SCOUNDREL.

The Blades of the Rose.

by Zoe Archer.

Chapter 1.

A Chance Encounter.

Athens, Greece. 1875.

The b.l.o.o.d.y problem with magic was that he wasn't allowed to use it.

Bennett Day ducked as a heavy marble bust of Plato flew toward his head. It smashed into the wall behind him, leaving a sizable hole that could have easily served as the philosopher's allegorical cave.

Bennett tutted. "Not very enlightened of you, Captain. What would Plato say?"

"English swine! I kill you!"

"How un-Platonic." He dodged as the German ship captain, graceful as a drunken bear, lunged for him. Somewhere, Elena screamed. Bennett sighed. She proved herself to be all too typical with her theatricalities, a woman who loved show more than substance.

Bennett easily avoided the German's paws. Yes, things would have been much simpler if Bennett could use an immobilization spell-that one from the Maldives that had been used on him once before and stung like the devil. But he couldn't use that spell or any other. He was a Blade of the Rose. He could only use magic that was either a gift or naturally belonged to him. Which left him with precisely nothing.

Yet, when it came to eluding angry husbands catching him in their wives' bedrooms, Bennett needed no magic. He was well versed in extricating himself from this very situation. He avoided such entanglements, generally, but sometimes it couldn't be helped, especially on a.s.signment.

"Stand still!" roared the captain. "Fight like a man!"

"Like this?" asked Bennett with a neat jab to the German's chin. The heavy captain stumbled back but did not, alas, go down as smaller men would.

Business for the Blades had brought Bennett to Athens, and following a lead brought him to Elena. Her seafaring husband was known as an ally of the d.a.m.nable Heirs of Albion, and thus a likely wellspring of information as to what the Heirs were doing in Greece, what magical Source they sought. Bennett needed the German's last manifest to know if those pilfering b.u.g.g.e.rs were here, and, if so, which ones had come. Two choices: break into the German's house and steal the manifest; or, and here was the possibility Bennett favored, seduce the captain's wife and nab the manifest along the way. He did so enjoy combining business with pleasure.

She proved herself ripe and eager for seduction. But no sooner had she and Bennett sequestered themselves in her bedroom than her husband had returned at a most infelicitous moment. Ah, well. At least Bennett was still dressed. He didn't want to run through the streets of Athens without any trousers.

Sadly, the captain blocked Bennett's path to the door. Which left him with only one option. Out the window.

"I am am English," he said to the German, judging the distance. "A little known fact-I'm also one-eighth Greek, on my mother's side. From Olympia. Home of the ancient athletic games." English," he said to the German, judging the distance. "A little known fact-I'm also one-eighth Greek, on my mother's side. From Olympia. Home of the ancient athletic games."

"Why do you tell me this when I will tear off your handsome, smirking face?"

"One of the events of the pentathlon is-" and here he ran for the window, Elena shrieking, and vaulted over the railing before coming to land lightly in a crouch a story below, "jumping."

He stood and dusted off his palms, grimy from the cobbled street, while the captain shouted the most ungentlemanly epithets from the window above. Elena wept and tugged at her husband's coat. She seemed to be enjoying herself, delighting in the theatrics like a melodrama heroine.

"Come now, sir," Bennett called back to her husband, "you've never met met my sister, so I strongly disbelieve your a.s.sertions about her." my sister, so I strongly disbelieve your a.s.sertions about her."

"And your mother is a goat!" With that witty salvo, the captain disappeared from the window, but Bennett knew that, in such situations, husbands seldom retreated to their libraries to indulge in a revivifying and reflective gla.s.s of brandy. Sure enough, Bennett heard the captain's pounding steps as he barreled down the stairs. Bennett decided not to wait for the man to make his appearance on the street, even if it was the polite thing to do.

"Another event in the pentathlon: running," Bennett added before sprinting away. He patted his inside jacket pocket, where the manifest rested safe and secure.

Elena and her husband lived in Plaka, one of the oldest parts of Athens, as attested by its narrow, winding streets that seemed to have no reason to exist other than to drive foreigners to madness. White buildings stacked one atop the other like demented sugar cubes. As Bennett sped down these cramped and twisted streets, he deftly sidestepped donkeys laden with baskets of pistachios. The German captain bellowed behind him. Women and men shouted from windows and doorsteps, eager to join in the fun.

This wasn't exactly exactly what the Blades had in mind when dispatching him to Greece. A cable had reached Bennett in Bucharest, where he had been returning a Source to its homeland. The Star of David medallion had been used in Mongolia to summon a Golem in a pitched battle between Blades and Heirs. Bennett and several other Blades, including a now-initiated Thalia Huntley and her husband Gabriel, had defended an ancient Asian Source against the Heirs. It had been a tight, tough fight, but the Blades had been successful in their mission. That camel's t.u.r.d and Heirs operative Henry Lamb had been killed, and his crony Jonas Edgeworth fled back to England and his father. The Mongolian Source was now well protected in a monastery deep in the Gobi Desert. what the Blades had in mind when dispatching him to Greece. A cable had reached Bennett in Bucharest, where he had been returning a Source to its homeland. The Star of David medallion had been used in Mongolia to summon a Golem in a pitched battle between Blades and Heirs. Bennett and several other Blades, including a now-initiated Thalia Huntley and her husband Gabriel, had defended an ancient Asian Source against the Heirs. It had been a tight, tough fight, but the Blades had been successful in their mission. That camel's t.u.r.d and Heirs operative Henry Lamb had been killed, and his crony Jonas Edgeworth fled back to England and his father. The Mongolian Source was now well protected in a monastery deep in the Gobi Desert.

Bennett wasn't so well protected. The German neared and lunged for him. Nimbly, Bennett ducked under the man's arms, falling behind the captain. Momentum carried the German forward, nicely helped by Bennett's boot planted square in the middle of the man's a.r.s.e.

Bennett raced past a group of men gathered in a square. One of them held a long walking stick to aid in traversing Athens's uneven streets. Without breaking stride, Bennett grabbed the stick from the man's hand and raced on, ignoring the man's outraged yelp.

Down a set of steep stairs. He paused at the bottom, pivoting on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. The captain ran toward him, panting. With a smooth and easy motion, Bennett hurled the walking stick like a spear at the furious husband, and it smacked the man straight in the chest. The German bent over, gasping, as he lost his air.

"Javelin," Bennett said with a grin. "That's event number three."

But the captain was determined, and, even as he turned purple, forced himself to straighten up and continue his pursuit. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Bennett sped on.

He was a good agent for the Blades, serving as their resident cryptographer. Bennett could unlock nearly any code or cipher, but when he had to, was more than willing to get into a sc.r.a.p or two. There was something so deeply satisfying about going toe-to-toe against a man, rather than an encoded Aztec ma.n.u.script.

If he didn't shake this German, there'd be one h.e.l.l of a fight. He doubted any of the Orthodox churches he pa.s.sed would offer him sanctuary. A black-clad priest on a church step shook his head and beard at him. Clearly, the holy man knew that Bennett had broken nearly all of the Ten Commandments. At least Bennett honored his father and mother. He didn't make too many graven images, either. Two out of ten wasn't so bad.

The cheerful din of a daytime taverna taverna announced itself before Bennett saw it. Men sat at tables outside, drinking ouzo and nibbling on plates of octopus, palavering. Deftly, Bennett seized one of the empty plates and, glancing quickly over his shoulder, launched the plate at the German's head. It was sheer bad luck that the captain stumbled over a basket in the street, and the plate missed him by a bare inch to shatter on the wall behind him. announced itself before Bennett saw it. Men sat at tables outside, drinking ouzo and nibbling on plates of octopus, palavering. Deftly, Bennett seized one of the empty plates and, glancing quickly over his shoulder, launched the plate at the German's head. It was sheer bad luck that the captain stumbled over a basket in the street, and the plate missed him by a bare inch to shatter on the wall behind him.

"Opa!" shouted the men at the shouted the men at the taverna taverna.

"Discus, that's four," Bennett muttered. "d.a.m.n it. It'll be a complete pentathlon after all."

He rounded a sharp corner, then quickly sprang up to grab the lower bars of a balcony's railing. Bennett pulled himself up, but did not climb inside. Instead, he turned around, heels balanced on the edge of the balcony, hands gripping the railing behind him. Not a soft-bellied, weak-armed n.o.b or an Heir, hiding behind a gun or hired muscle. Working for the Blades kept his body strong. Thirty-two years old, and as fit as he'd been during those two years he spent at Cambridge, before he found his true calling as a Blade.

Judging by the smile of the young woman who was currently sitting on the balcony, she also appreciated his athleticism. She started to speak, but Bennett shook his head and winked. She adjusted her kerchief, giving him a better view of her bosom.

The German stormed down the street, then stopped, looking about in confusion. He didn't see Bennett hovering above him. Then came another lilting melody of Teutonic swearing, a delightful combination of seafaring and Germanic oaths, as the man whirled around, searching for Bennett.

Light as a cat, Bennett launched himself from the balcony and onto the back of the persistent captain. A less bull-like man would have fallen to the cobblestones, but the German only staggered under Bennett's weight. Bennett looped one arm around the captain's neck and held it fast, bracing one arm with the other. The German snarled and choked, spinning around and pawing frantically at the strong arm pressed tight against his throat. Bennett did not relinquish his hold. The captain ran backward and slammed him into a wall. Stars swam in Bennett's eyes, but he didn't let go. Another slam. And another. Bennett held tight. Surely Hercules had an easier time of things with that Erymantian boar.

The captain's movements began to slow, his fingers weakening as they tried to pry Bennett loose. Then the German stumbled and sank to his knees before, at last, growing limp. Carefully, Bennett released his hold. The captain slid in a soundless heap to the ground. Turning him over, Bennett contemplated the man's red face before pressing his ear to the captain's chest.

"And that's wrestling," Bennett murmured. "A true pentathlon. Mother would be so proud."

"Is he dead?" asked the young woman from the balcony in Greek.

"A beauty sleep," Bennett answered, also in Greek.

Standing, Bennett dragged the captain's limp body into an alley. He took a wash line and used it to quickly truss the German up like a chicken. Ready for Sunday dinner. Once the captain woke, it would take a goodly bit of maneuvering before he got free.

Bennett dusted himself off before slipping from the alley. With a wave for the woman on the balcony, he headed west, toward the old market in Monastiraki. He had the manifest, but there was more investigation to be done.

A pity that the captain had to return before Bennett could savor the fruits of his seduction of the man's wife. Elena had held such gymnastic potential.

Cuckolded husbands and thrilling chases aside, he was here in Athens for serious business, and he meant to succeed in his objective. As much as he enjoyed female company, his true purpose was and always would be to find and protect the magical Sources. But when the two coincided, well, that was just good fortune.

To Victoria Regina Gloriana London Edgeworth Harcourt, more familiarly known as London Harcourt, it was a wonderful chaos. After Lawrence died, she had spent her requisite year in full mourning, and then gone through the gradual steps through second and half mourning, which meant that, almost three years later, she was finally free of her somber prison. Now she was out into the larger world. And what a marvelous world it was. Not once in her whole life, not even on her bridal journey, had she left England, but now, to find herself in Athens, in the magnificent anarchy of the Monastiraki marketplace-she felt alive with every part of her being.

Vendors in booths and tents sold every item imaginable. Walnuts, olives, embroidered waistcoats, incense, icons, chips of marble from ancient columns, miniature plaster replicas of the Parthenon, postcards. The hot afternoon air swirled in the square, scented with roasted lamb and frank-incense, and filled with a patois of Greek, English, and German. Someone plucked on a bouzouki and wailed a love song. Amidst the mix of traditional Greek dress and more modern Western fashion, English tourists were easily distinguishable by their white cotton parasols, London among them. A lady, she was constantly reminded by her mother, protected her complexion, especially from the burning Attic sun. Certainly, her chic straw hat provided no shelter.

"We should be getting back to the hotel."

London looked back at her exhausted maid, Sally, with a small measure of pity. The whole of the day, London had been dragging the poor woman back and forth across Athens. Already, they had visited the Gate of Hadrian, the Olympium, and the Pnyx, true birthplace of democracy. London and Sally had climbed up the steep mountain to see the Acropolis and marveled at the decayed symmetry of the Parthenon. Or, at least, London had marveled while Sally grumbled about rotten old temples, and why did they have to stomp all over some dirty heathen town when all they had to do was go to the museum back home and see lots of silly pieces of marble, thanks to Lord Elgin.

It stunned London that she truly walked the streets and visited the temples of Theseus, of Pericles. She had read so much about the ancient world, its heroes and tragedies, and to be here now, no longer reading but to stand and breathe the air, dusty as it was, seemed a splendid gift she was determined not to squander. After visiting the site of the Ancient Agora, London wanted to see its modern incarnation, and so she and Sally found themselves in the colorful cacophony of Monastiraki, which was, sadly, thronged with British and German tourists in their white linen suits. At the least, London could purchase a few souvenirs for friends back home, and perhaps something for herself, as well. Once she and Father left Athens tomorrow, he a.s.sured her they would be far from anyplace that might sell mementos to travelers. London tamped down her disappointment. They had only arrived in Athens the day before, and too soon they would have to leave.

Yet, she would not complain. It was rather miraculous that she was even in Greece at all, had it not been for circ.u.mstance. And her own disobedience.

"Just a little bit longer, Sally," London said. "I promise. And then we'll go straight back to the hotel."

"Your father wouldn't want you out by yourself for too long."

"But I'm not by myself. I have you."

Sally lapsed into another round of muttering, which London decided to disregard. As she wandered between the rows of booths, tempted by bushels of currants and finely woven silk shawls, vendors hailed her.

"Lovely necklace for a lovely lady!" someone shouted in German.

"Wonderful grapes as sweet as your beauty!" another yelled in English.

Everything intrigued her. She didn't know where to begin, her head a whirl from the visual and aural bounty around her. Until something caught her eye. London approached a booth where a vendor, dressed traditionally in a white kilt and short jacket, presided over his wares. Rows of black and red urns, amphorae, kraters, and plates were lined up on tables, all of the pottery depicting cla.s.sical scenes from mythology.

"Wonderful, ancient vases for you, sir," the vendor said in English to a French tourist. He pushed back his fez. "Each one, priceless relic."

"Priceless, you say?" asked the Frenchman, intrigued.

"All beyond value. All taken with utmost care from earth, where they sleep for centuries, for millennia."

Standing nearby, London considered the amphorae and other pieces of pottery. Some dirt had been rubbed into their surfaces, or a small abrasive pad taken to their paint to give them an antiqued appearance. Though she was no expert in archaeology, even a laywoman such as herself recognized such fraud. "I am surprised there is no paint on your hands," she said, also in English. "For these were made no later than a week ago."

At first, the vendor scowled, but he quickly smoothed over a smile. "My lady is clever. Clever as she is beautiful. Yes, these pieces not old. To weed out ignorants, you understand. I save good pieces, ancient ones, for the sharp-witted, such as yourself and this esteemed gentleman."

"Naturally," London said dryly.

The Frenchman glanced over at her quickly, then took a second, slower look. He was rather handsome and very neatly dressed in a traveling suit. He smiled at London, and she gave him a polite nod.

"Here, I show you." The vendor dove down underneath one of the tables, then reemerged with a small wooden chest. He cleared s.p.a.ce between some kraters, shunting the ceramic vessels aside with little care, then opened the box. On the rusty velvet lining lay several shards of pottery. "These are too valuable to simply lay out for any fool to grab. But my lady is wise like G.o.ddess Athena, and so I give her this privilege. You both may look, if you like."

London tugged off her cream kidskin glove, which Sally took, and picked up one of the shards. Some writing, faded almost to obscurity, decorated its surface, along with traditional palm-leaf motifs. If it was a fake, it was a kind not so obvious as the vendor's other wares. "What can you tell me about this?" she asked.

The vendor beamed, believing he had an interested customer. "Old, yes, very old. I have on most high authority the piece you hold is from time of Darius the Great."

"Darius the Great!" exclaimed the Frenchman, impressed.

"Are you sure?" London asked.

"Quite, my lady. Papers I have, somewhere, to prove it."

"Sir," she said after a moment, "you are not being honest with me or this gentleman."

The vendor looked offended. "You doubt?"

"I do, sir, very much."

"How do you know he is not speaking the truth, Mademoiselle?" the Frenchman asked with a trace of condescension. London did not bother telling him that she was most definitely a madame madame and not a and not a mademoiselle mademoiselle.

"Look here," she said, pointing to the writing. "This form of Greek wasn't in use during the reign of Darius the Great. Here, and here, the wording isn't correct. The vowels, you see. They shifted. It's clear that this piece of pottery came from the era of no earlier than Darius the Third."

The Frenchman gaped at her in disbelief. Sally also looked shocked. But then, Sally had never truly comprehended the depths of London's study of language. London had taken the years of enforced seclusion following Lawrence's death to rigorously apply herself to studying more ancient languages than she already knew, sending servants out to buy dusty, nearly forgotten tomes from the booksellers in Covent Garden and poring over them late into the night. Yet, despite herself and the years of wisdom she had gained since the time of her blighted marriage, London felt her cheeks grow hot. Even here, in Athens, an educated woman was a freakish anomaly.

The vendor scowled. "What do you do? You say I lie and you chase off my customers?"

"No, no," London said quickly. "I merely pointed out that the dates weren't quite-"

"You the one who lies!" the vendor shouted. "No lady knows this language! You make trouble!"

Dozens of eyes turned toward them, drawn by the commotion. People craned their necks to watch as the vendor grew more and more angry. He switched to speaking Greek, a fast barrage of words that questioned London's upbringing and why some rich Englishwoman must ruin his business when he had a wife and dozens of children at home who only wanted a morsel of bread, the pitiful creatures.

The Frenchman slunk away, leaving London alone to face the vendor's verbal bombardment. This This was certainly something that etiquette training never addressed. She wondered how to extricate herself without getting arrested. was certainly something that etiquette training never addressed. She wondered how to extricate herself without getting arrested.

"Save those slurs for your grandmother," said a deep, masculine voice to the vendor. He spoke Greek with an English accent.

London turned to the voice. And nearly lost her own.

She knew she was still, in many ways, a sheltered woman. Her society in England was limited to a select few families and a.s.sorted hangers-on, her father's business a.s.sociates, their retainers and servants. At events and parties, she often saw the same people again and again. And yet, she knew with absolute clarity, that men who looked like the one standing beside her were a rare and altogether miraculous phenomenon.

There were taller men, to be sure, but it was difficult to consider this a flaw when presented with this man's lean muscularity. He wonderfully filled out the shoulders of his English coat, not bulky, but definitively capable. She understood at once that his arms, his long legs, held a leashed strength that even his negligent pose could not disguise. He called to mind the boxers that her brother, Jonas, had admired in his youth. The stranger was bareheaded, which was odd in this heat, but it allowed her to see that his hair was dark with just the faintest curl, ever so slightly mussed, as if he'd recently come from bed. She suddenly imagined herself tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

And if that thought didn't make her blush all the harder, then his face was the coup de grace. What wicked promises must he have made, and made good on, with such a face. A sharp, clean jaw, a mouth of impossible sensuality. A naughty, thoroughly masculine smile tugged at the corners of that mouth. Crystalline eyes full of intelligent humor, the color intensely blue. Even the small b.u.mp on the bridge of his nose-had it been broken?-merely added to the overall impression of profound male beauty. He was clean shaven, too, so that there could be no mistaking how outrageously handsome this stranger was.

She may as well get on the boat back to England immediately. Surely nothing she could ever see in Greece could eclipse the marvel of this man.

"Who are you?" the vendor shouted in Greek to the newcomer. "You defend this woman and her lies?"

"I don't care what she said," the Englishman answered calmly, also in Greek. "Keep insulting her and I'll jam my fist into your throat." The vendor goggled at him, but wisely kept silent. Whoever this man was, he certainly looked capable of throwing a good punch.

Yet gently, he put a hand on London's waist and began to guide her away. Stunned by the strange turn of events, she let him steer her from the booth.