by Olivia Drake
She lifted her chin. Not for all the hidden treasure maps in Egypt would she admit her ignorance to this man. “You’ve no right to come here and interrogate me. These questions are insulting—”
“I must concur,” Aylwin drawled from behind her.
Bella spun around to see Miles standing with one hand propped high on the door frame. No, not Miles, she corrected herself. The duke. She must not think of him in such a familiar manner.
Nor should she notice the way his stance stretched the white shirt across his muscled chest, or that his black trousers clung like a second skin to his long legs. His dark hair was rumpled as if he’d combed it with his fingers. He needed only her dagger clenched between his teeth to complete the guise of a pirate.
Her heart thrummed against her rib cage. She felt suddenly light-headed, breathless. Not because of any attraction she felt for him. He had startled her, that was all.
How much had he heard?
Aylwin strolled forward and took the vessel from Banbury-Davis, who had fallen silent, a disgruntled expression on his face. The duke turned the container in his hands. “A canopic jar was used during the embalming process to store the internal organs of a mummy. This one, judging by the lid, once held someone’s liver. I’m sure Miss Jones is quite aware of that fact.”
He was covering for her. Protecting her against the attack by Banbury-Davis. Why? His solicitude stirred a warm feeling inside her that she immediately squelched. Aylwin likely wished to reserve for himself the right to criticize her.
Their gazes met, though she could read nothing but severity in those dark eyes. She wondered if he had come here to confront her about insulting his cousins, only to walk in on a different quarrel. Oh, her foolish temper!
Aylwin handed the alabaster jar to her, and their fingers brushed, raising sparks over her skin and causing her to babble, “Yes, Your Grace. I am indeed aware of the purpose of this jar. Strange, isn’t it, how the most beautiful artifact can sometimes have a rather morbid purpose.”
Banbury-Davis harrumphed again. “I’ll wager my last farthing she didn’t know what it was until you told her, Miles. May I say, it is most imprudent of you to allow an inexperienced female to handle these rare items. No doubt she’s as untrustworthy as her father…” His voice trailed off.
Aylwin had silenced him with a chilly frown.
It was the Ducal Stare, Bella realized, stifling an untimely tickle of mirth. She’d believed that he reserved it only for her. But apparently she was not the only recipient of his haughty displeasure.
“Come with me,” Aylwin ordered the scholar. “Now.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
Clutching the canopic jar, she watched as Banbury-Davis trotted after the duke. The irritating man would be forced to face Aylwin’s censure, and she almost felt sorry for him. At least until he glanced back to give her one last resentful scowl.
A chill tiptoed down her spine. There could be no mistaking that glare. William Banbury-Davis despised her as he had despised her father. And she had no doubt he would do everything in his power to convince Aylwin to send her away.
* * *
Miles stalked into his study in the west wing. On any other day, the spacious chamber served as his retreat, a quiet place where he could concentrate on his work. The décor was exactly as it had been in his father’s time: worn leather chairs, a mantelpiece of green marble, and dark gold draperies drawn back to allow a view of the garden. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves displayed an array of select Egyptian objects, from ankhs to cats to goddesses. Another doorway led to a windowless storeroom where tall oak cabinets held his private collection of papyri in individual drawers, protected from the harmful sunlight until such time as he needed to study them.
He proceeded to the desk where a snowstorm of papers covered the polished mahogany surface. Only moments ago, he had been working there when Pinkerton had come to report that Bella was being harassed by another visitor. Miles could still feel the rush of fury that had propelled him to his feet. Not because he felt any concern for Bella. She seemed eminently capable of taking care of herself.
No, it was just that he was damned sick and tired of people interfering in his affairs. First, it had been Oscar and Helen, bursting into his study to complain about the indecency of an unmarried woman living under his roof, especially one who had been raised among savages. He’d had a good chuckle over Bella’s curse—clearly a clever fabrication—and had sent the disgruntled pair on their way.
But this time, the situation was more serious. William Banbury-Davis was a respected colleague, not a frivolous socialite.
Banbury-Davis followed him to the desk and cast a glance at the papers. In a too-hearty tone, he said, “How is the progress on your dictionary of hieroglyphics?”
“Never mind that. Sit down.”
The man shot him a wary look and then settled his bulk into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Miles perched on the edge of the desk. Being higher gave him the advantage, a subtle reminder of his authority over the man who had once asserted his authority over Miles. But Miles was no longer a lonely, frightened child in need of a guardian.
He stared down at Banbury-Davis. “I’ve given you leave to come to Aylwin House and examine my artifacts as necessary for your own work. But I will rescind that permission if you ever again dare to behave as you just did.”
A ruddy flush came over the man’s rough features. “But … she’s Sir Seymour’s daughter! Have you forgotten how he betrayed you? What on earth could have induced you to hire her?”
Miles kept silent about the questions that he still had in regard to his father’s death. Those doubts had never been expressed to anyone else, not Banbury-Davis, not even Hasani. Miles didn’t know yet if Bella Jones might have the answers he sought. But she was a vital link to the one man who had known his father best—Sir Seymour, who had fled Egypt with his family without even saying good-bye.
“She needed an occupation,” Miles said coolly. “So I gave her one. There’s nothing more to the matter.”
“I don’t see why she came here at all. It’s highly suspicious.”
“Is it? After living abroad most of her life, she has very few acquaintances in England. It’s only logical that she would seek employment from someone who had once known her father.”
With stubby fingers, Banbury-Davis gripped the arms of his chair. “Nevertheless, I helped you bring the artifacts back to England all those years ago. I know more about them than anyone other than yourself. If you needed assistance, you ought to have engaged my services. Not this … this interloper!”
Miles held back a dark laugh. It came as no real surprise that jealousy was at the root of the man’s resentment. William Banbury-Davis had always displayed a possessiveness toward the Egyptian artifacts. The man felt he had a vested interest in the relics because of his role in acquiring them.
He had appeared in Miles’s life at a time when his father had just been murdered and Sir Seymour had vanished into the night. At thirteen, Miles had been in desperate need of guidance and advice—and he had been willing to pay for it. Banbury-Davis had been touring Egypt, and when he’d come to offer his condolences, Miles had convinced him to oversee the negotiations with local officials for the purchase of the antiquities.
For that reason, Miles had always allowed the man a certain latitude. Banbury-Davis had enabled Miles to fulfill his father’s dream of bringing the vast array of objects back to Aylwin House.
But his service, valuable as it was, had been rendered over twenty years ago. It didn’t grant Banbury-Davis the perpetual right to dictate how Miles handled the artifacts.
He fixed the man with a cold stare. “Miss Jones can hardly be described as an interloper. She has an undeniable connection to the artifacts. So it would behoove you to accustom yourself to her presence in my house.”
“You’re intending to keep her on, then? For what reason? It can’t be her skills. Or her ordinary face. Has she bewitched
you with that comely figure?”
“Enough,” Miles snapped, rising to his feet. “This conversation is finished. If you value the privilege of entering Aylwin House, you’ll depart without uttering another word.”
Banbury-Davis flinched visibly, a look of alarm on his flushed features. His mouth opened, then clamped shut again. He pushed himself out of his chair and stood up. After giving Miles one final worried glance, he plodded out of the study.
Miles stalked to the door. He took perverse pleasure in slamming it shut. Never in his life had he felt so affronted. Bella Jones had bewitched him? Bollocks!
Granted, she did intrigue him—but only because she was neither whore nor lady, the two types of women most familiar to him. Unlike them, Bella had a brain. She could match wits with him. She did not pander to him because of his damned title, either. In truth, his rank didn’t seem to matter to her in the least.
Of course, he felt drawn by her physical attributes. He was a man, after all. And he found her anything but ordinary.
Besides the gorgeous blue eyes and womanly curves, she had soft lips that were made for kissing. He had relished the feel of them beneath his thumb the previous day. The entire time she had been asking questions about the papyri, he’d been consumed by the awareness of how close they stood, by the way the high-necked blue gown had cupped her bosom, and by his strong desire to strip her naked and turn all of her prattling into moans of pleasure.
Should you dare to set even one pretty toe in my private quarters, I will presume that you have come to share my bed.
He had meant those words more as a taunt than a real threat. Bella Jones had an inquisitive mind and a bold disregard for rules. She was curious to view those old documents, and he half hoped that temptation would get the better of her. He would take great pleasure in claiming a penalty for her disobedience.
But he was far from bewitched, dammit. There were plenty of other women available to him, women practiced in the art of satisfying a man’s lusts. They were far more skilled—and therefore more desirable—than a virginal spinster.
Tonight, he would select one of those women. He intended to ride her until his appetites were fully sated.
Having made that decision, Miles strode to his desk. He had wasted too much time on nonsense. All of these interruptions served as a detriment to his work of compiling a hieroglyphics dictionary. It was time to end the distractions.
And in particular, his dangerous craving for Bella Jones.
Chapter 10
The opportunity for Bella to hunt for the treasure map presented itself unexpectedly. Eating dinner from a tray in her bedchamber after work, she learned that Aylwin had gone out for the evening. Her gossipy maid had delivered the news while adding coal to the fire on the hearth.
Bella froze with a spoonful of mushroom broth halfway to her lips. “Out? Where did he go?”
“I dunno, miss. His Grace ain’t one for fancy parties, though.” Setting down the coal bucket, Nan cast an impish glance over her shoulder. “I hope ye don’t think me a blabbermouth for repeating this but … George the footman says the master sometimes visits a bawdy house.”
“Bawdy house?”
“A place where fallen ladies sell their favors to the gents.” Nan waggled her rusty-red eyebrows. “If ye know what I mean.”
Repulsed yet intrigued, Bella set down her spoon. A bordello! In her travels she had heard of such establishments where a man could hire a concubine. Did Aylwin visit there often? How much did he pay the woman? Was she always the same one? Or did he choose someone different each time? And what exactly did those women have to do in order to please him?
Flushed at the direction of her thoughts, she banished her curiosity. Aylwin’s private misdeeds were no concern of hers. Only one question truly mattered.
“How long is he usually gone?” she asked. “I’m curious because I wanted to ask him something about my work.”
Propping the poker in its stand, Nan shrugged. “’Tis often past midnight when he rings for Hasani. Did ye need fer me to deliver a message…?”
“No! No, it isn’t important. I can speak to the duke in the morning.”
To avoid further conversation, Bella pretended an interest in her dinner. But her insides churned with anticipation even as her mind focused on a plan. At last she could venture into the west wing without fearing to encounter Aylwin.
She could scarcely manage to eat more than a few bites of her roast beef and potatoes. English food was rather bland, anyway, and her throat was too tense to swallow. She dismissed Nan for the evening, assuring the maid that she could manage on her own.
Once the girl was gone, Bella paced the large bedchamber with its fine furnishings. Her mission would have to wait until the servants were all safely belowstairs or asleep in their attic bedchambers. Only then would the pathway be clear. As darkness gathered outside in the garden, she passed the time by analyzing the outrageous encounter with Helen and Oscar Grayson, and then reflecting on the troubling picture Mr. William Banbury-Davis had painted of Papa.
If only she had an explanation for her father’s behavior!
According to Banbury-Davis, Papa had abandoned Miles shortly after the horrifying murder of his father. But surely there must have been extenuating circumstances, some rational reason behind her family’s sudden departure from Egypt. And Miles had survived, after all. He had grown up to become the arrogant Duke of Aylwin, lord and master of this household. Was his beastly nature due in part to the anguish he had endured in his childhood?
Bella didn’t want to soften toward him. He was a rude, vexing man—even if he had defended her against Mr. Banbury-Davis. She knew now that Aylwin was wicked, too, for he consorted with loose females. He had threatened to seduce her, as well, if she dared to enter the west wing.
Remembering the heat in his dark gaze, she felt a shamefully delicious shiver. Was it just an involuntary response to the allure of his masculinity? Having spent her entire adult life raising her twin siblings, she had had little experience with flirting. And she wouldn’t start now, either. At nine-and-twenty, she was far too old to behave as a silly, moon-eyed girl like her sister, Lila.
Yes, an encounter with Aylwin must be avoided at all costs. Bella would have to be swift in her search. By the time he arrived home after midnight, she must be safely back in her own bedchamber. Hopefully, with the map in her possession.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of half past nine. Judging it safe to venture forth, she took a silver candlestick and stepped out of her chamber. Immediately, a draft of cold air made the flame waver, and she cupped her hand to protect it. The passageway lay in darkness except for the small halo of light around her.
As she began to walk, a muffled thump behind her broke the tomblike silence. She turned to look, but saw only shadows. The back of her neck prickled, and she had the eerie impression that someone was watching her. Nan had claimed that spirits haunted this floor.
What nonsense, Bella thought, shaking off her unease as she continued down the gloomy corridor. It was merely the settling of the old house. No one else resided on this floor—not even ghosts.
In truth, there was something sad and lonely about this enormous mansion with all of its empty guest chambers. A large staff of servants kept the place running smoothly—all for the comfort and privilege of one man, the Duke of Aylwin.
And he didn’t even seem to be happy. By her calculations, he must be past his mid-thirties. Why had he never married and had a family? A flock of children playing hide-and-seek along these corridors would bring laughter and joy to the melancholy atmosphere.
An acute longing for the cottage in Oxford swept over Bella. It seemed much more a true home than this vast mausoleum. Despite her short stay in England, she had grown fond of the little house with its cozy parlor and the two tiny bedchambers upstairs. Were Lila and Cyrus asleep by now? Had they been keeping up with their studies? Had they been obeying their neighbor, Mrs. Norris?
Only four days had passed since her departure, yet Bella missed her sister and brother dreadfully. She did not even have the comfort of letters since she had cautioned her siblings not to contact her here at Aylwin House. In case of an emergency, they were to write to Lady Milford, who would inform Bella if necessary. It was best that way, she knew. Best to protect them from becoming entangled in her clandestine search for the treasure map. She would not want their high spirits crushed by harsh criticisms from the duke.
Reaching one of the staircases, she made her way down the wide marble steps. She now had a better understanding of the layout of Aylwin House. Just that morning, Pinkerton had been obliging enough to sketch a map for her showing the location of all the major rooms.
She proceeded through several long, echoing corridors in the central portion of the house. There were numerous reception rooms here, many of them filled with Egyptian artifacts. As she held up her candle to one chamber, the meager light revealed tall stone monoliths like an ancient army looming in the shadows. At last she turned a corner and spied an open doorway framed by an elaborate, gilded arch.
The west wing.
Here lay the entry to Aylwin’s ducal apartments, the private domain that he had forbidden to her. An attack of nerves made her pause. Bella drew a breath, reminding herself she would be long gone before he returned from his night of carousing.
She plunged boldly into a murky corridor with a high ceiling that was painted with scenes from mythology. In the silence, her footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. At regular intervals along the walls, niches held small statues of Egyptian gods and goddesses.
A series of closed doors presented a puzzle. Which of them opened to the storeroom holding the papyri? She would try them all if need be.
Just as her fingers curled around the brass handle of the nearest door, a movement in the gloom caught her attention. She gasped as a ghostly form appeared farther down the passageway.
