by Olivia Drake
“Bumblin’ oaf!” Figgins snatched up a rag and scrubbed at the slimy mess. “Stand up and tell me yer name.”
The command paralyzed Gabe. Their only other close encounter had been in a darkened room in Cairo. But if Figgins had a clear look at Gabe’s face, there was a chance he’d see through the disguise.
“His name is Whitcombe, and I’m sure it was only an unfortunate accident,” Mrs. Swindon said from behind him.
This time, the housekeeper’s voice was music to Gabe’s ears. Crouched down, he saw her gray skirt swish past him.
“Nitwit is more the like,” Figgins snarled. “My best coat is ruined.”
“Now, now, there’s no real harm done, Mr. Figgins. Come, I’ll have you set right in no time.”
The two servants walked away, and with a sidelong glance, Gabe saw them vanish into the adjacent room and shut the door. The noise in the kitchen increased as everyone gossiped about the incident, some smothering laughter at the spectacle Figgins had made. Rising to his feet, Gabe collected the tea tray. Sally industriously peeled potatoes in the company of several other giggling serving maids. As one, they cast adoring glances his way.
Gabe suppressed a groan. So much for blending into the background.
Picking up the tea tray, he quickly strode into the narrow shaft of the servants’ staircase. Alone on the wooden steps, he paused a moment to damn himself. He’d taken a foolish risk. Twice already, he’d almost betrayed himself. If he didn’t take care, he would be found out.
He would lose his chance to make Damson pay.
The guests gathered before dinner in a spacious chamber that reminded Kate more of an Egyptian temple than a drawing room.
Carved palm fronds decorated the tops of the tall white pillars. In a corner of the room stood a colorful mummy case similar to the pictures she had seen in one of Papa’s books. The walls were painted with panels of ancient people at work and pleasure, some having the body of a human and the head of a falcon or a jackal.
More than thirty guests chatted in clusters, the gentlemen outnumbering the ladies. A glance told Kate that Lady Stokeford and Uncle Nathaniel hadn’t come down for dinner yet. Several footmen were serving the guests, but Gabriel wasn’t among them. They still hadn’t had the chance to talk, for when he’d brought the tea tray, one of Damson’s maids had been present, delivering some extra pillows.
Kate hesitated in the doorway, feeling a little shy at approaching these sophisticated strangers in their London finery. In the privacy of her chamber, she had fancied herself at the height of fashion in the new gown of dark blue silk with a pale blue gauze overskirt. But now, she was tongue-tied at the prospect of conversation. What did one say to such worldly folk?
Hello, I’ve come here to prove your host is a thief and a murderer.
“Miss Talisford. How positively angelic you look.”
Kate gave a start as Sir Charles appeared out of nowhere. His haughty features regarded her from beneath his mop of pale curls. For the span of a heartbeat, she thought him an incubus from a nightmare.
Collecting her composure, she summoned a pleasant expression. “Good evening,” she said. “I was admiring your drawing room.”
“I’m pleased that it meets with your approval. Your good opinion holds great significance to me.”
“You flatter me,” she said in a light-hearted tone. “I’m certain anyone here would have more knowledge of the latest styles than I do.”
“But yours is a fresh and unbiased judgment,” Sir Charles said warmly. “After all, you are the daughter of the late, esteemed Henry Talisford. Come, I’ll show you some of my treasures.”
As he took her elbow, Kate hid a twist of revulsion. How could he act so nonchalant when her father’s blood stained his hands? She was hard-pressed not to shrink from his touch.
Instead of taking her to meet the other guests, Sir Charles guided her over to a grouping of artifacts. Inside a glass case lay a long papyrus scroll, the edges tattered, the colored inks faded on the small figures and strange pictorial writing. “This is only a portion of a longer document,” he said. “It appears to be a book about death, though of course, no one can read the ancient Egyptian script.”
“The scroll must be very valuable. Where did you acquire it?”
“On my travels,” he said offhandedly, “I’ve secured many a fine artifact.”
Like the goddess.
Had he murdered other poor souls to procure these things? Kate subdued the vile speculation. Better to keep herself focused on her own goal, her own revenge.
She turned to the display of a miniature boat, long and slender, with a painted sarcophagus resting beneath an awning. “This piece is beautiful.”
“It’s a funeral barge. Once the corpse was mummified, it was transported down the Nile to a gravesite.”
“What is that jackal-headed creature standing at the prow?”
“Anubis. God of the dead.” Sir Charles smiled, his pale eyes alight with the passion of a collector. “The men and women you see sitting in the barge are slaves. They were destined to be killed so they could serve their master in the afterlife.”
Kate shuddered, pretending it was a reaction to the display. “A cruel custom. How do you know of it?”
“You might be surprised at how well-read I am. Like your father, I’ve devoted my life to the study of ancient cultures.”
How dare this murdering thief compare himself to an eminent scholar like Papa? She took a deep breath before trusting herself to speak. “You’ve so many fascinating relics,” she said, stroking her fingertips over a stone plaque containing more of the mysterious hieroglyphics. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to show all of them to me.”
“That would take days, my dear. However, I might agree on one condition.” He watched her, his eyes narrowed to slits of ice-blue.
“What condition?”
Taking her by the arm, he guided her to a chaise decorated with a gilt-and-ebony-winged sphinx at either end. He sat her down beside him. “The condition is that you help me out on my latest project. You see, I’m writing a book about ancient religions.”
“You?” The question slipped out before Kate could stop it. She and Gabriel were writing a book, not him.
For a fleeting moment, his face tightened. “Few people know of my extensive studies, but that will soon change when I publish my first scholarly work. It shall be a far more comprehensive volume than any other. And it would aid in my research if I could consult your father’s notes.”
His gall strangled her. Who was Sir Charles Damson to think he had any right to use the life’s work of the man he had killed? Or did he just wish to destroy that last incriminating entry?
“I can see you’re hesitant,” Sir Charles went on. “Let me assure you on my honor as a gentleman that I would merely borrow the journals for a short time. And I would pay you exceedingly well for the privilege.”
She mustn’t voice the acid retort that soured her tongue. Rather, she must play to his vanity. The success of her plan depended upon it. “I’m flattered that you’d include Papa’s work in your book. You seem to know so much about history.” Kate feigned a worried look. If only he knew, the journals were in the tower room, hidden at the bottom of her trunk. “But I don’t have the journals with me. Does that mean you won’t show me around?”
He snapped at the bait. Picking up her hand, he clasped it in his cool, soft fingers. “My dear, it’s your vow that I seek. Then, of course, I would be happy to give you a tour of my castle.”
This was her chance. Without compunction, she told another lie. “As you wish, then. When I return home. I’ll send you the notebooks.”
“You are an angel.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back. “Please bring the journals yourself when you and your sister return.”
As she politely disengaged herself, Kate was tempted to scrub her hand against her skirt. “Return?”
“You and Margaret must both come here for a nice long sta
y. After all, I am your guardian.”
Shocked, she blurted, “But...you never showed me the document...”
“I had to fetch it from my solicitor.” Reaching inside his coat, Sir Charles drew forth a folded paper and pressed it into her hand.
Numbly she opened the parchment. Her disbelieving eyes scanned the legal paper, fixing on the neatly penned name at the bottom of the page. Henry Leyton Talisford.
Papa’s signature. She knew his precise script as well as she knew her own. Either it was an exceedingly clever forgery, or Papa really had signed over guardianship to this monster.
Her mind scrambled to grasp the ramifications. Sir Charles mustn’t find out that Uncle Nathaniel had ceded the right of protector to Gabriel. As much as that fact had appalled her, this new development held a far greater danger.
She lifted her eyes to find Sir Charles staring at her, his face all the more sinister for its refined appearance. “I’m afraid your document is worthless,” Kate said in as calm a voice as she could muster. “My great-uncle is our guardian. Since he’s our blood relation, his claim takes precedence.”
“We’ll let the Chancery Court decide that,” Sir Charles said, briskly plucking the paper from her nerveless fingers. “I hesitate to say this, my dear, but Nathaniel Babcock has a rather sordid reputation. And I will do everything in my power to protect you and Margaret from all wickedness.”
His voice held an eloquent zest that sent a chill crawling down her spine. Sir Charles was an articulate man, his words smooth and fluent, his manner gentlemanly. What if he convinced a judge to rule in his favor? What if she and her sister were forced to endure his guardianship? Meg already viewed him with the starry eyes of an innocent, and it horrified Kate to imagine how easily he might misuse her rash, impetuous sister...
A man sauntered to them. “It isn’t fair for the host to claim the prettiest lady all for himself,” he said. “Introduce me, Damson.”
Concealing her inner turmoil, Kate forced a polite smile at the stranger. Long-limbed and leanly handsome, he carried a drink in his hand. A small, half-moon scar drew up the corner of his mouth in sly amusement. He looked like a man who kept secrets. Dark secrets.
Standing up, Sir Charles gave him an intense stare. “This is my dear friend Miss Talisford,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Miss Talisford, may I present—”
“Brandon Villiers,” Lady Stokeford said, sailing toward them, Uncle Nathaniel at her side. “What on earth are you doing here?”
The man bowed over her dainty hand. “I could ask the same of you, my lady.” Frowning, he slid a glance beyond her. “Pray don’t tell me that Grandmama is present. It would quite ruin my expectations of this party.”
“This is the infamous Earl of Faversham,” the dowager told Kate. “His grandmother is Lady Faversham.” She sent him a severe look. “Who, I might add, is not here. But if she had been, she would have been delighted to see you.”
He shrugged without repentance. “She wouldn’t like my crowd. Nor should you.”
A smile transformed Lady Stokeford’s delicate, aging face as she slipped her arm through Uncle Nathaniel’s. “I’m here with my fiancé, Nathaniel Babcock, lately of Italy. I’m helping him chaperone his niece, Miss Talisford.”
“Fiancé?” A stunned look altered Lord Faversham’s jaded expression. Then with a surprisingly genial grin, he leaned down to kiss Lady Stokeford’s cheek. “Well, well. It seems congratulations are in order.” He shook Uncle Nathaniel’s hand. “To you, too.”
“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” Uncle Nathaniel declared, clasping the dowager’s hand.
“And I’m the luckiest woman.” She gave him a look so adoring that Kate stared in surprise. Did Lady Stokeford feel a true devotion that went beyond the ruse?
She mustn’t. Uncle Nathaniel was an incurable rascal who lived off the generosity of his mistresses. When he grew bored, he simply found another rich woman to gull. If he dared to set his sights on Lady Stokeford...
Kate resolved to lecture him on the matter. More than that, she ached to tell him about the document, to pour out all her fears and beg him for help.
“Now, Brandon,” the dowager said. “You must tell me how Charlotte fares.”
The brief flicker of lightness vanished from Lord Faversham’s face. More than ever, he looked cold and cruel and cynical. “How the devil should I know? I haven’t seen the chit in two years. And good riddance.”
Lady Stokeford smacked him on his sleeve with her closed fan. “Do not speak of Lady Enid’s granddaughter with such disrespect.”
“She earned that and more,” Lord Faversham growled, radiating a chilly intensity. “You know that as well as I.”
“Are you speaking of Lady Charlotte Quinton?” Sir Charles inquired, an eyebrow raised.
“Lady Stokeford is,” the earl said tersely. “I’m not.” Downing the rest of his drink, he set the glass on a table.
His scornful manner intrigued Kate. What had Lady Enid’s granddaughter done to earn his contempt? Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be polite to ask.
Just then, a foreign lady glided to Sir Charles’s side. Strikingly beautiful in a low-cut emerald gown of the latest fashion, she had dusky skin, coal-black hair, and dark almond eyes. Diamonds sparkled at her earlobes, and a musky perfume eddied around her like a veil.
“You look as fierce as a lion, my lord,” she said to the earl in a low, musical accent. “But perhaps I am intruding.” Arching a languid eyebrow, she glanced around the small party as if daring someone to send her away.
Lord Faversham gave her a predatory smile. “I like it when beautiful women intrude.”
“May I present Yasmin,” Sir Charles said with a flourish. “She’s a visitor to our fair shores from Egypt.”
“My stars,” Lady Stokeford said lightly. “All this way for a party.”
Everyone laughed, even Kate, who felt the niggling of an ugly suspicion. The Egyptian woman must have accompanied Sir Charles to England. Did that also mean she knew of his treachery?
Yasmin made a graceful curtsy. “I have come to observe your customs, my lady. They are so different from my own.”
“I’ve heard the Arabic ladies are closely guarded and hidden in harems,” Uncle Nathaniel said with a devilish wag of his white eyebrows. “Were you in a harem, Miss Yasmin?”
“If so, I’d like to hear all about your experiences,” Lord Faversham said, offering Yasmin his arm. “In private.”
This time, Lady Stokeford used her fan to jab both Uncle Nathaniel and the earl in the ribs. “Behave yourselves. Yasmin will think Englishmen are a lot of fools.”
Yasmin looked as if she thought nothing of the sort. She eyed the men, her lashes half lowered, a mysterious smile on her lips.
The baron gave a cultured laugh. “Hear, hear, Lady Stokeford. We gentlemen are soundly chastised.”
Yasmin’s catlike gaze veered to the dowager. The Egyptian seemed very aware of her effect on men, Kate decided, though the woman had said nothing to substantiate that opinion. Rather, it was her sultry manner, the confident way she moved and the way she smiled as if she knew men wanted her. As much as she wanted them.
But as the dinner gong sounded, Yasmin eluded both Lord Faversham and Sir Charles. To Kate’s surprise, the woman drew her aside. “I beg a moment of your time, Miss Talisford.”
“I...of course,” Kate murmured. She caught one last glimpse of Sir Charles smiling benignly as he offered his arm to another lady.
“Come where no one will overhear us.” The Egyptian glided toward a stand of potted palms, and Kate followed, intensely curious and more than a little wary. The moment they were alone, Yasmin whispered, “You are with Lady Stokeford, are you not?”
“Her fiancé is my great-uncle, Nathaniel Babcock.”
Yasmin shrugged as if the distinction didn’t matter. “I know this name, Stokeford. Perhaps it belongs to the Kenyon family?”
The bottom dropped out of Kate’s stomach as she sta
red at the extraordinarily beautiful woman. “Yes. Why do you wish to know?”
Yasmin’s face showed a feline satisfaction. “It is as I believe, then.”
“What?”
“In Cairo, I met the kinsman of Lady Stokeford.” As if relishing a private, cherished memory, Yasmin ran the tip of her tongue over her ruby lips. “Perhaps you know him. He is a handsome Englishman named Lord Gabriel Kenyon.”
The Locked Room
While the guests were at dinner and much of the staff enjoying supper in the servants’ hall, Gabe used the opportunity to search the castle. Truth be told, he didn’t expect to find the goddess sitting out in plain sight. But he would have a look, anyway, and get a feel for the layout of the castle.
Driven by ruthless purpose, he started in the east wing, making a methodical inspection of each room, including every bedchamber. Not surprisingly, there were few ancient artifacts in the guest chambers, only an occasional urn or a decorative bust. Otherwise, Damson had spared no expense on the lavish furnishings, and Gabe grimly confirmed that Kate had indeed been given the finest chamber.
He brooded on the anomaly. Did Damson hope to soften her into selling him Henry Talisford’s artifacts? Was he trying to impress her with his wealth for the purpose of courting her?
Or did he have an even more nefarious purpose in mind?
Gabe breathed deeply to ease the pressure in his chest. The sooner he found the goddess, the sooner they could depart. If anything happened to Kate or his grandmother, he would never forgive himself.
Though the disguise was a nuisance, the wig hot and itchy, and the livery stiff with its formal, starched collar, now he could admit to the cleverness of his grandmother’s plan. On his own, he would have been forced to enter the castle like a thief, with an extremely limited time to locate the statue. Instead, he could walk freely through the corridors, for few people would question the presence of another servant.
Proceeding to the main rooms in the keep, Gabe cupped his hand around the candle to keep the drafts from extinguishing the flame. He passed only a carbuncle-faced maid who smiled bashfully as she toted a coal scuttle up the back stairs. Nodding to her, he continued on his way as if he were tending to an errand for his mistress.
