Chapter Thirteen

“Danson, I would like you to meet my daughter, Topaz. Topaz, this is Danson Clifford.”

Topaz lifted her gaze to the face of the man opposite and froze in surprise. She didn’t know what she’d expected of her father’s new associate: not this.

Unmarried, her mother had said of him, and extremely wealthy. She’d mentioned nothing about his appearance, and Topaz could see why. If she had to choose a word to describe Danson Clifford, it would be “nondescript.”

Neither tall nor short, neither particularly well nor poorly dressed; he didn’t look like a man with money, though she knew her father wouldn’t associate with him if he weren’t.

Mousy brown hair lay limp around a dome-shaped skull. A pale complexion argued he might well spend a lot of time in cellars. Eyes of a watery gray peered through wire-rimmed spectacles that perched on a thin, sharp nose. What nature had added to the nose she’d subtracted from the chin, the weakness of which contrasted with a prominent Adam’s apple.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hathor.”

A second shock passed through Topaz; this one tingled. His voice, very soft and cultured, bore a now-familiar accent.

“You’re from England,” she said in surprise. The second time in mere days she’d encountered such an accent. What were the odds?

“Yes. Like so many others, I’ve decided to avail myself of the opportunities offered by this brave, new world.”

“From what part of England do you hail, Mr. Clifford?”

“East Anglia—the Fens. Most people on this side of the pond have not heard of it.”

He spoke in a tone so hushed Topaz had to lean close to hear. When she did she caught a hint of his scent, an odd combination of mustiness and decay. A slow shiver traveled up her spine, and she drew back again.

Her father spoke. “Topaz has expressed an interest in assisting us with our new project, Danson. She has suitable talents—admittedly undeveloped as yet—and might prove useful, if you have no objections.”

“To your daughter? How could I object?” Danson smiled, revealing slightly pointed teeth.

He looks like a rabid animal, Topaz thought. Or a hare beset by some other strange disease.

“Keep it in the family, eh?” Danson went on. “Family members never betray secrets.”

“Secrets?” Topaz echoed. “I wish you would tell me, Mr. Clifford, just what this new project entails. My father has hinted at just enough to keep me intrigued.”

“My daughter, like all my children, becomes bored easily.”

“Oh, I am quite certain we can find something to hold her interest. Miss Hathor, do you often help your father in his work?”

“Never. But he rarely ceases reminding me we have a duty to those who come to us for solace.” I should be struck dead for hypocrisy, Topaz thought even as she spoke the words. But she’d say anything she must for Romney’s sake. Desperation still gnawed at her. All night long she’d found no rest and caught no hint of him, not so much as a whisper.

Frederick turned away and filled three snifters with brandy. They had met in his study—the very place Topaz wanted to search for the key—and she struggled to keep her gaze focused on Clifford rather than speculate about her father’s possible hiding places.

Frederick placed a snifter in her hand. Feigning interest she asked, “And, Mr. Clifford, precisely what is your occupation?”

“Undertaker.”

“I beg your pardon?” What had he said in that soft voice of his?

“For many generations, Miss Hathor, my people have cared for the dead even as yours have listened for departing spirits and aided them. An ancestor of mine used to travel around the Fens with a horse and cart, tending the newly deceased. Today we are much more…organized.”

Undertaker. A second chill followed the first up Topaz’s spine, this one so violent she barely kept still. And there were corpses in the cellar.

Suddenly she didn’t want to know what went on there. She looked from her father’s dark eyes, which could hide any number of secrets, to those of Clifford, so oddly difficult to read behind his lenses, and horror touched her.

Run from this, her every instinct told her—the same that guarded her when she went abroad in the dangerous parts of the city, and that kept her safe.

She fixed her gaze on Clifford, and the sense spoke again: Get away from him.

But she had to discover what had happened to Romney—help him if she could. And she prided herself on being fearless, the kind of woman who chased away would-be abductors. Why should she be so disturbed by this mere drip of a man?

She sat on the leather settee, assuming a mild interest. “And, Mr. Clifford, how did you meet my father?”

The two men exchanged glances before Clifford lowered himself into a chair, holding his brandy snifter as if not quite sure what to do with it. “I sought him out. Your father, Miss Hathor, is one of the foremost spiritualists of our day. Even in England we have heard of him. Does it not make sense that one such as I, who deals with the dead, should wish to make his acquaintance?”

“I don’t know. Does it?”

“Oh, I think so.”

Frederick took the other end of the settee. “Danson brings knowledge that, combined with mine, may change how we perceive death and could ultimately negate bereavement.”

“Really?” Topaz’s thoughts flew. She leaned toward Danson, even though her every instinct still bade otherwise, and asked confidingly, “What are you attempting? Do tell.”

“All in good time, Topaz,” Frederick said almost jovially. “First you must prove your sincere desire to be part of this great undertaking.”

Undertaking? The undertakings of an undertaker… surely her father made a joke. But no, Frederick Hathor rarely displayed a sense of humor. “How am I to do that, Father?”

“Apply yourself. Leave off wasting your time and frittering away your energies in the seamier parts of the city.”

“I do not waste my energies.”

To Clifford, Frederick said, “My daughter insists on visiting waterfront dives, teaching self-defense to prostitutes, and consorting with automatons. Oh, yes, Topaz—you’re aware I know every detail of what you get up to at Nellie’s and the Eagle Bar. Do you think I don’t have sources whispering to me? They whisper constantly.”

Anger and frustration twisted together to turn Topaz’s stomach. Did her father have to flaunt his knowledge? What else did he know? Was he aware of her connection with Romney? Had he somehow got rid of him? Did he guess what she was about even now?

Or was that just what he wanted her to think?

Frederick Hathor might be a talented spirit master; he was also a consummate confidence man. He did, in truth, contact spirits at the request of those who came to him. He also prolonged their reasons for coming and procured from them large amounts of money—enough to keep this grand house with all its comforts.

Solace for the bereaved—at a price. But where did an undertaker from East Anglia fit in? Especially one who raised Topaz’s hackles to such a degree.

“Well, then, Father,” she said solemnly, “I guess I’ll just have to prove myself to you.” She pierced Clifford with a glance. “To both of you.”

Frederick smiled. “Welcome home, Daughter. Welcome home at last.”

Topaz drained her snifter in a single gulp.