Page 14 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

14

A good journalist could make a pile of manure into a bag of diamonds. A bad one, turn a saint into a sinner. Edmund hadn’t decided which category he ought to file Mr. Kane under—good, bad, saint, or manure—but one thing he knew, he didn’t like the fellow, mostly because he stood far too close to Miss Dalton. Or could be that the man smelled like a sardine tin. Probably both. And judging by the sour turn of Gil’s lips, his business partner wasn’t enamored with the journalist either, which was a bit ironic since he was the one who’d invited Kane here in the first place.

Pencil poised, Mr. Kane licked his lips, a habit he’d already engaged in countless times since he arrived. Judging by the chapped skin ringing his mouth, it was more a nervous tic than anything. “Miss Dalton, this love affair of yours with Egypt, how exactly did it begin? Remember, no detail is too small.”

She offered him a tight smile as she set down the long-necked figurine she’d been showing him. “I appreciate your interest in my profession, Mr. Kane, but I hardly think Mr. Fletcher invited you here to take notes on me.”

“Indeed, sir,” Gil spoke before the man could respond. “While admittedly Miss Dalton is lovely to behold, just look at the great cache of beauties around you, in particular, this griffin.” He swept his hand toward the golden statuette. “Did you know—”

“Yes, yes. We will get to that.” Kane didn’t so much as glance at the griffin, just sidled a step closer to Miss Dalton.

If he dared draw any nearer, Edmund would frog-march the man out to the drive.

“Tell me, Miss Dalton.” Kane’s tongue flicked out like a grass snake’s. “As a woman in a man’s world, what do you find most challenging?”

Edmund opened his mouth to redirect that line of questioning, then just as quickly pressed his lips tight. How would she answer such a query?

“That’s easy.” She tucked her ever-loosened hair behind one ear, not caring a whit that more oft than not, her appearance was that of an absent-minded professor. “My biggest trial is recognition. Even you questioned my title when Mr. Price first introduced us.”

“Mr. Price, that’s right. How could I have forgotten!” Kane’s dark button eyes fixed on him. “Rumours abound as to why you left the country all those years ago. Most involve a woman. A Miss Louisa Allen, if I have my facts straight. Do I?”

The mere mention of her name made his jaw clench. “With all due respect, Mr. Kane, you are here to discuss Egyptian artifacts, not my personal history.”

“Ha-ha! That’s right.” Gil guffawed. “Now, about this griffin here, have I got a tale for—”

“Personal insights are what make a story stand out in a reader’s mind.” The journalist flourished his pencil in the air. “Add in a dash of romance—such as an attractive female Egyptologist and one of the most sought-after bachelors in Oxford, housing together beneath the same roof—and voilà! A headline that’ll drive sales to the sky.”

If he clenched his jaw any tighter, his teeth would crack. This was exactly the sort of publicity he’d been hoping to avoid. “The only sale I am interested in is for this load of relics, which has nothing to do with either me or Miss Dalton.”

“Now, there you are mistaken, sir. The more compelling the narrative, the more interest in your artifacts. The public will gobble up the story of how you left the country because of a lady and have now returned for a fresh start with a new woman, especially one so ... novel. Do tell.” This time he licked the tip of his pencil, then set it to paper, fingers poised to write. “How long have you two been in a relationship?”

The blush of a summer sunset lit fire on Miss Dalton’s cheeks. “Mr. Price and I are not—”

Gil held up a finger. “About this griffin—”

“Stop right there, Mr. Kane.” Edmund cut them both off. “Miss Dalton and I hold to a strictly professional relationship, nothing more.”

“Perhaps.” He hissed the s like the snake he was. “But once word of this arrangement leaks out, you can be sure another newspaper will sensationalize the situation. By giving me leave to write a wholesome yet intriguing account, not only will you endear the masses to you and Miss Dalton, you’ll also be sure to attract potential buyers for your cargo in droves.”

Edmund gripped the edge of the table to keep from throttling the man. Of all the oblique threats! Narrowing his eyes, he stared down the journalist, the sudden tension in the room thick enough to choke an elephant.

“Allow me to make myself abundantly clear, Kane.” He used his deal-gone-bad tone, gunmetal hard and deadly low. Not only would a fake scandal damage his run for office, it would undoubtedly harm Ami. “Your purpose here is to present these artifacts in their historical and cultural context, not to gain blathering fodder to further your career or increase the Journal ’s circulation. If you dare exploit Miss Dalton’s reputation or tarnish the integrity of her work, I will not hesitate to take drastic measures.”

Unease flickered across the journalist’s face, his tongue darting in and out with a mind of its own.

“So”—Edmund leaned closer, driving home his point—“I suggest you tread carefully, sir. Mine is not a warning to take lightly. You may think you hold the power of the pen, but I assure you, I have means of my own. Stick to the story you were invited here to obtain, nothing more.”

The words swung in the air like a noose in the wind. Miss Dalton stared wide-eyed. Gil smirked, his moustache twitching.

Red crawled up Mr. Kane’s neck as he retreated a step. “I did not mean to offend, Mr. Price.”

“Ha-ha!” Gil clapped his hands. “I’m sure you didn’t. Now then, behold the golden griffin, Mr. Kane.” He tugged the man to his side. “Trust me when I say you’ll find nothing more sensational than the curse of Amentuk, and this is the very artifact that houses such a dark evil. Already this wicked little beast has broken a man’s leg, sent a maid into hysterics, tripped me up on the stairs, and see that statue over there?” Clapping an arm around Kane’s shoulder, he nudged the man to face the imposing Anubis standing guard at the door.

“Don’t tell me that one is cursed too?”

“Not that I know of, and yet it mysteriously moves in increments each day. But here’s the real kicker—it is far too heavy for a man to move alone.”

Pulling away from Gil, the journalist turned back to examine the griffin. “Can you verify Mr. Fletcher’s claims, Miss Dalton?”

“These things have happened, and there is a legend attached to the griffin.” She frowned like a displeased school matron. “But I highly doubt they are related.”

“Of course they are.” Gil aimed his finger at her. “You’re the one who told me the story in the first place.”

“Of the curse, yes, but I don’t recall speaking of the workman’s broken leg or the movement of Anubis.” Her brow arched at Edmund.

He gave a slight shake of his head. He’d not been the one to inform the man. Had Barnaby? “How did you know that information, Gil?”

“Servants talk.” He shrugged. “But that’s neither here nor there. The thing is, Kane, that whoever purchases this lot will no doubt have an exciting time in store for them.”

“Or a dangerous one.” Mr. Kane straightened, then flipped to a clean page in his notebook. “Tell me the details of this curse, then.”

Gil rubbed his hands together. “It is quite the juicy tale. You see—”

A light touch to Edmund’s sleeve pulled him away from Gil’s story.

Miss Dalton peered up at him, whispering for his ears alone, “Might I have a word with you, Mr. Price?”

He glanced at the men, Gil animatedly serving up all the sordid morsels he knew—and no doubt sprinkling in even more imaginative tidbits—while Kane’s pencil danced across his page with loud scratches. With both of them so engrossed, Edmund guided Ami aside. “My apologies for Mr. Kane’s insinuation about us. When I hired you as a professional, I didn’t think your reputation would be tarnished. Apparently I was wrong.”

She clicked her tongue. “The only reputation I seek to protect is my Egyptologist status, which you very nicely defended.” Her eyes narrowed. “In fact, I’ve never met anyone so keen for such validation on my account. Why is that?”

“Let’s just say I understand how difficult it is to be recognized as proficient without acceptable credentials.” Hah! What an understatement. Had it not been for the family name, he’d not be where he was now, though it was that very name he hoped to infuse with integrity instead of the often-unscrupulous dealings of his father.

Her nose scrunched, freckles bobbing. “What would a successful businessman know of that?”

“The answer may surprise you.” He held up a finger, warding her off. “But now is not the time. What did you wish to tell me?”

Curiosity gleamed golden in those changeable eyes of hers, yet to her credit, she didn’t pry—an urge Violet Woolsey would not have been able to conquer.

“I know you’ve got your hands full with houseguests and whatnot.” She tipped her head discreetly toward Gil and Kane. “But I think you should know about something. When I came in this morning, I noticed a dusting of wood shavings on the floor near one of the unopened crates. Upon further examination, it appears as if the lid had been pried off, then reattached. Granted, that might’ve happened before shipping, but with the extra shavings on the ground, it is suspect.”

“Is something missing from the crate?”

“I cannot say for certain as I hadn’t had the chance yet to account for the contents inside it.”

He scrubbed his jaw. Earlier this morning Jameson had told him of a breach in security. One of the hired guns had shot at a fellow last evening. Could that somehow be related to this? “May I see the crate?”

“Of course.” She led him to one of the large boxes.

Sure enough, pry marks marred the wood on top. Had someone broken in and stolen a relic? His gaze drifted to the window and back. A possibility, but why would a thief go to the trouble of opening a crate when he could’ve picked up one of the antiquities ripe for the taking on the display table?

“I’ll inform my steward of your concerns and have him increase the rounds of a night watch on the property.”

“Perfect.” She smiled. “Though again, I am not sure anything was taken. I do know with certainty, however, that something must be done about the moving statue. I’m afraid the thing will get knocked over and damaged if this continues.”

He sighed. So help him if Barnaby thought this a lark. He’d have to give the man notice—which he was loath to do. For all his butler’s eccentricities, it was Barnaby, Jameson, and Mrs. Buckner who held this great house together. “I’ll have another word with my butler.”

“I already did. Barnaby vows neither he nor the staff have had anything to do with it. He told me in light of recent events that he’s sworn off any hijinks for the time being and not even Mr. Crawford has been pranking him of late.”

“Well, clearly someone has been up to mischief. That thing”—he hitched his thumb over his shoulder—“isn’t moving on its own.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah, you have suspicions.” A slow smile traveled his lips. Leave it to this little pixie to unearth a real-life Egyptian mystery. “Who and how?”

“Obviously Mr. Fletcher is keen on playing up the curse aspect of this shipment. He thinks if word of it spreads, Mr. Harrison will be inclined to purchase the lot. Perhaps you might ask him.”

“Gil?” His brows shot to the ceiling. “There’s no way he could move that statue alone.”

“Neither is there any way he should have known about the movement of it. I don’t believe for a minute Barnaby breathed a word to him. He can’t stand the fellow. Still, I’ve been thinking on the matter. The Egyptians were skilled in using all sorts of engineering techniques. It may be possible for someone to employ a combination of wooden levers and fulcrums strategically placed to create a rotational force. It’s only being moved in small increments at a time. It wouldn’t take that long to do.”

Plausible ... but not probable. He shook his head. “Even with such equipment, I highly doubt one man could do so unaided.”

“Which is why Mr. Fletcher may have someone in this household helping him, though I don’t believe it is Barnaby. He vows he keeps his tomfooleries to the understaff. He’d never try to dupe you or me.”

It was endearing, this loyalty of hers—a trait Louisa hadn’t owned. He rubbed the back of his neck, masking a wince from the memory of that duplicitous woman. “I shall question Mr. Fletcher about the matter, but don’t get your hopes up. You’ve seen his physical state, not to mention how much he drinks. Plus, I doubt he’d risk damaging any of the items from which he hopes to gain a pretty penny.”

Unbidden, he glanced over his shoulder to where the two men yet stood talking in front of the griffin. Gil grinned wide with one hand on the golden figurine. “I’m telling you this monstrous little thing is cursed.”

Edmund frowned. Though he didn’t believe in such dark folly, at the moment, he could find no other explanation for all the odd happenings.

Some women loved the scent of jasmine or lilacs. Others preferred freshly baked bread or the peppery fragrance of the forest after a rain. An amused smile raised Ami’s lips as she ran her brush over the snout of a mummified crocodile. While she didn’t mind those aromas, she much preferred the tang of a good dammar resin mixed with a dash of turpentine ... the scent of her father.

At the thought of him, she paused in her preservation work, brush hovered in the air. It was strange he’d not yet answered her telegram. Surely he’d received it. Luxor was only a few miles from the Valley of the Kings, where he was working, a modern city with the means to answer her query. His delay had given her time to continue examining the griffin, but still to no avail.

She ran her brush along the crocodile’s back. What sort of tale belonged to this relic? For a long moment, she wondered about the hands before hers that had touched this item, the people behind the artifact, their tales of love and sorrow, prompting her to question if life held more than the preservation of the past. Her once unyielding career goals now shared space in her thoughts with the warmth of the unexpected companionship she’d found here with Mr. Price.

“Come, Miss Dalton. I find I am in need of—eew! What is that atrocious stink?” Violet flounced in with a lacy handkerchief to her nose, and when her gaze landed on the four-foot mummy on the table, her eyes widened. “By all that is holy, Miss Dalton, what is that ?”

Ami smirked. Good thing the woman hadn’t come in when she’d dusted off the glass case containing a preserved cobra in all its sharp-fanged glory. No doubt she would have swooned. “It’s exactly as it appears, Miss Woolsey. A crocodile.”

“How dreadful.” With her free hand, Violet fanned herself, noticeably keeping her distance. “Why wrap up such a horrid creature?”

“It’s a religious object, leastwise for an ancient Egyptian.” She set down her brush. Though the woman likely wouldn’t care, Ami couldn’t stop herself from giving further explanation—a trait she’d picked up from her father. He’d always been better at educating than showing affection. “Crocodiles were seen as a connection between the earthly and divine realms. One of their gods—Sobek—was believed to inhabit the waters of the Nile, and these reptiles were manifestations of his divine presence, which is why they took such care of it.”

Violet gave a most unladylike snort, her handkerchief rippling from the force of it. “That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard. Let us speak of more pleasant topics as we take a turn about the garden.”

Ami blinked, hardly believing her ears. Why would this uppity lady stoop to gracing her with her company? Intriguing to find out, yet even more distasteful to think of the woman’s nattering on about her favorite topic—herself.

“While I thank you for the opportunity”—Ami picked up her brush and waved it—“I’m afraid I have work to do.”

“Pooh. You are as bad as Edmund and my father. They have been closeted away since that journalist left this morning. They even had their lunch served in the study, leaving me alone with Mr. Fletcher. Odious man, if you ask me.” Violet sighed, her eyes betraying a hint of weariness beneath her bravado. “I am bored, Miss Dalton. I crave a diversion. It seems the men in my life always find solace in their studies, leaving me on my own. Sometimes I wonder if there’s more to life than waiting for a man to take notice of me.”

A pang of empathy tightened Ami’s stomach. The sentiment of being overlooked and confined within societal expectations resonated with her own struggles in the realm of academia.

Violet tucked away her bit of lace, revealing a pouty frown. “Besides, you need some fresh air. Your skin is as dull as one of your relics.”

Ami clenched her jaw. Did this woman have any idea how abrasive she was? “Mr. Price hired me to catalogue these items, not frolic about in his garden.”

“Don’t be silly.” She cut her hand through the air. “My Edmund wouldn’t mind a whit.”

And there it was again. My Edmund . Perhaps she ought to take a turn with the woman if only to find out the status of Violet’s relationship with the enigmatic Mr. Price. Besides, a few minutes in the sun would be a welcome reprieve after a full day of bending over artifacts. Surely she could tolerate Violet’s barbs for that long.

“Very well, Miss Woolsey. I suppose a brief stroll won’t hurt.”

She barely got to her feet before Violet linked arms with her and ushered her out the door. “Now, I simply must tell you about Lady Quilling’s gown at the Evensons’ ball. It was positively scandalous! I’ve never seen a neckline so low, practically to her waist, and if that weren’t enough to draw attention, the overuse of sequins blinded one when the light hit just right. Such a Jezebel. Why, I hear she and Mr.—”

Violet droned on as they entered the garden, hardly drawing breath between sentences. My. She really had been in need of a diversion. Unbidden, a small amount of sympathy for the woman blossomed in Ami’s heart. Did Violet have any friends, any true friends? Not that she had an entire stable of confidants herself, but she did have Polly.

Sidestepping an uneven cobble, Ami glanced around for Phineas. He really ought to replace that paving brick, though if he caught sight of them, he just might ask her and Violet to help him do so. An impish smile curved her lips at the thought of the dainty Miss Woolsey in her blush-pink day dress digging about in the dirt to reset a stone. It might do her some good, though, give her a sense of accomplishment other than having her hair curled to perfection.

“Don’t you think, Miss Dalton?”

“Hmm?” She jerked her gaze to Violet, scrambling to answer a question for which she had no context. Violet gazed back, clearly waiting for a response. She couldn’t very well admit she hadn’t been listening, though, for the woman would take offense. She smiled and gave the best reply she could think of. “Yes, of course you must be right.”

Violet gasped, a horrified pinch to her brows. “I should certainly hope not!”

Bosh.

Wrong answer.

Unwinding her arm from Violet’s, she flung out her hand to the nearby rosebushes, quickly changing the subject. “Are these not divine, Miss Woolsey? There is no fairer flower than a Baroness Rothschild. I believe that’s what these are, if my memory serves correctly. My mother was quite the horticulturalist.”

Violet lifted her pert nose as she regathered Ami’s arm and charged ahead. “Roses make me sneeze. I shall see them all ripped out once I am the lady of this grand house.”

Ami schooled her face to keep her brows from lifting to the sky. “And when might that happy occasion be?”

“I am planning a Christmas wedding. White velvet for me to showcase my radiance and, hmm ... I think a dove grey for Edmund would bring out the blue in his eyes. They’re such a murky colour as is.”

Murky was hardly the word she’d use to describe his eyes. More like the hue just before twilight, a deep azure, one that hinted of sweet dreams and kisses in the dark. Her face heated at the thought. If this woman really was to marry Mr. Price, Ami had no right to imagine such things. “I didn’t realize congratulations were in order. How long have you and Mr. Price been engaged?”

“We’re not. Officially, that is.” Violet followed the curve of a low daisy hedge, clutching her hem up from a pile of forgotten trimmings. “But it shouldn’t be long now. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if that’s what Papa and Edmund are discussing this very minute.”

Hmm. Were they? She hadn’t seen any evidence that Mr. Price doted on the woman. Then again, what did she know of upper-class relationships? Maybe outward signs of affection were frowned upon as a societal faux pas ... though Ami could’ve sworn she’d seen admiration flare in his gaze several times when he’d looked upon herself.

“At any rate,” Violet continued, “it must be soon if Mother and I are to make my wedding the event of the season. Mother won’t return from France until the first of October. But not to worry, she is a veritable Renoir of party planning. Society will speak of this event for years to come.”

That sounded like a nightmare to her, and though she’d only known him a little while, she had a feeling Mr. Price would agree. “Don’t you think Mr. Price ought to have a say in the matter? After all, it’s his wedding too.”

Violet trilled a laugh, startling a nearby robin to take flight. “Such na?vety, though I suppose you cannot be blamed for it. You see, my dear, a groom on a wedding day is an accoutrement to the bride, nothing more, nothing less. I have no doubt Edmund shall play his part with style, for he loves me dearly. Tell me, Miss Dalton.” She paused, facing her with a tilt to her head. “Have you ever been in love?”

Ami chewed the inside of her cheek, thinking hard. There had been Peter, but they’d both been hardly more than children at the time. He’d held her hand once, and even picked a periwinkle to tuck behind her ear. It might have worked out with him had he not joined the navy. But that was years ago, and truthfully, she’d not thought of him since ... unlike the dark-haired Mr. Price who’d set up camp in a corner of her mind.

A corner she visited far too often.

“Yes, actually. I happen to be in love right now.” She gave Violet a tight smile. “I love my work, Miss Woolsey.”

“Well, I suppose that explains it, then.”

“Explains what?”

“Why you’re a ... well, you know.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A spinster.”

Air whooshed from her lungs. Though she’d heard such remarks before, she’d always been immune, having accepted the consequences of her choices. But for some reason, this one pompous woman’s unfiltered opinion cut deep, exposing a longing for companionship she’d been trying to ignore— unsuccessfully trying to ignore—ever since she’d met Mr. Price. Was the path she’d chosen as an Egyptologist, all the social sacrifices she’d made, worth a life alone in a room full of dusty relics? For the first time, she questioned—really questioned—the life she’d made.

And she wasn’t entirely sure she liked the answer.

Ami spun away. “I really should be getting back to work now, Miss Woolsey.” Her feet pounded the cobbles, eating up as much ground as the width of her hem would allow. She was done with this walk and more than finished with any further scathing remarks from Violet.

“I hope you didn’t take that the wrong way, Miss Dalton,” Violet called behind her. “I merely meant that you—oh!”

A ragged scream ripped through the sanctity of the garden.

Ami wheeled about.

Violet sprawled on her belly, her slipper half-on and half-off her foot, having been snagged on the cattywampus cobble. Part of her body lay on the paving, the other part prone in a tangle of ivy.

Where Violet and a snake stared nose to nose.