Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2)

by A. W. Exley

  Dark, laughing eyes regarded her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. He is clearly uncomfortable with his shirt, did you get him drunk and tattooed?” Her eyes slid to the youth she came to regard as a younger brother. A protective urge welled up inside her, and instinct pinned the blame for whatever transpired squarely on Loki.

  Miguel blushed, a rich crimson creeping up his neck and mingling with the deep auburn of his hair. His gaze flicked to the floor and his hand dropped away from his shirt.

  Loki laughed. “No tattoo. Not this time. It’s a nipple ring. It’ll be tender for a few days. Then he’ll enjoy it a whole lot more.”

  Cara shook her head; the pirate was incorrigible. “I want to be around to watch the day you meet your match, Lachlan Hawke. I want to watch every moment of it when you fall on your arse.”

  “Well,” he gave a deep drawl, his fingers going to the buttons at the waist of his pants. “If you want to see my arse―”

  Cara threw up her hands. “You keep stoking that ego higher and you’ll just have farther to fall when it happens.”

  Nate coughed, drawing attention from the rising banter. “I assume you and Natalie made plans for today?”

  Cara ran a hand along the back of Nate’s shoulders as she moved in front of him. “Yes, so I’ll leave you boys to whatever you plan to get up to. Natalie and I are spending the day together, and I’ll be back this evening.”

  Nate gave her a penetrating blue stare. “What are you two up too?”

  Cara stood on tiptoe and kissed him, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I’ll let you know what I find out, if it’s relevant.”

  He captured her, an arm snaking around her waist, the other diving into the hair at the base of her neck. “If you’ll be gone all day, I need more than that to sustain me.” He gave a gentle tug on her hair, sufficient to pull her head back as his mouth claimed hers. Like a man with all the time in the world, his tongue slow danced with hers. He brought memories of the previous night to the fore, igniting the heat lingering under her skin.

  Only then did he lift his head. “Until tonight, cara mia.”

  “That’s not a very fair promise if you don’t intend to share,” Loki murmured, his gaze black as coal as it raked over Cara.

  Miguel screwed up his face and cast a mortified look at Loki. “I look on her like a sister.”

  Loki raised his hands and laughed. “But not my sister.”

  Cara blew him a kiss and stole out of the suite.

  Natalie waited in the lush foyer. Seated on a silver love seat, the back twisted and curved with metal ivy clinging to its form as the chair cradled hers. She wore silver taffeta and diamonds and looked every inch the Russian princess.

  On seeing Cara, she rose and kissed both cheeks before linking arms. “We have a mission today with a particular demimondaine if you are game?” Her tone was conspiratorial in case they were overheard, discussing their visit to a high class courtesan.

  Cara frowned wondering what assistance a member of the demi-monde could offer. “She can help with our problem?”

  Natalie smiled as they descended the hotel steps and were handed into her small landau. “Yes. She has many benefactors. One of them is Nate’s enemy.”

  Cara settled into the butter-soft leather seat. “You certainly have your finger on the pulse.”

  Natalie winked, but refused to be drawn any further. The driver urged the horses forward and they trotted along the road, their hooves loud against the hard paving, the crisp autumn air amplifying the sound. Cara shivered; for once glad the many layers of her skirt offered much-needed insulation.

  “It will snow soon,” Natalie commented on the descent into winter. “And then the city will become even more beautiful.”

  In Cara’s mind she draped icicles from the wrought iron lights and blanketed the streets and buildings in white. “I’d like to see that. St. Petersburg already seems magical to me, snow would make the magic visceral.”

  They pulled into an old neighbourhood. Beautiful stone buildings, similar to the hotel, lined both sides of the street. The little carriage stopped outside a three storied building constructed of pale rose stone that radiated a feminine charm against its dour, grey, neighbours.

  “Many of the grand old mansions are now apartments,” Natalie explained as they ascended the stairs and entered the little foyer. The dim light carried a faint pink tinge, lending warmth to the interior. A staircase snaked around one side of the entranceway, upon the balustrade, sensuous reptiles slid amongst the railings. Even the leadlight window on the first landing had a snake theme, depicting the serpent encircling the tree of life about to tempt an offstage Eve.

  “This way.” Natalie tugged on Cara’s arm and drew her into the small elevator.

  The bored attendant leaned against the wall, having an impromptu snooze. He snapped to attention, the sudden movement dislodging his small, flat topped hat. One hand lunged for the chapeau before it hit the ground. He tugged the hat down and kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

  “Where to, ma’am?” he enquired of Natalie in French.

  “Two, please.” Natalie rolled her eyes at Cara, who looked away least she burst into laughter at the youth’s flustered behaviour.

  He pushed the brass doors closed, the gate simple vertical lines with a plain flourish along the top. He pulled the lever and the carriage rose into the air. An occasional thud emitted from the chain winching them higher, until it stopped with a ping at the second floor.

  Once liberated from the metal cage, Cara found herself in a corridor with pale flooring and walls the same delicate rose as the exterior of the building. A silk hall-runner in shades of pink, sage, and cream covered the exact length of the corridor. Intertwined serpents dangled light fittings from their mouths. Two large, soft-green doors lined each side of the corridor, Natalie beelined for one in particular and rapped sharply.

  “Entrée,” a bored voice called.

  She pushed the door open and Cara entered the home of a demimondaine, the highest class of courtesan.

  And crazy cat lady.

  Cara cocked a questioning eyebrow at Natalie, who gave a small shake of her head, laughter burning in her chocolate gaze.

  Several cats gave unblinking stares at the intruders. They adorned the back of sofas, one sat on the mantelpiece, another stretched below in front of the hearth and one―by far the largest―blocked their entrance into the room like a small furry bouncer.

  “Rasputin,” Natalie cried, sweeping the large tabby tom into her arms. He butted his head against her cheek and began purring as she moved to one of the ornate pink and cream sofas. Natalie swept her skirts to one side and lowered herself, careful not to bump the cat, who positioned himself on her lap glaring at the two cats behind him. She patted the sofa next to her, indicating for Cara to sit.

  Cara plonked herself down and cast curious eyes over the reclining figure opposite them. Stretched out, one arm over her head, the woman wore a silk robe of the palest rose. Long blonde curls tumbled around her face and spilled over the side of the cushions and sofa. The room was chic with its tonal arrangement of rose, cream, and softest green. Cushions, curtains, and lush carpets continued the colour theme.

  “Do tell me you bring gossip, Natalie. Life is hideously boring today.” A French accent touched her words.

  “This is my friend Cara. She is married to the Viscount Lyons, who recently escaped the Tower of London and is being pursued by legions of British soldiers.” The large tabby settled on Natalie’s lap and padded the silver gown. Cara winced when his claw caught in a strand of the expensive taffeta, pulling a thread free.

  “Oh.” The other woman sat up, pushing herself deeper into the cushions, feline green eyes fixed on Cara. “Sounds delicious.”

  “Cara, this is Justine Montmarte, a dear old friend.”

  A scowl marred her perfect heart shaped face. “Not so much of the old, thank you, I do believe I am still younger than you.”
>
  Natalie laughed, brushing aside the insult between friends. “We need your help, Justine. Cara’s husband has made an enemy of the English Duke Nolton.”

  “Ah, Granite Grantham.” She lay back on the sofa and the cat from high on the mantel leaped across to pad on her chest. She raised one hand to stroke its long cream fur. “He is no longer welcome here. I value my neck too much.”

  “What do you mean?” Cara asked, adding the nickname Granite Grantham to her long list of questions.

  A pale hand made airy gestures above the sofa. “He has dark tastes. He likes to wrap his hands around your throat while fucking.”

  A chill shot down Cara’s spine. She remembered her conversation with Loki about his night with Sara Collins, Nolton’s niece. Loki made the same comment; she has dark tastes, that one.

  “Is it to heighten your pleasure?” Cara had heard of such a phenomena, though it held no appeal to her. The lack of oxygen from the partial asphyxiation was supposed to heighten the orgasm.

  “No, he doesn’t care anything for our pleasure. Only his own. He likes to see a woman’s life slip from her eyes. He once told me he could feel my soul, brushing across his hand.”

  Cara and Natalie exchanged worried looks.

  “He takes it too far. The time he made me pass out was the last time for me. He took to visiting Irina next door. Her protector moved to younger pastures and she needed the cash, poor mite.” Her fingers tugged on the long coat of the cat. “One day he closed his hands and throttled her while he got off, but forgot to loosen his grip. Afterwards he knocked on my door, told me to clean up. Said it was the best orgasm he ever had as her soul struggled free between his fingers.”

  Cara let out a low whistle between her teeth. “Let me guess, her death was covered up and no one cared because she was demi-monde?”

  Blonde curls nodded, swinging back and forth. “Oui, bâtards. To hear him talk, he does it in every country, starting in London.”

  A grinding sound made Cara look up, trying to find the source. Three cats scattered from a corner by the window. The noise reminded her of beans being ground in a coffee shop, but the pungent aroma was certainly not coffee beans. She turned a curious look to Natalie, but Justine spoke up.

  “Automatic litter tray disposal unit, it churns up the contents twice a day and deposits new litter.” She waved a hand in the direction the window.

  Cara noticed a large dome-shaped object like an oversized food cover with a cat flap in one side. A metal chute ran from the top back to the wall. Litter slithered down the tube into the tray, sounding like oversized sand running through an hour glass. She shook her head at the ingenuity of some people, and turned back to the murderous conversation topic. “Do you remember anything about the woman Nolton killed in London? Any evidence we can find against him will help us fight the charges Nate faces.”

  The courtesan placed the back of her hand to her forehead, her every movement showing a feline grace perhaps caught from her numerous companions. She blew out a long puff of air as she racked her memory. “He is a social snob, so she wasn’t an ordinary street girl. She was demimondaine. He enjoys the power, the feeling of being untouchable.” She tapped her forehead with a fingertip in a gentle rhythm. “Name, name…” The tapping stopped. “Ah! Bubbles!”

  Cara frowned and then a light switch flicked in her brain. “Sara Milligan, she was known as Bubbles because of her effervescent personality. She vanished a couple of years ago. Quite a scandal at the time. People speculated she had run off with some European prince.”

  “No prince, poor thing.” Natalie picked the tabby off her lap and placed him on the ground. He gave her a disgruntled look before walking off and swiped the cat nestled in front of the fireplace.

  Cara ran through options in her head. “He thinks his status protects him. Lucky I know someone who is not intimidated by nobles. I have the perfect mongoose to set after this snake.” If her plans bore fruit, Inspector Fraser could find himself on her payroll. “How long ago did he kill Irina?”

  Justine cocked her head to one side, looking doll-like, delicate and so vulnerable. “He hasn’t set foot in Russia for many months. I remember it being spring, so six months ago? I hear he has other interests, an estate in China diverts his attention. One girl said he has imperial ambitions.”

  Pillow talk and gossip. Cara sent up a prayer of thanks for both. Men continually underestimated how much women heard, understood, and exchanged. Natalie gave Cara a long look, and raised one eyebrow. She also made the connection of Nolton’s interests in China. Queen Victoria cast greedy eyes to China. British forces had made it as far as the gates of the Forbidden City before the Treaty of Peking was signed, forcing them to retreat.

  What is Nolton doing with holdings in China? Is he working for Victoria, or someone else? Nate said the best defense is a strong offense. Chances were high whatever Nolton plotted, he accused Nate to cover his tracks. But to what end?

  “You’ve been a great assistance, Justine, thank you.” A stray thread of curiosity fluttered across Cara’s mind and she caught it with both hands. “There is just one more thing you could tell me. Why did you refer to Nolton as Granite Grantham?”

  The courtesan gave a tinkling burst of laughter. “Well…”

  acket discarded and sleeves rolled to the elbow, Nate chalked the end of his cue and considered his next shot. The balls lay scattered over the green felt. Nikolai’s opening break sunk two solids, leaving Nate to tackle the stripes. He fixed his eye on the yellow and leaned low over the table. The two large, square, overhead lights extinguished all shadows, highlighting the balls like opera stars under the spotlight.

  “Corner pocket,” he murmured to Nikolai, naming his intended goal. His mind calculated the necessary angle and force to bounce the ball off the side and around the impediment caused by a blue solid. He pulled back and struck. The thud of cue to white, followed by a crack as the white ploughed into the yellow, sending the ball along its trajectory. The yellow hit the cushion, bounced around the blue, and plopped into the nominated pocket.

  “You haven’t lost your touch.” Nikolai leaned on his cue, waiting for Nate to fail before he could take his turn.

  “Despite my reputation, I don’t always take fortunes at the point of a sword. Cards or billiards are far more civilised.” Nate’s gaze roamed the table, evaluating and discarding lines as he decided on the next target. He flicked his eyes to his friend. “Did you have any luck overnight?”

  Nikolai shook his head. “No, but word is out. My sources will turn up something about Nolton. We just need time for information to flow back to us. He hasn’t been sighted in St. Petersburg for months; let us hope the women have better luck.”

  Nate made a non-committal noise in his throat as his mind pried at the edge of their connection, but found the valve between them closed. He tried not to think what Natalie and Cara would get up to, she was capable of looking after herself. Cara had her stiletto blade parasol and the derringer strapped to her thigh.

  “Green, side pocket.” An easy through shot, he simply needed enough power to push aside Nikolai’s ball that lay a fraction in the way. He ran his eye down the length of the cue, moved left and took aim.

  “Do you worry you will lose her?”

  A crack sounded as Nate miscued, hitting the white at the wrong angle the ball dribbled to the side, far short of its intended target. His head shot up, a scowl on his face. Lose her? The thought woke him in the middle of the night and clutched at him with cold dread. He could never physically lose her, their bond ensured that, but there were other ways she could be lost.

  Nikolai arched an eyebrow, laughter danced behind his eyes. “I’ll take the lack of response as a yes.”

  “Our wives have only known each other for one day and already I think they talk too much.” He laid the cue on the table, his mind distracted with other thoughts and unable to concentrate on the game at hand.

  The automaton butler glided into the room on felt-co
vered wheels. Only four feet high, its round steel head had large black eyes, making it seem childlike in a creepy, malevolent, metal child way. With no artificial skin covering its body, the exposed chest cavity revealed the ornate brass clockwork directing its movements. A metal arm stretched out with an attached silver tray holding cigars and a stack of correspondence. The machine stopped in front of Nikolai.

  “Natalie worries. She likes Cara, but senses her unrest. And you, my friend, gaze at her as though you would devour her whole, just to ensure no one else could touch her. She is the crack in your façade.” He picked up the handful of letters. “Study,” he instructed the automaton. The head cocked while the message registered, it backed up with a whir and headed through to the adjourning room.

  Nate ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Cara was unhappy to discover the arrangement I made with her father three years ago. But we made progress last night.” His lips twitched, remembering the previous night. Once unfettered, her passions matched his, taking them both to heights he never imagined possible. Though he also remembered her words to him in the Tower, when she demanded he allow her a divorce.

  Even a diamond heart can be broken, Nate, if you put it under enough pressure.

  He would ease her heart and he had an idea forming in his mind as to how.

  Nikolai returned his cue to the brass rack attached to the dark panelled wall. “Come,” he said to Nate, walking through the double sliding doors to his study. “Let us talk in more comfort.”

  The golem butler stood immobile next to a brown chesterfield sofa. The silver tray now contained a brandy decanter and two short, squat glasses.

  Nate flung himself on the sofa with the deep punched and buttoned back. One arm stretched along the back, the other lay on the rolled arm. Nikolai poured drinks from the crystal decanter, and offered one to Nate, before sinking into the opposite and matching sofa.