Page 12 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

12

Old books. Worn leather. The last orange light of day seeping through the windowpanes. Edmund always loved this particular hour to visit Price House’s library.

But not this evening.

He retrieved the humidor and held it out to the viscount. Truth be told, he’d been on edge ever since the Woolseys arrived. Could be because he had yet to find out what Bastion wished to discuss, but more likely the tightness in his neck was because of the possessiveness of a certain brown-eyed blond who assumed she already owned him. Not to mention her veiled rudeness toward Miss Dalton. In hindsight, his decision not to marry Violet had been spot-on. And then there was the matter of Gil. Would the man behave himself during their visit? It could prove to be very awkward indeed to try to manage the fellow. If Gil were any regular employee, he’d terminate him on the spot, but there was nothing regular about him. In addition to their friendship, his reputation in the business world was stellar, not to mention his knack for brokering lucrative deals.

The rich scent of tobacco filled the air as the viscount chose a cigar. “I suppose you’d like to know what my urgent business is, eh, Price?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.” More like the thought was stuck in a deeply ground wagon rut. He closed the lid without taking one of Cuba’s finest.

Bastion ran his fat cigar beneath his nose, sniffing it from end to end. “Your patience will serve you well in Parliament.”

Pleasure warmed his gut as he took a seat across from the man, leather squeaking. “I like to think my background in business will also be a virtue.”

“Mmm,” Bastion rumbled.

Edmund sank back in his chair, waiting the man out as the viscount clipped the end of his cigar onto a small tray on the side table. Then he waited some more as the man lit the thing, cheeks sinking with each puff.

At length, the viscount finally quit fussing with his smoke and eyed him. “The thing is, Price...”

The unfinished sentence dangled in the air as he took a few more draws.

Sweet, blessed mercy! They’d be called in for dinner before anything was said. He wished now he had taken a cigar just to have something to do with his hands.

Bastion blew out a cloud of smoke. “I have it on good authority that William Mallory is going to resign next week. Apparently he’s battling a dire health issue.”

“I wish him well, of course, but what has that to do with ... Ah, an unexpected opening for the Oxford seat, eh?”

“One that will move the election much sooner than you or I expected.” Bastion rolled his cigar between his fingers. “It’s an opportunity we must mount and ride hard.”

His pulse took off at a run. If he could get elected and roll back that tariff due out by the end of next month, then Sanjay wouldn’t need the money from the Egyptian cargo, nor would countless other men in the same situation be facing business failure. “When?”

“Mid-September.”

“A little more than a month away,” he murmured, calculating the odds. It would be a stretch—an all-out contortion, really—but with God’s help it could be done.

“And that is exactly why I’ve come. We must move quickly.” Bastion set his cigar on the ashtray and leaned forward. “While I am here, we must craft your campaign platform. I’ve taken the liberty to jot down a few ideas.” He produced a paper from his pocket.

Edmund glanced over the list, struggling to make sense of the words. While it would take some time to comprehend the whole document, with some pointed concentration, a few items sank in. Investment in infrastructure to facilitate commerce he could get behind. He also agreed with funding institutional initiatives for education reform. But the third point instantly raised his hackles. Imperialism was a rabid dog as far as he was concerned, one an Englishman would do well to avoid.

He set the paper on the tea table between them. “Tell me more about this acquisition of territories. Surely the people of Oxfordshire don’t have a keen interest in overseas conquest.”

“Any good conservative does. It is our duty to expand our colonial landholdings in order to end lawlessness in other lands. Why, it’s our duty as Christians, is it not?”

“I respectfully disagree, my lord.” Edmund held up a finger, warding the man off. “I understand the importance of maintaining peace beyond our borders. Still, I believe acquiring territories through force is not the way to achieve that peace. It is better to respect the sovereignty of other nations, to work with them in cooperation and mutual benefit instead of wielding the mighty arm of the British military. Has history not shown such conquests come at great cost, both in human lives and resources? No, imperialism can lead to nothing but conflict and resentment.”

The viscount picked up his cigar and took a long draw, blowing out a stream of smoke like a dragon. “I didn’t realize you held such a liberal view, Price.”

He stiffened. He’d played the wrong card—and this was too important of a game to lose. He curved his lips into what he hoped was an easy smile. “I prefer to think of it as a personal view, but let us not dwell on our differences, my lord. Our common goal is to better the lives of the people of Oxfordshire, is it not? It is imperative we work together toward achieving such a purpose. And in light of that...” He swiped up his glass of lemon water and held it aloft. “Here’s to a successful campaign.”

Bastion hesitated a moment before grabbing his tumbler of brandy, not particularly enthusiastic, but neither did it seem he’d take any more issue with Edmund’s stance on imperialism.

“Hear, hear.” The viscount tossed back his drink, then set his glass on the table. “Now then, it will take some doing on such short notice, but I shall arrange a house party as soon as possible, inviting men who will be key in helping you get elected. Attendance could be sparse, considering it is summer recess. Nevertheless, it’s important to get your face in front of England’s powerhouses to gain their endorsements. While it’s true you are the darling of Englishwomen, these men won’t care about your handsome face. What they fancy is what you can do for them and the country, and your ties to mighty moguls—such as me. That’s why it’s crucial we pin down your message and a plan to execute it. Are you up for the challenge, Price?”

“Without doubt.”

“Good.” Bastion inhaled one last drag on his cigar, then ground it out. “The only other matter remaining is an engagement announcement for you and Violet.”

Edmund’s heart jumped to his throat. The mere thought of marrying Violet Woolsey made him choke. When the idea had first come up in the telegram, he hadn’t seriously considered wedding the woman, but neither had he had such a visceral reaction as this. Miss Woolsey was a fine enough woman as women went, yet not one with whom he wished to share his life. But he couldn’t very well tell that to the viscount, or his run for Parliament would be over before it began. He needed Bastion’s title to get elected, and the viscount needed Price money for his land-rich, cash-poor coffers.

“Yes, about that...” Grabbing his water, he sipped it slowly, stalling for time, then set the glass carefully on the table. “Perhaps, my lord, it would be better to delay any thought of marriage until after the election. Wait to see how things develop.” And in the meantime, hopefully Violet’s head would be turned by a different man.

Bastion chuckled. “In this instance, your patience is a detriment. I’m afraid my Violet has her heart set upon a Christmas wedding. The sooner the engagement is announced, the sooner preparations can be made. It’s not every day my only daughter weds, and I intend to make it a spectacular event.”

Edmund sucked in a breath. He wouldn’t allow himself to be forced into an engagement he didn’t want, yet he couldn’t risk offending the viscount either—and if he spoke what was on his mind, he’d never make it to the House of Commons.

He ran his hand along the arm of the chair. Now was as good a time as any to practice diplomacy. “Naturally I understand you love your daughter a great deal. But I would not wish my campaign to overshadow such an event. I think it is in Violet’s best interest if we do not pursue the matter.”

“Cold feet, eh?” Bastion arched a brow. “To be expected, I suppose. You’ve been a bachelor a long time.”

Guilt punched him square in the gut. It felt wrong to lead the man on like this, pretending he’d consider Violet at some nebulous date in the future when in reality he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Diplomacy be hanged! If he lost his chance for the viscount’s sponsorship, then so be it. He still had the Egyptian cargo to sell, which would be enough to get Sanjay and his family by for a while until he could figure out a different way to stop that tariff.

He rose to refill his glass. Better to say what he must without making eye contact and enflame the man all the more. “Lord Bastion, I think you should know I cannot agree to mar—”

“Dinner is ready.” Barnaby ducked his head through the doorway.

“Look at that! We’re worse than two nattering hens.” Slapping his thighs, the viscount stood. “Shall we?”

Edmund sighed. His butler’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Even so, he forced a pleasant tone to his voice. “Yes, let’s.”

As they strode to the dining room, his mind raced as to how to handle the situation. He couldn’t keep avoiding the marriage issue forever. He’d have to say something ... but did he really need to say it before the election? Or at least before Bastion’s proposed dinner party? That event would be the perfect opportunity to rub shoulders with potential supporters and advance his campaign, enough that he wouldn’t need Bastion’s backing. If he could just bide his time until the Woolseys left tomorrow, perhaps he’d find a way to navigate through this mess. But for now, he had the gut-churning feeling this was going to be a long evening.

A very long one indeed.

It was to be a duel, then. That much was clear. The crustacean crouching on Ami’s plate taunted her as ruthlessly as Violet’s veiled comments had throughout the first and second courses.

“What a quaint gown, Miss Dalton.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a unique hairstyle.”

“My maid has a wonderful cream to hide blemishes. I’ll have her drop some off at your room, and you can try it on your nose.”

Condescension with a smile was the worst—and Violet was a master of the game. Ami dabbed her nose with her serviette, supremely self-aware of her freckles, her hair, her gown. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now she must navigate how to eat a lobster while avoiding the horrid, sliced lemon guarding the thing.

While Violet was busy chatting with her father, Ami retrieved a silver pick at the side of her plate and poked at the shellfish. Which got her absolutely nowhere. If only this were an ancient vase fragment with a bit of dried mud, she’d know exactly what to do.

Across the table, Mr. Price caught her eye, and her cheeks instantly heated. He’d noticed her ineptness. She could take Violet’s barbs, but if he were to mock her—especially in front of the Woolseys—that would sting.

Yet there wasn’t a hint of mockery in his regard. No pity. No scorn. Instead, there was something more, something ... Her breath caught. The same spark lit his eyes that illuminated her father’s when he wished to teach her about a new procedure in cleaning relics.

Mr. Price’s gaze shifted pointedly to her hands, then back to her face. One brow lifted as, with an exaggerated movement, he picked up his lobster and twisted off a claw.

She mimicked.

He smiled—then twisted off the other claw and set the thing back down.

She did the same, her pulse quickening as he guided her through each step. Without a single word, he showed her how to extract the fine, white meat. Almost like a dance. His dusky blue eyes encouraging her every move, guiding her deftly, making her feel cared for in a way that went deep and took root.

And when his lips parted to take a slow bite, his gaze fixed on hers, she nearly swooned. What would it feel like to have that mouth pressed against hers?

Great heavens!

She set down her fork, stunned by the forbidden thought and even more so by a sudden realization. She was falling for this man. Hard. Fast. All because of a silly, wonderful lobster. Which of course was absurd. The most eligible bachelor in all of Oxford couldn’t seriously be interested in her.

Could he?

“Don’t you agree, Miss Dalton?”

Violet’s voice pulled her from her musings, and she faced the woman seated across the table. “I beg your pardon, Miss Woolsey. You were saying?”

Violet scanned from her to Mr. Price, then back again. A tight smile followed. “I asked if you think my Edmund will make a fine member of Parliament, assuming, of course, he wins the special election ... which I have no doubt he will.”

Again with her Edmund ? Was there something between them?

“What’s this?” Next to Ami, Mr. Fletcher cocked his head at Mr. Price. “Running for office, are you, old man?”

Mr. Price’s brow creased. “Yes, I told you that in my last correspondence.”

“Ah, well, you know, ha-ha!” He fluttered his fingers in the air. “So many plates to spin and all.”

What an odd business relationship. Despite Mr. Price’s assurance Mr. Fletcher was a good businessman, it was Mr. Price who seemed far more competent. Not that it was any of her concern, though. She smiled at Mr. Price. “Congratulations! I would vote for you.”

Seated between Violet and Mr. Price, Lord Bastion snorted a disgusted puff of air. “Thank heaven you cannot, Miss Dalton. Women are far too emotional to make informed decisions at the ballot box. You would do well to take example from my daughter, who aspires to marriage, family, and minding her own home—which is where women belong. Isn’t that right, Violet?”

“I am sure you know what is best, Father.” Violet’s pert little nose wrinkled, belying her words. Perhaps there was more to this pampered princess than Ami had credited.

Ami set down her fork, unwilling to drop the topic so easily. “I respectfully disagree, my lord. Some women can and do choose to keep a home, as is their choice. Others, however, feel called to a different vocation. Regardless, women are just as capable of making political decisions as men.”

A smile twitched Mr. Price’s lips. “Miss Dalton raises a good point, my lord. She and your daughter are fully capable of knowing their own minds. Furthermore, as citizens of the realm, they have a vested interest in the laws that govern their lives, and inasmuch, ought to have a say in who represents them.”

Warmth flared in her chest at his thoughtful defense.

Lord Bastion went red in the face. “Do not tell me that if elected to office you will pursue the absurd notion of women’s suffrage. It is a dangerous ideal that will lead to the instability of Britain’s moral fiber.”

Her warmth flared into hot fire. Sentiment such as this was the very reason she struggled so hard to be a recognized Egyptologist!

Even so, she smiled. If she could face brigands selling stolen goods in a dark alley, she could certainly take on this pompous politician. “And yet, my lord, is it not a moral obligation to allow those being governed a chance to participate in the democratic process? I fail to see how ensuring everyone’s voice is heard will lead to instability.”

“It is that exact failure to understand of which I speak.” His sharp eyes homed in on her, a predator bent on shaking the life from his prey. “The fairer sex does not have the intellectual capacity to understand politics. Why, if women start voting, who knows what sort of chaos will ensue?”

“Nothing compared to the sort of chaos in a room full of cutthroat smugglers and opium eaters,” Mr. Fletcher said under his breath.

Ami silently pushed away her plate, her stomach rebelling at the rich food and the viscount’s snobbish remarks.

“I find no lack in Miss Dalton’s intelligence.” Mr. Price’s gaze sought hers, and though he’d spoken for the room, his defense was somehow far more intimate.

Once again her pulse raced. Must he always have that effect upon her?

Violet cleared her throat, eyes narrowed on Mr. Price.

“Of course, Miss Woolsey”—he dipped his head toward the woman—“neither do I find lack in you.”

“To the women, then!” Mr. Fletcher raised his glass.

Mr. Price lifted his as well. “Indeed. To the ladies.”

Though he used the plural, Ami got the distinct impression his toast was for her.

Lord Bastion was slow to reach for his goblet, but to his credit, he did—though he purposely avoided eye contact with her.

Once they drank, Barnaby signaled for plate removal, easing some of the tension in her shoulders. Five minutes more. Just five. She could do this.

Several footmen appeared, placing silver dishes of raspberry sorbet in front of each diner. My, how things had changed in only a couple of weeks’ time when Barnaby himself had waited upon her and Mr. Price. Had Mr. Price hired these servants only today with the arrival of the Woolseys, or did he have a secret cache of them on standby waiting for occasions such as this? The workings of a fine manor home were more mysterious than the hieroglyphics on a stone tablet.

Violet took a demure little nibble of her frozen dessert. “Will you play for us tonight, Miss Dalton?”

Ami blinked. Play what? The piano? She didn’t know her right hand from her left. Cards? The only two games she knew how to play were senet and hounds and jackals. Or did this society lady wish to engage in a rousing round of charades? Whatever it might be, she’d had more than enough of Violet and her father’s company for one evening.

Picking up her spoon, she forced a polite smile. “I am afraid I cannot join you after dinner. I have a few notes in the workroom I need to finish before I retire.”

“Pity.” A feline smile curved her lips. “Well, perhaps tomorrow evening, then.”

“Tomorrow?” Mr. Price angled his head. “I thought you and your father would be taking the morning train.”

“Heavens no. I packed enough gowns for at least a week.”

Lord Bastion laid his wadded serviette on the table. “That’s right, Price. Your platform must be nailed tight, remember?”

Whether he remembered or not was hard to say. Actually, it was hard to read any of Mr. Price’s thoughts as he schooled his face.

Mr. Fletcher leaned close to Ami, the sour reek of wine on his breath. “Would you like some help with gathering those notes, Miss Dalton?”

“I am sure I can manage on my own, Mr. Fletcher.” She dug into her sorbet, hoping he’d not press the issue.

“No doubt you can. I don’t have a mind for such historical gibberish. What I meant was I wish to help you tidy up the room. Mr. Kane from the Oxford Journal is set to arrive in the morning. We must show him the collection in the best possible light in order to stir up interest, must we not?”

“We already have a potential buyer.” Though Mr. Fletcher seemed oblivious, Ami didn’t miss the tightness in Mr. Price’s tone. “And I thought I made it clear I was not interested in press coverage at the moment.”

“Indeed, you did.”

“Then why invite the man?”

“Because as your partner, I am interested.”

Lord Bastion tapped his finger on the table. “Journalist, you say? Now, that’s something we can use to our advantage. Imagine the publicity for your campaign, Price, if you were seen as a man not only of wealth and stature but of culture, one who takes keen interest in preserving ancient artifacts. It could sway the hearts and minds of the voting public.”

Leave it to the viscount to exploit cultural valuables for the sake of politics. Ami pushed back her chair before she dove headfirst into waters that were sure to be murky. “And on that note, gentlemen, Miss Woolsey, I bid you all a good evening.”

The men rose, wishing her the same. Violet merely gave a nod as if she were the Queen herself bestowing her dismissal—and more than happy to have Mr. Price to herself for the rest of the night.

Ami strode away, conflicted thoughts crowding her mind. The dynamics between Mr. Price and Violet puzzled her. It surely seemed a strange tension tethered them together, making it difficult to decipher their true relationship. Clearly Violet believed Mr. Price belonged to her in some way. Yet Mr. Price’s demeanor—while courteous—lacked the ardor one would expect from a devoted lover.

Bosh. What did she know? The realm of emotions and romantic entanglements had always baffled her, which in a sense, made it all the more desirable to escape into the tangible world of artifacts, where the age and value of an object could be precisely determined.

She swept into the workroom, then immediately wheeled about, facing the very statue she’d just passed. The enormous carving of Anubis now stood with its jackal snout to the wall. This was not to be borne! That figure was far too valuable to be used as a pawn for such antics.

Spinning about, she grabbed her notes off the table and shook the handful of papers in the air, shouting at whoever might be lurking in the shadows. “If you’re trying to frighten me, it isn’t working. Do you hear me? You’re wasting your time, so stop it. The curse of Amentuk isn’t real!”

She scanned the room from corner to corner, alert for movement of any sort ... but there was none. Bah. What was she thinking? Whoever had moved the relic had clearly done the deed and departed. She’d have to hunt down Barnaby and question him once more, let him know this wasn’t a laughing matter, especially if that statue were to topple and break. Heaving a sigh, she turned to leave, but as she did so, the hair at the nape of her neck prickled like sharp wires. No one was in the room. She was sure of it.

But that didn’t account for the whisper of a sinister laugh at her back.