by Lara Temple
‘I cannot sit and do nothing,’ Edge objected.
‘Naturally not. Surely you have other matters to attend to after so many years abroad?’
Sir Oswald’s gaze rested briefly on Sam and Edge’s jaw clenched at the subtle emphasis, but he refused to be manipulated.
‘Nothing more immediately pressing than finding my brother.’
‘Commendable, I am sure. However, I prefer you grant me a day or so to do just that before you muddy the water. I will be leaving for Paris by the end of the week so make use of my resources while you can. Come, Lord Edward... Edge, you are by nature a patient man. If I cannot secure any information in two days, you may rampage through town like a stuck bull if you wish. Meanwhile there is surely something you can think of doing in this great city?’
Sam smiled, assessing Edge.
‘Yes, there is. I have an errand to run.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Open it,’ Leila said.
Gabriel obeyed, a little wary. Opening strange boxes led to peculiar outcomes in the Hidden City.
This one didn’t suck him into Jephteh’s dungeons, but into another world and for a brief, beautiful moment he was home.
—Treasures of Siwa,
Desert Boy Book Five
‘I keep forgetting how noisy London is,’ Edge said as he helped Sam descend from the carriage into the orderly chaos of Piccadilly. ‘I think I’ve missed it. A little.’
Sam’s hand tightened on his arm and he looked down. Her eyes were smiling and with a peculiar pang he realised he’d spent far too much of their short married life avoiding her, chasing his brother, or sulking. That time could have been spent so much more enjoyably. Once they ran this errand he would start rectifying matters—first by taking her back to that wonderfully soft bed so he could unfurl her hair into a dark, fragrant waterfall over her body...
Not suitable thoughts while standing in the middle of Piccadilly.
‘We had best get this over with. What is this errand, anyway?’
‘I need a new wardrobe and you shall help me choose fabrics.’
His horror must have shown on his face because she burst out laughing.
‘You look like a toddler being dragged to have a tooth pulled. This is Hatchard’s, silly, not Madame Fanchot’s. I need a new set of Desert Boy books. I usually read the manuscripts Mr Durham sends me and rarely read them after they are published, because I am too scared to discover that my illustrations are all wrong for the final version, so when my copy of The Treasures of Siwa arrived I gave it to Ellie before I even read it. But now it is officially published I do wish to have a copy, especially since the manuscript Mr Durham originally sent me wasn’t complete.’ Her hand tightened a little on his arm as she stared at the damp pavement. ‘I tried to visit Mr Durham to ask him if he knows whether Mr Bunny is writing a new book, but he is in Boston commissioning new authors. His son is at the helm during his absence and I did not stay to speak with him—he is rather an unctuous young man, not at all like his father. I hate not knowing. I always worry I shall learn that something happened to Mr Bunny or perhaps...perhaps he no longer needs my illustrations.’
Edge was also a little worried. More than a little. After a particularly memorable occasion of childish evasion years ago, Janet had pointed out lies by omission can be just as poisonous as lies by commission. How had he managed to forget this issue still lay between them? How had he not admitted to Sam that he was Mr Bunny, as she insisted on calling the author of the Desert Boy books?
‘Sam...’
‘Oh, no, it is beginning to rain. Hurry, there is no escape now.’
No escape.
Edge followed her inside, his mind tossing arguments back and forth as they were swept into a kaleidoscope of pelisses and bonnets and the rumble of the street was replaced by the buzz of people.
Edge clenched his teeth. This was neither the time nor the place for a crisis of conscience. He would consider the issue later when he could think it through carefully. Perhaps if he told her while they were more...intimate...it might be less of a shock. He could have told her last night while she was lying half on him, with her leg over his, her hand stroking his chest while his shaped that wonderful curve of her hip, up and over...
‘Edge?’
He breathed in, taking his time.
‘Let’s buy those books and leave. This place sounds like the camel market at Imbaba and with all these perfumes it smells almost as bad.’
She laughed and stroked his arm. A woman with a bonnet three times the size of her head managed to both glare at them and look away in disgust. Sam immediately dropped his arm, surprising him. He glanced down at her.
‘What is it?’
She shrugged and turned to the closest bookshelves.
‘Nothing. I don’t like being stared at.’
‘Pure envy. Ignore them.’
The corners of her mouth picked up.
‘Are you saying they envy me my handsome husband? I never suspected you of vanity, Edge.’
‘Don’t be coy, Sam. You know I was referring to you.’
‘Do I? I don’t even know if you think I am moderately attractive.’
‘You don’t...you cannot be serious! What on earth do you think last night was about?’
‘I have been told females are practically interchangeable when men need their physical needs assuaged.’
‘This is hardly the place for such a discussion, but who on earth was the idiot who told you such nonsense? Not your brothers, I’d warrant. And it certainly does not apply to me. Look at me, Sam.’
She shook her head, a sharp flush colouring her cheeks.
‘Not here. Everyone is staring.’
All at once his own discomfort was gone. He didn’t like seeing Sam pull herself inward like that.
‘You were never concerned with appearances in the past.’
‘My debut in Venice taught me otherwise. It might be the Capital of Sin, but it is brutal to women who don’t play be the rules. After we married, Ricki mocked all my missteps and did his best to civilise me. I’m afraid he didn’t succeed any more than you did.’
‘I never mocked you, Sam. Ever.’
‘No, that is true. It is not in your nature.’
‘Nor did I want to change you, I merely wanted...’ He searched for the right words. ‘I merely wanted you to be safe.’
It wasn’t a lie, but it felt inadequate. He’d never understood the urge to protect Sam—she might have been a madcap, but she was, as he’d told her so indelicately, alarmingly sturdy. Not to mention her brothers were already perfectly adequate guardians. There’d been no role for him, but he’d forced his way in none the less.
She’d always brought out the best and worst in him.
‘Let’s go, Edge. I hate this. I shall ask Tubbs to buy the books.’ Her gaze was flickering around the room and not with the avid curiosity that sometimes exasperated him, but with uncustomary dread. He wanted nothing more than to leave, but he drew her hand through his arm, turning her back towards the bookshelves.
‘They might just as well be staring at me. After all, we are serving up a surfeit of scandals. Between Rafe’s disappearance, my reappearance, our wedding abroad and the Sinful Sinclair family name it is hardly surprising we excite curiosity. I would be more concerned if we drew no attention. Clearly that would mean something so horrific had happened civilisation itself was under threat.’
She laughed, leaning her shoulder against his arm for a moment. It was such a small thing but it shrank his lungs. He’d never been tactile, not like her, but the need to touch Sam was an under-skin itch—constant, irritating, undeniable. He almost wished she would do something impetuous like climb the footstool the clerks used to reach the upper shelves so he would have an excuse to steady her...he could already feel the pliancy of her hips under his
fingers, her warmth.
The urge to make a fool of himself was so strong he took a random book from the shelves and opened it. Sam leaned closer to read the title page.
‘Guilty or Not Guilty. A Lesson for Husbands by Ann of Swansea. “Husband, I knew this not of you...”,’ she read aloud with a muffled laugh, before Edge snapped it shut and shoved it back into place. He would have done better to have encouraged her to keep reading because her tension returned immediately.
‘They are still whispering behind us, you know. I am certain I heard your name mentioned.’
‘They’re like vultures circling a carcase; show some spirit and they’ll be off to search for a more amenable target.’
‘That is a gruesome metaphor.’
‘It is a simile, not a metaphor.’
Sam rolled her eyes and he couldn’t help smiling.
‘Come now, where is the Sam Sinclair who took on Khalidi’s troops and scaled the pyramids?’
‘Weren’t you the one who thought that Sam was a wild hoyden in need of proper schooling?’
‘I was wrong.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It does happen. Not about the wild hoyden part, which you were, but about the proper schooling. It would not suit you in the least to be like any of the tittering lace-and-frill-wrapped confections surrounding us. Come, we shall buy your books and go...’ He almost said home until he realised there was no such place. That was something he should rectify. Soon.
‘Oh, goodness, it is you. Lord Edward!’ A voice trilled behind them. ‘Come along, Phoebe, it is Lord Edward Edgerton, the Duchess of Greybourne’s son. My dear, dear Lord Edward!’
Edge set his teeth.
‘Be nice,’ Sam murmured beside him and he tried hard for a smile and turned to face two women approaching them like ships of the line. He recognised them from the year he’d married Dora, but could not for the life of him remember their names. Luckily they presented their colours immediately.
‘I was just telling Mrs Murchison we hope your dear mama shall come to town now the year of mourning is over. Did I not, Mrs Murchison?’
‘You certainly did, Lady Buckley. And now this! Why, when we read the Morning Tattler you could have knocked us both over with a feather.’
Sam shifted back a little, as if contemplating escape. He tightened his hold on her arm. They were in this together, for better or worse.
‘I had no idea how or why the news appeared in the Morning...whatever...but I wasn’t aware matrimony still had such an impact on anyone in town. May I introduce my wife, Lady Edward?’
The excitement faded from the two elderly women’s faces, replaced by bewilderment and then a totally different look—something very much like greed. Edge hadn’t realised quite how private the Sinclairs managed to remain because clearly by some miracle the news of their marriage had not yet spread throughout the ton. Until this moment. Only the two matrons were looking at them directly, but he could feel the crowd’s interest as oppressively as a hamsin wind.
‘Your wife! Dear me, what a pleasure of course, Lady Edward. We did not know...’
‘Had not heard...’
‘Since we only returned to England recently, that is not surprising. Which reminds me, we must be going. A commission for the Duchess, you see,’ he explained broadly and their heads bobbed like the little parrots that used to perch on his veranda in Brazil hoping for treats. ‘Thank you for your good wishes.’
‘Of course, of course, but perhaps before you go we might yet convince you to do a reading for us at our salon. A most exclusive grouping... And of course, Lady Edward, you must come as well.’
Sam finally spoke.
‘Reading?’
Lady Buckley nodded vigorously, lining up her guns.
‘The Treasures of Siwa, Lord Edward’s latest book.’
Everyone within hailing distance of Lady Buckley’s flute-like voice rustled a few inches closer. Before Edge could shift his guns about, Sam spoke, her voice a little hoarse.
‘You must be mistaken, Lady Buckley.’
‘Oh, have you not seen the morning edition? That was precisely what we thought, but the Tattler quotes Mr Ewan Durham’s words quite clearly, did it not? He was asked about the Treasures of Siwa already being sent for a third printing and he said he expects this will be the most successful of the Desert Boy books yet and that the author is none other than the younger son of the late departed Duke of Greybourne. At first we wondered whether this might be the new Duke, but it distinctly said younger son. Did it not, Mrs Murchison?’
‘It most certainly did, Lady Buckley.’
‘And then I remembered you have lived in all manner of outlandish places and I said—why, yes, it might very well be true! My words precisely, were they not, Mrs Murchison?’
‘Precisely, my dear Lady Buckley.’
This time the silence that followed this assault was absolute, as if a church’s dome had dropped down upon the room. Edge forced a smile, tucking Sam’s nerveless hand around his arm. He didn’t know if he was anchoring her or himself. She wore no expression, as if she’d stepped away and left her body propped by his side. He kept his voice pitched as low as possible when he replied, hoping Lady Buckley would lower hers.
‘You do know you cannot rely on anything titled Tattler for veracity, Lady Buckley. Such rags thrive on innuendo and invention.’
‘But it was printed as clear as day! Why, we could speak of little else at Mrs Felsham’s at-home hour. In fact, I just dashed a note off to your mama to enquire if it is true...’
‘I am certain my mother will be delighted to hear from you, Lady Buckley. Now, my wife and I really must be going, we are already quite late to...’ He groped helplessly for something, anything, and failed. ‘Good day.’
The few yards between the shelves and the door felt longer than the path from Zarqa and Qetara and far less hospitable. Not that he was concerned about the people around him. His only concern was Sam. He was about to suffer the lashings of hell and he deserved every one.
He risked another look at her and looked away again, but this time because it hurt. He’d never seen Sam look so shocked, not even when the ground fell out from under her when she tumbled through the roof of the tomb in Saqqara and ended up spread-eagled on a heap of rubble. But just like at that moment his heartbeat flew ahead like a bolting horse and he finally realised what he’d done.
* * *
Once inside Sinclair House he followed her upstairs to the private parlour adjoining their bedrooms. She placed her hand on the wooden table, as if trying to overcome a wave of giddiness. He waited, every muscle and tendon in his body clenched.
‘Sam...’
She shook her head.
‘It is a jest, yes?’
‘No. Sam...’ His voice was so hoarse he had to clear it.
‘You’re Bunny?’ Her own voice rose into a squeaky whisper and he groped for humour.
‘I’m most definitely not Bunny, but I am the author. I meant to tell you, but...’
‘You meant to tell me,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, I...’
‘When?’
She no longer looked shocked. She looked as cold as ice, her skin leached of colour, just two sharp streaks of fire marking her cheekbones like war paint.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘When did you mean to tell me? When did you mean to tell me you were the author who for the past six years I have been working for? Who I am now married to. When?’
‘You don’t understand. I never meant to tell anyone.’
‘I am not anyone, Edge. I am, for better, and at the moment for much worse, your wife. I am your...your partner in this. When would you have told me?’
‘Sam, it isn’t that simple...’ He floundered again. He needed time to think this through. He needed time to answer
the question for himself before he answered it for her.
‘I don’t think you meant to tell me at all. Ever. Did you?’ Sam demanded and he felt the heat crawl up his face and her eyes widened. ‘You. Are. Mad. Mad! And blindingly stupid. As blind as a mole popping out of the ground under the noonday sun, Edge! Did it not occur to you it would be a matter of time before I discovered the truth? At some point I would have come across something that gave you away. Or perhaps you intended for us to live apart? Or to do all your writing in some secret pied-à-terre? Or have a locked room and warn me away from it with all manner of dire warnings in good Gothic novel tradition?’
‘Sam, calm down.’
‘I will not calm down. You didn’t trust me! You let me hang from the gibbet of my uncertainty every year, wondering if there would ever be another commission, if perhaps Bun...the author didn’t want my services any longer or...or had died and it was over. And all the time... Why would you do that to me? Did you think I would reveal your great secret? Have you so little faith in me?’
‘I thought you wouldn’t agree to illustrate them if you knew I was the author.’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘After what happened in Egypt back then... I thought you would misinterpret...’
Her laugh was harsh, dismissive.
‘I know I made a fool of myself then, but surely you could not have imagined I didn’t understand your rejection. That was my fault, not yours. I would have been delighted to know you didn’t despise me after that.’
‘Of course I didn’t despise you and that is not what I meant, blast it. Hell, I know I should have...’
She sat abruptly, her shoulders slumping, and the ache in his chest expanded, pressing hard against his ribs.
‘I didn’t think. Sam. No, that’s not true. I considered telling you in Egypt, but I didn’t want anyone to know, not even you. Especially not you. This is a part of my life I keep apart. It is somewhere I escape to. Bringing it out into the open... I hate it.’
