Page 13 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

13

Ekonahmic . No, that couldn’t be correct. Slashing a line through the word, Edmund redipped his pen and tried again. Ecenamik . He picked up the page and studied the letters—which looked as if a schoolboy had written them. Crushing the paper into a tight ball, he tossed it onto the ever-growing pile at the base of his desk, then glanced at the clock, thoroughly defeated. Nearly midnight and he had yet to compose a suitable outline to present to Lord Bastion tomorrow, one that promoted economic reform instead of imperialism.

Sighing, he planted his elbows on the desktop and scrubbed his face. Usually, he could count on Gil for drafting documents he required, but despite Gil’s assurance he’d lay off the libations, the man had still managed to partake overmuch of the after-dinner sherry. He’d have to speak to Barnaby about locking up the spirits. No doubt Gil was even now gape-mouthed snoring in his bed from such excess. Despite his friend’s tale of lovelorn woe, if he kept up his uncouth behaviour, Edmund would have no choice but to dissolve their business relationship for he couldn’t socially afford such a connection. And yet ... he toyed with the pen, uneasy about ending his long relationship with Gil. The man had been his right arm the entire time he’d been abroad, a more than astute businessman, and he did owe Gil for saving him from financial ruin all those years ago. Had the matter with that woman—Charlotte, was it?—so mangled the man’s personality?

He dropped his hands. He knew too well the changes a duplicitous woman could wreak.

Shooting to his feet, he paced, frustrated with Gil, annoyed with his own limitations, and still a little bit irked at the way Violet had treated Miss Dalton during dinner. Catty woman. But irritated or not, he smiled as he recalled that dinner. The pert little Egyptologist had been far too proud to ask for help with eating her lobster, yet she’d followed his every lead, relied on him. Trusted him. A silent testament to the unspoken understanding that seemed to be growing between them—and there was no doubt in his mind there was something growing, a bond, one that filled him with an inordinate amount of pleasure. Throughout the entire meal his parents’ distant exchanges had echoed in his mind. Were their cool looks truly the pinnacle of marital connection, or was there a depth that had been missing in their relationship he had yet to grasp?

He stole another glance at the mantel clock, feeling the pressure of getting the outline finished. Though he hated to admit it, he needed help. Jameson would be fast asleep by now. Barnaby couldn’t write two words without speaking twenty between. Hmm. Would Miss Dalton be in the workroom at this hour? She’d said she had paperwork to finish tonight. Might she be willing to help him with his outline? A pretty big if, but better than coming up with another abysmal spelling of economic ... though he would have to be crafty in how he worded his plea for assistance.

Doubling back to the desk, he grabbed the notepad and strode from the room. At this time of night, only dim light glowed from the wall sconces. Some might consider it romantic. Others ghostly. Either would work for a poem, but a political summary was far removed from rhymes and meters. The thought caused his step to hitch. Was politics truly the path he ought to be following?

He crossed the great hall at a good clip, pushing away the question. This wasn’t about him. It was about Sanjay and the others he could help by influencing economic policy.

As he swung into the corridor leading to the workroom, he spied a swath of golden light pouring out the door. Good. She was hard at work. Once this lot sold and Sanjay was taken care of, he’d see that she received extra payment for being so diligent.

“Miss Dalton, I—”

“Oh!” She slapped a hand to her chest, gasping.

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He pulled a chair beside her, alarmed to note the paleness of her skin. Odd that this plucky woman would suffer such a fright from a mere casual entrance. He peered at her closely. “Are you all right?”

She pasted on a brave smile yet fidgeted with her pen. “Never better, now that I know it’s only you in the room with me.”

“Who else would be here?”

“Exactly what I’d like to know.”

He narrowed his eyes. “A puzzling response. Care to expand?”

She nibbled her lower lip, scanning the room, yet she said nothing.

“Miss Dalton?”

She snapped her gaze back to him. “Oh, don’t mind me. One too many hieroglyphics swimming about in here.” She tapped the side of her forehead. “But what are you doing up at this late hour?”

“Looking for you. I was hoping you might help me with something.”

“How can I be of service?”

He pushed the notepad across the tabletop toward her. “I realize you’re busy with notating your own work, but I wondered if you’d like a break from detailing pottery shards and amulets to take dictation from me.”

“You wish me to play secretary”—she shot a pointed look at the wall clock, then arched a brow his way—“at this time of night?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. I have a meeting with the viscount tomorrow and won’t sleep a wink if I don’t capture my thoughts on paper.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Why not simply write them yourself?”

He shoved back his chair, uneasy with that all-seeing gaze of hers. He couldn’t answer such a question. Not honestly, at any rate. Yet neither would he lie. So how to skate on the thin ice of grey without breaking through to black or white? She’d made it very clear she despised deception—as did he—but the last time he’d confessed his shortcoming to a woman, he’d been humiliated.

“I, em...” He strolled a few paces, thinking hard, then doubled back. “Well, to be frank, I find it easier to think aloud and allow someone else to capture my words, else I am prone to losing my train of thought.”

“And you don’t mind sharing those thoughts with me?”

Ah, but he’d share far more than that with her if he could.

He cleared his throat, banishing the rogue desire. “You’ve proven yourself a woman of integrity. I highly doubt you’ll leak my political platform to the press tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t, but even so, I ought not be privy to such confidential information. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather write this yourself?”

“Completely certain.”

She dipped her pen into the ink and held it poised above the paper. “Then let us begin.”

Relief eased some of the tension in his shoulders but not all.

He still felt like a cad for not being completely honest with her.

Brudge whumped to the ground flat on his back, gasping for air like a landed halibut. Why must manor homes such as Price House always be guarded by the requisite stone wall? Was it some sort of code amongst the wealthy? A status symbol? Or was it just a way to annoy honest thieves like himself?

After a few more breaths, he staggered to his feet. Oof. He was getting way too old for such rough-and-tumble jobs like this one. If Scupper were here, the tall oaf could’ve caught him, or at least broken his fall. But that whiner still moaned like a nursling in nappies about his sore teeth. Big baby. At this rate, they’d never get their hands on that statue.

Unless he was successful tonight.

Brudge gave his aching hip a good rubdown, then set off on a zigzag route from trunk to trunk. A crescent moon lent hardly any light, yet the clear sky and stars were bright enough. The closer he drew to the house, the more chance he could be seen if anyone happened to look out the window. Unlikely, though. Not at this late hour. It had to be well past midnight by now. He advanced.

Then paused. Ahead, a shadowy figure exited a side door of the house. Thunderation!

Like a startled squirrel, Brudge darted back to the safety of the previous oak tree, then carefully peered around the side of it. Sure enough, a man clutched a small parcel in one arm and ... what was this? The fellow swiveled his head as he kept to the shadows—the very same move he employed when toeing about where he ought not be. Was one of the servants pinching the silver, then? Or—no! If that scoundrel was nipping off with his statue, he’d tackle the fiend and take what was rightfully his. After all, he’d spied that winged hunk of gold first!

Brudge squinted as the man followed the length of the house, picking his way toward the front drive. The canvas bundle in the crook of his arm didn’t appear to be overlarge or too heavy. Brudge eased out a low breath. Not his piece.

With a last look over his shoulder, the man disappeared around the corner. Brudge gave him a moment or two out of professional courtesy before sidestepping the tree trunk. It never paid to shoehorn one’s way too quickly into an active scene of another man’s labour. No doubt Scupper had some sort of annoyingly pithy words about just such a thing.

He’d nearly made it to the next oak when he stopped and listened with his whole body. Something had snagged his attention. Something small but ominous. The swing of a gate? Sure did sound like the squeak of hinges. To be on the safe side, he doubled back to the previous tree, then the baying of hounds cut through the air.

Blast!

He sprinted, bunion screaming as he tore back to the stone wall. A straight shot this time. No need for stealth. He could practically feel the hot breath of the dogs at his back.

He lunged, scrambling for purchase, just as teeth sank into his ankle.

Double blast!

With a howl of his own, he kicked the beast in the head, barely freeing his leg before another set of snappers flashed in the night.

“You there!” a deep voice bellowed. “Stop!”

Brudge threw his arm over the top of the wall, hefting his body upward, leaving behind the bared teeth and vicious growls. With a great burst of strength, he flung his good leg over. One more breath and he’d be over the side and running for his horse.

A shot rang out.

Searing pain ripped across his thigh.