Wicked

by Shannon Drake

  Sir John’s white hair glimmered in the pale gaslight of the museum depths as he shook his head once again. But then he grimaced sadly. “I had feared that Brian would hole up forever at that castle of his, tangled now with overgrowth, ever dark and forbidding, believing that his parents had been killed. But it appears he may at last be coming to terms with the past and dealing with his grief. And, my dear girl, if you have had anything to do with this magnificent rebirth of interest, you are perhaps the most valuable asset I have brought into the museum.”

  “Well, Sir John, thank you. But I hardly think that I’ve had much of an influence upon the man. We’re not at all well acquainted.”

  “But he wishes you to attend the gala fund-raiser with him!”

  “Yes,” she murmured. She refrained from telling Sir John that it had nothing to do with the fact that he looked forward to her company.

  Sir John frowned. “Camille, are you aware that this man is the Earl of Carlyle? Frankly, I’m flabbergasted that a man with such a pedigree would deign to ask a commoner anywhere. No insult intended, my child. It’s just that…well, we English do have our society.”

  “Hmm. Well, as we’ve all agreed, it is the age of enlightenment, is it not?”

  “An earl, Miss Montgomery. Even with his face hideously scarred, such a thing is unheard of!”

  The man was not intentionally being cruel, but he continued to stare at her, and she felt as if she had grown some strange appendage. She was in no position to explain that she sincerely doubted the Earl of Carlyle had revitalized his interest in the museum, aside from continuing his quest to find the presumed murderer of his parents. And it didn’t matter a whit to him whether she was noble or as common as dirt, as long as she served his purpose.

  “Are you afraid of the man? Because of the scarring, or even his reputation?” Sir John demanded.

  “No.”

  “You are not repulsed.”

  “A man’s manner and conviction in life can be far uglier than his face, Sir John.”

  “Well-spoken, Camille!” he applauded, beaming. “Come along, then! We’ve work to do. As you are transcribing, I’ll be happy to tell you more about the find they made. Naturally, the tombs of pharaohs are thought to have been the most magnificent. But sadly, most of those were plundered long ago. The very great thing about the Stirlings’ discovery of the tomb of Nefershut is that, though the man was a high priest, he was regarded with awe, was wealthier than Midas, and his tomb had not been disturbed. And so many were buried with the man. The Egyptians did not require that a great man’s wives and concubines be buried with him, yet look at this array of sarcophagi! And then there was the matter of the curse.” He waved a hand impatiently in the air. “Apparently, according to popular belief, no tomb discovered can be without a curse. A love of the mysterious, perhaps. We have opened many tombs with no severe warnings at the entry. But in this particular instance—as in some others—there was a curse just inside the tomb. ‘Let he who disturbs the New Life of the blessed one be cursed upon this earth.’ And sadly, the Lord and Lady Stirling died.”

  “Did anyone else associated with the dig die?” Camille asked.

  Sir John slowly arched a brow with something of a troubled countenance. “I…I don’t know. Certainly no one of the renown of the Stirlings.”

  Camille started to turn, thinking she had heard a scraping sound just behind her, where the mummies and their sarcophagi lay.

  “Camille! Are you listening to me?” Sir John demanded.

  She was amazed that she had been so easily distracted. And it was evident that Sir John hadn’t heard any kind of noise. She was afraid that she was beginning to hear things—taking the small-scale drama that had suddenly invaded her life to greater heights. She loved ancient Egyptian history and all the stories that went with it, but thus far, she had never fallen victim to silly romanticism. She didn’t believe that mummies would rise from their tombs to stalk the living.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I heard something.”

  “Camille. We’re in a museum. Many people are walking over our heads.”

  She smiled. “No, I thought I heard someone in here.”

  He sighed with exasperation. “Do you see anyone?”

  “No. I just—”

  “There are others with keys to the vaults, Camille. We are not the only department in the museum!”

  He sounded indignant, and she realized that he was angry he didn’t have her full attention on a very important topic.

  “Asps! Camille. Dangerous creatures. Anyone who ventures into Egypt is aware of certain dangers. Though heaven knows, the common tourist is forever traveling down the Nile these days.”

  She smiled and refrained from suggesting that everyone had the right to travel, to study, to marvel at the wonders of an ancient world. Even commoners.

  “But,” Camille pointed out, “if someone saw to it that the asps were in Lord and Lady Stirling’s apartments, wouldn’t that suggest murder?”

  Sir John appeared alarmed. His frown deepened and he looked around quickly, as if afraid they had been followed. He shook his head. “Don’t even think such an idea!” he warned.

  “Surely, that is what the current earl must believe.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “No! And you mustn’t spread such a suggestion. You mustn’t ever speak such a horrible idea aloud again, Camille. Ever!” He really appeared unnerved. He turned, heading out, but when she didn’t follow quickly enough, he looked back. “Come, come. We’ve used up quite enough time!”

  She followed him, sorry that she had voiced her opinion. But one thing was quite certain. She’d be giving her work more painstaking care in the future, now that she knew more about the man, the curse and the find.

  “Hurry!” Sir John said, looking back impatiently to assure himself that she was close behind.

  “Yes, of course, Sir John,” she replied, hastening her steps.

  The museum was already filled with people. She heard different accents—British, Irish and from farther afield—and she was delighted, as always, to see that the museum was well visited.

  She loved the museum. It was, she thought, a crowning jewel of England. It had opened to the public on January 15, 1859. At the time, it had been an entirely new kind of institution, governed by a body of trustees responsible to Parliament, with its vast collections belonging to the people. Admission was free, thus, it had been a place she had come as a small child, her hand held safely in the gentle clasp of her mother’s fingers. Her own department was now known as the Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities, and they had Napoleon Bonaparte to thank for some of their finest pieces, since he, in his attempt at world conquest, had been the first to go into Egypt with scholars and historians. The British defeat of Napoleon had brought the majority of his collections to the British Museum.

  As they walked, they passed the Rosetta Stone, the incredible find that had allowed for the translation of the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

  Continuing through one of the Egyptian halls, she heard a young boy ask his father, “Papa, why do they do it? I don’t understand why it’s all right to dig up the dead, just because they’ve been dead a long time. Aren’t the people afraid when they dig up mummies?”

  “Yes, dear, why is it all right to dig up the dead?” the boy’s mother asked. She was pretty, dressed in a handsome muslin day dress and wearing a pert and fashionable bonnet.

  “Darling, we’ve moved many of our own, far more recent dead!” the husband replied. He, too, was in high fashion with his gray hat and jacket. “Honestly! The church cemeteries throughout much of our country are defiled in my opinion! Restoration! That’s what they call the projects. Why, in the ‘restoration’ of Salisbury Cathedral all of the gravestones were moved. It’s indecent, I say. Restoration! Bah. But these fellows…the mummies, well, they weren’t of the church, son,” the father replied.

  Though she agreed with the man that much of the current “restoration” of his
torical sites seemed sadly careless of those who had gone before them in their own country, Camille was tempted to stay behind and offer the boy a far different answer regarding the fact that they should respect all countries and beliefs. She might have told the boy about the brilliance of ancient Egyptian engineering, but her duties did not include acting as a tour guide. Pity! She did so enjoy her subject, and would dearly love to be a guide if she were allowed to do so. Then again, she wasn’t a scholar, had never been on a dig and was rather certain she was lucky to be tolerated as it was.

  Sir John cast her a warning glare, and she kept walking, offering him a weak smile.

  “To work now,” Sir John said firmly. He returned to his desk, instantly lowering his head over his papers. She had a feeling that he was deep in thought, worried perhaps, but not about to show her his concern.

  She went for her apron, hanging on a hook in the rear of the room, then entered the little cubicle where she was working on a section of a relief. Lain out on a long work-table, the stone was approximately three feet in height, two in width and three inches thick. The piece was very heavy, crowned with the Egyptian cobra, denoting that the words—the warning, as it were—had been given the blessing of a pharaoh. Each symbol had been beautifully, painstakingly chiseled into the stone, and each was small, thus the reason the tedious task had been given to her. The hierarchy here was also certain that this tablet did no more than reiterate other warnings that had been left around the tomb.

  The man buried here had been beloved and revered. Now that Camille was aware of the number of people who had been buried with him, she was ever more fascinated as to exactly why. Had his many wives or concubines been killed to go into the eternal afterlife with him?

  She sat down and studied the symbols in whole. She knew that Nefershut had been a high priest, but according to what she had already transcribed, he had been more, perhaps something of a magician for his day. She glanced at the words she had already written. Know all who come here that they have entered the most sacred ground. Disturb not the priest, for he goes into the next life demanding all that was his in this, his time on our earth, as we know it. In his honor, disturb him not. For Nefershut could rule the air, the water. His hand dealt the whisper of the gods, and at his table sat Hethre. His life is blessed beyond this life. His power extends as she sits at his right hand.

  “Hethre,” she murmured aloud. “Hethre…who were you exactly, and why is it you are the one mentioned, though you are not mentioned as his wife?”

  “The fellow must have had some powerful magic, eh?”

  Startled, Camille looked up. She hadn’t heard the arrival of Sir Hunter MacDonald. She straightened, aware of her apron and a lock of hair that had escaped her pins. Certainly, her appearance must display a definite dishabille.

  Sir Hunter was striking. Tall, well dressed, with rich, dark hair and eyes. She was aware that among the elite he had a reputation for daring, adventure and charm. And naturally, a reputation for attracting feminine enchantment. Though he might have been something of a rake, it did him no ill, for he was neither married nor even engaged. The mamas and papas among the wealthy and equally as elite could reason that such a young man should certainly sow his wild oats. Therefore, he remained prized as a possible catch in the marriage arena.

  Camille could well understand his attraction, for he had always been courteous and charming to her. She was no fool, however, and neither did she intend to live the life that had brought her mother to such a tragic and dismal end. With a certain dry humor she could appreciate the fact that she held an appeal to Hunter, as well. She was hardly among the class from which he would choose a wife, but neither was she one he could seduce for the mere value of entertainment. She would not allow it, and had always made that fact perfectly, if tacitly, clear. It did not prevent him from his continued attempts at charm, however, since he was also a man of enough ego to believe that if he really chose, he would eventually have his way.

  “Ah, my dear Miss Montgomery!” Hunter continued, coming to her side. “Ever our glorious scholar, beauty hidden away in a tiny room in a musky old smock!” He leaned upon the table, eyes sparkling. “Alas! You must take care, my darling Camille. The years will pass! You will have spent them, becoming steadily more myopic into your old age, forgetting all about the wonders of the modern world.”

  She laughed softly. “Ah, wonders such as yourself, Sir Hunter?”

  He grinned ruefully. “Well, I would be happy to escort you about London, you know.”

  “I fear the scandal,” she told him.

  “One must live a bit recklessly.”

  “Easy enough for you, Sir Hunter,” she told him primly. “And I love my work! If I’m to grow old, gray and myopic, there is no better place.”

  “But the waste of such youth and beauty is a true tragedy!” he told her.

  “You’re most charming, and you know it,” she informed him.

  His smile faded and he grew serious. “I’m quite concerned.”

  “You are? Why?” she inquired.

  He came around and stood by her side, and a bit too tenderly smoothed back a stray lock of her hair. “I’ve just heard that you’ve spent an extraordinary evening—and morning.”

  “Oh! The accident,” she murmured.

  “You slept last night at Castle Carlyle?” he demanded.

  “My guardian was hurt. There was no choice.”

  “May I speak bluntly, Camille?” he asked, eyes gentle and serious.

  “If that’s what you wish.”

  “I fear for you! You mustn’t ever be deceived. The Earl of Carlyle is a monster. He chose his mask as close to his heart as he might. Sir John has told me that he brought you into the museum today and is insisting that you attend the fund-raiser on his arm. Camille, he is dangerous.”

  She arched a brow. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, Hunter, but aren’t you continually attempting to be just as…dangerous?”

  Gravely, he shook his head. “My attempts are merely upon your virtue. The Earl of Carlyle is very nearly insane. I fear for your life and health. Apparently, he has fixated upon you, Camille. You entered his world, where he allows very few these days.” He cleared his throat. “Camille, I’d not hurt your feelings for the world. Surely, though, you are aware that we remain a horribly class-conscious society. There’s rumor, of course, that the earl prowls the alleys of London at night, seeking diverse entertainments, since he no longer appears, scarred and mutilated, in the drawing rooms of the gentle misses he might otherwise have sought. I fear that he is truly toying with you in the most cruel and heinous manner.”

  That was exactly what the earl was doing, but hardly in the manner that Sir Hunter imagined.

  “Please, don’t worry about me,” she told him. “I’m quite able to handle myself.” She offered him a rueful smile. “Surely you’re aware of that. If I’m not mistaken, sir, you have been trying…well, to bring the wonders of the modern world to my doorstep since I came.”

  “I’ve not been a wretch, surely!” he protested.

  “No, because I am quite capable of handling myself.”

  “I know how to settle this in the most courteous manner!” Hunter exclaimed. “We can say that you had already agreed to come with me.”

  “Hunter, how very kind,” she told him, setting an arm on his shoulder, because she did believe that he was concerned. “But think of the scandal. In fact, I imagine that I could be in tremendous danger then, for dozens of highborn ladies would be after my throat if they imagined that a woman such as myself was after you!” She was teasing, but there was a grain of truth to her words.

  He took both her hands, his eyes intense as they delved into hers. “Camille, really, it would not be a bad thing to let the Earl of Carlyle believe that there was something quite serious between us. And I am a humble ‘sir.’ He is an earl. A different matter altogether.”

  “Hunter, is that a proposal?” she teased.

  He hesitated. She withdrew her
hands.

  “Hunter, please believe me. You have been ever kind to me, and I, like all those others, have not been immune. But, Hunter, if I were to engage in a small liaison with you, I would not be just common, but I believe many a common word would be added when my name was spoken.”

  “Ah, Camille, the temptation you stir in my heart to cast all else to the wind…”

  “Would be foolish,” she told him firmly. “I believe that I will be quite all right. You, of all men, should be aware that I know my class, my position, and that I therefore avoid anything serious with men of greater means.”

  He frowned, still intense. “Camille, you know, you do enchant…and more.”

  “Hunter, it is the very fact that I am unattainable that enchants you.”

  He shook his head. “No, Camille. You are aware, surely, that you have eyes of magic, green and gold, as alluring as those of a tigress. You are, unless you are without sight and reason, aware that you are graced with a form like many a classic statue that charms every man who enters here. You are alive and vital and intelligent. Yes, you could so beguile a man that he would be willing to do anything to acquire your hand.”

  She was startled by the passion of his speech. “You’re implying that I believe I could withhold my company from a man such as the earl and gain…marriage?” she said, somewhat incredulous. She had been touched before but was suddenly angry.

  “Camille! Please, I speak out of love. My admiration and care for you are deep, indeed.”

  She shook her head. “Hunter—”

  “Is that it? Do you want marriage? Camille…yes, I would give you a proposal.”

  Again shocked, she said, “Hunter, you would hate me. You would deplore the scandal. And say you were really willing to cast sanity to the wind and marry me. In no time, I would no longer be so charming, because I would no longer be unattainable.”