Читать книгу An Improper Aristocrat - Deb Marlowe - Страница 13

Trey waited until the girl had steadied herself before he released her.

‘There are more below,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Fetch the boy, I’ll get the girl. Where is she?’

He had to give credit where it was due. Miss Latimer did not bluster, swoon, or ask idiotic questions as he had half-expected her to do. ‘Across the hall,’ she whispered, and, taking the dog, turned back towards Will’s room.

Trey crossed the hall and stealthily opened the little girl’s door. He sent up a silent request to whichever deity might be listening, hoping that the babe would not squall when awakened. He need not have worried. Nerves of steel must pass with the Latimer blood, along with those incredible eyelashes. Hers lay thick against her round, little cheeks, until he hefted her into his arms. Their one brief meeting must have made an impact, for she peered up at him, then tucked her head against his shoulder and promptly went back to sleep. He heaved a sigh of thanks and crossed back to the hall.

Miss Latimer was already there, along with a wide-eyed, young Will.

‘We must move quickly and silently,’ Trey whispered. He shook his head when Miss Latimer would have taken the little girl from him. ‘No, I’ll hold on to her, unless we run into one of them. Then you take her and run for the stables.’

‘Mrs Ferguson?’ she asked.

‘Is already there, with my man and your groom. They should have a vehicle ready when we get there.’ Trey nodded and set out for the stairwell. ‘Quietly, now.’

She reached out a restraining hand. ‘No, Lord Treyford. This way.’ She took a step backwards, and gestured farther along the hallway.

He might have argued, but Will grasped his forearm and hissed, ‘Listen!’

Everyone froze. From the direction of the stairwell came a soft, ominous creaking sound.

Trey promptly turned about. ‘Lead on,’ he whispered. ‘As fast as you can.’

They did move quickly, passing several more bedchambers before taking a connecting passage to the left. Almost at a run, they reached the end of that hallway in a matter of moments. Trey cursed under his breath. There was nothing here except a shallow, curved alcove holding a pedestal and a marble bust. Not even a window to offer a means of escape.

There was no time for recriminations. Trey’s mind was racing. Could these be the same bandits who had murdered Richard? Was it possible they had followed him all the way from Egypt? If it were true, then they were desperate indeed, and he had to keep these innocents out of their hands. ‘Back to one of the rooms. Are there any trees close to this end of the house?’

‘No, wait a moment.’ Miss Latimer was part way into the alcove. It was hard to discern in the near darkness, but he thought she was probing the wainscoting. ‘Ah, here we are,’ she whispered.

He waited. The dog gave a soft whine. There was a grunting sound from Miss Latimer’s direction. ‘Give it a push, Will,’ she urged. ‘No, there. Go on, hurry!’

The boy disappeared into the alcove, followed closely by the dog. Trey moved closer and could only just make out the outline of an opening in the curve of the back wall.

‘In you go,’ said Miss Latimer calmly. ‘I will come behind you and close it.’

‘Archimedes, is it not?’ Trey said with a nod towards the bust. ‘Someone has a fine sense of irony,’ he whispered as he squeezed past her in the tight space.

He, in the meantime, had a fine sense of all the most interesting parts of Miss Latimer’s anatomy pressing into his side as he passed. No, she was not the dried-up spinster he had expected, but apparently neither was he the jaded bachelor he had believed. One full-length press—in the midst of a crisis, all clothes on—and his baser nature was standing up and taking notice. Ignoring it, he moved past.

He had to stoop to enter the hidden doorway, and found himself on a tiny landing. Ahead he could barely discern a narrow set of stairs. Then the door slid home and the blackness swallowed them.

He reached out a hand. The other wall was mere inches away. If he had stood erect and unbowed, his shoulders might have brushed both sides of the passage. Suddenly she was there, close against him again, her mouth right at his ear. ‘Archimedes fought and died. We shall run and live.’

Her words were in earnest. The situation was serious. And still a shiver ran through him as her breath, hot and moist, caressed his skin.

Trey muffled a heartfelt curse. His head was still bent in the low-ceilinged corridor, an awkward position made more so by the child resting against his shoulder. Danger lay behind and the unknown ahead, and he must face it saddled with a woman and two children. This was hardly the first scrape he’d found himself in, but it ranked right up there with the worst of the lot. And despite all this, still his body reacted to the nearness of hers. To the scent of her hair. To the sound of her breathing in the darkness. For some reason he did not fully comprehend, all of this infuriated him.

‘Go,’ he said in a low, harsh whisper. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

She moved on silent feet down the narrow stairs. Trey followed, one arm cradling the child close, the other feeling the way ahead. At the bottom, the passage continued in a bewildering set of sharp turns. Several times Trey’s trailing fingers found the empty air of a connecting branch, but Miss Latimer passed them by, moving forward at a good pace and with an air of confidence that he hoped was well founded.

Presumably the upkeep of the secret corridors was not high on the housekeeper’s duty list. Cobwebs clung to his hair, stuck to his face, and soon coated his seeking hand. Dust, disturbed by their passage, hung in the air and tickled his nose. Desperate, he turned his face into his shoulder, trying not to sneeze. The occupant of his other shoulder had no such compunction.

How did such an immense noise come from such a small person?

The adults both froze, listening, hardly daring to breathe. Not far away, on the other side of the passage wall, sounded a triumphant shout.

Once more he felt the press of that lithe body, soft against his. ‘We’re near the upper servants’ quarters,’ Miss Latimer whispered. ‘They will waste time searching them. There is another set of stairs just ahead.’

For just that moment, her scent, light and fresh, engulfed him nearly as completely as the darkness. But as she moved away and they began to descend the second stairwell, the air grew dank and the walls moist. They were moving underground.

‘Where?’ Trey growled quietly.

‘The bake house,’ she replied.

It was not far. In a matter of a few minutes they were climbing out of the clammy darkness, emerging into a small, stone building, still redolent with the rich, yeasty smell of fresh bread. Will stood on a box, just next to one of the high windows.

‘There was a man at the kitchen door, but he went into the house a moment ago,’ he whispered.

Trey turned on the girl. ‘Who are they?’

‘You don’t know?’ Her startled look was authentic, Trey judged. ‘I have no idea!’

Perhaps not. He decided to leave the rest of that conversation for later. ‘How far to the stables?’ he asked, handing the child over.

‘Not far,’ said Will.

‘Past the gardens and the laundry, beyond that grove of trees,’ Miss Latimer answered. ‘Perhaps a quarter of a mile.’

Trey suppressed a groan. It might as well be a league, with this ragtag group.

‘We will stay off of the path,’ he ordered in dictatorial fashion, ‘and under the trees as much as possible. If you see anyone, drop to the ground as quick as you can, as silently as you can. We’ll go now, before the sentry comes back to the kitchen door.’

Moonlight was streaming in the high windows; he could see the worry in Chione Latimer’s eyes, though she had displayed no other sign of it. ‘I’ll go first,’ he said. ‘To the back of that garden shed.’

He paused, and caught her gaze with intent. ‘If something happens, go back into the passages and find another way out. Don’t stay there, they will find their way in, eventually.’

Her expression grew grimmer still, but she only nodded.

Trey went to the door and opened it a fraction. He stood watching for a short time, but saw nothing, heard nothing except the usual nighttime chorus. The noise, in and of itself, was reassuring. Taking a deep breath, he plunged out of the door and sprinted to the shelter of the tiny garden shed.

Nothing—no shouts of alarm, no explosion of gunfire, no whistle of a knife hurtling through the air. He looked back at the seemingly empty bake house and motioned for his little group to follow.

They came, silent and swift. When they had reached him and stood, gasping in fright and fatigue against the old wooden wall, he felt something alien surging in his chest. Pride?

He pushed it away. Emotion, never a safe prospect, could be deadly in a situation like this, and besides, his stalwart band still had a long way to go. He took the child back again and nodded towards the nearby grove of trees.

What followed had to be the longest fifteen minutes in the history of recorded time, let alone in Chione’s lifetime. Like mice, they scurried from one place of concealment to the next, always stopping to listen, to test for danger. They saw no one. Eventually they reached the stables. In the moonlight Chione could see that the great door stood open a foot or so. Morty, who had been sticking close to Will’s side, suddenly surged ahead, tail wagging, and slipped in the building.

Chione sighed and hefted Olivia a little higher on her shoulder. She’d endured a maelstrom of emotions today, and now it seemed they were all coalesced into a heavy weight upon her soul. The scarab, she thought. It had to be that damned scarab.

She had barely set one foot in the door before she found herself enveloped in Mrs Ferguson’s arms, the housekeeper’s heavy rolling pin poking her in the side. For one, long, blessed moment, she leaned into the embrace. All she wanted was to just collapse, sobbing, into the older woman’s arms, and not only because of the handle digging into her ribs.

‘What did you mean to do—make the man a pie?’ Lord Treyford asked the housekeeper with a nod at her weapon of choice.

‘Wouldna be the first heathen I beat the fear of God into with this,’ Mrs Ferguson answered, releasing Chione to brandish her rolling pin high.

‘Speaking of heathens, that is my man, Aswan,’ Lord Treyford said, waving a hand at the man standing watch near the door.

He bowed, and Chione’s skin prickled. She handed the still-sleeping child to the housekeeper. It had been a long time since she had seen an Egyptian face. ‘With you be peace and God’s blessing,’ she said in Arabic.

He bowed low, but did not answer. He looked to the earl. ‘Effendi, we should go now.’

They had everything ready for a quick escape. Will’s sturdy Charlemagne had already been hitched to the pony cart. He was the last left; the other horses had been sold to finance Richard’s trip to Egypt. Her heart heavy, Chione tried to ignore the empty stables, the stale atmosphere.

Would the house look as forlorn, when those men did not find the treasure they had come for? Would they destroy the place in revenge? Steal away Grandfather’s collections as a substitute? Or, God forbid, set the house ablaze in their anger?

She stiffened her spine and raised her chin. Let them. All of her valuables were right here. And tonight, they were under one man’s protection. She looked for the earl and found him watching her. Inexplicably, she felt her spirits lift.

‘Can you drive the cart?’ he asked her. ‘Aswan and I will ride.’

She nodded. He put his hands on her waist to lift her up to the seat, and Chione felt her hard-fought-for composure slip. She waited for him to release her, but his large grip lingered. One heartbeat. Two. Three. A swirling flood of warmth and unfamiliar pleasure flowed from his hands. It filled her, weighed her down, slowed her reactions, and very nearly stopped her mental processes altogether.

With difficulty she broke the contact, moving away from his touch, berating herself as she settled on the seat and took up the reins. Could nothing—not grief, danger or exhaustion—temper her inappropriate reactions to the man?

She turned to watch as old Eli helped Will and Mrs. Ferguson into the back of the cart and found that, yes—something could. Shock, in fact, proved most effective. ‘Who is that?’ she gasped. An injured man lay in the front of the cart, curled on to a makeshift pallet.

‘Watchman,’ Lord Treyford said tersely. ‘His fellow came to alert us when they spotted the intruders lurking about. We found him out cold. Eli has seen to him.’

She stared as he took the lead of the village hack Aswan led forward. ‘A watchman? Then you were expecting trouble?’ The accusation hung unspoken in the air.

‘No, not exactly,’ he bit out, swinging up and into the saddle. He spoke again and the timbre of his voice crept even lower than his usual rumble. ‘I promised Richard that I would bring you the scarab. When he begged me to, I promised to protect you. But truly, I thought it to be a dying man’s fancy. Not for a moment did I believe that any danger connected with the thing wouldn’t be left behind in Egypt. I never imagined the sort of trouble we’ve seen tonight.’

He made a grand sweep of his arm, indicating the stable, the wounded man, the cart packed full of her dishevelled family. ‘I expected to come here and find Richard’s spinster sister facing a civilised problem: a neglectful landlord, investments in want of managing, a house in need of shoring up. Not a girl barely out of the schoolroom, grubby children, flirtatious dogs and village gossip. Definitely not a hysterical tirade, secret passages and a narrow escape from armed intruders in the night!’

His mount, sensing his ire, began a restless dance. Seemingly without effort, he controlled it, bending it to his will even as he continued his tirade. ‘The answer to your question is “No”. Thanks in part to everyone leaving me in the dark—no, I was not expecting trouble. In fact, you have only Aswan, who had the foresight to suggest a lookout, to thank for our presence here tonight.’ He glared at her from the back of his horse and finished with a grumble. ‘Not that we were much use, in any case.’

Chione should have been insulted. She stared at his flashing blue eyes, his big frame emanating pride, anger and chagrin, and she was once more reminded of the exaggerated characters in her novels. The Earl of Treyford was prickly, harsh and bossy. He was also clearly angry with himself for not anticipating tonight’s events and honest enough to admit that it was his servant’s precaution that had saved the day—or night.

Though he might be the last to admit it, Lord Treyford was a man of honour. And she was not so easily subjugated as a restless mount.

Clearing her throat, she met his defiant gaze squarely. ‘Then I extend my most heartfelt thanks to Aswan, my lord,’ she said with all sincerity, ‘for I am very glad that you are here.’

Her conciliatory tone mollified Trey, but only for a moment. In the next instant, he grew suspicious. In his experience women used that tone when they wanted something. Her wants did not concern him, only his own needs.

Unfortunately, he became less sure just what they were with every passing moment. Guilt and frustration gnawed at him, and he resented the hell out of it. He had years of experience behind him, decades of avoiding people and the tangled messes they made of their lives. And look what one day in the Latimer chit’s presence had brought him to.

‘Let’s move,’ he said as Aswan opened the door wide enough to get the cart out. ‘Will says the track through the wood will bring us out on to the coast road. From there we’ll go straight to the inn.’

Cautiously, they set out. The forest lay in silence; the few noises of their passage were the only discernible sounds. The coastal path was deserted as well, leaving Trey no distraction from the uncomfortable weight of his own thoughts.

There was no escaping the truth. He hadn’t taken the situation seriously, had not considered that something like this might happen. The thought of that girl, those children and what might have been was unbearable.

Damn it—he was tired of being kept in the dark! What did everyone but him know about that wretched scarab? What was it about the cursed thing that could possibly have stirred these bandits to follow it halfway around the world? He didn’t know, but he was damned sure going to find out.

To that end, and to the hopeful thought that the sooner he dealt with these sneak thieves, the sooner he could shake the Devonshire dust from his boots, Trey left his ragtag group in the care of the disconcerted innkeeper and turned his horse’s head back the way they had just come. Fortunately, the first watchman had not been idle. He had a half-dozen men gathered, and though they were armed only with cudgels and pitchforks and one battered French cavalry pistol, they were eager enough. Trey gave them a terse set of instructions and they set out again for Oakwood Court.

But it was to no avail. The intruders were gone, leaving behind only a thoroughly searched house and a flattened juniper bush below the open window of Miss Latimer’s chamber.

The taste of frustration was not one Trey was overly familiar with. Now he found it had a sour flavour that he did not care for at all, especially when he’d spent the last four-and-twenty hours having it forced down his gullet. So he was in a foul mood as he took to the saddle for what—his third trip today?—back to the little village of Wembury. Aswan wisely kept his own counsel and without a murmur took possession of the horses as they dismounted once again in the inn’s courtyard.

The innkeeper, Mr Drake, had evidently been awaiting their arrival. Trey eyed the man with a bit of distaste; he found him rather dandified for a proprietor of a backwoods inn.

‘Lord Treyford, your…guests have all been accommodated. I must warn you, though, that the boy has been put on a cot in your room.’

‘Thank you,’ Trey answered. ‘Of course, you will apply all of their expenses to my account.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I had wondered…’

Trey was sure he had. In fact, he was sure that the whole village would be wondering by morning. But that was the least of his worries. Was he going to have to wait until morning to get some answers? ‘Are they all abed, then?’ he asked.

‘Aye, they are.’ The man leaned in close. ‘Had you any luck, sir?’

‘Only the ill sort.’

‘Bad news, that is, my lord.’ He shot Trey a wry look. ‘Today all the good citizens of Wembury will be a-twitter with the gossip. Tonight they’ll be wide-eyed in their beds, sure that they will be the ruffians’ next victims.’ Sighing, the innkeeper shook his head. ‘Every rusty blunderbuss in the county will be hauled out of storage, just like in those hungry, restless months after the war. Back then, old Jeremiah Martin shot his own brother in the arse, thinking he was a run-down Peninsular veteran come to steal his prized hog. We’ll be damned lucky if no one is killed.’

Drake heaved another sigh, then slapped a hand down on the counter, startling Trey. ‘Well, then, my lord, I’ve an extremely nice brandy laid out in the private parlour, should you like a nip before you retire.’

Trey hesitated only a moment. It was obvious that Mr Drake was not averse to a little soporific gossip. Suddenly, despite his usual scruples, Trey discovered he might not be averse, either. He needed answers, and he might finally begin to ask the right questions if he had a better understanding of the situation. And tired though he was, somehow retiring to a chamber with Will—and no doubt the dog—held little appeal.

The private parlour was more elegantly done up than one would expect, and the brandy was indeed very fine. Trey leaned back into the comfortably stuffed chair. ‘I would like to think that discretion is one of the services my money will buy, Mr Drake.’

‘Certainly.’ He returned Trey’s look with a sober one of his own. ‘In this case, however, my discretion is of no use to you. The men who rode with you tonight, they will talk.’

Drake held up the decanter and, at Trey’s nod, poured them each a second drink.

‘Gossip, superstition, unlikely tales of the supernatural, and the mysterious,’ Drake said as he settled back into his chair, ‘they are all an integral part of the atmosphere here. The locals thrive on it, repeat it and embellish it.’ With a lift of his chin he indicated the floors above. ‘Your friends, they are favourites, both in the locals’ hearts and in their whispered conversations.’

‘But what the hell is a wealthy shipping merchant like Mervyn Latimer doing setting up his family here?’ Trey nodded his head towards the ceiling. ‘Shouldn’t the lot of them be living in Plymouth, close to the shipping offices?’

Drake sighed and took a drink. ‘Mervyn is a man who likes his privacy. Not easy to come by when you are famous twice over. In addition…’ he leaned closer and lowered his voice ‘…there are rumours that the young lady has dealt with her share of snobbery.’

Trey raised a brow in question.

‘It’s her foreign blood, I suppose, although if you ask me it’s a damned shame. A lovelier girl you couldn’t ask to meet, in every way. But you know how dreadful people can be to an outsider. Here, in a smaller society, it is easier for her.’

‘Not to mention that here the people are more needful of her grandfather’s money?’

‘That too. In any case, we’ve our own deep-water quay, and in his sloop Mervyn could be at his main offices quickly enough.’

Trey took a drink and thought a moment. ‘It seems to me that the girl is a sight more needful of her grandfather’s money than anyone else.’

‘And so she is,’ sighed Drake. ‘But without proof of Mervyn’s death—no body or any known catastrophe such as a shipwreck—the company remains in the hands of its board. Without his influence that group squabbles more than the local Ladies’ Aid Society. So much so that the courts have ordered Mervyn’s shares frozen pending investigation into the matter.’

‘And who knows how long such an investigation will take?’

‘Who knows when they will even begin, is the question.’

‘So,’ Trey mused, ‘the girl is accepted here, but left near to destitution and still gossiped about?’

Drake flashed Trey a rueful smile. ‘But who among us could resist—especially when you throw in such a topic as the Pharaoh’s Lost Jewel?’

The jolt of excitement Trey felt had him sitting up a little straighter. Miss Latimer had mentioned a jewel, had she not, when he tried to give her the scarab?

‘I don’t know the legend,’ he said, striving for a casual tone. ‘What can you tell me of it?’

‘Perhaps I would be better suited to answer that,’ a sharp feminine voice said from the doorway.

It should have been impossible for a man of his age and experience, but Trey found himself blushing like a schoolgirl caught gossiping under the covers. Drake, however, seemed unperturbed, rising to greet the Latimer girl with his usual smoothness.

‘Miss Latimer, I had thought you abed. Ah, it is not surprising that you should have difficulty sleeping after such a dreadful experience. Shall I warm you some milk, to help you drift off?’

Arms crossed, she leaned against the doorjamb, all injured dignity and unrelenting disapproval. ‘No, thank you, Mr Drake.’

‘Well, then, since you are awake…’ he glanced at Trey with sympathy. ‘A message was left here for you earlier. I shall just fetch it.’

He eased his way past her, but her disdain appeared to be focused firmly on Trey. He pasted on his most obnoxious look of unconcern and waved her into the room. ‘Good, I am glad you are up. We have much to discuss.’

‘Yes, so much that you decided not to wait for me, I see.’

Trey shrugged. ‘Drake said you were abed. I merely meant to begin sorting out this mess.’

She glared, but held her peace as Drake returned, a sealed missive in hand. He handed it to her and shot Trey a mute look of apology.

Trey ignored him. A belated sense of uneasiness had him watching the girl instead. Who would be sending the chit a message here? A curious look passed over her face as she broke the seal and began to read.

‘Something is not right,’ he said. ‘Who, besides the people in this room, or asleep upstairs, would know you are here?’

She did not answer. Trey glanced over at her. Even in the candlelight she looked bloodless. Her face was blank, her gaze fixed to the sheet she still held with trembling fingers. Trey had to suppress a sigh of exasperation. Lord, not again.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Miss Latimer?’

Mutely, she handed him the paper.

It was too much; too many emotions for a person to process in a single day. Chione found that her trembling legs would not support her. She sank into Mr Drake’s abandoned chair and watched Lord Treyford read the note.

Le grand homme de la vague déferlante, he lives. He is in need of help. Find the coffer.

Alive. For a moment she was convinced that it was an illusion, a hallucination concocted out of her own grief and fear. But the proof was right there in Lord Treyford’s hand. Hungrily, she stared at it. Thank God, she had been wrong. Mervyn was alive.

‘What is this? A man from the…surf? What nonsense is this, Miss Latimer?’

‘Great man of the surf. Or something close to that. I think perhaps that part of it was originally in an island dialect.’

‘What was in—?’His voice, growing loud again with impatience, suddenly broke off, and the look he gave her softened into a sort of exasperated pity. ‘Miss Latimer, as much as it pains me, perhaps we should postpone this discussion. I fear the excitements of the day have been too much for you. Let Mr Drake show you back to your chamber.’

‘No, I am fine. Do not fear, Lord Treyford. I have not come unhinged.’ Chione’s weary brain had finally processed the rest of the message. Mervyn was alive, but he needed help. How could she help him? She hadn’t a clue as to where he was. And what was the coffer? All at once the fatigue that had swept over her was gone, lifted by her incredible relief, replaced by her anxiety, her need to be doing something, anything, to get to the bottom of all of this. She stood, then began to pace, from the fire to the window, and back again.

‘Miss Latimer,’ Lord Treyford began with a commanding rumble, ‘sit down. I am a man of very little patience, and you have already consumed what small amount I possess.’

Chione swore she could feel his words resonating in the pit of her belly, and for some reason the sensation sent her restlessness spiralling even higher. He wore a tremendous frown and his knuckles were white where he clutched the note she had given him.

Her fingers shook as she went to extricate it. For a moment she was close enough to feel the heat and the aura of masculinity that emanated from him. ‘I do apologise, but do you understand what this means? It means I was wrong. Mervyn is alive.’

He ran a hand along his jaw and up to his temple. When he spoke it was with the exaggerated patience one uses with a wayward child.

‘I think, Miss Latimer, that it is time for you to sit yourself down and start giving me some direct answers.’

She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a halting hand. ‘No, don’t talk. I am going to do the talking, you are going to answer only the questions I put to you. But before we begin, I am going to need another drink. Or two.’

He crossed over to a tray already set with a decanter and glasses. Chione sat in a chair in front of the empty fireplace and watched him toss one drink back immediately and pour himself another. When he returned, he held two glasses. He offered her one.

‘Oh, no. I don’t think…’

He held up his hand again. ‘No. No talking and no thinking. Either is bound to get me in trouble. Take the drink, and just answer.’

He took the chair across from her and sat, staring at her with that broody frown that set her insides to simmering. Chione had had enough. ‘Before I answer your questions, I have one of my own. Do you still have the scarab?’

He was startled enough to answer. ‘Of course.’

She sat back in her chair in relief. ‘I’m afraid I must apologise for my earlier outburst and tell you that I do indeed wish to have it.’

‘Tonight would illustrate that you are not alone in that desire.’

She started to speak, but he cut her off. ‘No, I do not want to hear protestations that it could have been something else that those thieves were after. We both know the truth. They wanted the damned scarab, and it’s only dumb luck that they don’t have it right now.’

Chione froze. Had his intentions shifted upon the discovery of the scarab’s value?

It seemed he read her mind. ‘I travelled here to bring the curst thing to you,’ he growled, ‘and so I shall. After you have given me what I need.’

Chione took a sip from her glass for courage. She managed—only just—not to cough and sputter as it went down. ‘And what is it that you need, my lord?’ Her saucy delivery might have had an impact if not for the brandy-induced wheeze at the end.

‘Information,’ he clipped. ‘I want you to tell me just what the hell that scarab really is. Why Richard was killed for it, why you damn near swooned at the sight of it, why someone followed me all the way from Egypt, damn it, to try to steal it from you tonight.’ The rumbling volume of his voice had raised a notch with each question.

Chione sat silent, considering. He might be curt, temperamental, cranky, even, but Richard had trusted this man. And he had proven himself worthy, keeping his word, abandoning his work, clearly against his own inclination. And tonight he had saved them all.

Chione was many things, but not a fool. She needed to find Mervyn and knew she would not get it done on her own. She needed help. And as much as it galled her to put her faith in yet another adventurer, she wanted his.

‘Tell me about the scarab,’ he said gruffly.

She took another drink of the brandy. ‘For as long as I can recall, it has belonged to Mervyn. He wore it always—in a pocket, or on a chain. When I saw it today in your hands, I believed that it meant that he was dead.’

‘Believed. Past tense.’ He glanced toward the note she still held in her hand.

‘Yes.’ She raised her chin in defiance. ‘ I know you will think that I am foolish, but there is good reason to trust in that note.’

He didn’t challenge her statement, or pursue her reasoning. ‘Did you know that Richard was searching for the scarab?’

‘Not really. He seemed genuinely thrilled to be going back to Egypt at last, and excited about his position with the Museum.’ She looked away. ‘I suspected that he was also searching for information about Mervyn’s disappearance, but he did not confide in me.’

‘Neither did he confide in me,’ Trey said flatly. ‘I do not know just where he found the thing. I do not know if the others who sought it in Egypt are the same ones who were here tonight. I still know nothing of importance, in fact. Yesterday you spoke of a jewel, but the jewels have long since been pried from the scarab. Tonight Drake talks of a Pharaoh’s jewel. Tell me now, just what is going on here?’

‘It is an old tale, an ancient legend.’ Her throat tightened until she thought she might choke on the words, but she forced herself to go on. ‘No one is sure just what the Jewel is. Some say it is a collar fashioned in the ancient style, made of gold and inlaid with hundreds of precious gems, others say that it is a huge diamond brought from the deepest Africa. I have also heard that it is an entire cache of jewels, stolen from a great king’s tomb long ago.’

‘Is the scarab part of the treasure, then?’

‘No, the scarab is reportedly the key.’

‘The key to what—the cache? Or is it a key such as you find on a map?’ She could heard the impatience in his voice.

‘Perhaps. I think someone once told Mervyn that the Jewel itself was a map, one that would lead to a lost land of many treasures.’

‘I see.’ The earl’s gaze wandered for a moment. She jumped when he snapped suddenly back to attention and barked out a question. ‘What did you grandfather believe?’

‘I don’t know!’ Her hands were clenched to the arms of the chair. ‘I was never truly interested in the legend, not in the way that the men in my family were. Did you know that my father was killed because of that cursed Jewel?’ She paused and swallowed, but now was not the time to reveal the truth of her family relationships. ‘He was murdered just because someone believed he knew something of it! When you showed up bearing that scarab, I knew that Richard had met the same fate and likely Mervyn as well. Now this note says that Mervyn is alive! His fate may hang in the balance and I just do not know!’

Panic reached down her throat and stole her breath away. What if it was true? She had despised the legend, hated the light in her grandfather’s eyes when he spoke of it, the excitement in her brother’s tone when he talked of leaving, of chasing after a myth. She had resented the way the story grew, interfering with their lives. When talk turned to the legend, she had turned away. And she had been right. Her father had been murdered because of it; most likely her brother had been killed seeking it. But what if her ignorance also doomed Mervyn?

‘Calm yourself,’ Trey ordered. He refilled her glass. ‘We shall sort it all out. Tell me what you do know.’

She breathed deep. Panic accomplished nothing. If there was one thing she had learned from her troubled early life, it was the value of a clear head in a time of crisis. She drank again and drew courage from the warmth the brandy spread through her chest. ‘That is nearly all of it,’ she said shakily. ‘The legend is old. It came to Europe when Bonapart and his delegation of scholars and artists returned to Egypt at the turn of the century. There was talk then, that the scarab had been found, and brought to France.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me to find that true. Many items went home with the French.’