What the Dashing Duke Deserves (Lords of Happenstance, #3)

by Sandra Sookoo

  Andrew had no respect for the occasion. He ripped up the papyrus coffin lid and tossed it away, making her cringe. “There she is.”

  Both Juliana and Crispin peered over the side. Lying in the delicate coffin was the linen-wrapped body of the Princess Neferure. Amidst various amulets and scarabs, sitting prominently on top of her wrapped hands was a milky white jewel that glowed with a life of its own. A gold setting that matched Juliana’s pendant protected the gem that was only as big as a quail’s egg, but there was a post protruding from the bottom that would slide into the pectoral ornament. A golden chain snaked from the top of the meshwork around the gem.

  “It’s a white moonstone,” she said softly. “Imagine what it looks like in the sunlight.”

  “Too bad you won’t have the chance.” Before she could protest, Andrew snatched up the bauble and held it aloft with a shout of triumph. The chain glimmered in the light. Then the dratted pistol came into play once more. His finger sat confidently on the trigger while his eyes held a fervor she’d never seen before.

  “Now, the pieces of the staff, if you please.” Lord Ramsay aimed the nose at Juliana this time. “Else the lady will join our princess in eternal slumber.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Crispin fought through the incessant pain with gritted teeth. Every movement, every step, every damned breath brought him a wealth of agony. Fuzzy darkness encroached upon the edges of his vision. Soon, if this farce didn’t end, he’d pass out from the unrelenting torture, but not until he’d try to put down this threat.

  Juliana had done admirably up to this point, but she’d need assistance, for he was wise enough to know that even at his full strength, he couldn’t go it alone.

  Neither could she.

  He blew out a breath and strove to ignore the pain that was eating away at his consciousness. “You’re quite mad.”

  “Hardly.” The peer snorted. “Perhaps we should say burdened with familial obligation, and vanity enough to see that someone I know carries on my title, for it’s my hope he child my sister carries is a boy.” He adjusted his grip on the weapon. “Your piece of the staff, Lord Litton.”

  To her credit, Juliana didn’t fly into hysterics. Her strength constantly amazed him, the way her mind worked impressed the hell out of him. She was everything a King’s agent was supposed to be and more. “Crispin, let him have it. Live to fight another day,” she said in a low, soothing tone.

  “Fine.” He only had this one chance. With the deficient shoulder, he’d not make it through another fight. Using slow, deliberate movements, he fumbled with his satchel. Manipulating the buckles was a chore with one hand, but he did it, and when he delved that hand inside, his knuckles brushed against the cool gold of the staff piece. Making the decision that would irrevocably change his fate, Crispin closed his fingers around the butt of his own pistol. “You’ll have what you want, but not without a fight.” Then he yanked out the gun and trained it on Lord Ramsay.

  “Not this again,” Juliana breathed. She propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Why can you not understand that fighting won’t solve anything? Why the devil must you insist on posturing with him? You are twelve times what he is.”

  Crispin ignored her as well as the sudden warmth infusing him from her unexpected praise. They’d have plenty of time ahead of them for a dressing down... or for him to ask her for an explanation. He focused on the peer. “Throw away your weapon. Then we’ll talk about the staff.”

  Instead, Lord Ramsay cocked the pistol. The sharp sound rang in the sudden silence. “When I arrived in Cairo and I met you, I was intimidated,” he said, his tone conversational, but his aim on Juliana didn’t waver. “I’d heard the rumors of your predecessor, thought you’d act the same. Your penchant for engaging in fisticuffs helped that assumption along.”

  “A man doesn’t need blackmail or fear to make a name for himself.” He detested that he’d would always labor beneath that other Litton’s shadow and that nothing he did made a dent in that horrific reputation. Still, he would try until the day he died. “I strive for a different approach at reaching people.”

  “It’s weak at best and will see you in the grave all too soon.” Lord Ramsay swung his pistol around so suddenly, Crispin barely had time to react.

  Bang!

  The sound of a gunshot echoed in the chamber.

  Juliana screamed. “No!” She, the intrepid agent and keeper of his heart, dove in front of him. She screamed again and this time there was no mistaking the pain in her voice as she tumbled to the floor amidst the wealth of treasures.

  Damn it all to hell. Crispin squeezed his finger on his trigger.

  Bang!

  Reverberations from both pistols discharging rained like a cacophony. The ball, unfortunately, didn’t connect with his opponent as he would have liked, for wood splinters sprayed from a few reed baskets just beyond Lord Ramsay’s right shoulder. A trickle of grain left the broken basket.

  “Bloody hell what a Drury Lane production the two of you have made of this affair.” Lord Ramsay strode alongside the sarcophagus and when he reached Crispin’s position, he drew back his hand and swung out with the butt of the gun. “I’ll have those staff pieces whether you want to give them up or not.”

  Pain dulled Crispin’s response time, the darkness at the edge of his vision fuzzed his ability to think clearly, and as the blow connected, pain exploded through his cheek and jaw. He stumbled to his knees. “Obviously, my shot went wide.” As did the attempt at a joke.

  Lord Ramsay tossed the useless pistol away. “Give up, Your Grace. The chances of you winning this battle are slim.”

  “If I still have breath, I have a chance.” Summoning the remainder of his strength, Crispin staggered to his feet, but the other man had anticipated him.

  “Fool.” Lord Ramsay darted out a fist, catching him on the chin. His next punch connected with Crispin’s dislocated shoulder. “You’ll die here for nothing.”

  “Oh, God.” Agony spun like a vortex through and around him. When he fell again to his knees, he caught himself on his good hand and then cast up his accounts. Blackness flirted with his vision. From the corner of his eye, Juliana maneuvered herself into a seated position, a hand to her left side slightly above her waist. Blood stained her gown and seeped through her fingers. “Juliana.” He collapsed onto the cluttered floor with his hand outstretched to her.

  “I’m so, so sorry.” She stifled a sob. “I’ve failed you.”

  Crispin pressed his cheek to the cool stone flooring. He scoffed. “What sort of gammon is that? You managed to save my life.” Possibly at the expense of hers. He shoved the terror of that to the back of his mind. They had to survive this.

  There was no other choice.

  “You two disgust me.” Lord Ramsay loomed over him. “Out of all the men in this cursed country, she’s decided to care for you. It’s ridiculous.” With a grunt, he yanked at Crispin’s shirt, rolled him over onto his back, which set off white-hot pain through his shoulder and sent him into another round of retching, this time all over the front of himself. The peer yanked the golden staff piece from the satchel. “This was a simple trip, and when I thought it would be you playing the hero, your stupid woman stepped into that role.”

  “No.” He shook his head and then turned it enough to look at her. As always, Juliana wasn’t going to let circumstances keep her down for long. While he’d fought with Lord Ramsay, she’d removed the fabric strips from her knees. Now they were wrapped tightly about her middle, effectively binding the wound. Perhaps it would buy her some time. His chest tightened as his heart constricted. Is it any wonder that I love her to distraction? “She was born into it.”

  “I’m beyond caring about either of you.” Lord Ramsay stepped over Crispin’s prone form. When he reached Juliana, though she slapped at his hands, he easily overpowered her and then yanked at the chain around her neck. The delicate metal snapped. He came away with the golden bird in his gloved hand, the broke
n chain discarded. “Had you just given me the pieces when I asked, we could have avoided this.”

  “Really?” Juliana’s laughter sounded weak. Finished with her handiwork, she crawled over to Crispin’s position as Ramsay walked back to the head of the coffin and began to assemble the Staff of the Gods. He removed his golden piece from a pouch slung across his chest. There was no explanation for how such a feat occurred, for the jagged, broken ends of each piece sealed themselves back together. “Had that happened, you would have killed us in the previous room.”

  “Possibly.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters now. I have what I came for.”

  Crispin stared. “Unbelievable.” There was no more doubt in his mind the relic truly had supernatural power. Above everything, he couldn’t let this prick sell it to one of England’s enemies.

  Once the staff was assembled, Lord Ramsay jammed the jewel onto the top. He’d not removed the meshwork since a tiny post protruded from the jewel itself. The golden chain swung and flashed in the candlelight. “Finally, my sister will have a chance.”

  Perhaps it was a play of the sconce light or a product of his wonky imagination, but the staff glimmered. Had those ancient blessings activated since the staff was complete once more? “What now?” Crispin asked, his voice barely over a whisper. He wouldn’t remain conscious long. Then Juliana leaned over him. She pressed a fleeting kiss to his mouth, and in the process, slid a hand beneath his vest, coming away with the thin blade he’d hidden there. He nodded in acknowledgement when she met his gaze. Of course she’d try to disable Lord Ramsay. Was there nothing she couldn’t do? “How the devil will you open the damned jewel without smashing it and losing some of the elixir?” Honestly, he was curious and had never heard of such outlandish talk before. But then, the strange was a usual occurrence when one was a King’s agent. “For that matter, if Moses used the tears on the princess, that jewel will be empty.”

  As he spoke, Juliana made her way around the sarcophagus toward Lord Ramsay’s position, the thin knife clutched in her right hand. “He is a desperate man with nothing to lose.”

  The peer’s eyes glittered. “I believe if the purpose in a man’s heart is true, the jewel will open of its own accord.”

  “Why?” she asked as she prowled closer. “You said you don’t believe in the staff’s power. To all intents and purposes, the jewel could be nothing but a bauble.”

  “The papyrus said a man’s pure intent would reveal the way.”

  “That means absolutely nothing.” The jewel’s golden chain glimmered as he gazed at the staff. “The princess died. The jewel is meaningless.”

  Taking advantage of the man’s pre-occupation, Crispin lurched to his feet, his teeth clenched, sweat pouring down his back as the pain wracked his body. This was their last stand—not only for their lives but for the fate of England. This nodcock didn’t realize, or didn’t care, about the power he held, that he would toss away for the sake of coin.

  I have to finish my mission.

  “No!” Andrew came back to himself. He yanked the jewel from the top of the staff and stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket. The chain hung down, flashing, almost a tease. “I will not accept that, not until every possibility has been exhausted.” He swung the staff about his head and then pointed the end at Juliana. The air around them throbbed with energy. There was no other way to explain the odd sensations that raised the hairs on the back of Crispin’s neck or the weird movement of his vision as if he could see waves in the air. “The tears of God are in here; I’m sure of it, and if I have to bully my way through every damned scholar in this country to open it, I will.”

  “Then it is my responsibility to prevent you,” she said in a low voice as she sprang while brandishing the knife. She slashed at him, and the blade tore at his waistcoat and the shirt beneath. A thin line of blood welled over his skin. “Drop the staff, Andrew. This will not go well for you.”

  Crispin willed himself forward; each step brought agony, but just as he reached the middle of the great stone coffin, Lord Ramsay touched the end of the staff to Juliana’s chest. Her whole body jerked and shook. She dropped the knife. It hit the stone floor with a dull thud and then she was flung against the wall as if by an unseen hand. “Juliana!”

  A faint groan was her only response. Slowly, she slid down the wall leaving a streak of blood behind marring the reliefs.

  The shadows in Lord Ramsay’s eyes shifted as he stared between her and the staff in his hand. “It’s true. The staff holds the power of the ancient gods.” His eyes widened. “This changes everything.”

  With a tight chest, Crispin flung himself at the other man. “If she dies, there is nowhere on this Earth you can hide that I won’t find you.”

  “If she dies, you’ll never know it, for this is your final resting place. I hope you’ve prepared for the afterlife.” Lord Ramsay touched the golden eagle of the staff to Crispin’s chest.

  “Argh!” That unseen power that had swept Juliana into the wall slammed into him. It felt much like a wave of ocean water, except it was invisible air that he was powerless to fight. Lifted off his feet, that other worldly force shoved him aside as if he were little more than a child’s doll. He lost his balance, and when he fell, his temple glanced against the lip of the stone sarcophagus. Stars burst behind his vision. He crumpled to the floor. From a long distance, he heard Juliana cry out his name, but then Lord Ramsay loomed over him, light glinting wickedly off the length of the staff.

  “I believe this is where we part ways, Your Grace.” An expression of maniacal intent twisted his face into a gruesome visage. He lowered the staff and with a grin, touched the winged ornament to Crispin’s chest. An intense charge of a heated something zipped along his nerve endings and traced through his muscles, leaving him panting with pain and shaking uncontrollably. “Though I thank you for your invaluable assistance.” Then he yanked the staff away and left him blessedly alone.

  Crispin’s head ached like the very devil. How was it possible to feel as if his insides were burned? He couldn’t move. None of his limbs responded to his brain’s commands. All he could do was lie there as Lord Ramsay moved over to the wall where Juliana had pushed to her feet. He yanked her upper arm and more or less dragged her with him.

  “Wh... What are you... doing with her?” he finally managed to gasp out. With an effort, he reached out his hand, his fingers brushing at her leather half-boots as she was hustled past him.

  “In the event that Archewyne and his crew have managed to clear the rubble and come across that pit, I’ll need collateral.” Lord Ramsay’s laughter echoed through the chamber like the most ancient of curses. “Sweet dreams, Lord Litton. I guess you didn’t have what it takes to become a hero after all.”

  And then they were gone, exiting the burial chamber and leaving him alone with the dead.

  What the deuce had just happened? Crispin could only lay on the dust-covered stones and stare at the glittering treasure piled through the chamber. Surely this wasn’t the end; it couldn’t be. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye to roll down his cheek. Angry energy still sizzled through his veins. His shoulder throbbed. He was useless to everyone, even himself.

  By happenstance, he looked at the opposite wall near the doorway. A relief painted along the ceiling showed Queen Hatshepsut with one long arm outstretched and a finger pointing. Behind her lay the princess, with her arms crossed over her chest in death. On the opposite side of the doorway, Moses was depicted as leaving, with his head cast down and his shoulders slumped, a hand over his heart.

  Crispin gasped. Moses didn’t leave Egypt under the dictate of God. He left the country because the love of his life had died, and he couldn’t save her, and the queen was displeased. Perhaps once that happened, he turned to the new religion and deity for comfort or perhaps forgiveness.

  Once word of this got out into scholarly or historical circles, what sort of impact would it have on the world? And should it even be allowed to do so?

  H
e closed his eyes. I need a moment to rest. And then he would go after the treacherous Lord Ramsay. If it was the last thing he did in the horrible place, he would save Juliana, tell her that he loved her, the Staff of the Gods be damned.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Juliana had grave doubts about everything as Andrew marched her out of the burial chamber. Her heart constricted and her chest tightened to leave Crispin behind. Would he survive his injuries? The staff was a formidable weapon. Even now, tremors jumped through her body from the residual power she’d received when touched with it; her limbs felt like cooked porridge and she swore she heard it hum as Andrew held it.

  “You don’t need to do this.” No matter what she tried, she couldn’t wrench out of his hold. Had the staff somehow given him extra strength? “I would have come with you had you but asked.” She ignored the intense pain in her side. The sticky wetness of blood indicated the crude measures she’d taken hadn’t done much to stem the flow.

  “I doubt that.” He yanked her into the puzzle room. “You have become an annoying problem I hadn’t anticipated.”

  “At least allow me to take a lantern. The passageway beyond is too dark to navigate without light.” She took a misstep, her vision blurring as a feeling of lightheadedness came over her. How long could she remain upright with the wound? For that matter, had the ball struck a vital organ? Had it passed through without incident? There was no way to tell until an examination was performed.

  Andrew slowed long enough for her to clasp her fingers around one of the lantern’s wired handles. Then he jerked her into forward motion once more. “You have the sort of adventurous spirit I admire, but you ditched me like I’d contracted the plague.”

  This was what he wished to talk about? Never, as long as she lived, would she understand the male mindset. “I never cared for you in a romantic way.”

  “Who the hell said anything about romance?” He snorted. “We got on well enough together in bed. What more is there when one is adventuring?”