by Lara Temple
Cleo clenched her hands but Rafe gently pressed his boot on hers.
‘And what did you reply?’ he asked.
‘I asked what he meant by trustworthy. He did not write back.’
‘In other words you evaded his questions.’
‘Well, I felt it best not to become involved. Boucheron has connections in my little world, even in England. I tend my little garden and keep out of others’.’
‘Of course. So do you know who acquired this statue?’
‘Not in England, though I did hear a statue of Horus along with a most excellent sarcophagus were acquired by the Louvre for well over one thousand pounds.’
Cleo swallowed. No wonder her father had begun to turn against Boucheron—she was quite certain he had never seen a fraction of those sums.
Rafe’s gaze captured hers before turning back to Pettifer.
‘Have you by any chance heard from Osbourne’s son?’
Pettifer frowned.
‘No. I have never had the felicity to meet him. Why?’
Cleo wished she could have heard a shadow of a lie in his answer, but she felt he spoke an uncomplicated truth. If Dash had arrived in England before her, he had not contacted Pettifer.
‘Never mind why,’ Rafe answered. ‘Should you hear from him or of him you will place an advertisement in The Times saying Mr P. has an item for Mr G. and then watch the advertisements the following day for instructions. Do you understand?’
‘I really don’t see why—’
‘Think mummies in the night, Pettifer...’
Pettifer sighed and nodded. ‘The Times. Mr P. has an item for Mr G.’
‘Good.’ Rafe stood and Cleo followed suit. ‘Anything else, Patrick?’
Cleo shook her head. She felt deflated and weary as she followed Rafe outside into the drizzle. It wasn’t merely what they’d learned from Pettifer.
We need to talk.
‘Thank you for helping me, Rafe.’
‘You are welcome. You had no idea those so-called souvenirs were being sold as actual antiquities, did you?’
‘No. Boucheron must be mad, selling them to museums. The risk is enormous.’
‘That depends. If a single piece was suspected, Boucheron could claim he himself had acquired it in ignorance. But if your father had intimated this was no innocent mistake, but a large-scale endeavour, his reputation would be ruined and no one would buy from him. I would wager the infamous book al-Mizan was sent to retrieve was a record your father was keeping of these items. Chris told me he heard Boucheron transported a large shipment of antiquities on a ship to Marseilles only a few weeks before we sailed. God knows how many of those were forgeries.’
‘What shall we do?’
‘I will have a word with Chris. He knows these people. I don’t want you involved in this in any way... For your brother’s sake.’
She had been about to speak, but his last words stopped her, as he must have known they would. It galled her to be shut out like this, but he was right. Clearly Boucheron had ties in London as well. Until she was certain Dash was safe, she must keep out of it.
He appeared to be waiting for her to say something, but the only words that came were, ‘I wish I was a man. Being a woman is like running uphill with pebbles in one’s shoes.’
His smile was weak and there was no sign of humour in his eyes—they were far more grey than green and the scars were grey-tinged as well.
‘I wish you’d been a man, too. This would have been much easier. But you will be safe with this widow and surrounded by a host of mouldy antiquarians. For all you know you might discover you enjoy being in a household like Soane’s. Whatever slurs you cast on them, I can see how much you love that world. I’ll wager you’ll all too soon be fending off sonnets and marriage proposals by the dozen.’
There was conviction in his words, as if he’d already settled her future in his mind and was casting her away on the current like a paper boat.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ she snapped, struggling to contain the gnawing pain in her chest. But then the anger, too, faded away, a paper fire only, leaving her cold and ashen and resigned.
She’d known what he was—he was far more a nomad than ever Gamal was, because Mr Rafael Grey had no set route to travel. His very being was defined by chance—chance encounters with those who might need his services for a while before cutting themselves loose again once their objective was fulfilled. He was instrumental, incidental. He had no substance of his own to anyone except Birdie, his brother and, for a brief tragic while, his little nephew.
And for an even briefer while, to her.
Which was her mistake, not his.
Chapter Eighteen
Rafe followed Cleo out of the carriage and up the gangway, gathering his resolve with each step.
He could no longer avoid the inevitable. They’d crossed the issues of Cleo’s finances, lodgings and occupation from the list. That meant she was safe. More importantly, she was no longer in his care.
It was time to tell her the truth.
She stopped in the middle of the deck, raising her face to the first drops of rain.
‘I’d forgotten about English rain,’ she said. ‘It’s so different from rain in Egypt or the storms at sea, but it feels like...home.’
Home.
He raised his own face to the sullen flicking of cold pins and needles and rubbed his chest. His pulse felt thick, as if struggling through a peat bog.
‘Come inside.’
She followed without a word. Once inside the cabin, she went to stand by the table, leaning one hand on its surface.
He felt as anxious as she looked. The time of truth had come and he had no idea why this was so very hard. Why he had not just said it weeks ago. It was not such a great matter after all, was it?
My name is not Rafe Grey, though that is who I am...whom I have been for most of my life.
My name is Rafael Edward James Braden Edgerton and I happen to be the Duke of Greybourne and it is now time for me to face my past and my future and I would like to ask you to be part of it.
Perfectly sensible speech.
I am the Duke of Greybourne.
Just say it.
‘Rafe? Are you well? You look...pale.’
‘I...uh. My name is not Rafe.’
Her brows drew together.
‘I know that. It is Rafael.’
‘No, what I meant to say was...’ Oh, hell, why was this so hard? It felt as though he was about to voluntarily walk off a cliff.
No, it felt as though he was about to kill Rafe Grey. Reach in and murder him with his own hands just as his father had once tried to murder that poor maid.
And he had no idea what would take his place.
He finally opened that door an inch wider. Time to let her in.
‘My father was a violent man.’ The words left him in a rush. ‘My first real memory of my father was when he broke my brother’s arm. I have no idea why. Not that there had to be a reason—it could be anything. That final time, before I left, we were in chapel and he tried to strangle Susan, our maid, simply because she laughed. I remember every second of that day except for the few short moments when I lunged at him to pull him off and was thrashed by him. Those moments are...gone, as if I’d slept through them. They’ve never come back. The next day I ran away to enlist and that’s where I met Birdie. For years I tested myself to see if that strain of violence was in me. I was certain it would find its way to the surface sooner or later. So I became a soldier and a mercenary and—’
‘It isn’t in you, Rafe,’ she interrupted with finality.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do. I think you do as well; at least I hope you do. There is a different between using force when you must and being ruled by it or being blind to its effect on others
.’
He gave a small laugh.
‘Is there?’
‘I believe there is. I don’t think you allow yourself to be ruled by anything but conscience and caution, and you are certainly anything but blind to others. You must know you are not like your father.’
He breathed in and out. ‘I prefer to believe I am not. I have never felt the pull of it, but the fact is that violence has shaped my life in too many ways to count. But that is not what I wanted to tell you...it is merely so you can understand why I did what I did...’
He rubbed his forehead, wishing the words would somehow appear out of the muddle. Now that the moment was here he wanted to stop it, delay it just a little further. Tell Chris to raise anchor and take them back into the emptiness of the ocean so she would have time to absorb the truth. Not when the very next moment she must go play companion to a widow and her lapdog and he must go confront his living ghosts.
He’d made ill use of his time with her, hemmed in by conscience and pointless convention, just as she’d said. He might not wholly be his father’s son, but perhaps he was more his mother’s son than he’d hoped.
He breathed deeply, searching for that elusive streak of valiance that would propel him forward. Cleo came and took his hands; they felt clammy in her warm clasp.
‘Rafe? Something is wrong. I can see it is. What is it? Just tell me.’
He’d known this was coming the moment he’d received the letter informing him of his father’s death. Rafe Grey, all of twenty years old, was about to be extinguished. Rafael Edgerton, Duke of Greybourne, had to step back on to the stage and he had not the faintest idea who he was.
Just tell her and make it real. Rafe Grey is no more... He’d never truly existed.
Just tell her.
‘Cleo. I’m not...’
There was a clumping as someone ran along the corridor and Cleo dropped his hands. Rafe hoped whoever it was stopped before they reached Chris’s cabin, but then the door swung open and Birdie strode in, a letter in his hand and his usually equable countenance twisted with anxious tension. Cleo moved towards him, her eyes wide with concern.
‘Birdie, what is it?’
‘It’s a letter from Paul, Elmira’s brother.’
Rafe caught Birdie by the shoulders and felt them shaking. If he’d ever wondered how much Birdie cared for Elmira, he knew now.
‘What happened?’
‘She’s not dead. But he writes she’s ill. This letter was sent three weeks ago, Rafe. Three weeks ago. I must leave now.’
‘Of course. We’ll ride out as soon as we find horses.’
‘You needn’t—’
‘I’m not letting you go alone. It’s a long way to the Lakes and you’ll need someone to see you don’t ride yourself into exhaustion and a ditch. You’ll be in no state to help Elmira if you do.’
‘You have your own affairs—’
‘They’ve waited until now; they will wait a little longer. Go pack and I’ll hire the horses.’
Birdie nodded, his mouth a tense downward bow. He cast a quick look at Cleo.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Cleo.’
To Rafe’s surprise, and Birdie’s as well, Cleo hugged him fiercely.
‘Don’t be foolish. Godspeed, Birdie.’
He mumbled something incoherent and hurried out.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Cleo asked. Rafe considered and discarded blurting out his admission. Cleo was safe for the moment and what he had to say was something he could barely manage when he was coherent, let alone with Birdie’s fear hanging over him.
‘Yes. Go with Chris to this Mrs Phillips and wait for your brother. When I return London we will finish this conversation, but now I must go with Birdie.’
‘Of course you must. Please be careful, both of you.’
He nodded and made it to the door before turning back, almost by compulsion. He had no idea what to say that could be said in the minutes ticking by at Birdie’s expense, so instead he crossed the room back to her. He raised her and placed her neatly on the table before clasping her face gently between his hands. They were still cold and now also shaking a little as he brushed the feathery hair back from her cheeks and brow. He wanted to take her with them, have her ride by his side and Birdie’s. He had no clear idea what he was doing, but he didn’t want to leave her here. He didn’t want to leave her.
She smiled and brushed her hands over his, slipping her fingers between his.
He kissed her hard and she opened to him with her warm generosity, her hands threading through his hair and over his nape before drawing back.
‘You must hurry.’
‘I know. Stay out of trouble, Pat.’
Chapter Nineteen
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London—two weeks later...
The tall arched windows of Soane House were bright with candlelight though it was only just turning dark. It seemed to stand forward from the row of rain-drenched, dark-windowed and dark-bricked houses, a happy invitation to enter and be amazed.
Rafe shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, gathering his resolve. Somewhere behind that cheerful façade was one Miss Cleopatra Osbourne, companion and thorn in his side. He’d rehearsed his admission ad nauseum during the interminable ride north and back, but now the moment of truth was upon him he felt the words fizzle and fade once more. It wasn’t the words that would matter in the end; it was Cleo.
In a matter of minutes Cleo would decide which path his life took. There had been times when others held his life in their hands, but strangely he’d never felt as powerless before fate as he did now.
He’d missed her every moment of these long, long two weeks. All his faculties for gauging danger, for scanning the future for pitfalls, had been engaged with her. His mind had populated the dank grey skies and muddy roads and indifferent posting houses with an accounting of the past weeks from the first moment she’d appeared in his room in Syene. He’d leafed through every image, fixing it in his memory as if it was already fading in the damp of his new life.
It scared him because that was what he’d done after Jacob’s death as he’d tended to Edge’s misery, holding his own inside. He’d held each memory of his nephew like a drop of dew, willing it not to break and spill. And now he was doing the same with her as if she’d already turned her back on him and begun walking her own path, without him.
Sometimes he was convinced she must care for him as he did for her. That it could not merely be friendship and gratitude and the physical fascination of an undeniably passionate woman. But he couldn’t get past the fact that, despite all that had happened between them, he recognised in her that strength that would allow her to move on despite tragedies and loss. She might already be consigning him to the trash heap of her past, determined to make the best of what she now had.
He’d thought...he’d truly believed he was the same, but she’d snatched that fiction from him. He knew he could manage if he had to, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to. He needed her—her love, her hands holding his, her eyes telling him she wanted to be with him. He wanted to make her smile and keep her safe. With him.
He should be happy for her if she was settling into her new life. It was unfair to want her to be as confused and agonised by this separation as he was, yet he wanted precisely that.
He wanted, quite desperately, for her to need him.
He squared his shoulders and brushed the drizzle from his face, preparing himself. He’d just stepped on to the path when the door opened and a figure stepped out, leading a small mop of a dog. Rafe shifted back into the shadows and watched as they crossed the road towards the square, his heart picking up speed as if in the presence of danger.
The storm had left leaves all over the path and the dog snuffled happily at the damp debris, its long hair gathering samples as it went. With her face hidden by a bonnet,
a pelisse most likely borrowed as it was both too large and too short, and her purposeful stride reduced to the dog’s shuffle, he might easily have walked by her on the street without even noticing.
But then she looked up at the sky as if out of a deep hole and it was like waking up in the vastness of the desert, the soft halo of a sunrise behind the hills. Again he felt the same blessing of being alive that had begun to unfurl in him since he’d met Cleo. Those weeks in the desert and on the Hesperus he’d felt...content.
He rubbed his chest, trying to still the nervous thumping. Then he took a deep breath and came up the path behind her.
‘Hello, Cleo-Pat.’
Both she and the dog jumped. The dog gave a throaty cough, but after its first outrage came to snuffle at his boots. Rafe crouched down to pet the tubby ball of hair, buying time.
‘How does he see where he’s going?’ he asked, pulling the soggy skeleton of a leaf from its fur. ‘What’s your name, little fellow?’
‘Perseus, but we call him Percy.’ Her voice was muffled and it was a moment before she spoke again. ‘Thank you for sending me word so promptly that Mrs Herndale was recovered. I was worried for Birdie.’
He risked looking up and wished her face was in its expressive mode. It was unfair that just when he needed her to show something, she could flatten everything out. Her skin was still darker than the approved English complexion and strands of her short hair were escaping the confines of her bonnet, feathering on her forehead and cheeks.
He scratched the dog’s head, took another deep breath and stood. Now she had to look up to meet his gaze, but it gave him no real advantage. Her uptilted face and the sweep of her throat were so familiar he felt his throat tighten with something between pain and relief. It was still Cleo.
‘You look tired, Rafe.’
