by Olivia Drake
“Miss Jones?”
At the sound of that familiar male voice, she put her hand to her wildly beating heart. It was Hasani, not Aylwin, thank goodness. Dressed in his customary pale robe, the Egyptian valet glided toward her at an unhurried pace. His dusky face had a look of polite inquiry in the light of the small lamp in his hand. In his other arm, he carried a small pile of crumpled white linen.
“Oh!” she said. “You frightened me.”
“I beg your pardon, miss,” he said with a small bow. “Are you lost? I’m afraid that you have come to the wrong wing.”
“Have I?” Bella glanced around in a pretense of befuddlement. “How foolish of me to have taken a wrong turn. This house is like a maze, especially after dark.”
“It is no matter. I shall guide you to your chambers.”
He made a smooth gesture with his hand, indicating that she should retrace her steps. Bella had no choice but to retreat with him at her side. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
It was difficult to be polite when she felt horribly frustrated. Their footsteps scuffed against the marble floor as they went back out into the central section of the house. All the while she silently cursed her dreadful luck. Did Hasani intend to wait up for Aylwin’s return? To return here to the west wing instead of going down to the servants’ hall?
Oh, she hoped not. That would spell doom for her plan to find the map. And time was ticking; she had only two precious hours in which to conduct her mission.
Somehow, she had to get rid of him. But how?
“You needn’t bother walking me all the way back,” she said. “If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“It is no bother,” he said in his melodic tone. “Indeed, I have been hoping to speak to you. I feel it my duty to apologize.”
Bella looked sharply at him. In the lamplight, his face appeared quite solemn. “Apologize? For what?”
“For the rude behavior of Mr. Banbury-Davis. His Grace told me of his visit today.”
“Oh, but that wasn’t your fault.”
“Nevertheless, I have known the man since our days together in Egypt. And I feel obliged to warn you that he bears a longtime grudge against your sire.”
Her stomach twisted. “Yes, he accused Papa of abandoning the duke in Egypt. But it sounds so unlike my father. Do you remember what happened?”
“I am not referring to that incident,” Hasani said, ignoring her question. “Rather, I speak of their rivalry, which began much earlier. You see, Mr. Banbury-Davis desired very much to be a member of the fourth duke’s expedition to Egypt. But instead, the duke chose Sir Seymour to be his partner.”
Bella stopped so abruptly that a droplet of hot wax fell from the candle onto her wrist. She absently flicked it away while searching Hasani’s impassive features. “That certainly would explain why the man resented my father.”
“Indeed. Mr. Banbury-Davis was sightseeing in Egypt at the time the duke was murdered. That is why he was able to offer his services in the absence of your father.”
“I see.” As they resumed walking, she tried to absorb the ramifications of the news. What did it all mean? Why had Papa never spoken of it? Had he perhaps left a clue that she had missed? “I’ll have to unpack his journals to see if I might have overlooked something.”
“His journals?”
Bella realized that she’d voiced her thoughts aloud. How foolish of her when she hardly knew this man. “Papa kept copious notes about his travels, that’s all. I never saw a journal about Egypt, but perhaps I missed one. I would very much like to understand his role in the sequence of events.”
His gaze sharp on her, Hasani motioned her up a staircase. “Have you brought these journals here to Aylwin House?”
“Oh, no. There are far too many. I’ve … placed them in storage.” Not wanting to mention the cottage in Oxford, she changed the subject. “Will you tell me about the night the duke’s father was killed?”
As they mounted the marble risers, their footsteps sounded hollow, almost spectral. The lamplight cast half the Egyptian’s face in shadow, making his expression difficult to read. “It is not my place to speak of that tragedy,” Hasani said slowly. “You should ask your questions of His Grace. But perhaps…”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps he will not mind if I tell you this. The grave robbers who killed his father at the excavation site also attacked our camp that night. They set the tents on fire and young Miles saved you from being burned to death.”
Bella stopped halfway up the steps. Instead of the darkened stairwell, she saw orange-yellow flames leaping against a black sky, heard wild cries all around, felt the clasp of arms dragging her back into the shadows …
The splinter of memory vanished as swiftly as it had struck. Shaken, she stared wide-eyed at Hasani. “I think … perhaps I remember that. There were flames and shouting and someone pulling me away from it all. Are you certain it was Miles?”
“Yes, for I was there, too. Your father had seized his gun to shoot at the invaders, and your mother was overcome by the smoke while trying to reach you. In the chaos, Miles rushed inside the blazing tent to snatch you from your bed and carry you to safety.”
Bella shuddered to think that she would not be alive today if not for Miles’s heroic action. Yet the revelation also made it even more reprehensible that her father would abandon him. If indeed it was true. “Why did the ruffians attack the camp?” she asked. “Wasn’t it enough that they’d killed His Grace?”
“They were angry and desired revenge,” Hasani said, as the two of them resumed walking up the stairs. “You see, when they attempted to rob the grave site, they found only stone statues, pottery, scarabs, the sort of artifacts that are common in Egypt. There was no sign of the legendary treasure trove.”
Her mouth went dry. She hoped he didn’t notice the hitch in her breathing. “Treasure trove?”
Hasani inclined his head in a nod. “The fourth duke went to the Valley of the Kings in the hopes of discovering the crypt of the Pharaoh Tutankhamen and the many golden artifacts rumored to be buried there. In his search, His Grace came upon the long-sealed tomb of a lesser pharaoh. Opening it, I fear, presaged his death.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked as they reached the top of the stairs.
“There was a curse placed upon the site when the mummy of a pharaoh was laid to rest. The one who breaks the seal of the tomb is doomed to die a violent death.”
It sounded so melodramatic that Bella laughed. “You can’t truly believe in such a curse.”
Hasani’s mouth tightened into a stern line. “You must not scoff, Miss Jones. The priests of the ancient Egyptians practiced a powerful magic. It is to be respected, not ridiculed.”
Realizing that she’d offended him, she said quickly, “Pray forgive me. I meant no disrespect to your culture or your beliefs. I was surprised, that’s all.”
He acknowledged her apology with a nod. “We have arrived at your floor, so here we must part.”
Her chamber lay at the far end of the shadowed passageway. Bella wanted to grind her teeth. She was back where she’d started. In desperation, she decided to plant a suggestion in his mind. “Will you be going down to the kitchen?” she asked. “It would be helpful if you would ask my maid Nan to awaken me tomorrow a bit earlier than usual.”
“I am indeed going belowstairs, for I must see to ironing these cravats for His Grace.” He indicated his armload of crumpled linens. “Good evening, Miss Jones.”
As Hasani bowed, Bella hid a jolt of elation. He wasn’t returning to the west wing, then. In a matter of moments, her way would be clear.
Then, as he turned to withdraw down the stairs, she caught a glimpse of the eye tattoo on the back of his neck. A chill crept over her skin. In defiance of all logic, she felt certain the eye was watching her.
* * *
The Duke of Aylwin savored the aftereffects of vigorous sex.
In a state
of utter satiation, he lay sprawled between a pair of supple thighs, his cheek pressed to a soft bosom. Every breath he pulled into his air-starved lungs held a trace of feminine perfume and the earthy musk of their joining. Every inch of his body felt replete from the force of his release.
Her golden-brown hair had come loose to spread across the pillows. He could feel the swift beating of her heart begin to slow in tandem with his. She had enjoyed their coupling as much as he had.
This discreet establishment trained their women well in the art of lovemaking. His partner was new and eager to please. Already her skillful hands were caressing him again, moving across his shoulders and down his back.
Miles was too drained to feel more than a mild stirring in his loins. But he intended to have her again—perhaps twice more before departing. He had paid well for the privilege. He let his fingers slide over the silken plumpness of one breast. There was nothing like an evening in bed with a beautiful woman to clear the tension from his body.
She moaned, her nipple puckering beneath his ministrations. Her tongue lightly lapped at his throat. In a playful tone, she said, “If I might ask, Your Grace … who is Bella?”
His hand stilled. He pushed himself up to regard her lovely features, the green eyes and the smooth skin. “What?”
“Bella. You spoke her name at your pinnacle.”
He had done that? Dammit!
As if sensing the shift in his mood, she gave him a seductive look and moved sinuously beneath him. “It’s quite all right, Your Grace. I’m yours to command. I’m happy to be whomever you wish me to be—even this Bella.”
A coldness ran in his veins. He loathed hearing Bella’s name on the lips of a harlot. He would not allow her to know of Bella’s existence.
He curled a lock of her hair around his finger. “‘Bella’ means beautiful in Italian.”
“Oh! So I was mistaken, then. It was a compliment!” Her mouth formed a coquettish smile. “Allow me to thank you, Your Grace.”
She slipped her hand in between them. But Miles pushed it away. Feeling a sudden distaste, he rolled out of bed and snatched up his trousers. As he stepped into them and fastened the buttons, the doxy sat up in the rumpled sheets. “Must you depart so soon? We were just getting started. I’ve plenty more tricks to show you.”
Naked, she crawled to the foot of the bed, her large breasts swinging, her hips swaying. There, she wrapped her arms around the bedpost, rubbing against its crimson hangings like a cat seeking a scratch. With her tumbled hair and spectacular figure, she was every man’s dream.
But Miles wanted no repeat performance. Not if he might speak Bella’s name again in the heat of the moment. He yanked the shirt over his head and sat down on a chair to pull on his boots. Bloody hell! This night hadn’t gone as planned.
It was early yet. The clock on the mantel showed the time to be just shy of ten. Now he was too damned restless to sleep. He’d have to return home and bury himself in work instead of feminine flesh.
* * *
The tall casement clock in the corner of the study bonged ten times as Bella began her search for the map. Two hours. That should give her ample opportunity to poke into every nook and cranny of Aylwin’s private sanctuary before his return at midnight.
She touched the flame of her candle to the three tapers in a silver candelabrum on the desk. The additional illumination enabled her to view the spacious room more clearly. The masculine décor included leather chairs, heavy wood furnishings, and tall draperies over the night-darkened windows. A collection of Egyptian artifacts on the bookshelves confirmed this was the duke’s domain, as did the gold-rimmed spectacles lying atop the many papers strewn on the desk.
Examining the sheets more closely, she saw that they contained pictographic symbols, most with an English inscription neatly penciled beside them. There was a sketch of a waterbird paired with the word “fledgling.” A seated Egyptian man pointing to his mouth opposite the words “to discuss.” A picture of a young woman with the label “daughter.”
Was Miles compiling a dictionary?
Bella tamped down her curiosity. She wanted to review all the pages and learn something of the hieroglyphic language. But not now.
Did he store the papyri in his desk? So that it would be handy when he worked on his glossary?
Seating herself there, she opened the drawers one by one. It made her vaguely uneasy to search through his personal belongings as if she were peeking into his private life. But the contents revealed nothing out of the ordinary: a sheaf of blank paper, writing supplies, string, wax for sealing letters, and other common paraphernalia.
Then a metallic glint in the dim recesses of the bottommost drawer caught her attention.
With cry of delight, Bella drew out her dagger. So this was where Miles had hidden it. She still resented him for issuing his arrogant decree. No one, he’d said, was permitted to carry a weapon in his house.
What nonsense! How were English ladies to defend themselves in the event of an attack? The duke probably thought they should cower in a corner and wait for a man to save them. Well, that wasn’t the way she had been raised. Upon presenting her with the antique Persian dagger on her sixteenth birthday, Papa had declared that a strong woman must always be equipped to protect herself.
Bella’s fingers tightened around the dainty ivory handle. She wanted to reclaim the dagger. But what if Miles noticed it was missing? He would realize at once that she’d been poking through his desk.
Blast him. The dagger was her property, and she felt safer with it in her possession. She placed it in the pocket of her gown. If necessary, she would argue her case with Miles.
No, not Miles. Aylwin.
She must cease thinking of him in so familiar a fashion. His first name had slipped into her mind too often since learning it today—though perhaps it was only natural. Even if she didn’t quite remember him, they were linked by a shared childhood.
And he had saved her life. He had rushed into a burning tent and pulled her to safety. Only six years old at the time, she had been unable to save herself. His bravery on her behalf touched her heart.
She had Hasani to thank for telling her that story and for sparking her memory of the incident. The Egyptian had lifted the veil of the past and revealed a hidden part of her life. His other disclosure had been just as amazing, for it lent credence to her quest. He’d told her that Aylwin’s father had gone to the Valley of the Kings to pursue the legend of a fabulous treasure buried with a pharaoh named Tutankhamen.
Find Aylwin. Find the map. You have half the pharaoh’s treasure.
The old duke must have discovered a map showing the location of the hidden tomb. A map that Papa had seen, too. Was it possible that Miles had never known of the map’s existence, and the secret had died with his father? According to Papa, the map was here somewhere, perhaps stuck in a forgotten pile of old documents.
Rising from the desk, Bella picked up the candelabrum and surveyed her surroundings. There were no other cabinets or drawers in which to look. Where else might Aylwin keep the papyri? He had stated that the ancient papers were secured in a storeroom.
Perhaps she had been wrong to assume that meant his study.
Her gaze fell upon a closed door half hidden in the shadows. Proceeding there, she opened it and found herself in a somewhat smaller chamber, this one filled with row upon row of dark wood cabinetry. She pulled open a drawer at random and caught her breath.
Inside lay a yellowed, fragmented paper with hieroglyphic writing on it. The piece looked so fragile that she was afraid to touch it for fear it might crumble to dust.
Jubilation bubbled up inside her. This must be the storeroom that Aylwin had referenced. Yet the number of drawers boggled her mind. There must be several hundred at least, in cabinets that reached nearly to the ceiling. She’d have to conduct a systematic search.
From the open doorway to the study came the sound of the casement clock bonging the half hour. Ten-thirty. She had squan
dered enough time already.
Seized by urgency, Bella crouched in front of one cabinet and opened the lowest drawer. She worked her way upward, discovering that each drawer contained more of the papyri, sometimes several documents in one. A few were so old that she had to bring the candles dangerously close in order to discern the faded ink.
All of them contained more of the pictorial writing. None, however, revealed the topographical features of a map.
At the bottom of the next row, tucked beside an ancient scroll, she was intrigued to discover something modern. It was a small packet of letters tied with a string. The topmost one was addressed to The Most Hon. The Marquess of Ramsgate.
The name sounded vaguely familiar, though Bella could not place it. But the distinctive penmanship caught her attention at once. With a gasp, she recognized that rough scribble. It was as if the author’s thoughts moved swifter than his hand.
Papa had written these letters. When? And why had Miles preserved them in a drawer with his Egyptian papyri?
Just then, the click of an opening door came from the study. Someone had entered from the outside corridor. Jerking her head up, she froze, transfixed by the tramp of male footsteps.
Chapter 11
Bella’s mind raced. Aylwin! It had to be him. But it wasn’t even eleven yet. He had returned home early.
Dear God, he would notice the light in the storeroom. Even if she blew out the candelabrum, he would have already spied the candlestick from her bedchamber. She’d foolishly left it burning on his desk.
She was trapped. The storeroom provided no place to hide. Her only recourse was to brazen her way out of this disaster.
Bella stuffed the little packet of letters into her pocket with the dagger. Then she quietly closed the drawer and scrambled to her feet.
Just in time.
Aylwin stepped into the open doorway. The candlelight cast harsh shadows on his stern features. He wore a dark, fitted coat over his white shirt, and his untied cravat hung loose around his neck. His feet were bare as if he’d kicked off his shoes in preparation to disrobe for the night.
