Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series) (23 page)

The main bulk of what Jamie had inherited came from whiskey, a heady brew called Connemara Mist that the Kirkpatricks had distilled by the side of a small river in Ulster for four hundred years. Only the Guinness family rivaled the Kirkpatrick name and money in the world of alcohol exports. Another portion came from the linen mills that had also been in production for hundreds of years. Kirkpatrick linens, embossed with a graceful, arcing ‘K’ were famous the world over for the high thread count that made them the last word in luxury.

The present head of the house of Kirkpatrick had expanded the business far beyond the borders of Ireland and simple exports. He had investments from mines in the far north of Canada to offshore oil exploration in the North Atlantic, to several small loan companies set up in underdeveloped nations, allowing those without the means to start small cottage industries of their own. And these were only the thin end of the wedge.

Robert had not been averse to the notion of working for this man, if indeed the man could be persuaded to take him on. Until a moment ago, it had seemed extremely unlikely. Robert knew if His Lordship was willing to take him into his employ, however, it wasn’t because he needed an able assistant but because he’d his own reasons for allowing a spy into his world. Robert felt distinctly pawn-like and yet intrigued by the man who sat before him in all his arrogant beauty, as though conducting job interviews in the nude were merely a matter of course. The man was now looking at him as one would look at a rather dim-witted schoolboy.

“I’m sorry, sir, I missed the last bit of what you were saying,” Robert said, fighting the urge to stutter that pulled hard on his tongue.

James Kirkpatrick the Fourth, the Lord of Ballywick and Tragheda, did not apparently repeat himself for those hard of hearing or short on attention. He merely took another drink from the small glass in his hand and continued in his chilled whiskey voice.

“I have commitments I need to keep over the next several months. I do not plan to be back in Ireland until next autumn,” His Lordship said. “If you still wish, after hearing the conditions I’ve set out, to be in my employ, you’ll be there as well. Until then, you will receive instructions from time to time. The work will involve a great deal of travel.”

“Indeed sir, I look forward to it,” Robert answered courteously, wanting only to escape the hellish heat of the room and be on his way, mentally adding a codicil to take the beautiful and intriguing Sallie Rourke with him as he went.

The golden head inclined itself against the brocade pillows, fire-lit lashes tipping down over deep-bitten green. Robert saw that the man had not merely been acerbic, he had a headache and, judging from the tight line from jaw to temple, a very bad one. He cleared his throat quietly, disconcerted to find himself awaiting permission to leave, as though this man were a medieval king and he a peasant straight off the fief.

“Heavens,” the eyes remained closed, but Robert knew the man did not need to see in order to read his mind, “is the wee Scot still here? You have my permission to leave, though perhaps,” there was a flicker of amusement beneath the serene tone, “you’d like to kiss the ring before you go?” The emerald, seemingly on cue, blazed obscenely in the light.

Robert knew he’d overstayed his welcome and was in danger of compromising everything if he remained a minute longer. He stood, noting that Sallie rose as well, her movements as polished as those of a woman born a king’s concubine. This, his practical Scots side admitted, was likely what she was.

She indicated with a slight movement of one graceful hand that he should accompany her to the door. She opened it for him, a waft of lighter air from the antechamber stirring the delicately jeweled Egyptian crosses that hung from her ears.

“What’s in the brazier?” he asked, wanting to prolong his brief moment in her presence.

“Mugwort,” said the sun strung voice behind him that did not belong to Sallie Rourke, “mixed with sandalwood, said to be useful in scrying rituals. Apparently,” the voice continued lightly, “it prevents elves or evil spirits from entering at your door as well as being useful in the cleaning of crystal balls, or so,” the words were punctuated with a yawn, “a gypsy told me.”

Robert, being possessed of a certain amount of Scots cunning to balance his practicality, knew when he’d been issued a warning.

Sallie opened the door wider. “It’s lavender,” she said, casting a stern look at the recumbent figure, “to help him sleep.”

“And the ground pearls?” Robert asked, wishing he dared to kiss her hand again.

“Headache powder in port,” Sallie said tartly. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s a lamb under the wolf skin. He’s good at throwing up smoke screens, though having been raised by Jesuits one would hardly expect less, would one?” She smiled coolly as she delivered the last sting and closed the door in his face.

Robert understood that her message was two-fold. ‘All is not as it seems and those who create monsters ought to be wary of their creation turning back to bite the hand of origin.’ He would, as he was certain he was meant to, communicate the warning to Father Brandisi.

Retracing his passage through the dark, perfumed corridors, Robert sighed with relief and thought, despite the rather exorbitant amount of money the man had just offered him, it was likely that every penny of it was going to be hard earned.

Chapter Eighteen
Irish Sal

The Kirkpatrick history in the Far East went back
to the time of the original tea trade with China, just as the stranglehold of the East India Company was beginning to ease and it was possible to trade in China without risking the noose with every cargo. This particular arm of the company had grown swiftly, by using the fastest clipper ships and the most ruthless seamen who could be found sailing the Seven Seas.

The Kirkpatrick Company put one of the first merchant steamers in the seas between Calcutta and Chinese ports as well, always keeping slightly ahead of the competition. When Japan opened for trade they were ready to establish themselves there with regular service between Yokohama, Kobe and the Chinese ports of call, and sub-offices in both Japanese cities.

They had to abandon their holdings in Hong Kong during WWII, leaving them to the invading Japanese, but Jamie’s grandfather had rebuilt the company after the war and the retreat of the Japanese. He had wisely established offices elsewhere in China, thus never losing their commercial relationship with the Chinese.

The first time Jamie had gone to Hong Kong with his grandfather, the Kirkpatrick family had been in possession of wharf space in both Hong Kong and Shanghai, with the
godowns
in Hong Kong at a capacity of 750,000 tonnes of cargo. Since Jamie’s tenure as head of the company had begun, he had increased their wharf space and built six-storey, concrete-reinforced
godowns
equipped with their own cranes and cargo lifts.

These warehouses had long been a favorite place for him. They were invariably hives of activity and hubs for various exotic goods that came here to be dispersed in all their richness around the rest of the globe. It was a more modern version of the Silk Road, both overland and maritime. One could sense the ghosts of those intrepid traders here, and the goods they bought and sold; the lingering scent of the frankincense and musk; the medicines and spices; the jewels and glassware; and the rivers of silk that poured out of China herself. They still dealt in wools and oils, spices, silks, teas, and remedies. And of course spirits of the finest sort, which was how Jamie’s grandfather had originally met Daragh Rourke, the owner of Irish Sal’s Bar.

Irish Sal’s bar was legendary. Irish Sal, aka Sallie, had inherited the bar from her father, an Irishman of romantic temperament and a taste for Chinese women. He had come to Hong Kong seeking his fortune and met it in the form of Lily Xu. He had, as the legend went, fallen instantly in love with Lily when he encountered her selling chickens in the marketplace. Many men had done so before him, for Lily had a face on her as delicate and perfect as a lotus blossom. Before Daragh, all men had been rebuffed and sent on their way with a flea in their ear, for Lily’s mother was possessed of a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue. Lily, however, was possessed of a rebellious streak and fell in love with the blue-eyed Irishman about five minutes after he succumbed to her.

The ‘Bar’ was a bit of a misnomer, for though it served spirits of all sorts, it wasn’t traditional in any other way. Irish Sal’s floated in Victoria Harbor and consisted of a rescued and refurbished opium clipper that had seen thirty years of service under the aegis of the East India Company. Some people swore they could still smell the sticky sweet scent of opium in its teak boards, brass and copper fittings and gleaming mahogany counters. The
Pearl Witch
had made the run between London and Hong Kong for those thirty years, her needle-nosed, sharp-raking masts and heavily-sparred topside cutting the waves like a hot knife through butter. When Daragh found her, she was a rotting hulk listing off Kowloon Point, more barnacle than sea-going substance. But he had seen the beauty of her lines beneath the damage and bought her on the spot, spending the next five years restoring every inch. And then, to recoup his investment, he turned her into a saloon. There were only two things, people said, that Daragh loved as much as he loved his clipper ship, and they were his wife and daughter.

Sallie was born to Daragh and Lily after seven childless years and was therefore that much more treasured for her late arrival. As if to make up for her tardiness, she was possessed of a beauty that was apparent by her second birthday and a fiery temperament inherited from both sides that brooked no nonsense and was fastidious in its choosing of both friends and foes.

Sallie, whose Chinese name was Qiuyue, meaning Autumn Moon, was only delicate in looks. In personality, she was as fierce as the monsoons that regularly tore across her island city.

James Kirkpatrick had first visited Irish Sal’s in his youth, on a business trip with his grandfather to oversee their tea warehouses. When in Hong Kong, his grandfather always stopped in for a pint and to say hello to Daragh and Lily. By the time they visited the famous clipper ship, Jamie had already fallen under the cosmopolitan spell of Hong Kong itself and was in a mood to be impressed and enamored by all he encountered, including the Chinese girl with the name that sounded like an owl hoot to his Western ears. He made the mistake of sharing this thought with Qiuyue, who was neither in a mood to be impressed nor enamored of a rude Irish boy no matter how pretty he might be. Her pique only served to intrigue him more, and so he set out to charm her, always a tricky proposition with a girl of Chinese-Irish origins.

However, once he rescued a crow with a broken wing near her grandfather’s apothecary shop and splinted its wing, then sang her a song in pitch-perfect Cantonese about the beauty of her mind and the delicacy of her ankles, she began to relent a little. As his charm, humor and ability to both lead and follow her on airy flights of fantasy weakened her defenses, she began to wonder how she had not been his friend her entire life. It became a defining state for her, being Jamie’s friend and having him for hers. Once she had obtained her law degree, working for the Kirkpatrick family seemed natural. Neither she nor Jamie ever found it awkward that she was his employee, perhaps because he never treated her as one.

There were times that she questioned his approach to things, but she never doubted the results. She placed her faith in him, just as he placed complete faith in her ability to understand and negotiate her way through complex international trading laws and sanctions, as well as wily businessmen and all the various mores and quirks of the cultures they dealt with on a daily basis. They made, she knew, a very good team.

“What a beast you were to that poor man
,” Sallie said to the man reclined in front of her. His eyes were closed and he was so still as to seem unconscious, but the voice when it answered was fully awake and deeply acerbic.

“He’s faced far worse than me. He’s a Scot. He wouldn’t be comfortable with soft words and sweetness, and frankly I’ve a short supply of both those virtues at present.”

Once the ‘small Scot’ had left, she led Jamie by the hand to the inner chamber of the warren of rooms, knowing that his vision was severely compromised at present and wanting to spare him the indignity of banging into a wall or ebony footstool.

The bed on which he now lay was old, but retained its imperial splendor. It was built of mahogany, six feet in length, five in width, its legs and posts carved in high relief. Panels shielded three sides of it from the rest of the room, giving privacy to whomever lay upon its silken mattress. Mother of pearl and jade crusted the base along with the archetypes of Chinese myth: dragons, butterflies, warrior monks, and fierce-faced demons. It was a bed fit for a merchant prince, which was a title, Sallie reflected, that defined Jamie rather well.

The room was dim, the only light that of a lamp with a cut crystal chimney, shaded by a jade dragonfly attached to the lip of said chimney. In that coddling dark, Jamie’s hair blazed like a flag of gold against deep velvet.