Causing Stranton's ruin took precedence. Graham sent his trusted groom, Charles, to one of London's worst rookeries. The servant finally returned to grimly inform him he had found the type of boy Graham required.
The next afternoon, Graham dressed in clean but modest clothing. He studied his reflection as he slapped on a working man's cap. He must blend in to the surroundings like the panther he was, camouflaged for the hunt.
The rookery of St. Giles nestled in the heart of London like a festering sore. The duke and his groom walked the narrow streets with caution, eyes open and searching. Tucked into the duke's bulging coat pocket was a purse sure to attract his prey. Graham's nose wrinkled at the stench of old gin, sour vomit and urine permeating the streets.
This teeming river of human misery, awash with crime and poverty, chilled his blood. The squirming mass of people reminded him of a nest of black scorpions he'd stumbled upon in a cave in Egypt. Just as ugly, and lethal in their sting.
Trained to scent danger, he scanned the streets as they walked. It didn't take long. Graham felt the slightest tug on his pocket. Catlike he whirled, capturing his prey by the wrist—a tall lad with rags for shoes, clad in a reasonably good coat that was most likely stolen.
"Let go," the boy protested, squirming to free himself.
Older. Perhaps thirteen. None of the childlike innocence he needed. Graham squeezed his wrist in warning and tossed him a coin. "Here, go buy yourself a pair of shoes," he said gruffly.
The boy tore off, disappearing into the crowd.
They continued walking. Graham scanned the terrain, ignoring the dilapidated houses with their windows broken and patched with yellowed paper, the barefoot girls with hardened faces. They passed a man in a tattered brown greatcoat pressing a woman against the wall. The woman's legs were wrapped about his hips as he grunted and shoved into her. She stared into the air with the listless look of an opium user.
Graham forced himself to keep walking. Soon enough, another tug on his coat. He whirled, caught the thief's wrist.
"Hey!" the urchin protested.
The boy in filthy rags had the face of a hungry angel.
His grimy cheeks were hollowed, his eyes defiant but scared. The duke studied him. About eight years old, he had an unearthly beauty with that tousled and dirty black hair and large, dark eyes. Clean him up and he'd present a tempting package.
Self-loathing twisted his guts, but Graham heaved a breath. Nothing would happen, he promised himself. He'd catch the earl before any real physical damage was done.
And the psychological damage?
The boy had lived on the streets. Despite his look of innocence, Graham knew he had seen much—done much, too, most likely. At the age of eight, he was already a weary veteran in the war to claim food and a warm place for the night.
In turn, Graham would arrange to have him brought up by one of his tenant families in the countryside. If one could contain such a wild, untamed boy. If he would not run. But perhaps the promise of warmth, security and food would leash him—as it had finally leashed Graham when he was the boy's age.
The duke took a ragged breath and nodded at Charles. Preliminaries, names—Jeremy—and then Charles made the offer. Jeremy's large dark eyes widened with suspicion and then wonder at the two coins Graham held out.
"Do you understand what I'm requiring?" Graham asked.
The thief held out a dirty palm. "The boys first, guvna."
Graham smiled. Smart child. He handed Jeremy two shiny shillings. The child bit them and stared.
"There's more of that, if you finish the job. Much more. And a home with a bed of your own, all the food you could want."
"A real home?" Then the boy's gaze narrowed. "Wot for?"
A lump rose in Graham's throat. He saw himself, age eight, dully resigned to never escaping the al-Hajid, offered everything he wanted. Like the feral animal he'd been, he did not want to trust the outstretched hand offering kindness. Like taming a wild animal, Faisal had coaxed him in, little by little. A hot meal, kind words, a place of safety. In the end, Graham had eaten out of that hand.
Of course, he'd found a family to replace the one he'd lost, a place where he had finally felt safe, he reminded himself. Then, swallowing past the thickness in his throat he said, "Because, Jeremy, you remind me of someone I once knew."
It was almost too easy.
Many talks with the earl about his proposed bill had formed a camaraderie between them. Graham informed Stranton he had found a perfect young boy to reform, a victim of the sex trades.
The earl did not know Graham had also been quietly meeting with eight esteemed members of the House of Lords. Lord Harold Bailey was vigilantly campaigning to close London's opium dens. "Halls of iniquity," the peer had brayed.
Graham privately informed Lord Bailey he knew of a prominent citizen who frequented those dens. He then suggested a police raid to catch him, to make a public example to close the dens. The lords could observe the arrest and they would invite newspapermen to record the event. They'd make it known to the public that such raids would become more frequent.
"I will make all the arrangements," Graham had proposed. Bailey thought it a splendid idea.
Bailey did not know what Graham planned was not a police raid on an opium den, but public exposure of Stranton's vice. Graham next penned a letter to Lord Stranton. "I have the perfect candidate, a young boy, for you to reform. But you must go to him. He's too frightened to venture into Mayfair."
He had sent the note with directions and an arranged time, claiming young Jeremy was willing to do anything for money. Graham promised the earl discretion.
The trap waited in St. Giles in a filthy building smelling of old urine and sex. Inside the room, hidden by a large bureau, Graham crouched down and waited. In the room next door, eight esteemed members of the House of Lords, a bevy of police officers and two journalists waited for his signal to storm inside. The duke watched Jeremy sit on a sagging mattress, looking vulnerable and a bit scared.
Hungry greed filled Stranton's face as he entered the room alone. Jeremy looked desperate—desperate as Graham had been.
Stranton's next words did not surprise the duke.
"What do you want?" the earl asked gruffly.
A singular plea of urgency laced the boy's voice. "Please, guvna, Oy've got no one else. I need five shillings."
Stranton licked his thick lips. Saliva made them shiny. "Why should I help you?"
"Oy'll do what you want. Anything."
"Remove your trousers," he said hoarsely.
Jeremy stood and unfastened his pathetic, threadbare trousers. Hard lust gleamed in Stranton's green eyes. He fumbled with the tented dome of his own black wool trousers.
Graham shivered, remembering horrific shame as Stranton told Jeremy in clear terms what was required. Come now, boy, you're used to this.... His buttocks contracted involuntarily.
Jeremy looked very young and apprehensive as Stranton approached.
Now. Graham rapped hard on the wall. The bobbies burst into the room, followed by the journalists and the eight esteemed members of the House of Lords. They halted, seeing the grown man, the now scared boy.
Aging Lord Baker looked confused. "This doesn't look like an opium den."
Mouth gaping, Lord Hundy stared. "Good God, Stranton, what the hell's going on here?"
Disgust tinged his voice. He knew. They all knew. The journalists scribbled in their notebooks. Jeremy, streetwise urchin he was, had already escaped into the hallway.
"I was setting about to prove the vices of the lower classes," the earl asserted. "These urchins lack morals and would do anything for money. They prefer not to work, but instead desire the corruption of our society and good, decent people."
Graham stepped into full view. "They desire the corruption of our society? Supply and demand, Stranton. Simple economics. He offered you a service you very much wanted. Don't blame the boy," he said in a mocking tone. He glanced at the lords. "Gendemen, I
know I said you would be exposed to the viles of an opium den, but I thought this would more clearly demonstrate a greater vice we should work to eliminate."
"You... you liar!" the earl said hoarsely. "Caldwell, you promised... You set me up!"
"Promises can be broken, al-Hamra."
Stranton fastened his trousers over his rapidly decreasing erection. Red-faced, dark fury in his eyes, he struggled in the firm grip of the two policemen holding him. Furious green eyes met black. Recognition sparked.
Graham stiffened. Overcome with gloating triumph, he had made a mistake. Stranton knew...
"No one's called me that in years. I know you. I know you."
The earl switched to Arabic, and Graham flinched. "It's you, isn't it... Rashid?" the man breathed.
Graham regained his composure and smiled coldly. "Am I?" he drawled in the same language.
"You'll pay for this, bastard. By God you will. Know this: You're not safe. And neither is your family."
Cold terror struck Graham. He lunged at the earl. Stranton laughed as the police pulled him free.
"You can't deny it, because I know the truth. You can't hide from what you really are. Admit it, Caldwell. Remember?"
Graham went perfectly still, numbly watching his enemy dragged off by the police. But Stranton's low mocking whisper in Arabic taunted him. Words said twenty years ago.
With a dazed look Lord Hundy stared after Stranton, then looked at Graham. "What did he say?"
Graham made no reply.
He went home to find his wife. Jillian, who was reading in the library, took one look at him and cried out. "Graham? What has happened? You look terrible."
Graham grasped her hands. "Did you ever get the tracing of the map, Jilly?"
"Not yet. I haven't had the courage to return there."
"Do it. Now. Immediately. Find a way. You must," he whispered.
Her eyes widened. "Graham, what's wrong?"
"I need to find that wishing casket." He stood on shaky legs. "I'll be upstairs. I trust you'll find a way, Jilly. You must."
"All right," she said, staring at him. "I'll leave now."
When she did, for the first time in his life, Graham deliberately set out to get drunk. He grabbed the crystal decanter of brandy kept on the sideboard and poured himself a large snifter. Taking a gulp, he winced. The liquor burned like raw fire down his throat.
Chilled to the bone, he sat, amber liquid sloshing in the glass as his hand shook. For a long time he sat, staring at the wall in motionless silence. He glanced at the snifter. So very English. So very gentlemanly...
With a low cry, he hurled it into the fireplace. Not wanting his family to witness the distress he couldn't hide, he escaped to his rooms and curled into a ball on the floor.
He remained there for a long time, waiting for Jillian to return. Time inched by. The magic wishing casket. How many times had he dreamed about it as a boy, wanting its awesome power to free him? It must have the power to restore hope. And now it was within his grasp—if Jillian managed to get the tracing.
Footsteps outside his doorway warned him of his wife's return. Graham sprang up, stood unsteadily by the fireplace as the door opened. Dressed in her outerwear, her cheeks flushed with color, Jillian came inside.
"I have it, Graham. I put it in a safe place, because it seemed so important to you."
"Give it to me," he urged thickly.
Her mouth worked violently. She went to him, clutching his arms. "Graham, please tell me what's wrong. You've been drinking. You never drink. Please, tell me what happened!"
"Go away," he muttered, turning his back.
Resting his head on the mantel, he heard her soft retreat, the door close behind her. She had the tracing. It was safe. Deep down, he knew he must tell her the truth. But not now. He could not bear to see the hurt surface in her eyes.
Hours later, the butler summoned him, informing him Lord Huntley had come to pay a call "of extreme urgency."
He managed to restore himself to rights and hurried to the drawing room. The marquess looked stricken.
Graham stared in dumbstruck disbelief as the story unfolded. Huntley fingered his bowler hat. "Sorry, Caldwell. I couldn't see him disgraced. Good friend for years. I owed him."
Using his influence, Huntley had convinced the magistrate to release Stranton on five thousand pounds bail. Then the marquess had paid. But when he'd arrived at Stranton's house that afternoon to assure him he would find him the finest legal help, the earl had fled, leaving behind a note addressed to the Duke of Caldwell. The marquess now handed Graham that elegant parchment. The crinkling sound as Graham unfolded it roared like thunder in the empty silence.
His blood froze as he read the Arabic words:
I'll get you, Caldwell. And you'll like it just as you did before. I'll get you. You can run to the ends of the earth and I'll find you. And when I do, I'll destroy you. Your family will be ruined and penniless. You can't hide from what you really are, pretty boy. You liked what I did to you. You know you did.
Chapter Fourteen
Graham knew what he must do. At all costs, he must protect his family from the earl's wrath. And he had the map now. He would return to Egypt, lure the beast away while seeking out the lost treasure. In Egypt, he would kill the earl or be killed.
With a heavy heart, he sat his brother down and told him what had happened. Graham advised he take the family to their remote Yorkshire estate. Kenneth studied him with weary resignation.
"I wish you had confided in me earlier. I'll make arrangements for Badra, Jillian and the children to leave, but I'm coming with you to Egypt."
Emotions clogged Graham's throat. He shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said gruffly.
Kenneth drummed his fingers on the table. "You're my brother. I let you down years ago when the al-Hajid raided our caravan. I won't do it again."
"It wasn't your fault," Graham said, stricken.
Blue eyes met black. "Yes, it was. Because I was the one Mother and Father managed to hide and you were left behind. You were the heir. They should have saved you. Not me."
His heart twisted, and for the first time Graham realized that for all he had suffered in the past, his brother had suffered as well.
"What's done is done, Kenneth. Your place is with your family. The best way you can help is by assuring me my wife is safe with you," he managed to say.
Kenneth shoved a hand through his hair. "I wish things could have been different, Graham. For both of us."
"So do I," he said quietly.
Kenneth left, and Graham sat at his satinwood desk, penning a note in Arabic, addressed to the Earl of Stranton.
"If you want me, Stranton, I'm leaving for Egypt in ten days. I'll be finding the treasure of Khufu with the map you took from me years ago. Try to find me, you goat's penis."
Graham sealed the parchment and handed it to his secretary, with instructions to deliver it to Lord Huntley. Stranton had been in touch with him. He felt sure the earl would contact his friend again.
The trap was set with himself as bait. Stranton would not resist.
* * *
It wasn't true. It couldn't be.
Jillian had found the newspaper burning on the coal grate of her husband's study, the vile headline screaming out the news as red flames licked the words, curling them into blackened ash. Her father, a perpetrator of such vile crimes? Nonsense.
"Jillian. Ah, good, I've been looking for you."
The deep, smoky voice caused her to whirl with a guilty start. She studied her husband, who entered the room.
"Graham, what's been going on? When I met Aunt Mary today for tea she told me Father was arrested for indecent exposure. Were you trying to hide it from me?" She pointed to the blackened newsprint.
"Yes. Please sit. We've much to discuss, Jillian."
Taking a seat in an overstuffed chair by the fire, she folded her hands. Graham paced the length of the fireplace like a caged jungle cat.
"I've t
alked with my brother and he agrees it's best to send you and his family to Yorkshire for your own safety. Until the scandal dies down. I'm heading for Egypt to find Khufu's lost treasure, to shore up the family finances. With the tracing you did from your father's map, I'm assured of finding it."
Dumbstruck, she stared at him. Discuss? He was giving orders. Something greater than scandal was at stake. Graham, heading to Egypt alone, banishing her to the cold, damp moors? The moment had come to play her trump card. She studied her husband, who was regarding her with that intense gaze of his.
"I'll need the tracing," he told her.
"You can't have it."
"What?"
Jillian tensed, seeing the dark anger flush his face. As he started to prowl toward her, she added, "It's in a place where you'll never find it."
Graham halted.
"So... so if..." She gulped a deep breath. "If you want to find the treasure, you'll have to take me with you to Egypt. I'm the only person who knows exactly where the key is buried."
"No," he said flatly. "You will tell me where the map is. I'm not taking you anywhere."
Disappointment surged through her. Of course he would not. He'd said no, therefore... No. She couldn't give in to him. This was much too important, more than a mere treasure. The wishing casket meant something to her husband. Her fists clenched. Jillian took a deep breath for courage. "No."
The duke's dark eyes narrowed. "No?"
"I'm not telling you a thing. Not until we arrive in Egypt. And then I'll give you the tracing."
She straightened her shoulders. So this was what it felt like to take a stand. It felt frightening but oddly exhilarating.
For a minute the hard anger on his face threatened her resolve. She wanted to capitulate. To say "yes," and be the same, ordinary, meek Jillian. But if she did, she'd lose more than the treasure offered. She'd lose everything.
"Take me with you and you'll have the map, Graham."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Jillian, there's something you should know. One reason I'm journeying to Egypt has to do with your father's arrest. He blames me, and has sworn revenge. I'm hoping to lead him away from my family and you, into Egypt. He has the map and... will know where to find me. For your own safety, you must remain here."
The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Page 16
