The admission caught him off guard. “She did?”
“She was adamant that you were the best man for the job. So, Marlsbrook, will you lead the expedition?”
Benedict did not hesitate in his response. “Allow me to be blunt—I want no part of the search for that damnable tomb. Good men died because of a sodding legend. If a treasure is there, it’s not for me to find.”
“Those men did not die because of the hunt for the tomb. They died because of one man’s greed and duplicity.”
“Stockwell’s son despised me. I may not have killed those men who fell victim to his hatred. But I played a part, no matter how unwitting it may have been.”
Stanwyck finished off his drink. “You let that bastard put the responsibility on you? I thought you had a better head on your shoulders than that.”
“Alexandra was nearly killed because he wanted to use her to enact vengeance against me.” Benedict pulled in a low breath. The memory of Stockwell’s gun aimed at her would haunt him to the end of his days. “He hurt her before I could stop him.”
“By hellfire, you do blame yourself.” Stanwyck eyed him skeptically. “You’re a man of reason. You know better than to count yourself responsible. God above, man, you killed the snake. You took his scheming, cowardly heart out of this world. You saved her, whether you want to admit it or not.”
“And what if I did?” Benedict pounded a fist against the table, rattling the glasses. “It’s of no consequence now. After what I’ve done—after I left her again, like a bloody fool—she wants no part of me. I’m quite sure of that.”
“I suppose you’re right. After all, she is doing quite well for herself. Are you aware that she’s been asked to present at the Royal Symposium for Egyptian Exploration?”
“I’ve been in Egypt for months. As such, I haven’t been privy to the latest news of London’s archaeology enthusiasts.”
Stanwyck handed him a slip of paper. Benedict recognized the address penned in a precise hand. “If you change your mind, you can reach me at the London office. I would suggest you give the matter some thought.” He rose and headed to the door. Turning, he added, “Just remember, Marlsbrook, some treasures are worth the risk.”
Returning to his quarters within the hotel, Benedict cast off his jacket and waistcoat and sprawled over the bed. He stared at the ceiling, mindlessly watching the reflection of the sun against the wall. It would be dark soon enough.
His gaze lit on the folded rectangle of paper he’d tossed on the side table. A courier had brought the handwritten communique the night before. After nearly a year, an agent had located a buyer for the Amulet of Bastet. An American oil baron had made a bid for the rendering of the ancient goddess. The statue could fit in his palm, but the antiquity would bring him more blunt than even he’d anticipated. With that money, he would never again have to concern himself with the acquisition of funds. He’d be a wealthy man. Perhaps not in the league of an industrialist who’d done whatever it took to make his fortune. But the sale of the amulet would provide funds that would afford him a comfortable life for the rest of his days.
What did it matter that the artifact would be sitting in a gilded case in some millionaire’s New York estate? In truth, the amulet was little more than a golden trinket. The image of the cat goddess was unique. But ultimately, of little historical significance.
He pictured Alex’s face, imagining the censure that would dim her soft smile when she learned of the bargain. Bugger it, what did it matter? He pounded a fist against the headboard. The price the collector was willing to pay was the only thing that mattered—wasn’t it?
The sale of the amulet was the last piece in his plan. After the transaction was complete, he would never again worry about money.
In the last three months, he’d amassed a sizeable collection of relics that would be preserved for the sake of culture and history. The expedition had been a smashing success. Even Stanwyck, the most arrogant of his competitors, had been forced to admit he was impressed by the find.
An observer might believe these events a cause for celebration. By all rights, he should be enjoying the fruits of his success.
Instead, he was alone, lying on rumpled sheets in a hotel room, half-drunk and fully disgusted with his own lack of backbone.
How the hell had he’d gotten to this point?
He wasn’t a coward. Not in the conventional sense, at least. He’d willingly walked into a situation where his adversary wanted him dead. He would’ve given his life that night if it had meant Alexandra would live to see another dawn. She was a woman who was worth fighting for.
He would have died to save her.
So why hadn’t he stayed with her? What was it that kept him running, a fool who couldn’t muster the courage to slay his own doubts?
He threw his arm over his eyes, as if that would block out the torment of his own thoughts.
Picturing her in his mind’s eye, he felt an ache in the region of his heart. God above, he wanted her here. At his side. Close enough to caress the satin of her skin, to press a kiss to her mouth as she welcomed his touch.
Welcomed his love.
The prospect of imminent death heightens emotional response.
His words haunted him. She’d come to him with vivid hope in her eyes, the tiny quiver in her voice betraying her nervousness at taking the initiative.
She loved him.
She’d wanted to embark on a life with him, forging a partnership they would infuse with love, passion, and tenderness.
And how had he responded? Like a cruel arse.
He’d offered a verbal slap in the face. His cold cynicism had cut her to the core.
What a bastard he was.
He’d wounded her deeply. Her face had clearly betrayed her pain. She was not practiced at hiding her emotions, as he was.
He’d cultivated that dubious skill for so long, since he’d been a boy enduring his father’s relentless brutality, both physical and verbal. The memories careened over him, like a nightmare that haunted him year after year.
An image of his mother’s face flashed in his thoughts. She bore the marks his father had inflicted upon her on that horrible night when she’d put herself in Benedict’s place.
It should have been him. He should have borne the brunt of his father’s anger.
How many times had she protected him from the rage? He’d lost count of the times she’d powdered over the bruises on her cheeks, as if she could actually hide them.
He’d wanted so badly to protect her. Later, once he’d grown into a man, he’d towered over his father. He’d packed on muscle. He’d gained strength. He would have protected his mum from the man who alternated between loving words and heartless violence.
His father’s death had ended that nightmare.
And began another—the dire impact of his father’s gambling and foolish business decisions had soon become evident. Benedict had needed funds. Damned if he would see his mother treated as a pauper after all she’d endured.
He’d done what he had to do.
Even if it meant breaking Alexandra’s heart.
Could he ever forgive himself for walking away from their love, bloody fool that he was?
How long could he go on pretending he didn’t give a damn about what he’d lost?
He swung his legs off the bed and went to the sink, wet his hands, and splashed water on his face. In the waning light, his reflection stared back at him, a stranger whose eyes betrayed his weariness and the ache in his heart.
Memories of Alexandra filled his thoughts. He missed her so—everything about her. The temptation in her sparkling amber eyes. The seductive curves of her lithe, lovely body. The honesty in her expression that made it impossible for her to bluff at cards. The way her eyes flashed daggers at him when his arrogance vexed her.
He wanted her—the woman, the perfections and imperfections—more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
Long from now, when he was an old man
and their hair had turned to silver, she would remain the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
He’d been such a fool.
He’d lost her.
He scrubbed a hand over his bristle-covered jaw. It was too late.
Wasn’t it?
No. As long as they both possessed breath in their bodies and their hearts still beat, it would not be too late.
He would win her love again.
How could he live with himself if he didn’t go after her—if he didn’t convince her to give them another chance?
He loved her. With every breath. With every beat of his heart. And he wanted to be by her side.
And it was high time she knew it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
London, March 1893
“Come now, Alexandra. It’s not so bad. Soon, this will all be over.”
Restlessly covering the distance from wall-to-wall with measured steps, Alex paced the length of a closet-sized office in the lecture hall. She slowed her steps just enough to glare at her friend. It was bad enough that the tiny space did not afford room to properly pace and thereby burn off some of the nervous energy that plagued her. But Sophie’s relentless cheer seemed like nails scraping on a chalkboard.
Sophie meant well. Alex did not doubt that. She’d no cause to be frustrated with her. It wasn’t Sophie’s fault she was in this fix. After all, she’d learned the way to avoid situations like this—in the event of an invitation to speak to a crowd, the word “no” rather than “yes” would have prevented this problem. Pity she hadn’t learned how to say the word when presented with an opportunity to speak at the Royal Symposium for Egyptian Exploration.
At the time it had been offered, the invitation had seemed a grand idea. No one could argue that it was a great honor to be asked to present to the group. Excitement had gotten the better of her. She’d accepted without reservation.
And now, she stood in this tiny room, fighting her fear.
How was it that she’d faced a murderer and lived to talk about it, yet the prospect of delivering a lecture on hieroglyphics left her shaking with apprehension?
She turned to the mirror, adjusting the cameo at her throat for what must have been the twelfth time.
“I’ve never spoken to a crowd this size,” she said, reaching up to tuck a loose tendril of hair into her upswept coiffure. “I suppose it will be better once I get started.”
“Of course it will.” Sophie smiled. “The members of the society will find your lecture quite engaging.”
“I do hope so,” she said.
Nearly an hour later, Alex pulled in a deep breath and finally allowed herself to smile. Her presentation had proceeded without complication. Once she began to speak of Egypt and the meaning behind the symbols that had fascinated her since she was a girl, the talk had flowed naturally, and her nervousness had faded.
Now, as she transitioned into a segment of questions and answers, she felt infinitely more relaxed than she had at the start. Somehow, it seemed far more natural to discuss the members’ inquiries than to lecture.
The first question was interesting enough, regarding the Rosetta Stone and its study. Another member inquired about the comparison and contrast between the ancient civilizations of Sumer and Egypt. More questions flowed, and she engaged the audience in a dialogue. All in all, the evening was turning out to be a rousing success.
“One more question, and then, I will turn the stage over to Sir Archibald Pemfries. He will present a riveting discussion of his journey down the Nile.”
She settled her gaze on a matron seated toward the middle of the rows. Light reflected against the woman’s jeweled hatpin, catching Alex’s attention. And then, a male voice called out, commanding her interest.
“Miss Quinn, I have a question regarding the Egyptian goddess Bastet. Perhaps you will be the one to answer it.”
The statement was innocuous enough. However, the husky timbre of the speaker’s voice was all too familiar. Her heart stuttered. No, it simply wasn’t possible. It was a trick of her hearing, nothing more. Surely, Benedict was not here. Not now. Not as she struggled to shore up her courage and keep her wits together before the attentive crowd.
Sitting at the end of the last row in the back of the lecture hall, he came to his feet. Her gaze lit on his features. Her heart stuttered again. Are my eyes deceiving me?
Benedict made short work of the distance between them with long, sure strides. “I’ll come to you, Miss Quinn. You see, my question cannot be answered if you cannot look upon the object.”
“Very well,” she said, gulping a quick breath. What in blazes was he up to? What was the meaning of this?
He mounted the steps to the stage. Attired in a well-tailored tweed jacket in shades of tan, brown, and black, sable brown trousers, and a crisp white shirt, he’d carelessly looped a forest green tie around his throat. She bit back a smile, seeing how its knot sat slightly askew. Rather typical, that. The man had never given a fig about the smaller details of his appearance. The colors in his jacket brought out the bronze in his skin, while the tie highlighted the greens in his hazel irises.
His expression was somber as he came to her. What the devil was he thinking, interrupting her lecture this way?
“Lord Marlsbrook, what an unexpected pleasure,” she said, steadying her voice.
“Miss Quinn, I find myself in need of your expertise.” He sounded so very serious, yet his eyes flashed with something that looked as though he was teasing her.
She struggled to maintain her composure. The nerves were back, and with a vengeance. “What question might I answer?”
He produced a small enameled box. “I am confident you will be able to identify this artifact.”
“Very well.”
She opened the box. Nestled against the velvet lining, a golden figure of a woman with the head of a cat gazed up at her with vivid green eyes.
Good heavens. The Amulet of Bastet.
“I’ve been told this dates to the eighteenth dynasty. I would like your opinion.”
She nodded. “Yes, I do believe that would be correct.”
He displayed the relic for the crowd. A collective gasp went up among the members. Benedict turned to the crowd.
“I came upon this amulet in the Nile Valley. Based on its markings, are you able to identify it?”
“Of course,” she said, examining the statue. “It represents the goddess Bastet.”
“The cat goddess,” a matron in the front row added, her voice brimming with excitement.
“Quite so,” Alex replied.
“Miss Quinn, I find myself faced with a dilemma. This is a treasure. I do not believe anyone in this room would argue against that point. But I am unsure as to the best course of action regarding its preservation.”
Everyone in the room seemed to be staring at the amulet, but Alex could not take her eyes off of him. What was happening here? What in blazes did he intend to do?
“I believe I have previously communicated my opinion on that, Lord Marlsbrook.”
“As a matter of fact, I am quite positive you did.” A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I would entrust this artifact to you. I am confident you will see to its protection and display.”
He nestled the amulet against the plush lining in the box and placed the small container in her hands. She looked down. Good heavens, her fingers were trembling.
“Thank you.” She choked back a swell of emotion. The golden cat would have added considerable wealth to his estate. And now, he’d publicly given it away. “On behalf of the society, I offer my heartfelt thanks. I will see to it that this artifact is entrusted to the care of the proper experts.”
“Very good,” he said. His long fingers raked through his hair. Suddenly, he looked as though the nerves that had afflicted her were contagious.
Rising from his seat in the front row, Professor Stanwyck came to the stage. “I’ll take that,” he said, reaching for the amulet. “I believe you hav
e better things to attend to.”
Alex studied his face, seeing the genuine smile in his eyes. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”
“You will, Miss Quinn,” Stanwyck said as he moved to the back of the stage, exiting behind a heavy curtain.
The members in the audience had grown unusually quiet, appearing to follow along as if they were viewing a stage play. Alex swallowed hard against a fresh surge of nerves.
“Well, then, thank you, Lord Marlsbrook.” She wrung her fingers together. “This has been…most interesting.”
Benedict’s face fell back into a somber expression. “Is that all you have to say, Miss Quinn?”
She gave a brisk nod. “At the moment, it’s all that comes to mind.”
“Miss Quinn, it occurs to me that I have one more question.”
She dragged in a low breath, as if that might slow her pulse back to normal.
“Lord Marlsbrook, we must keep in mind that Sir Archibald is waiting to present his lecture. I should not like to impose upon his scheduled time.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Quinn,” Sir Archibald said from the side of the stage.
Well, she’d gotten no help from that quarter, had she? Bracing herself, she turned her full attention to Benedict.
“Miss Quinn, I shall endeavor to make this brief. I’ve come here to extend a proposal.”
Her lower lip trembled. If only she had some notion of what he was about to do, she might not feel as if her knees were going to knock beneath her layers of skirts like an overenthusiastic percussionist.
“Perhaps…perhaps we might discuss this after Sir Archibald presents his lecture.”
Benedict shook his head, determination darkening his eyes. “No, I want everyone to hear this. You see, Miss Quinn, I’ve come upon a remarkable awakening. Remarkable for me, at least. Others were not so hardheaded and did not require years to come to their senses.”
“I am afraid I still do not understand.” She pulled at her tight collar, loosening the scratchy lace against her throat as she turned to the audience. Seated in the front row, her sister was smiling.
When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord_Her Majesty's Most Secret Service Page 25
