Page 15 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

15

Six hours. Enough time for a battalion to storm the walls of a fortified fortress and secure the perimeter, yet apparently not sufficient for the viscount to make up his mind on the finer points of the platform Edmund had drawn up last night—or rather that Ami had drawn up. Covering his mouth with his fist, he stifled a yawn. It was far too warm in here, making him even more drowsy. Though he’d had Barnaby open the windows, after being cooped up in the study for so long, the air was stale.

“Well?” he prodded.

“Mmm,” Bastion mumbled noncommittally as he raised the last page of the document in the air, his sharp eyes fixed on the page.

Edmund leaned forward in his chair, his lower back aching from having sat in one position the better part of the afternoon.

“I think . . .” Bastion’s lips pursed.

“Yes?”

Silence, save for the steady ticktock of the clock and a deep inhale from the viscount. For pity’s sake! It was only a rough draft of a political strategy, not a plan to save humanity.

At last, the viscount slapped the page against his thigh and reached for his tumbler of brandy. After a sip, he cleared his throat, stared Edmund right in the face, and—

Once again folded over the infernal last page.

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. It was either that or shoot from the chair and bang his head against the wall.

“How am I to think with such agitation distracting me?” Bastion peered over the top of the paper, a slow smile lifting his lips. “Though it’s to be understood, I suppose. I remember the days before I married the viscountess. All that hot blood running through one’s veins. Hang in there, man.” He winked.

Edmund’s stomach roiled. It was wrong of him, this deceit simply to gain a seat in Parliament. Sanjay or not, he simply couldn’t do it anymore. “About that, my lord ... I think it best you know now I am not ready for marriage, not even to your daughter. It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”

For a long beat, the man said nothing, just stared at him, brow scrunching. Was this it, then? The death of his candidacy? An end of putting a stop to the tariff that would destroy men like Sanjay?

At length, the viscount once again disappeared behind the papers. “I understand, Price. I was young once too, you know.”

That was it? It’d been that simple all along? For the first time in hours, he relaxed against the chair cushion, relieved beyond measure. “Thank you, my lord. If you’d rather I speak with—”

A rap pounded on the door, though the viscount gave no indication he’d heard the knock. Bypassing the man, Edmund swung the door open to Barnaby.

“You have a caller, sir. A Professor Bram Webb. In the sitting room.”

“And you left him in there alone?” He shoved past the butler and dashed down the corridor.

“I didn’t think you’d wish him to be brought in here, sir,” Barnaby called after him.

Edmund swung into the sitting room just as Bram tucked a cigar into his pocket. Judging by the size of the bulge already there, his old friend had likely cleaned out the entire humidor. “I knew it! Always pilfering my cigars.”

Bram wheeled about, flashing a grin. “It’s your own fault, Price. You always did have the best, even as an undergrad.”

“You can thank my father for that.” With a chuckle, he clapped the man on the back. “How are you, my friend?”

“Walking a thin rope as always.”

He did appear to be, if the shaggy hair in need of a trim and the threadbare fabric of Bram’s suit coat were any indication. There were a few new lines on his face, mostly from having aged these past eight years, and a fresh scar on the topmost part of his right cheek. Bram Webb always had been—and apparently still was—a rogue.

Edmund’s grin grew. “I’d expect nothing less from you, Webb. How long can you stay?”

“Just overnight.” Lacing his fingers, Bram cracked his knuckles, the familiar habit unearthing memories of long hours of study with his college mate. “I told ol’ Grimwinkle I was on college business, wooing a potential donor over an elaborate dinner.”

“I suppose that means you must leave here with a full coin purse.” Edmund smirked.

Bram mirrored it. “Is that a problem?”

It shouldn’t be, not with his net worth, but the actual cash flow he had on hand worried him, what with half of his and Gil’s capital tied up in that railroad venture. He kneaded a knot in his neck. He never should have agreed to bankroll the startup of the Bengal Express.

But Bram didn’t need to hear of his woes. “I wouldn’t call it a problem, my friend. More of an expectation. I’m always a few coins shy whenever I spend time with you.”

“Speaking of coins”—Bram arched a brow—“I am anxious to see them.”

“Then let’s have at it, though we’ll have to be quick about it. You’re not the only guest I must attend to.” He strolled from the sitting room, Bram at his side.

His friend cut him a sideways glance as they crossed the front hall. “I was surprised when I heard you returned to England. I didn’t think you were ever coming back after ... you know.”

Honestly, he hadn’t thought he’d return either. India had suited him, feeding his sense of adventure that his father had always tried to tame. Had it not been for the harsh tariffs funneling out of Parliament, he’d have been content to stay there.

“It’s been eight years.” He shrugged. “I should think the gossip has died down by now.”

“There never really was that much, you know. You needn’t have banished yourself for so long.”

“It wasn’t just that. It was...” A bitter taste filled his mouth. How to explain to Bram—to anyone, really—that he’d never conquered the shame he’d felt after Louisa’s betrayal? He let out a long breath as they swung into the corridor leading to the workroom. “Let’s just say it was for more personal reasons.”

“Personal? Right.” Bram eyed him. “Then you should be happy to know Louisa got what she deserved. I hear she turned into quite the sour pickle after marrying that walking corpse Lord Carlton. He whisked her away to Scotland, somewhere in the Highlands. Can’t say I blame the change in her personality, though. Such a rugged climate is enough to drive the whimsy from the hardiest of souls.”

Hah! Whimsical is hardly what he’d call Louisa’s imprudent spirit, though he ought to feel sorry for her, he supposed. He should pity the fact that her vibrancy had been evicted to some obscure heathland. But all he felt was numb.

An improvement, that.

“Well, as my father always said, the past is not where we live.”

“Thank heaven! Though in your case I imagine the present might be just as trying. You’ll be beating off women with a stick now that you’ve returned home. You’re nearly as handsome as I am, though admittedly your bank account is a monolith compared to mine. Toss in the allure of your travels to an exotic land and your mysterious return.” Bram let out a low whistle. “Indeed. I should think you’re the most eligible bachelor in all of Oxfordshire, if not all of England.”

“Which is why I’m holed up in my country estate for the moment. Once I get to London, I’ll more easily blend in with the crowd. And here we are.” He strode into the workroom, surprised at the eagerness in his step to see Miss Dalton. He glanced around for her bright smile.

Bram swiveled his head from wall to wall as well. “This is a treasure trove!”

“Yes, which will make it all the harder to find those coins for you to take a look at.” He frowned. Miss Dalton was nowhere in sight.

Bram walked the length of the trestle tables, where those artifacts that’d been carefully unpacked and cleaned sat ready for sale. “Don’t tell me you’re organizing these items on your own. You couldn’t even keep your books straight that first year at school, not to mention the disgrace your side of our bedchamber was.”

Now there was a bittersweet memory, one that chased away his grimace. “No, I’ve hired someone.”

Movement out the window snagged his attention, where Miss Dalton and Miss Woolsey stood face-to-face in the garden, and if the twist of Miss Dalton’s lips was any indication, the discussion wasn’t pleasant.

He turned back to Bram. “Come along. I’ll introduce you to my resident scholar.”

“Do you always keep your Egyptologist in the yard?” Bram asked as they worked their way to the rear of the house.

“Only when—”

A scream leached through the outside door. Edmund’s heart plummeted. Had Miss Dalton been hurt? Violet was known to be verbally abusive, but surely she’d not taken to hair pulling.

He barreled outside, feet spraying up gravel. He and Bram had barely cleared the garden entrance when Miss Dalton flung a snake through the air.

Then she casually dusted off her hands as if she’d done nothing more than pick a few dahlias. “Calm yourself, Miss Woolsey. It’s not like it’s an Egyptian saw-scaled viper. It’s merely an adder, which isn’t nearly as deadly.”

Edmund’s breath hitched as he charged ahead. What an extraordinary display of bravery and composure! He’d known she was an uncommon woman, one that intrigued him like none other, but this? Absolutely captivating, to the point that he barely registered Violet sprawled on the ground.

Phineas sped from the opposite direction, reaching the ladies before he and Bram. “Ho ho! That was quite a throw. Be ye all right, Miss Dalton?”

Violet pushed up, a scowl creasing her brow and dirt smudging her chin. “What about me?”

Miss Dalton hefted her from the ground with a pull to her arm. “It was just a small tumble, Miss Woolsey. You’ll be right as a hen’s feathers after a cup of tea.”

“Who is that?” Bram huffed beside him.

“That is my Egyptologist.”

His friend blew a low whistle. “You don’t say.”

“Oh, Edmund.” Violet launched herself against his chest the second he and Bram reached the ladies. “I was so frightened.”

Stiffly, he raised one arm and patted her back. How did one calm a woman without encouraging further attention? Thankfully, once her father talked with her about his refusal to marry, this sort of unwarranted attention would stop. “Yes, well, it looks as if Miss Dalton has squared things away.”

“That she has.” Phineas chuckled. “A right good toss o’ that snake, lass, though if ye all will excuse me, I’ll just be findin’ where the little devil landed and send him on his way.” Tugging his forelock, he wheeled about.

Miss Dalton swiped up a very dirty silk slipper and held it out. “Here is your shoe, Miss Woolsey.”

The moment Violet released her grip to collect her shoe, Edmund stepped aside, putting distance between them. “Though this may be an inopportune time, I should nevertheless like to introduce you ladies to my old friend, Professor Bram Webb. Bram, meet Miss Dalton, Egyptologist, and—” He waited for Violet to straighten to full height after slipping her foot into her wayward slipper. “Miss Woolsey, daughter of Lord Bastion.”

Bram dipped his head, a gleam in his grey eyes, particularly when his gaze landed on Miss Dalton. “Pleased to meet you, ladies.”

“You as well, Professor Webb.” Miss Dalton dipped her head.

“Professor.” Violet sniffed, then turned to him. “Edmund, I should like a lie-down before dinner. Will you see me inside, please?” She wrapped her arm around his, tighter than any snake could coil.

“Of course.” The words came out thinly, but at least they came out. “Miss Dalton, the professor has traveled from Cambridge and is here to value those Roman coins. I’ll escort Miss Woolsey to her maid, then join you in the workroom.”

Though it killed him to do so, he turned away with Violet, leading her off with a brisk pace. Leaving Bram alone with Miss Dalton was as dangerous as leaving him unattended in the sitting room, for his old friend didn’t only have a reputation for pocketing cigars.

He was known to steal women’s hearts as well.

The longer Ami assessed Professor Bram Webb, the more a slow smile curved her lips. Scruffy hair the colour of weak tea lay jagged against his worn collar. Whiskers that ought to be shaved shadowed the line of his jaw. The lower two buttons at the bottom of his waistcoat were missing, and the hem on his right trouser leg pulled from the seams at the outer edge. Was this what her father had looked like in his younger years? All harum-scarum and society be hanged?

Then again, she’d been accused of such on numerous occasions too.

With a jerk of his head, Professor Webb flicked back his unruly hair. “I must say, Miss Dalton, your snake-throwing skills rival those of the ancient gladiators.”

“When you grow up with a father who has a fondness for ophiology, you learn at a young age how to handle them.” She swung her hand toward the house. “Shall we go inside?”

A playful glint flashed in his grey eyes. “It seems you have a talent for not only taming serpents but the hearts of unsuspecting scholars as well. Lead on, m’lady, for I am eager to see what other surprises you have in store.”

She turned away lest he see her smile. He was a playful pup, his tone nothing like the oily flirtations of Mr. Fletcher. How many women had fallen for that handsome face and rugged charm? He could turn a girl’s head, all right. But not hers. Only one dark-haired man claimed that privilege. Perhaps she ought to introduce Professor Webb to Polly.

He fell into step beside her, matching her stride. “So you’re the Egyptologist?”

“When I’m not occupied as a snake handler, yes.”

“Apparently I’ve been stuck behind the walls of academia for too long. I wasn’t aware there were any female Egyptologists in England. How did you come by your credentials?”

Bosh! Her degree in the classics had nothing to do with all the Egyptian knowledge she’d gleaned over the years. “Hard work and a father who heads the ancient studies department at Oxford.”

“Mmm, interesting,” he murmured, then snapped his fingers. “Dalton! You’re Archer’s daughter.”

“I am.” She waited as he shoved open the door and allowed her to pass. “And my position is not as novel as you may think, Professor. Flinders Petrie, one of our most renowned Egyptologists, didn’t earn any degrees related to archaeology either. Technically, an Egyptologist is merely one who studies all things related to Egypt. Mr. Petrie’s titles are honorary, yet his reputation as a scholar is undenied.”

“Petrie.” The name rolled slowly off his tongue. “Ah yes. I believe I know the fellow. Was he the one who discovered that large cache of Roman treasures at Hawara?”

“So you have heard of him—a man without a customary formal education.” Though she really hadn’t meant to, a slight tone of vitriol slipped out with her words.

The professor held up his hands. “I meant no disrespect, Miss Dalton. In fact, it’s refreshing to find a kindred spirit who defies the expectations of society. Though I admit I am surprised to find such a comely woman in a stuffy profession like this.”

“Is that an oblique way of saying I’ve shattered your preconceived notions, sir?”

“Yes.” He grinned. “And I can’t say I like it. That’s usually my job.” His hand splayed over his chest. “But the world is full of wonder and contradictions, just like you, Miss Dalton.”

“I shall take that as a compliment coming from a man of academia. Now, would you like to see those coins?”

“Lead on.”

She strode into the workroom, and surprisingly, the professor passed right by the golden griffin without so much as a double take on the piece. Not that he’d have known about the curse, but its beauty usually drew one to it right away.

Pulling a small key from her pocket, she unlocked a safe box that Mr. Price had provided after the missing coin fiasco. She pulled out the leather pouch, then dumped the tiny cache onto the table.

He dragged over a chair and carefully scooped the coins closer to him. “That’s it. Come to papa, little ones.” He pinched a piece of the gold and held it in a ray of late afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows. His gaze was so intense, she doubted he knew she was still at his side.

“Can you value them, Professor?” She spoke low so as not to startle him.

“Can I?” He waggled his eyebrows as he set the coin down, then fingered through the rest. “Alexandrian, of course. Note the bust of the Egyptian god Serapis on some and the iconic Pharos lighthouse on others. Yet in addition to the Egyptian motifs...” He flipped over several of the gold pieces. “On a few you see the busts of Augustus and Tiberius—prominent emperors at the time—an eagle on this one and assorted Roman mythological deities on the rest. It was quite the fusion of cultures. I’d say they’re worth forty to fifty pounds.”

“That was fast. You certainly know your Roman antiquities.”

“In my case”—he cracked his knuckles—“an education at Cambridge did serve its purpose.”

Her gaze roamed the opulent room, albeit a bit cluttered with the remaining boxes to unpack. “It seems that education certainly paid off for Mr. Price as well.”

The professor clucked his tongue. “Not so much as you think. Like Flinders Petrie, he never finished his formal education.”

A frog in her soup bowl couldn’t have surprised her more. “Whyever not?”

“Ahhh.” His mouth quirked. “That’s his tale to tell.”

Unbidden, Phineas’s words of weeks ago surfaced.

“Ye remind me a great deal o’ her.”

“Her who?”

“I reckon tha’s for him to tell ye, miss.”

Ami frowned. “Evidently there are several things Mr. Price has not told me.”

“Well, you know the wealthy.” The professor slid coin after coin back into the pouch. “They hold their secrets tighter than an old dame clutching her pearls.”

Biting her lip, she turned away. First the gardener hinted at some sort of scandal involving a woman, and now Mr. Price had apparently also suffered some sort of disgrace at university. Was that what he’d meant when he’d told her he understood how difficult it was to be recognized as proficient without acceptable credentials? And then there was the supposed engagement Violet thought was in the making. What else was Mr. Price concealing? It seemed the man hid more intrigues than she did.

And she wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that, for lately she wasn’t sure she knew her own self anymore.