The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1)

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  Cleopatra’s Spell

  Bloody hell! What else had the little vixen not told him?

  She is the Duke of Yarbury’s granddaughter. Richard Lawrence, who stood for every progressive cause in his lifetime, who had entertained every famous statesmen of his time, and whose impassioned speeches were still oft quoted.

  His Grace Richard Lawrence, whom Val had admired all his life.

  Just a girl from a family with no claims to consequence, she had lead him to believe.

  And he, Valerius Huntington, of no particular merit with nothing to show for his existence, had mauled Richard Lawrence’s granddaughter as if she were a lady selling her wares.

  At the time, it had seemed a good idea. He had been sure it was what she wanted, and it was certainly what he wanted.

  Val was seething, even while attempting to erase the memory of his improper advances, a memory he had heretofore very much enjoyed reliving.

  But the Duke of Yarbury’s granddaughter?

  Val threw his pen across his small wood-paneled office, having nothing better to throw. His eyes fixated on the flow of the Nile visible from his third story window.

  Val began to pace the room which consisted of a desk, bookshelves, two chairs, a Persian rug, a kerosene lamp, and a second adjoining room furnished sparsely with a bed, his clothing, a mirror, a small fireplace, and a wash basin.

  He soon found there wasn’t enough room for a man his size to pace. But after army quarters, he found his present living quarters, newly built, to be both extravagant and luxurious.

  He clenched his fists. And let one not forget the other minor omissions, not to mention the out-and-out lies.

  I don’t believe you would know my parents, my father is not a peer of the realm after all.

  For the love of God, she was Lady Elaina Lawrence and Dr. Jonathan Stanton’s daughter. There was possibly a three-year-old in Madagascar who didn’t know of her parents, but even that was questionable.

  No, Alita Stanton wasn’t a merchant’s daughter. She was the daughter of one of the greatest scientific minds of all time.

  As if that weren’t enough, Alita’s mother, the daughter of the Duke of Yarbury, was active in the suffragette movement and was noted for her political prowess. People revered or despised Lady Elaina. Everyone fell on one side of the tracks.

  The point was, people knew of her.

  But, oh no, he wouldn’t know Miss Alita Stanton’s parents.

  Minor omissions indeed. It was no wonder Miss Alita Stanton had somehow misplaced these incidental facts about her background while finding time to tell him of his greatness.

  His bloody greatness.

  Val’s blood was boiling. It smarted that he had been taken for a fool, but that was the least of his complaints. If there was one thing he couldn’t tolerate, it was being deceived.

  There was honesty even in a game if both parties knew where the stage play began and where reality ended. If both parties were privy to the fantasy. ‘Both’ being the operative word.

  He had been forthright with Alita Stanton, and he had believed she was forthright with him, entering into the pretense on equal footing. Now he knew differently, and he greatly resented her subterfuge.

  Val slammed the door behind him, determined to walk the extensive grounds until he had decided on his course of action. He bounded down the stairs and exited the building in record time, startling several people who had the misfortune of lying in his path.

  But Val did not even reach the garden before he came to a decision.

  I will see Alita Stanton again. With the express purpose of teaching her the error of deceit.

  I can be extremely treacherous when I choose to be. He would instruct her thoroughly in the consequences of double-dealing.

  Just as quickly as he came to a conviction, doubt began to creep into his thoughts, an unusual occurrence for a man of action.

  What could be more torturous than being in Miss Alita’s presence again?

  The openness of her gaze, her disarming proclamations spoken with steely assuredness, and her lack of fear or hesitation.

  Delicate, lovely features combined with brazen forthrightness.

  Even as he was so incensed with Alita Stanton he could have raged like a madman, he longed to see her again.

  Devil take it! I don’t need this, not now.

  He was a starving man in chains, watching while others feasted. There was simply no point in furthering this entanglement. This fact had never been more apparent than now.

  Even if she weren’t living in a fantasy land—which was a fairly large ‘if’ in his book—she could not be trusted.

  Every word she uttered was a damned hum. It was one Banbury tale after the other with Miss Stanton—her subterfuge was proof of that. She had done everything in her power to entice him, and he began to sweat to think of the extent of her success.

  As if that weren’t enough, he had no intention of marrying, and certainly not of riveting himself to Alita Stanton.

  There would be the devil to pay. She was much more than he could handle, and he had no desire to be maneuvered by a woman for the balance of his days.

  Not that she—or her family—would have him. And Val certainly saw no point in torturing himself on a minute-by-minute basis. He was simply the mouse to her cat, her interlude in exotic lands.

  Blazes to Hell! Val cursed as he punched the air, having reached the center of one of the mazes which adjoined the consul-general’s offices. Unfortunately, there was no way out of his commitment short of throwing himself into the Nile.

  The idea began to have appeal.

  He attempted to resign himself to the inevitable. So be it. But the next and final encounter would be different from the preceding interlude. Far different.

  They would simply take a tour of the pyramids. Even Alita Stanton could not wreak too much havoc in that environment.

  She might be a sly minx, but her reign had ended where he was concerned. He would instigate the unfolding of all events henceforth, and Miss Alita would have nothing to say about any of it.

  Val reminded himself that he had taken dozens of calculating young ladies on the tour without mishap. Without exception he had remained in charge of the expedition. He had led a battalion of men onto the battlefield who had obeyed him to the letter.

  He could speak on the subject of Egyptian antiquities with expertise. He would oversee this next encounter with Miss Alita Stanton, and she would not step out of line or she could bloody well find a new guide.

  He would seek solace in the historical artifacts which he loved. It would be like going to a museum. Exactly like that. An afternoon of intellectual delights expressed through proper English conversation and executed with elegant decorum.

  Accompanied by Cleopatra, the greatest female sorceress of all time.

  Nothing like history combined with an unspecified quantity of sensuality, Val mused, unable to control the smile which was forming on his lips.

  And nothing was quantifiable where Miss Alita Stanton was concerned.

  21

  Giza Guide

  “Grandmamma, why have you arranged a list of errands for William on the day we are to visit the Pyramids at Giza?” asked Alita, perplexed. “Surely your errands could have waited.”

  Alita smoothed her green riding suit with her hands, checking her tan kid boots for scuffs. Her suit did not quite reach to her ankles, so she was feeling quite daring even though her boots fully covered her ankles. She straightened the green veil of her Skimmer hat on the table beside her.

  A new day. Despite the fact that she had failed miserably at her purpose for being in Egypt—and who knew the turn her life would take as the result of an unfulfilled edict from the heavens—she had to admit the proposed trip lifted her spirits.

  “Unfortunately, I need some medicines which are of the utmost importance,” replied Marvella.

  “At the herbalist I found in the Cairo street market?”

  “Yes. Tha
t herb you procured is doing wonders for my arthritis.”

  “Turmeric.” She tapped her finger on the arm of her chair. “Still, I could have gotten that tomorrow for you.”

  “Do not distress yourself, Alita. You may go again to Giza with Lord Sherwood if he wishes to go.”

  “But Grandmamma, to deprive him of the pleasure—”

  “Pleasure?” Marvella laughed outright. “William was relieved he would not be required to rise in the middle of the night, though he would never deny you anything. I can assure you he will not even be dressing for breakfast for another four hours—as any sane person should not be.”

  “The middle of the night?” Alita giggled. “Five o’clock is early, but I should still call it morning.”

  “His lordship’s words, not mine.” Marvella held her teacup to her lips, slowly sipping the hot liquid. Despite the heat of the desert, the duchess still maintained her morning ritual of so many years, and, to be sure, the temperature was uncharacteristically cool at this hour. “And though I am never one to complain, I agree with him.”

  “Certainly not, complaining does not become a lady.” Unless one is a duchess.

  “But men can do what women cannot.” Marvella frowned before adding definitively, “The guide I contracted is available today, so it could not be helped.”

  “You obtained a guide for us?” asked Alita, her spirits lifting even more at the thought of an expert on antiquities as escort.

  “Of course, child,” replied the dowager duchess impatiently with arched eyebrows. “We can’t very well trot off to the pyramids without a guide.”

  “An escort certainly—but a guide? What is the extent of his training?”

  “I understand him to be a most knowledgeable person on the subject of Egyptian artifacts.”

  “Oh, how fascinating. Who is he? Is his English good?”

  “Very good, I should think.”

  “And what is his area of expertise? Where did—”

  “Save your questions for him. I am barely awake, and I certainly did not concern myself with irrelevant details. Alita, please go fetch my ivory parasol,” she commanded while pinching Alita’s cheeks. Her Grace smiled at the result with obvious approval.

  “Yes, Grandmamma,” Alita answered as she moved to procure the parasol. She had an uneasy feeling, but she also felt more energy and excitement than she had in some days.

  No more than a few minutes later, Alita’s maid shuffled to the front door of their suite after the brass door knocker was executed. Flora’s hat was on crooked and her apron was not quite centered. One wondered if, underneath the hat, she had brushed her hair.

  “Flora!” Marvella exclaimed. “I trust you shall be presentable and ready to go in precisely one minute?”

  “Yes, ma’rm.” Flora straightened her back and her hat, nodded, and hurried to the door.

  “Be sure and eat a little toast and tea, Flora,” Alita called after her. “It shall be a long journey.”

  The two ladies sat in the sitting room, Alita attending to her embroidery while Marvella sipped her tea. Alita sighed, attempting to quiet her odd and inexplicable apprehensions around the undertaking.

  “The Earl of Ravensdale,” Flora announced as he entered the parlor. His silver-blue eyes scrutinized the room before landing on her, a frown materializing on his lips.

  “Captain Ravensdale!’ she exclaimed as she jammed her embroidery needle into her hand before dropping everything.

  Why did he have to come here? He had both insulted and dismissed her. She knew very well that Valerius Huntington had not interest in anything she had to say and would never listen to her.

  Alita’s head was spinning. She had no idea of the reason for his presence. Surely this could not be coincidence. How is it he came to be their guide? True, he was qualified.

  And, incidentally, breathtakingly handsome.

  But at that moment she would have given anything to remove his gaze from her. One did not wish to be under Captain Ravensdale’s scrutiny. There was invariably an implied threat in his expression.

  She studied him further even as her finger was throbbing. He appeared extremely dashing in…Well, she had never seen anything to match it. His clothing was loose, and he carried a straw hat. He wore a white sack coat with brass buttons, matching tailored pants, and a white shirt buttoned at the neck. But with no tie!

  Her worries were over, because her grandmamma would never allow her to be seen in public with a man dressed in this outfit. This was no gentleman. But she already knew that.

  Lord Ravensdale certainly was not afraid to set his own fashion. She kept her eyes glued to his face as she searched for her handkerchief with the other hand, kicking her embroidery under her chair. Even though it was a minor wound, she had to do something before she bled all over herself and her outfit.

  “I must apologize for my informal dress, ladies, it is desert attire,” he explained while bowing, as if to read her mind.

  “The style is almost British, except for the casual straw hat and the absence of a tie, but the colors are not the thing,” Marvella said bluntly.

  “Chosen for the desert heat, your Grace,” Valerius said just as directly. “I strongly advise you both to follow my lead and to change into looser garments yourself for your own comfort. This is not a luncheon in Paris we will be attending, and there is no one to impress—certainly not myself.”

  “An impossibility, I am sure,” Alita retorted, pursing her lips in anger as her admiration was quickly replaced with an awareness of the insult he offered—his undisguised annoyance at being in her company. “Though you might pretend to care a bit more for our impression of you, Lord Ravensdale.”

  “I never pretend, Miss Stanton.” His silver eyes shot bullets at her. “Unlike some who never do anything else.” Before she could reply he added, “And, at the moment, I am much more concerned with your well-being than with your impression of me.”

  “I am touched, to be sure,” she murmured, even as she pressed the handkerchief into her finger.

  “Now go to your rooms, ladies, loosen your stays, and put on something not so skintight. We have no time to dally. The day gets hotter with each passing minute.”

  “Well, I never!” Alita gasped. She glanced at her grandmother, whom she was astonished to see was watching the earl with interest rather than distaste, a reaction she never would have anticipated from the dowager duchess.

  “I won’t have ladies fainting all over the place on my watch,” he continued with an annoyingly authoritative manner. “It is absurd and a grave mistake to wear something that form-fitting to the desert. I have no reason to mislead you on this and I am most knowledgeable on the subject.”

  “And on every subject, in your own mind, my lord,” Alita added. His unequivocal assumption of his omniscience—even to do with her under things!—was truly beginning to grate on her nerves.

  She refused to tell him she hadn’t cinched her corset tight at all. Her mother had long forbidden it. She was simply thin. But she was certainly not going to discuss her corset or her undergarments with the earl of Ravensdale!

  She would rather have her tongue cut out.

  “I had understood you to have a high opinion of my gifts, Miss Stanton,” he purred, a wicked smiled forming on his lips.

  Her eyes flew open, shocked at his effrontery.

  “But we need not revisit that subject,” he continued smoothly. “It is not to our purpose. Please attend to your clothing at once.”

  “I am quite comfortable, I assure you. Grandmamma? Would you care to change into something looser?”

  “Looser?” repeated Marvella. “I’m sure I don’t have anything fitting that description.” And, in truth, Alita doubted that she did. The duchess never wore any outfit unless it was a show-stopper.

  On this day Duchess Yarbury was elegantly appointed in a gray foulard walking suit with wine accents. Her outfit consisted of a trained skirt, a long close-fitting jacket extending well beyond her
hips, and a matching Tuscan straw bonnet with a sheer wine scarf. Faille accordion pleating accented the hem, flowing gracefully like a waterfall down her shapely hips.

  As Alita studied the outfit, concern for her grandmother overrode her own indignation. The earl could be right on this one point.

  “Lord Ravensdale might be right, Grandmamma. I would hate for you to be uncomfortable.”

  “I’m sure that is not a consideration where fashion is concerned. I wonder you should say such a foolish thing to me.”

  He was clearly wasting his breath on Grandmamma. Just as she had wasted hers on him. And on everyone.

  What is he doing here? And how did it come about?

  It did not appear Captain Ravensdale was any more agreeable or receptive than he had been. In fact, he seemed far less. It did not seem as if he even wished to be here.

  There was utterly no benefit to this expedition. The truth be told, she found Valerius Huntington’s presence both strangely disturbing and alluring. He was a terrible reminder of her failure and the reason they were here instead of to Paris or Venice, which her grandmother would have very much preferred.

  How I wish Valerius Huntington would vanish from my life forever.

  Oh, she is perfection. As Val caught sight of Alita holding a half-finished embroidery, her green silk riding dress displaying her jewel-green eyes to great advantage, his expression softened for a moment. It was difficult to believe this delicate picture of domestic bliss was, in reality, a siren.

  Val’s eyes lingered on her silhouette. An exquisite blend of feminine sensuality and innocent beauty. He shook his head as he wondered how she had managed to achieve this divine result in her relative youth.

  “Lord Ravensdale!” Alita exclaimed as she dropped her embroidery.

  Val laughed involuntarily. Her acting, though devious, had its amusing qualities. It was so well done, always performed on that thin line between overacting and believability. And, here and there, just to throw him off, she would cross the line.

  Surprise was her forte, and he was a man who liked to be surprised. It happened so rarely, and it took some of the boredom out of an otherwise highly predictable existence.