wouldn’t want the responsibility that the title entails.”
“Other men in your position would be a boiling mess of resentment and bitterness.”
“Who says that I’m not?”
“Are you implying, then, that you are controlling the current earl’s finances because you are bitter and resentful of his status?”
“My cousin was never sensible with money. He’s lived a privileged life since the cradle. He has never known poverty or hard work.” They were now in the heart of the park, somewhat sheltered from the public view by a copse of trees. A little ways away stood a granite gazebo with an altar that had stood as long as the Temple. Long ago, the Ancients had stained the steps red with sacrificed birds and rabbits on that altar for augury and other ceremonies requiring divination. Now it was whitewashed clean. Caradon relaxed the reins and the phaeton rolled to a stop.
“You like control. Over finances. Over your family.”
“Perhaps.” The reins lay limply in his hands. “It is a pity that you don’t have any of your uncle’s notes to continue on his research.”
Zan stiffened in her seat. “That again? I thought we had an agreement that I would continue with my own projects.”
“I didn’t say anything about stopping your own projects. Just that it’s a pity that you don’t have your uncle’s notes.” His eyes narrowed as he watched her. “You don’t suppose your uncle hid a copy of his notes elsewhere? Did you look in his study? His desk? His bookcase?”
“I told you I saw him burn his notes.”
She gasped when he suddenly turned to face her. To an outside observer, it looked as if Caradon had turned to engage her in intense conversation, but his arm pinned her own against the seat cushion. She tried to struggle, to throw him off, but he had the advantage of larger size and greater strength. Her heart hammered in her chest as his grip tightened to discourage any more movement.
“You know more than you let on,” he said lowly.
“If I knew anything, why should I tell you?”
Caradon leaned over until his mouth was quite close to her ear. His warm breath tickled the nape of her neck. “Because I am your patron,” he replied. “And you are mine.”
“You are just like your cousin with your assumptions! I am not some doxy, some courtesan bought and paid for!”
He abruptly released her, looking wary, and she belatedly realized what she had said. But she could not take those words back.
“Mr. Caradon,” she continued in what she hoped to be a calmer voice, “you are not the only one who likes control over his own affairs. If you insist on being domineering over what experiments I decide to pursue, I might as well take on a different patron. Like Mr. Southmore.”
“The Church’s emissary?” He took up the reins again. “The Church is far more strict than I am.”
“What are you suggesting? That I am better off with you?”
“No. In fact, you might not be better off with me. I can tell you right now that the association I had with Elliot Waterstone is far different than the one I have with you. I won’t be esoteric when I say that I am quite interested in what you know about your uncle’s nonexistent notes.” He barred his teeth in a harsh smile as Zan swallowed nervously. “The real question, Miss Hu, is if you want to take a risk and tell me or would you rather run back to what is safe and good and pretend of your ignorance of this entire subject.”
