Chapter 1

"Society is a masked ball, where every one hides his real character, and reveals it by hiding" – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Montreal's mornings were remarkably crisp despite the humidity that was quickly catching up with the sun. The rays were transparent, but happily split and colored a deep crimson where the beams pooled through heavy curtains. Spock was standing at his window with the blue-painted plantation shades pushed up and his window open, allowing the cool morning air to drift in and ruffle his hair. The Vulcan held a single cup of warm, black tea in his hand, watching the whirl and the rush of humanity as it passed by. Spock allowed himself to slip into a moment of cognitive unawareness, his long fingers gingerly tracing the embossed pattern of red chrysanthemums and yellow daffodils that graced the porcelain teacup.

He took another sip of the tea, letting the acrid warmth and flavor mingle with the briskness of morning in Montreal. He closed his eyes, the zealous flavor of the tea tapping his mind back into the present, exhaled as goose-calls and shouts and car horns created the symphony of the morning. The din built into a dissonant crescendo, each sound sliding back down the atonal scale. Familiar honks, a slammed door, and the muffled voice of a neighbor bidding a good day to his wife were the cues that signaled the start of a new day.

. As usual, he returned his soiled dishes to the dishwasher, started the cycle and padded back to his room to prepare for his sojourn into Montreal City. The routine was ordered, timely and simple; Spock had not changed it since he was old enough to live away from his parents and found that the system served him well in many aspects.

Spock roamed the length and width of his spacious walk-in closet, admiring his handsome wardrobe he'd accumulated over time. The basis for his couture this day was to impress a new client that was to meet him at his small store, The Artful Dodger, just in the heart of Mount Royal. A discriminating eye roamed over the color-coordinated closet, moving past the browns, taking in the weather, the tone of the day, and the perception of making a first impression. In the end, Spock decided upon the Dior lead gray, straight-legged, flat front trousers paired with a dull red oxford shirt, a gray Dior pull-over wool sweater, a tan Lord and Taylor demi-suede blazer, and Kenneth Cole tan driving moccasins. He knew he possessed a Burberry scarf to shield from the morning chill and would not seek it out until he was ready to leave for the store. Having laid out his morning clothes, Spock stepped into the fresher for the customary 3.22 minutes of a sonic shower and then finished his routine with various everyday grooming habits.

Spock's flat was boldly planned. When one walked into the door, they were not greeted with the normal sprawl of the modern blend of dining room and entertainment area. Instead, one marched boldly down a wide foyer with a vista of high ceilings. At the apex of the ceiling and the crown molding was a quarter-inch chink that spread uniformly around the whole of the flat. From the small fissure hung the wires that secured the various paintings that engaged the senses. Mischievous angels, swirls of electric-blue starry skies and the somber swaying trees around sociable gatherings within the park invited playful revelry to all invited guests. The sleek hallway emptied into a room of high ceilings with a vagrant and open skylight, bleaching the room with the natural luminescence of the sun and drawing the eye up to both see the source of the rays. One had to notice the domed ceiling that surrounded the skylight had a scene of ancient Botticelli cherubs bounding and leaping in playful abandon. The angels reined their grace upon the spacious living area of warm tan painted walls bearing the simplistic photography of white orchids, a study Spock had done in sepia.

Two plush Chesterfield chairs sat across from one another, upholstered with toasted nutmeg linen, a simplistic floral pattern, a classic diamond-shaped button-tufted seatback, burled arms and finial feat, were eye-catching in their decadence. The surprise in the room was the brooding red sofa, which was staged before the large glass doors which opened to the balcony overlooking Bond Street. The rest of the flat was decorated much the same in toasted caramels, delicate sprigs of white and dashing russet swells. The furniture was handsome and strong with luxury, curving and quelling like the beak of waves against a beach. Neither bold nor garishly bachelor but subtle and surprising in its sensuality. Spock's flat spoke volumes of his inner workings, and yet said nothing at all.

Spock regarded himself as a finished product as he adjusted the Burberry scarf. Among the community of Old Montreal, Spock was the authority on many things, form being one of them. His impeccable style of dress was only a portion of the evidence. Spock's flawless charm and mannerisms when dealing with unruly customers, and the ability to keep his small list of loyal clients in his confidences, is what garnered him the wealth and prosperity that many other antiquities dealers strived for. What Spock lacked in natural human warmth, he made up with a shrewd business sense. And though many would say that his stoicism was a rakish habit, he was assured business because of his inability to be swayed. His natural Vulcan demeanor may not have garnered him friendship, but it garnered him social position and respect.

Spock closed the door behind him as he exited, the keys to his 1958 Jaguar Roadster convertible jingling in his hand. The cream-colored car gleamed in the morning sun; There was only a twenty minute commute from his flat to his store deep in the heart of Montreal. The car's ride was as smooth as silk upon the cobblestone paving of Bond Street.

The outside of The Artful Dodger was more demonstrative in nature than person that owned the store. The store stood by itself along the first curve of St. James Circle, a two-story red brick Victorian with red, yellow, and blue painted accents of the stairs, awnings and balcony. Spock wanted to change the colors when he purchased the building, but there were municipal limitations on how much he could alter the original integrity.

Inside, The Artful Dodger held a certain amount of old world charm. There were dusty tomes in oak bookcases aligning every wall. Glass curios and cedar chests were interspersed throughout the mania. Within three rooms were scattered ancient and rare nostalgic items ranging from spectacles to rocking chairs, delicate crystal decanters to a series of gold pocket watches. Spock walked into the second room and up the stairs to his cozy office. The office, unlike the rest of the shop, was more organized than the Library of Congress; it had to be systematic and methodical to be able to keep up with the chaos just one floor below. Though Spock memory was eidetic, and he had a mental catalogue of everything he owned, the walk-in customers had a nasty habit of shuffling his collections around the shop which made his memory sometimes void. His computer, however, had no such compunction and was always accurate with inventory.

Unlike many other antiques dealers that sold old wares that could be easily purchased off of a blanket at a dealers fair, Spock sold specialty items and also for a hefty commission would liaison between private collectors and museums. Spock speedily made a name for himself in the art world. As his small clientele would invariably agree; his secret was in the way he carried things off. Spock retained an enigmatic aloofness in everything he did, from his social obligations which swirled in rumor, and his mysterious personal life. The Artful Dodger existed on word-of-mouth and regular purchasers. It was a rare day that Spock gained any walk-in customers, and generally his prices were too outrageous for any general tourist or novice "antiquer" to purchase, and as Spock didn't haggle with walk-in pricing, the customer was at a loss.

Today, however, as Spock set his small satchel down upon his desk, there was a clinging of bells that signified a visitor. It was entirely too early for his appointment, which was scheduled closer to the end of his work day. It was also entirely too early to wrangle walk-in tourists that were always full of what they thought of as intelligent questions, though in reality were truly banal. Spock sighed, dropped his satchel, took off his scarf and walked down the stairs and front room. To his surprise, there was no tourist which could be spotted from a kilometer away in this area. It was a local, a woman, a woman of esteem and tastes – by her dress - and with a rather fantastic backside.

He watched her for a moment, her back to him as she lazily traced her delicate brown forefinger along the thick dust of a 16th century French cedar chest. She blew the remnants sensually into the air. She held wrist length black gloves, a delicate touch to her tea length Vintage Dior black pleated skirt and white, waist cropped vintage Chanel blazer. Her style gave Spock pause and almost made him grin; it was a rare treat to have a walk-in visitor that had an appreciation for fine clothing. Even her three-inch Christian Louboutins with their modern flare, didn't detract from the essence of her look. And this was only the back of her.

"May I help you with something?" Spock piped up. When she turned, she looked miraculous. Her half grin and smart nose, high cheekbones and expressive eyes, made his Vulcan heart skip a beat in his side. When she spoke, bells rang.

"Yes, actually I do need assistance," the slight accent brought Spock pause. It wasn't Canadian, nor was it completely French, but with remnants of the old Francaise Occidentale de Afrique. Spock nodded the pleasant sound of her voice making. His ears perked to try and catch of what region of the United States of Africa she hailed.

"With what, specifically, do you need help?" Spock inquired, swallowing his natural curiosity to attend to business. She swirled around, her skirt rising slightly higher in a flurry and then returning to its rightful place. The movement was absolutely charming, and Spock was sure that she had no idea its influence.

"I must purchase a gift for a close associate's birthday, and I've no idea what he would like," she said, biting her bottom lip in frustration. Spock analyzed the sentence and her body language, trying to gauge the things that she wasn't saying. The Vulcan yearned to truly know how "close" this "associate" was of that she sought the gift for. By the calmness of her demeanor, Spock deduced that the "associate" was more than a business partner and less than a lover. Spock knew exactly the gift he would enjoy. He pulled a key ring from his pocket, walked over to a glass curio and retrieved a sleek pair of buffalo nickel cuff links. One cufflink showed the obverse of the 1913 American coin, a historical composite of varying Indian chiefs, the other cufflink displayed the reverse side of the historical nickel, an American bison. Spock took out a small handkerchief and laid the delicate trinkets upon the handkerchief on top of the table for his visitor to view closer.

"This particular pair of cufflinks was designed by James Earle Fraser himself to be worn by then United States President Theodore Roosevelt. However, it was rejected by one of the president's top aides as, if you'll take note of the bison, it is one of the rarest minting mistakes performed by the US Treasury," Spock's voice hovered over the docile room as his visitor's no-doubt discriminating eye perused the Bison cufflink for a notable mistake.

This was one of Spock's best techniques, he would offer up a history lesson, taking any item he presented from alien to charming with a simple story. Humans loved mysteries and scandals, and strangely reveled in mistakes, which Spock understood provided rarity. And for humans to possess a remnant of historical indignity was more valuable than a simple holovid. The need to be unique and individual was both a blessing and a curse to the Terran race. Spock also enjoyed allowing his customer to unveil the mystery themselves. He enjoyed the looks of determination, deliberation, supposition, and finally realization that flitted over the faces of his customers. This beautiful woman was no different as she finally realized the error. The comprehension that played on her face was one of discomfited humor. The mistake was so absurdly obvious and yet so obscure as to cause one to kick themselves and laugh at the same time.

"This Bison only has three legs," she smiled warmly, looking up at him. He nodded.

"Precisely, the right foreleg of the Bison is missing. These cufflinks graced the wrists of President Roosevelt only once, as a joke when he visited the US Treasury minting press. These are the only pair of 3-Legged Buffalo Nickel cufflinks in existence, a rare find indeed," he stared into her eyes as he said the last portion of the sentence. He felt himself go weak at the way they sparkled. She was a rare find.

"I know nothing of American coins, how do I know this story is true?" she asked, returning his gaze. He exhaled and cooled his stare but only by a fraction.

"Vulcans do not lie," Spock responded coolly. This response was returned with a laugh so clear that it sounded like two crystal glasses clinking together.

"No, but Vulcans are capable of grand embellishment, however," she smiled. Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Know many Vulcans, do you?"

"Not many, but a sufficient enough number to know the tap dance of their words," she responded without falter.

Spock raised both eyebrows and nodded. "Fascinating," a word he used for the unexpected, something that was curiously bewildering. She had effectively earned a spot in his mind that he saved for more academic pursuits. She had also silenced him, a rare accomplishment indeed.

"How much for these exquisite, albeit historically questionable cufflinks?" she joked, and flashed him a winning, white smile. He felt the ice in his heart begin to defrost; a flutter of something more surprising.

"The cufflinks appraise at $2000 and I do not negotiate," Spock paused for affect. Usually at this point that his customers experienced sticker shock, her facial expression remained one of unchanging poise, as if spending that sum of money on a pair of cufflinks was an everyday venture. Who was this woman? He had to know.

"However, I am willing to provide a discounted price for the much more valuable treasure of your name." Spock was not known as a man about town, nor had he ever been spotted with an unknown or unnamed female. When attending social functions, he came and left alone. Some considered Spock to be as celibate as a monk, though the truth was quite the reverse. Spock had had many dalliances in surreptitious romance and with the casualty and manor with which neither he nor his paramour was ever discovered. The women he'd been with were just as furtive, some of which were married and required the height of Vulcan stealth.

"The discount is not required," she said reaching into her small, Chanel clutch and pulling out a platinum money clip of one-hundred dollar bills. She counted quietly, her lips moving as she sliced through the bills with her forefinger. Spock was so intrigued by her response that he didn't even realize when she was finished counting and handing him the money. He completed the transaction automatically, taking the money and the cufflinks from the table and walking over to his front counter to complete the purchase and package her item. He walked and silently blinked, amazed, intrigued, and fascinated. She followed behind him.

He set to work until he heard a crisp gasp that stopped him from packaging the cufflinks. He looked up at her eyes, which were looking behind him at a tall oak cabinet made bookshelf with pane glass covers, which Spock kept under lock and key. This particular shelf housed the rarer books in his collection; it seems as if one of the books caught her undivided attention. He looked at her. She could barely speak for the excitement. Her mouth was slack, her eyes wide with disbelief, and a delicate, slender-fingered hand rested upon her chest as if witnessing a miracle.

"Is that an original copy of Alexander Dumas, fils La Dame aux Camélias?" Spock turned over his left shoulder to look at the book and then looked back to her.

"No," Spock said. Her ardor died in a beautiful pout of her lower lip. Absolutely adorable, a portion of Spock's mind screamed, "It is in fact, a signed original copy of Alexander Dumas, fils La Dame aux Camélias."

Her face regained the look that Spock could only describe as radiant. He pulled out his keys from his pocket, turned and unlocked the glass cabinet and pulled the novel from its place. The novel was in perfect condition as he displayed it upon the small counter, opening the front cover and revealing a faded ink inscription and signature completely in French: À Marie, la muse de mon coeur. La trahison de mon âme. (To Marie: Muse to my heart. Demon to my soul.) This was not only a signed copy of that infamous book, but a personal gift to the famous, inspirational courtesan herself, Marie Duplessis.

She cleared her throat and Spock noted shrewdness to her eyes that he'd not yet experienced and wished to see again.

"How much do you want for it? No price is too high," she spoke with great urgency.

Spock, never one to miss an opportunity, took his second chance:

"For your name the book is yours," He felt sly.

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and smiled ruefully. "Why don't you just let me give you money for the book?" she asked, both annoyed and flattered.

"Money is common. Money, I have. As you can see, I deal in the rare," Spock nodded around his shop with his head. Her eyes followed. She smirked and cocked her hip up, a hand rested.

"Am I that rare?" she asked, leaning in over the book, over the counter. He leaned in closer, his eyes smoldering, just out of her personal space.

"The rarest," his voice was low and dark barely above a whisper, and despite her reservations she shivered. He was quite difficult to resist. She backed away, looked at the book then back to him. She continued this process of thought in silence. She exhaled and started to put on her gloves.

"The price is too steep for my tastes," she said coolly. Well played, Spock thought as he quickly grabbed the novel and placed it back in the case behind him, locking it with a slight click. The motions were not lost on her, the locking of the cabinet signaled finality.

"That is unfortunate indeed," he said almost tersely, not hiding his disappointment. He finished packaging her cufflinks and handed her a small bag containing her purchases. She took the bag gracefully and turned for the door.

"If you change your mind about the book," Spock stopped her mid-turn and handed her a business card. She batted her eyes as she took the card, smiling as she noted a quickly scribbled private number on the back.

"I will let it linger. You have a good day, sir," she said as she exited the shop, with a tinkle of door chimes in her wake. He could not conceivably calculate the chance that she was interested enough in him to call him. It seemed that the seductive little coquette had effectively knocked his Yves St. Laurent socks off.

He had only a moment to decompress the sexual tension he'd quickly built up, before his silent business partner swaggered through the door. James T. Kirk was impeccable, his high sheen gray suit fitting his broader form to perfection. Kirk nodded in greeting to Spock as he continued to talk loudly on his communicator. Spock could tell that it was either his new client or his new client's assistant on the other side. Either of which was making the vein in James' forehead pop out. Spock was a natural negotiator, but James had the charisma for networking. They worked quite well, all Kirk had to do was get the client in a meeting, Spock would do the rest.

"Did you see that hottie that just walked out of here," Kirk's vernacular and phrasing left much to be desired. Spock closed his eyes and decided to ignore the metaphor.

"Of course I saw her, I helped her pick out a pair of cufflinks," Spock said, removing some dust from a 16th Century Stradivari violin. Jim walked over to his favorite spot on the 18th Century Rococo Chaise Lounge and sat down. Spock narrowed his eyes at him as he always did, but found that it was futile to explain to James for the 232nd time why it was reckless to lounge on the antiques.

"Did you get her name?" Kirk asked.

"I did not, but not for lack of trying," Spock responded. Kirk was amazed and a guffaw left his lips. Spock prepared himself for the backfire of friendly banter; in fact, he welcomed it.

"She shot you down, eh? That's unbelievable, you usually know exactly what to say to get the panties to drop. I would call you my mentor if you'd had more women than me," Kirk smiled playfully.

Spock's eyes gleamed with undeniable mischief. "I will again argue Jim, that frequency and creative pursuance in such endeavors, trumps quantity."

"Touché," Jim responded, making a motion as if Spock had just stuck a sword through his heart. The livelier man rolled to his feet and walked towards his friend, "we need to talk business."

"Indeed. Why are you here?" Spock asked; as Jim rarely made an appearance at the actual shop, leaving the micromanaging to his more anal counterpart, as well as the cataloguing of the historical events surrounding each and every item. Jim looked around with wide eyes.

"I think this conversation is best done up stairs, if you understand my meaning," Jim said. Spock nodded silently and led the way up the stairs. Jim followed and upon reaching the office, closed the sound-proof door behind him. Spock walked over to his computer and turned on an auditory frequency detector and blocker. This program pinpointed on a map where the listening frequency was located and then blocks the signal, insuring complete privacy within the confines of the private office. Jim took a seat, leaned back and propped his feet on the top of the desk. Spock sat down behind the desk and waited for the other man to speak.

"Are you familiar with Faberge Eggs?" Jim asked. Spock refused to dignify that question with a response. Instead, Spock offered up a series of nonplussed blinks that Jim always thought were audible in their sarcasm.

"Of course you are. You don't have to look at me like that, it was just a question. Anyway, our new client, The Doctor, has commissioned our help, or shall I say, the help of Le Chevalier," Kirk said.

"And the Doctor is interested in Faberge Eggs, I presume?" Spock entreated.

"Not the actual egg, but the surprise inside of the egg is what he seeks," Kirk threaded the needle slowly. Spock hated when Kirk only gave him small bits of information at a time.

"Which egg and which surprise, Jim, I do not have all day," Spock said sternly.

"You, sir, are a kill joy. The Jeweled Hen Egg's ruby pendant surprise is what he wants you to retrieve for him," Kirk said, making air quotes around the word retrieve. Spock vaguely thought of relaying to Kirk that there was no need to use air quotes.

"And how did the Doctor learn of Le Chevalier's existence, Jim?" Spock asked, leaning back in his ox-blood colored leather chair, putting his forefingers together at his mouth, "there are only two other clients that know of our other silent partner, and they know how Le Chevalier feels about publicity."

"I've contacted our two clients and neither knows of the Doctor personally or professionally. The Doctor, however, is legitimate as I have checked his background extensively and found no connections with any local law enforcement or that of Interpol. He's simple a rich surgeon with a penchant for objets d'art," Jim finished, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out various documents including a background check on the Doctor.

Spock perused the information and raised his eyebrow. "Does he wish for full disclosure or will he just be content on meeting with us?" Spock asked.

"That is what I was discussing with his assistant over the communicator. She said that he wishes for full disclosure, a chance to meet Le Chevalier face to face, to feel him out. I made it quite clear that Le Chevalier is never seen, but if he would like to talk over the communicator then that can be arranged. Even a blindfolded meeting could be set up. They were disinclined to accept," Jim smiled.

"Our terms are non-negotiable," Spock responded, "there is also another problem, should we decide to move forward with this."

"And what is that?" Jim asked.

"The ruby pendant that the Doctor wishes to possess is already in private collection Jim," Spock said.

Jim looked at Spock as if he had grown longer ears. "Yes, Spock, that is known already, which is why the Doctor is going to these means to have Le Chevalier "retrieve" it for him," Jim threw up the air quotes once again. Spock almost rolled his eyes.

"The Enterprise Private Collection is where that particular artifact currently resides," Spock lifted his eyebrow.

Jim sank down in his seat, deflating like a balloon losing helium. "Shit," was the only response from the blue-eyed man.

"Indeed."

The Enterprise Private Collection was owned by retired decorated United States Admiral Christopher Pike. His retirement, set early because of injuries sustained during war time that confined him to a wheelchair most of the time, allowed him the freedom and monies to pursue his unrestrained passion for rare historical artifacts and antiques. He was also the Artful Dodger's number one client, having entreated Spock's help as a liaison with over twenty-six different museums. Pike had never requested the help of Le Chevalier and was blissfully unaware of the existence of the third partner. In the acquisition of the Faberge Ruby Pendant, Spock had not been his liaison, but had referred him to someone who was more familiar with the Russian staff of the Christies that Pike needed to make contact with. And short of that, Pike had become what Spock considered a friend. There was a somber respect that Spock held for the Admiral, a respect that even Jim didn't receive.

"It's a conflict of interest, Spock. We can't take it," Jim said with finality.

"You are correct. Will you make the call or shall I?" Spock asked, putting his hand over the communicator. Jim took it from his hand and dialed the number, the cheery feminine voice answer on the other line. Jim explained that Le Chevalier declined the offer and would not be able to help them. There was more conversation, but Spock ignored it, closing his eyes instead and trying to calculate the odds of the beautiful woman calling him. The click of the communicator going back onto the charger caused Spock's eyes to flutter open, looking at a sour-faced Jim.

"It's done. They were not pleased. I mentioned that we could probably orchestrate an open trade for the item or probably persuade the Enterprise collection to auction it, but the Doctor seemed uninterested in both of those methods as he's already tried negotiation," Jim said.

"Pike will not sell that ruby pendant; it has been his dream to acquire that since he first became our client. Le Chevalier and the coroner are the only ones capable of prying that gem from his fingers," Spock said with a sense of fact.

"Le Chevalier has ethics despite his trade. This can be a blessing and a curse, a blessing because it ensures continued loyalty, a curse because this particular venture for the Chevalier was to be quite lucrative," Jim said, pleased to see that eyebrow of Spock's rise in response.

"How lucrative?"

"Name your own price, that's how lucrative. That is neither here nor there, Spock. The Doctor is out of the picture, and tomorrow we can attend Pike's birthday celebration without feeling as if we're betraying him with every step. Le Chevalier would not wish for our honor to be compromised," Jim said, clapping his friend on the back.

"As if thieves have honor, Jim," Spock turned to his computer and turned off the auditory frequency blocking program and stood from his desk.

"Now what time is this party tomorrow, Spock? We need to go find ourselves some new suits," Jim said, walking towards the exit of the office.