“TO WORK, the lot of you!” Sir John said, disallowing for conversation.
Camille was glad, anxious to retreat into her little work area without the fussy concern of either Hunter or Alex.
“Really, sir—” Alex began, but Sir John cut him off.
“Work! We’re nearly out of time. Alex, get on to the storage facility, we’ve packing everywhere. We’ll have to see about straightening all that without giving any threat to our artifacts. Hunter, if you’ll join me at my desk?”
Sir John was all business. Both Alex and Hunter looked at Camille, their eyes conveying their deepened worry and that they were loath to leave her. She gave them a brittle smile in return, then went back into her room and closed the door.
Her heart was racing. Someone had been in the storage vaults when she had gone down with Sir John. And she was certain whoever had been there had come to listen in on their conversation. Someone had been down there specifically to spy on the two of them.
Could Brian Stirling, the Beast of Carlyle, have been silently stalking the vaults earlier, listening as she and Sir John discussed the death of his parents?
She turned to her table, to her work, and her skin began to crawl. There, the curse!
She didn’t believe in curses, but knew that men could be cursed with envy and greed. And if that was the case, maybe the earl had every right to be seeking out that evil.
She closed her eyes, her thoughts still running rampant. No, he had to be mad. She thought of the men in the circle of friends—or at least professional acquaintances—that had just come together. Lord Wimbly? Good heavens, no! Sir John? Never. Hunter? He was a charming womanizer, but a murderer? Certainly not! And Alex, gentle Alex…
It was all too insane. With irritation, she went back to work. The beliefs of the ancient Egyptians were beginning to appear far more normal and rational than anything she had heard that morning from learned men of the age of enlightenment!
TRISTAN MONTGOMERY AWOKE in a spacious—no, sumptuous!—bed in Carlyle Castle. The bed was big and soft, the sheets were pure heaven, and his blankets were fine and warm.
Then a little shiver went through him when he remembered that they were guests of that monster. And the man was an ogre, no mistake about it, grilling Tristan as if they were back in the days of the Spanish Inquisition. If the earl so wanted it, Tristan could rot in prison for all the wretched days of his life to remain!
There was a tap on his door.
“Aye?” he said tentatively.
The door opened. The woman was there, the one who seemed to actually be in charge of the household, though she deferred to the Earl of Carlyle with every word.
Tristan pulled his covers a bit more tightly about himself, wondering why she was capable of making him feel so uncomfortable. Ashamed! Well, perhaps he should have been ashamed. But there had been too many years when he’d had to make his way with the cleverness of his mind alone. And helping himself to a wee bit of another man’s riches here and there, where possible. He wasn’t entirely selfish or evil with his ill-gotten gains! Once he’d discovered Camille crying over her mother’s body, he’d had a child to raise. There was Ralph to take care of. And too many times, a tired out, pathetic doxy in the streets—usually one so ugly and toothless he couldn’t even imagine the most rotten old bugger enjoying a poke from the back—had been about to try her luck when the old Ripper had been at work. Tristan had seen to it to find the old whore a few pence doss money. So he was actually something of a regular old Robin Hood, stealing from the rich, giving to the poor. He just wasn’t receiving the same appreciation. No, not in the least!
“Mr. Montgomery,” the woman said smoothly. Prior, that was her name. She moved with a whisper of silk and a whiff of perfume, always stately, and always with those eyes that looked upon him as if he were…well, worse than he should be!
“Aye?” he asked, covers now beneath his chin.
“How are you feeling?”
Quite well, actually, he thought. He groaned aloud anyway. “Sore, lass, as if me bones aren’t quite in the right as yet.” He hesitated. “My girl, my Camille…she was here.” He sat up suddenly, all thought of feigning tremendous pain wiped from his mind as he suddenly felt a deep and terrible worry. “She was here! Camille was here. Why, if that monster has done her the least foul, I’ll…I’ll rip his heart out, I will!” he finished bravely.
The woman lowered her head quickly. He bristled, quite certain she was laughing at him.
“If the man has harmed my lass in any way—!”
“Come, come, Mr. Montgomery. The Earl of Carlyle is not a beast, whatever rumor might hold.”
“Aye? Well, the bloke might have fooled me,” Tristan murmured. “Where is she?”
“Still at work, I believe.”
Tristan frowned. “She was here?”
“Indeed, she was. And she will return.”
“Here?” He frowned again.
“Well, of course. She will come back to the castle as long as you are here, Mr. Montgomery. You’re quite lucky. She thinks the world of you.” The woman walked into the room, drawing back the drapes, allowing the fine chamber to flood with daylight. Tristan shrank farther into the bed, aware that his cheeks were unshaven and that he probably looked like an old drunken sot. Which, upon occasion he was, but…
“Though heaven knows why she holds you in such high esteem!” the woman said, nearer to him now, seeing him in bright daylight.
Tristan arched a brow. “Does the Earl of Carlyle send you in for a more subtle form of torture when he’s engaged elsewhere?”
She laughed softly. It was an oddly pleasant sound. “Sir, you scaled the man’s walls like a common thief.”
“I swear I fell over. No more.”
“Amazing! What dexterity you must possess.”
He smiled, suddenly himself. “Agile as a cat, ma’am. Truly. In many ways.”
“But still in pain now.”
“In pain and confused.” He sighed suddenly. “If the earl wishes to call in the police, he should go ahead and do so. I might prefer a night in the clink to another night of being grilled alive by a man such as he! Dear God! You’d have thought I was after the Crown jewels!”
“If you’d been after the Crown jewels, he’d not have been half so angry,” Mrs. Prior mused.
“Oh, good Lord! I happen to know a good Egyptian piece or two because of me ward. The girl knows all about this dynasty and that, though they all seem to me a bunch of pretty pathetic corpses, hanging on to worthless gold when the time in life to make use of it has passed them by. Truth be told, I’m aware that the right small piece can fetch a fine sum, but you would have thought I was in on conspiracy to commit murder!”
“Something like that,” Mrs. Prior murmured, moving away. “Well, it’s my belief that the earl has no desire to file charges, especially since you remain in such pain. You are in pain, correct?”
He frowned. She wasn’t asking him, she was telling him. And the place was delightful. He’d never slept in such a comfortable bed in all his days, even when he was younger, even when he had been knighted for his bravery in Her Majesty’s Service in India. And the food here…
He studied Mrs. Prior. She was an intelligent woman, he knew, and far more than a housekeeper. As long as he was injured or ill, he stayed. And she wanted him to stay.
His heart quickened and his rational thought trod heavily upon it. Maybe, long ago, there had been a time when such a woman might have been his. Ah, long ago. Now, he was certain, she would have no more respect for him than she would a sewer rat. Still…
He sat up, straight and proud. “I would die for that girl. I will not allow her to stand before a beast in my stead!” he vowed.
To his amazement, the woman came and sat at the foot of his bed. She was serious when she told him, “His temper is quick, I’ll warrant you. But I swear upon my life, he would not hurt your ward. He is not a beast. He would merely flush one out. Strangely enough, Sir Tristan,
you might have done us a good deed, falling over that nine-foot wall.”
“I will not put her into danger.”
“She is a beauty, Sir Tristan. With heart and soul and strength. Would it be putting her in danger merely to see her beautifully clothed and attending a ball on the arm of one of the country’s most powerful men?”
“Power and riches do not matter, if that man is a beast.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
“Well, he yells like a tiger.”
Again, Mrs. Prior smiled. Then, to his amazement, it seemed that she was pleading with him.
“Give me a few days’ time. Just a few days,” she asked.
He studied her, eyebrows knitted.
“I swear to you, I would lie down and die before setting her in the path of danger,” the woman told him.
That gentle scent of hers seemed to come to him on a light and gentle whiff of air. Her eyes held his.
“So…Camille will return here,” he said carefully. “What of my man, Ralph? Is he being held in some medieval dungeon within the grounds?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“There is no medieval dungeon?”
“Of course there’s a medieval dungeon. This is quite a historic castle, but we’re not holding your man there. I believe he’s quite comfortable, doing a bit of work about the place with the earl’s own men.”
“Forced labor?”
“I believe he was distracted, having little or nothing to do. No, Sir Montgomery, we did not drag out whips and chains! So what we need is time. A few days of time!”
“A few days,” he said, wary.
She rose. “I’ll send a bath and a maid to shave you. I’ve surely some kind of clean clothing around here for you. You’re a tall man, lean, somewhat like Lord Stirling’s father. And you must be starving.”
“Indeed, if you say I must, then I must.”
She smiled loftily again, and left him.
Tristan laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. He had been nothing more than a common thief, dragged before the lord’s temper. And now he was being entreated to stay. He couldn’t help but smile.
“Mrs. Prior?”
She had been about to leave the room, but she hesitated, looking back.
“Do I have any meal options?”
“Roast beef or fish?”
“Um…a taste of both?”
She inclined her head. “As you wish.”
The door closed behind her as she left with a rustle of silk. His smile nearly split his features, but he grew somber after a moment. There was a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm about a witch who was gracious and kind, doting upon the children Hansel and Gretel, because…Because she was fattening them up for the kill.
LORD WIMBLY INSISTED that he and Brian dine at his gentleman’s club. Brian’s parents had frequented the establishment, and he maintained their membership. But because he could still see them, far too easily, as they had once sat in the fine leather sofas and chairs, he had kept far from the place after their deaths.
Too much time had passed. And since Evelyn had prodded—and Camille Montgomery had either fallen into his lap or was somehow slipping into it with a far more sinister scheme—he knew it was time to take his own game back into the public.
He was greeted by old friends, acquaintances, waiters and management, those who had known his parents. Some stared at his mask. Others tried to pretend they did not see it. Some old soldiers, bearing scars, a few minus limbs, were quick to sympathize, and a few of the old codgers, like Wimbly himself, suggested that he opt for more subtle attire, hedging before warning him that he was becoming known as “The Beast.”
He was gracious and assured them all that he would take their suggestions to heart, but that he had to admit he found his solitude quite rewarding.
“Bah!” Viscount Ledger, an old cavalryman, told him. “It’s the modern-day world we must seize by the horns! Never has England ruled over a more glorious empire! You, good fellow, are spending your days seeking the past. Now I know you do the good Queen’s bidding at her command. And she speaks so well of you, waving a hand in the air when some would worry that you have become such a recluse. But that dear lady has made a lifetime of mourning. I mean, good God, she’s made mourning a new way of life in society itself! Brian Stirling, you are a young fellow, and if you hide your face away, what of it? Look at you! Fine, tall, robust!”
“And quite wealthy,” added Sir Bartholomew Greer, at his side.
“Yes, wealthy. That does stand for everything, doesn’t it?” murmured Lord Wimbly, somewhat amused.
“I have a daughter of the proper age for marriage myself,” Sir Bartholomew said.
“Ugly as sin, she is!” Viscount Ledger whispered to him in an aside.
Sir Bartholomew must have heard him because he straightened like a fire poker. “Sadly, I’m afraid that our dear Lord Stirling wears the mask for a reason.”
“Thankfully,” Lord Wimbly said, rushing to the defense, “Brian is the Earl of Carlyle.”
“Yes…there’s your title,” Sir Bartholomew said. He remained stiff—and titleless. “Forgive me, Brian, but you are wearing a mask.”
“But you are an earl, a wealthy earl,” Viscount Ledger said, twirling his moustache. He let out a sigh. “Frankly, Brian, were you as old as the hills, hideous beyond belief, decaying with each move you made, you would still find a proper wife, you know.”
He laughed easily, accepting a brandy from the waiter who quietly served them, nodding his head in thanks. “No matter who or what I am as a man, I am an earl. A wealthy one,” he murmured dryly. “I’ve not ventured out to find a proper wife, I’m afraid. I don’t believe I’m quite ready for that, though, I must say, were I looking for a bride, I’d far prefer she love the man and not the manor.”
“Good lord, there is society to think of!” Viscount Ledger said.
“There is society and there is life. Am I not right?” Brian murmured. “But the point, at the moment, is moot. I’ve just decided to step outside my boundaries again, learn more about London and England. And as has been suggested, since I was blessed with such riches, I must decide for myself how best to become a more useful member of society.”
Brian was glad that, at that very moment, they were interrupted by the club’s host and discreetly informed that their table was ready. He and Lord Wimbly excused themselves.
When they were seated, Lord Wimbly again remarked on his pleasure that Brian was determined to become involved with the museum again.
“No reason, even if a fellow has a so-called curse upon him, that a man of your means and responsibility should be shut away in a medieval castle day after day!” Lord Wimbly chastised. “Brian, the Empire stands upon her finest hour! And though we have the French to deal with, our importance in Egypt is monumental.”
Brian took a sip of an excellent claret. “Lord Wimbly,” he reminded the man, “without the French, we’d not have the Rosetta Stone today, nor would we begin to have the knowledge and resources that we have available.”
“Yes, yes, well…Empire, my boy. Empire!” He raised his glass.
He went on to talk about the incredible work that Brian’s parents had done in Egypt, seeking knowledge and learning to live among the people.
“And finding treasures,” Brian murmured.
“Indeed! Tragically, though, no treasure so great as life. They were so beautiful, so brilliant, such brightly shining stars! It is for you to take up where they left off, in their memory.”
Brian smiled. He had hoped to gain something more from the lunch than a reminder of what had been, and what he should be doing. When the bill arrived, Lord Wimbly did not protest when Brian said that the meal must be on him.
At the cloakroom, they parted ways. Brian, a bit behind Lord Wimbly, overheard a fellow speaking to the lord, asking softly about a debt.
Lord Wimbly replied almost as softly, but his voice carried more easily. “Indeed, my good
man. How remiss! I’ve quite forgotten my exchequer. But I’ve not forgotten our game.” He looked around quickly.
Brian pretended to be staring out one of the beautiful etched windows before the mudroom.
“There’s to be another game. We can try for double or nothing, eh?” he said, and laughed heartily.
As the man left, slipping by Lord Wimbly, Brian tried to get a good look at him. He was sallow-faced and had a limp. Brian determined that he must be a soldier, and had perhaps been doing duty in the Middle Eastern section of the Empire, since his face showed signs of exposure to the sun and his limp suggested an injury. Brian did not know the man.
Yet, as he left the club, he had a curious feeling that he had discovered more than met the eye. And that the luncheon hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all.
CAMILLE SAT BACK, aware that she had to move. Her shoulders were taut, and she was certain that she was way too young to have a crick in the back of her neck. She stood, stretching, looking about her tiny workspace. So far, the ancients had not revealed any more to her than she already knew.
“And I don’t believe in curses!” she said aloud.
She exited her little room. Sir John was not at his desk, so she removed her apron, determined just to take a short walk around the facility and then get back to work. At the moment, she thought wryly, she was something of a golden child, and while the Earl of Carlyle was professing his interest in her, she would remain so. But she was nothing more than a pawn in his chess game, and she was well aware of it.
She walked back out to the Egyptian galleries. As usual, a number of people stared with fascination at the mummies, which always drew a crowd. The museum had done an excellent job of explaining the beliefs of the people during the different dynasties. Some of the dead were displayed unwrapped, some halfway wrapped, some in their complete wrappings and still others in their sarcophagi.
The Rosetta Stone, one of her favorite pieces, was another draw. But people looked at it, and then left. It was, after all, a stone, an inanimate object. It had never lived, walked the earth, laughed, cried and loved. Mummies drew the people.
Along with their current exhibit, this one was a special display, tracing the life of Cleopatra. With her passions, her determination to rule and her reputed beauty, she, too, drew a great deal of attention, although they didn’t have her actual mummy on display. Still, they had an excellent waxwork of the legendary Queen of the Nile, much about her life and times, and, to finish the allure of the exhibition, an Egyptian cobra, just like the asp that historically did in the dramatic queen.
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