Critically, she studied her sepia image. Though she often had overheard herself described as a beauty, to her mind she merely possessed that particular collection of classical features traditionally prized by artists. Her gown in the photograph reflected that same timeless tradition, white and simply draped. Even her riot of blond curls, bleached almost white by the tropical sun, had been tied up in a classical style more suited to a figure on a Greek fresco than to a modern young woman of almost five-and-twenty.
The man posed alongside her had cared even less for current fashion. Halia allowed herself a fond smile at the memory. Her father had refused the photographer's suggestion that he tame his unruly, golden mane with pomade. Moreover, he had disdained the requisite stiff collar and neat cravat, preferring his usual outfit of trousers, loose shirt, and oversized waistcoat. The resulting image called to mind, not so much a scholar as a buccaneer—a comparison that no doubt would have pleased him.
She bit her lip and tore her gaze from the photograph; then, almost as an afterthought, she scooped up the palm-sized picture and stowed it in her reticule. With more deliberation, she reached for the thin gold chain which had lain beside it. Those delicate links were threaded, in turn, through the center of a worn gold disk that was the last gift her father had bestowed upon her.
Centuries' worth of pummeling by waves and sand had long since rendered the coin almost square. A scattering of raised Greek letters were visible on its reverse, but she could only hazard a guess as to what the inscription might have been. The image on its obverse, however, was still discernible...a crowned and bearded man of regal mien who brandished a trident.
Poseidon, Greek god of the oceans.
Arvin's discovery of this particular coin had given him final proof that his years of calculations finally had led him to the site he sought. Most scholars, she knew, would have dismissed the tiny relic as a poorly preserved numismatic specimen. What set the coin apart from other similar finds was the fact that this one had been dredged, not from deep within the Mediterranean, but from the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean.
She slipped the chain over her head and carefully concealed the makeshift necklace beneath the high collar of her tucked and ruched white blouse. Barely had she done so than the mantel clock began its musical chiming of the quarter hour.
He is late, she thought with a frown, while a curl of nervousness wound through her chest. Not for the first time over these past few days, she questioned the wisdom of what she was about to do. Strictly speaking, she was about to embark upon a course that barely stopped short of criminal. But what alternative did she have?
The faint metallic staccato of the front doorknocker halted her musings. Halia scrambled to her feet and swiftly concealed the revolver in the skirt pocket of her black and tan walking suit, just as the echo of men's voices drifted to her from the hallway.
Christophe, showing in our distinguished guest.
Despite her apprehension, she managed a fleeting smile at the thought of her visitor's likely reaction to her manservant. Even at his most benign, Christophe projected an intimidating facade... and today, his mood was anything but genial.
Barely had she assumed a serene air than a measured rapping sounded at the study door. “Enter,” she called, relieved to find that her voice betrayed no hint of her anxiety.
The heavy door swung open, revealing on its threshold a tall, dark-skinned man whose massive build called to mind some ancient Nubian warrior. He was dressed in white cotton trousers and a loose shirt dyed in a kaleidoscope of yellows, reds, and blues, the bright colors accentuating the ebony hue of his skin. As usual, he was barefooted—a state of affairs that always seemed to engender distress in her callers.
“Sir John Abbot be here to see you,” Christophe intoned. His deep voice reflected both the musical cadence of his Caribbean birthplace and a stony distrust of their guest. At Halia's nod, however, he stepped aside and allowed the gentleman in question to pass.
“Do come in, Sir John ...” she coolly began, only to find her words stumbling to a halt when the newcomer took a few bold strides beyond the threshold and then paused to make her an elegant bow.
“My dear Miss Davenport,” the Englishman smoothly took up where she had left off, “my apologies for my tardiness. I fear I was called upon to render aid to a gentleman who had been set upon by... but I do ramble on, and that is another story. Now, let me just say that I am indeed honored to make your acquaintance. It is a rare pleasure to find a woman of your youth and beauty who also is dedicated to the scientific pursuits.”
“Yes, well—” Halia began when he finally paused for breath, “th-that is,I...”
She broke off and bit her lower lip in annoyance, aware that she was blushing, yet helpless to stem that wash of blood that tinted her lightly tanned cheeks. She had expected oily lies and false compliments from this charlatan. What she had not foreseen, however, was that the man who spoke them would prove so—
—so presentable? Even handsome?
“Please make yourself comfortable—Sir John,” she went on, stumbling only a little over his name. “I trust that your journey from Boston was agreeable?”
While he made the proper pleasantries, she gestured him toward an overstuffed, wingback chair and then settled again behind the desk. A tight smile twisted her full lips as she listened to his replies and struggled to reconcile the earlier mental image she had formed of her unknown foe with the reality now before her.
His precise accent was that of an English gentleman, as was his refined manner. His hair was dark, and he sported a rather dashing brown mustache that, combined with old-fashioned side whiskers, gave him the look of a polished scholar. The sober cut of his elegant garb befitted a man of his title and downplayed his comparative youth while flattering his lean height.
At second glance, however, he proved to be not quite as attractive as she first had thought. What little she could see of his facial features beneath his whiskers tended toward the pleasant if undistinguished...mild brown eyes, well-formed if unexceptional nose, forehead, and chin. Taken together, those characteristics lent him an air of bland geniality that his victims had no doubt misinterpreted as trustworthiness.
She, too, might have fallen into that same trap, had she not possessed several damning bits of evidence that clearly showed this so-called Sir John Abbot was neither the scholar nor the nobleman he claimed to be.
The thought spurred her to her duty. “I am honored that you could spare a few moments from your busy schedule to accept my invitation,” she began again once the man had finished his account of the trip. “Of course, I had hoped to hear your lecture tonight, but previous obligations prevent my attending.”
“I quite understand, Miss Davenport... or might I perhaps call you Halia? Such an unusual name, but quite lovely. Greek, is it not?”
“Yes.” Indeed, was the man never at a loss for idle chitchat? “My late father was a classical scholar of some note— perhaps you have heard of Arvin Davenport?” When he nodded, she went on, “He named me after a daughter of one of the Greek gods, Poseidon. Thankfully, my mother was able to dissuade him from his first choice.”
“I would not dare hazard a guess,” came his polite reply. “And your mother, she is also—”
“She died when I was ten,” she shortly told him. “But you did not come here to speak of me. I believe we have another topic to discuss.”
”A woman who comes to the point. I quite admire that trait. So, I must presume from your letter that you have some small interest in Atlantology?”
“To the contrary, Sir John, I have a very keen interest in Atlantis. I have studied the subject at great length, from Plato's accounts to the most recent works. You are familiar with Ignatius Donnelly and his theories, are you not?”
As surely he must be. The eccentric politician's recently published text concerning that lost continent had caused an international stir, both in scientific and lay circles. Indeed, Atlantis had become a cause c�
�lèbre with the fashionable set, so that the bogus Sir John likely had found it easy to ply his nefarious trade among their number.
Now, he gave a polite nod.
“His is an interesting if wrong-headed approach toward solving the mystery,” he flatly stated, punctuating that opinion with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “I fear that the good senator is so intent upon tying all the world's enigmas into one neat, convenient package labeled Atlantis that he has forsaken common sense.”
“Then you do not believe his assertion that the ancient Atlanteans were the forebears of numerous other races?”
“Let us just say that I refuse to accept coincidental similarities in various languages and cultures as proof that a single group of people seeded half the world's populations.”
“I see.”
Halia gave a thoughtful frown, aware that time was passing, but needing to plumb for herself the depths of the man's perfidy. “And what of his conjecture that a land mass once existed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?”
“Again, wishful thinking. No documentable evidence exists to warrant such an assumption.” Then he tempered that blunt reply with an engaging smile. “I do trust that my answers have not inadvertently run roughshod over some pet theory of yours?”
“Not at all,” she answered, struggling to suppress her surprise. Rather than falling in with the popular view, he had taken an opposite stance. Indeed, his opinions of Donnelly's findings corresponded with her father's and hers—perhaps too closely for comfort.
“But what of your theories, Sir John?” she persisted. “Surely you have formulated your own ideas as to the true location of Atlantis and the cause of its disappearance.”
“Indeed, I have. Within the year, I hope to reveal my findings to all the world...which is why I have undertaken this lecture tour. As you know, scientific study depends as much upon generous funding as it does upon raw data and physical labor.”
He paused and steepled his manicured fingers—so much for physical labor, Halia sourly thought—his expression now that of the earnest scholar. “Much as I am loath to play the role of supplicant,” he went on, “it is a necessary evil to ensure my expedition's success. And if my theory as to where the ruins of Atlantis may be found is proved correct, which I am confident that it shall be, both my patrons and I shall reap reward beyond measure.”
“Reward?” Halia echoed. “Are you perhaps referring to spiritual remuneration?”
“I am referring, my dear Miss Davenport, to gold.”
He must have caught her suppressed sound of disapproval, for he once again flashed his engaging smile...a smile that might have disarmed a woman made of less stern stuff.
“I fear I have offended your scholarly sensibilities,” he apologized. “Of course, my own motivation lies in the possibility of uncovering data that will point to unknown technologies, to alternate approaches to medicine, and the like. I myself have no need for money beyond the expenditures of my research, for my title brings with it a modest yearly portion that more than satisfies my needs.”
When she merely arched one pale brow in response, he assumed a more serious mien. “You must believe me, Miss Davenport, when I tell you that in my view, the thought of wealth pales in comparison to the vast opportunities for expanding the world's knowledge. But surely you realize it is the lure of riches, rather than enlightenment, which prompts those outside the scientific community to support a cause such as mine.”
“And support is what you seek of me, Sir John, is it not?”
“You did indicate such willingness in your letter...but perhaps such matters are best discussed in private?”
He ended with a questioning look at Christophe who, having allowed the Englishman past, had resumed his silent post in the doorway. Halia glanced from the dark-skinned man back to her guest, and then coolly replied, “But what of the proprieties, Sir John? Surely you do not expect an unmarried woman such as myself to entertain a gentleman alone?”
She sensed rather than saw the flicker of irritation that passed through him, much like the momentary stirring of a tranquil pond caused by some unseen creature moving below its surface. This man, she realized, would not accede to her demands without a fight. As unobtrusively as possible, she slipped a hand into her skirt pocket and gripped the pistol butt.
In the next heartbeat, however, the Englishman had resumed his genial facade. “You are quite right. Indeed, I berate myself for making so thoughtless a suggestion. It is just that I am impatient to continue my work—”
“—which entails soliciting donations to fund a nonexistent research expedition...a practice better known as thievery.”
“My dear Miss Davenport!”
“And I believe this is not the first such swindle you have perpetrated on an unwitting public. Previously, you have posed as missionary, and before that, you sold shares in a nonexistent diamond mine, and before that—”
“Really, this is all too distressing,” he broke in again, the precise English accent taking on a razor sharp note of surprise. He shook his head, his dark gaze filled with pitying tolerance. “The fact that you happen to disagree with my Atlantis theory—though you have yet to hear it—hardly entitles you to accuse me of defrauding those who have heard and accepted my ideas. Your accusations border upon slander.”
“My accusations are the unvarnished truth, a concept with which you obviously are unacquainted, Sir John—or should I call you Malcolm Northrup?”
His indulgent facade slipped away, replaced now by a chill politeness that somehow was more frightening than any display of anger. The lines of his face grew sharper, while his mild brown eyes narrowed and took on an almost predatory cast. The transformation, while subtle, was nonetheless disturbing—as if a house cat had unexpectedly turned tiger.
How had she ever thought that face bland? she wondered as she suppressed a sudden shiver.
“My name, Miss Davenport, is Sir John Abbot, late of West Sussex County in England,” he coolly replied, rising from his chair. “I am unacquainted with any Malcolm Northrup, and I must confess I am at a loss as to why you bear me such ill will. Had you previously voiced doubts, I could have supplied you with numerous letters and documents attesting both to my identity and to the scope of my work. But now, I fear our visit has come to an end. If you will excuse me—”
“Not so fast, Mr. Northrup.”
Halia slid back her chair and rose. “I have acquired evidence that you have made false claims of a scientific expedition to discover Atlantis,” she countered, “while all the time you were pocketing every cent donated to the cause. Not only have you played falsely with the dreams of countless people, but you have made a mockery of the glory that was the lost continent. I fear I cannot allow such activities to continue unchecked.”
“Indeed? And just how do you intend to stop me?”
He took a few steps toward her, halting when a wordless sound of threat issued from Christophe's direction. He gave the thickly built servant an assessing look—though they were of a height, Christophe was almost double his size—then spread his hands in a deprecating gesture.
“Do forgive me, Miss Davenport,” he went on, a humorless smile playing about his lips. “I was under the misapprehension that, here in America, a man is deemed innocent until proven otherwise. But seeing as you both already have made up your minds as to my guilt, I presume you now wish to turn me over to the proper authorities?”
Had she not been so nervous, Halia might have admired the cool aplomb with which he was handling the situation. As it was, she could only give thanks for her foresight in providing herself with a weapon so she could hold him at bay.
“I see that you have mistaken my intentions,” she replied, drawing the pistol from her skirt pocket and leveling its barrel at his chest. “You see, you are not being arrested, Mr. Northrup. You are being kidnapped.”
~ Chapter 2 ~
“Kidnapped?”
The Englishman shook his dark head in disbelief; then, turnin
g in Christophe's direction, he gestured peremptorily. “You, there, can you not see that your mistress is delusional? I suggest you disarm her, before she hurts someone.”
“Miss Halia, she be knowin' what she be about,” the Haitian grimly countered, folding his burly arms across his chest. “Now, you be doin' what she say.”
“This is lunacy. I refuse to—”
“Oh, do cooperate, Mr. Northrup,” Halia cut him short, a renewed sense of urgency gripping her as she heard the mantel clock chime again. Pausing to loop her reticule over her wrist, she clutched her pistol more tightly and stepped out from behind the desk.
“Lally and the luggage are safely at the wharf by now, are they not?” she asked Christophe, her question referring to the Haitian's older sister, who was also one of the Davenport household.
At Christophe's nod, she turned back to the Englishman. “I fear I do not have time to explain my actions just now, since our ship disembarks within the next hour. If you will just slowly move toward the door.”
“What do you mean, our ship?” he demanded, a dull red flush distorting his features even while he ignored her command. “Surely you are not expecting me to accompany you on some sea voyage of sorts?”
“I am traveling to the island of Bimini in the Caribbean. You shall journey with us only as far south as Savannah, where you shall visit the banking establishment where you keep the ill-gotten fruits of your nefarious schemes. You will then withdraw those funds and turn them over to me.”
“Funds...turn over...to you—”
“You heard me, Mr. Northrup,” she cut short his choked protest. “I have information that a substantial sum—half a million dollars, to be exact—is deposited there. If you cooperate fully, I may even be persuaded to let you go free if, of course, you give me your word you will cease defrauding our citizens in such a manner. The arrangement is more than generous,” she finished, noting the sudden narrowing of his dark eyes.
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