Page 18 of Speculations in Sin

Cynthia and I were ushered into a massive office that held several of the large, scowling windows I’d observed from theoutside. The windows looked ordinary from this side and admitted plenty of light. Thick draperies, tied open, lent each window an elegant air.

The office’s high ceiling was decorated with dark and polished wooden corbels. An ivory-and-gold-colored carpet filled the room end to end, ensuring that its inhabitants’ feet never had to touch bare floor. A desk sat in the exact center of the room, within the middle circle of the carpet’s design, its dark wood contrasting with the light colors of the rug. Two chairs reposed on our side of the desk with a small round table between them.

The man who rose at our entrance wore a black suit whose cut told me it had been immaculately tailored for him. He had light brown hair, pomaded slickly back from his forehead, a trimmed beard of the same color, a narrow face, and a thin nose.

Brown eyes assessed us, instantly noting that of the pair of us, Cynthia was the aristocrat. He dismissed me from that moment, his attention all for Lady Cynthia.

“Welcome, your ladyship. Please, sit. I will send for tea or whatever refreshment you would like.”

“Tea would be lovely.” Cynthia settled onto the chair with a flip of her skirt and gazed about the office with lively curiosity.

I sat on the second chair, my handbag in my lap, quietly and demurely fading into the background as a lady’s companion should. Or so it appeared. While trying to keep my countenance blank, I studied the room, the man, the desk, and anything I could discreetly put my gaze on for any clue that would help Sam.

The chamber, despite its size, held very little furniture. I’d expected bookshelves filled with tomes on banking orinvesting, or glass-fronted shelves holding documents or some such. Instead, the desk, the graceful chairs, and two side tables between the windows, each holding a vase of hothouse flowers, made up the room’s entire contents.

“I am Mr. Harmon Zachary, one of the head bankers,” the man said smoothly. “Your uncle, Mr. Bywater, wrote a fine letter on your behalf.”

Daniel had told me that one of the head bankers was second cousin to the owners, and I wondered if this was he.

Cynthia ducked her head demurely. “How kind of him.”

Mr. Zachary did not answer. Before his silence could puzzle me, a door on the wall behind the desk opened to admit a maid pushing a tea trolley. Maid and cart were followed by a tall, willowy woman in a slim-fitting gown. They’d been waiting in the wings for their cue, I decided.

The maid, who wore a crisp black frock and pristine white pinafore, parked the tea trolley near the desk. She bobbed a perfect curtsy meant for all of us and glided out with just the right amount of deference.

The tall woman remained. Her dark hair was dressed in neat but fashionable coils, unembellished by any ornament. Her gown was likewise unassuming, with a jacket-like bodice and a small bustle to fill out her skirt in the back. The entire costume proclaimed that she followed fashion but allowed no ostentation.

“This is Miss Swann,” Mr. Zachary said.

No indication of who Miss Swann was. An assistant? A lady clerk? A family relation? Another cousin, perhaps? She appeared to be near the same age as Mr. Zachary, who must be in his forties.

He did not give Miss Swann our names, because presumably, she already knew them.

“Good afternoon,” Miss Swann said as she moved to the tea trolley.

She lifted the large porcelain pot, which my experienced eye told me was fine bone china, and poured tea into equally exquisite cups. Without asking our preferences, she spilled a small dollop of cream into each cup, followed by exactly two lumps of sugar. “Your ladyship. Madam.”

She carried the cups in saucers to us, handing the first to Cynthia and then one to me. Her tip of head to me was no less courteous than what she had given Cynthia.

Once our cups were safely delivered, Miss Swann poured tea for Mr. Zachary. She returned to the trolley once more to lift petits fours—one white with cream icing, the other pale pink with deeper pink icing—onto plates with minute silver tongs.

Cynthia graciously accepted the petits fours and set them on the table beside her. I nibbled the pink one, always curious to try baked goods. It was far too dry, in my opinion, the berry flavor the cake’s color indicated barely noticeable. The petits fours had been sliced with exactness, every layer the same size, the icing neither too thick nor too thin. But the baker, whoever he or she was, had sacrificed taste for appearance.

I finished the petit four to be polite but set its fellow aside and resumed my tea. This was good at least, the best oolong Twinings sold.

Her tea duties finished, Miss Swann lifted a notebook and slim pencil from Mr. Zachary’s desk and positioned herself three feet to his left, ready to take notes.

Mr. Zachary, having drunk a bit of tea but without touching the cakes, smoothed a paper in front of him.

“Your uncle indicates you have a small legacy from your grandmother that you would like to invest,” he said withapproval. “I commend him for suggesting that we at Daalman’s can help you. You can put your full trust in us, your ladyship.”

Miss Swann nodded, her small smile telling us that Mr. Zachary spoke with wisdom.

“Excellent,” Cynthia said. “What will my money be invested in? Something exciting, like silk, or diamonds? I do like both of those.”

She tittered like an empty-headed debutante. I sipped tea and kept my face straight.

“Excitement is not what one wishes when one invests, your ladyship,” Mr. Zachary said, his tone indulgent. “But we will put your money into accounts that will please you, I think.”

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