Page 16 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

16

Stuck. Trapped. Cornered as securely as a fox hemmed in by a ring of hounds right there in the sitting room. Edmund stood wedged between Lord Bastion, his daughter, and a fat-backed sofa. What a night. While Violet nattered on and on about who’d become engaged to whom, he debated the credits and debits of hurtling his body over the ungainly piece of furniture.

And dinner had gone no better.

Bastion wanted to talk politics. Violet about her near-death experience with the snake. He’d given Gil several reminders to slow down on the wine, and worst of all, he never should have allowed Bram to sit next to Miss Dalton, for his friend had masterfully captured her attention.

As he was now.

Making her laugh.

Flashing his crooked grin.

His knee bumping against hers where they sat in adjacent chairs near the hearth.

Envy punched Edmund in the gut. He’d much rather be the one engaged in witty banter with the brown-haired beauty. Actually, he’d rather all his guests left, and he could return to having Ami Dalton to himself.

Across the sitting room, Gil turned off a gas wall sconce. Odd, that. Even more strange when he strolled to the next and turned that one off as well.

“Eh, Price?”

He jerked his attention to the viscount, scrambling to decipher what he’d missed—and came up woefully short. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Could you repeat that?”

Bastion’s sharp eyes narrowed. “I said I should think one more day consulting about your platform ought to tie the thing up into a neat package.”

Brilliant. Another stretch of endless hours watching the man squint and sigh. Still, if boredom was the price to gain that seat in the House, it was a small cost to pay. “Yes, my lord. I look forward to it.”

Gil turned off another light. If the trend continued, they’d all be in the dark. He opened his mouth to rebuke the man, but Violet pawed at Edmund’s sleeve before he got a word out.

“How do you feel about dove grey, Edmund? Miss Dalton seems to think I ought to get your opinion.”

The question caught him off guard, diverting him from the dimming light in the room. “Why would she suggest such a thing? What were you two discussing?”

“Oh, you know. Female topics.” She fluttered her fingers in the air. “Nothing to bother you about. I daresay it was only one of her provincial ideas at any rate. We will say no more about it.”

Another light faded, this one close to Bram and Miss Dalton, leaving them in the shadows.

That did it.

“Pardon me.” He shoved his way between Violet and her father. “That’s enough with the lights, Gil. We’re hardly ready to retire yet, and besides, I have staff for such tasks when the time comes.”

Gil turned to them all, arms spread wide. “But the time is now, old man.”

“Time for what, Mr. Fletcher?” the viscount grumbled.

“A ghost story.”

“I’ve had enough scares for one day,” Violet whined.

“Come now, Miss Woolsey.” Gil swooped over to her and her father. “A good fright gets the blood flowing.”

“So does a brisk walk through a dark cemetery in the dead of night,” Ami cut in.

Bram leaned back in his chair, one long leg crossing over the other. “You speak as if you have experience, Miss Dalton.”

Laughing, she caught Edmund’s eye. “We all have our secrets.”

Now, that was unexpected. What was the woman insinuating?

“Come, come.” Gil herded the Woolseys around the sofa and practically pushed them down onto the cushions. “Let us have Miss Dalton regale us with a tale of Egyptian horror.”

She shook her head, a curl of hair breaking free of the pins and cascading over her shoulder. “I’d rather not, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Yes, let’s play charades instead.” Violet pursed her lips into a pout.

“What a perfectly stodgy idea.” Gil snorted. “No, no. We must have a haunting tale to take to bed with us. Go on, Miss Dalton.”

Her jaw stiffened, a distinct sign she was clearly irritated at Gil’s insistence. Edmund tamped down the urge to intervene, curious as to how she’d respond.

“Reducing Egyptian culture to a trivial bit of entertainment seems rather disrespectful, Mr. Fletcher. And so I once again decline.”

“Balderdash! Don’t be such a killjoy. It’s not disrespect at all, just a bit of thrilling diversion. Think of it as”—he twirled one hand in the air—“keeping their culture alive.”

“I do not think of it in such terms.” Steel sharpened her tone.

Edmund circled to the hearth, stationing himself next to Miss Dalton. “The lady has told you no, Gil. Leave her be.”

“Very well.” He spun in a circle, making eye contact with them all. “Then I shall have to tell a chilling tale of my own invention. Perhaps I’ll even pen it down later tonight and have it sent to Mr. Kane. He may pay to publish such a story of intrigue.”

Annoyance rippled on Miss Dalton’s brow. Violet scooted closer to her father, patting the cushion next to her with an arched brow at Edmund.

Oh no. He’d not get tangled in her claws again. He set his glass on the mantel, the clink of it breaking the silence. “The hour is late. Perhaps we should call it a night.”

“Oh, let the man regale us, Price.” Lord Bastion draped his arm along the back of the sofa. “It shouldn’t take that long.”

“And so it begins!” Gil clapped his hands, the report as sharp as a gunshot. Unease permeated the air, as if the very house braced itself for the impending horror story. “Once, in the heart of ancient Egypt, stood a temple. Magnificent in beauty. Lethal by design. For inside, buried deep within an unholy labyrinth, lay a sacred artifact known as the Amulet of Death.”

Miss Dalton rolled her eyes.

Edmund agreed.

Violet uttered a scared yip.

A wicked grin spread on Gil’s face, teeth white in the shadows. “And there the amulet stayed for centuries, for you see, anyone who laid hands on this trinket would be forever bound to the realm of darkness. But that didn’t stop the villainous Dr. Spencer from seeking its power. He crept through the treacherous passageways to reach the hidden chamber.” Curling his hands like claws, Gil pranced about their circle.

Edmund angled his head, studying the man, unnerved. Something wasn’t right about the twist of his partner’s mouth or the wild gaze in his eyes. Was this a mere performance, or was Gil unraveling right here in the sitting room?

“It was dark!” Gil shouted, then whispered, “so dark. And cold. Bone-chilling. Enough to leach out your soul and leave it to die alone.”

The Woolseys, Bram, even Miss Dalton seemed engrossed. Edmund shook his head slightly. He’d had no idea Gil was such a spinner of tales. The room vibrated with a macabre sort of energy, as if the taut string of reality were about to snap.

“At last Dr. Spencer came upon the golden charm and rubbed his finger over the raised skull atop it. That’s when the whispers began. Can you hear them? Listen,” he hissed.

Miss Dalton swiveled her head to Edmund, pleading in her eyes—and it pleased him that she’d sought him out to end this charade instead of Bram.

He stepped from the mantel, grabbing Gil by the arm. “Your story is over.”

Gil wrenched away, pointing a finger at each one of them in turn. “I may be finished, but remember, my friends, the moral of this story is that you must be cautious with relics that bear the weight of a troubled history, for there is a thin line between sanity and madness.”

“What a horrid tale!” Violet flounced back against the sofa, arms clutched tightly about her. “I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”

“Perfect!” Gil grinned. “Fear is a delightful companion in the night. Keeps you on your toes.” He winked. “Nevertheless, allow me to make you a drink to calm your nerves, Miss Woolsey.”

“I think turning up the lights would do so more quickly.” Edmund strode to the nearest sconce, his frustration aimed squarely at his business partner.

No sooner had the words passed his lips than Gil’s voice sliced through the air, stabbing him between the shoulder blades. “Gas lamps won’t keep out the demons, old man. As you’ll remember, Lucifer himself was an angel of light.”

Edmund reached for the gas knob, eager to banish the eerie shadows.

Yet all the while he wondered if there was more to Gil’s tale than mere fiction.

A scream blasphemed the night, yanking Ami from a deep sleep. She bolted from her bed, snatching her robe as she dashed across the room. Only she and Violet slept in this wing of the house. Was someone attacking her? Heart racing, Ami swiped up the letter opener on the desk. The silver blade was no dagger, but could anyone really tell in the dark?

She jerked open the door and ran pell-mell toward Violet’s bedchamber, gaze snagging on a dark figure at the end of the corridor. Her step hitched as she squinted into the shadows. Was that someone running off, or were her eyes playing tricks?

“Who’s there?” she called.

The only answer was another scream from Violet’s room.

She sprinted to the woman’s door and shoved it open. “Miss Woolsey? Are you all right?”

Violet’s face was a stark white against the dark counterpane that she clutched in handfuls to her chest. She panted like a frightened deer, and even from steps away, the vibration of her shivering could be seen rippling the bedclothes in the dark.

Ami sank beside her. “What happened?”

Violet stared straight ahead, eyes fixed, the whites of which were huge, her pupils tiny dots. A medicinal stink tinged her breath.

“Miss Woolsey?” Ami tried again.

Even more colour drained from Violet’s face. If she didn’t bring the woman to her senses soon, the lady would swoon dead away.

“Violet!” Grabbing hold of her arms, Ami shook her like a mouse in a cat’s maw.

With a great cry, Violet wrenched away. One of her arms snaked out from beneath the covers and raised an accusing finger, pointing across the room like the grim reaper come to call. “There. Right there!”

Hand covering the letter opener in her pocket, Ami tracked the imaginary line all the way to the closed white draperies. A dressing table graced the wall next to them. A chair. The hearth. Nothing seemed out of place.

But for good measure, she scanned the other shadowy corners before turning back to Violet. “You’ve had a bad dream, that’s all.”

“No!” She grimaced, skin taut against the bones of her face. “I saw the Amulet of Death, the black eye sockets, the grinning skull. It floated like a ghost in front of the draperies, and now I’m going to die because no one can see it and live. No one!” She yanked the covers over her head, wailing.

“Calm yourself. You and I are the only ones in here, I promise.” Ami eased down the counterpane. “Chin up, now. There is nothing to fear. I shall prove it to you, all right?”

Rising, she padded barefoot across the carpet, praying her encouragement had been true. What if someone—or something—hid behind those draperies? She eased out the letter opener, taking care to hold it from view so Violet wouldn’t go into hysterics. Moonlight crept beneath the curtains’ hem. A thin line of promise ... as long as she didn’t see the tips of any shoes bumping out along that edge. Thankfully, none did.

But she’d seen stranger things happen during a midnight relic purchase.

Wrapping her fingers around the center seam of the drapery, she tugged. Curtain rings screeched. Silver light poured in, bathing the room in an ethereal glow. The windows were shut, but just to be certain, she gave them a tug as well. Locked.

She turned back to Violet with a smile. “See? Nothing whatsoever to fear.”

But was that a lie? Had she seen a figure fleeing the scene?

Violet moaned as she buried herself deep against her pillows. “But I saw it. I know I did. I won’t live until morning. I won’t live to see my Christmas wedding!” Sobs broke, and the lady bowed her head into her hands, shoulders shaking.

Ami frowned. What was she to do about this? Her father had always comforted any stray bouts of her weeping with a mechanical pat on the head and a swift recitation of an ancient Egyptian text ... which probably wouldn’t work here.

She grabbed a nearby glass off a side table and filled it with water. “Have a drink, Miss Woolsey. It will help you feel better.”

Violet shoved away the offering without even looking at it.

Well. That’d gone over as nicely as a rousing narration of The Instructions of Amenemhat.

Ami set the glass on the bedstand. “How about I retrieve your maid and have her sit with you? I won’t be a minute.”

A hand snagged out and grabbed her robe as she passed by the bed. “No! Don’t leave me. Please. I ... I’m afraid,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t like being alone. I’m always left alone.”

A whimpering tot couldn’t have sounded more pathetic. Pity welled, thickening a lump in Ami’s throat. The lady really must be terrified to wish her to stay, and she could more than relate to having a father who was always preoccupied.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she gently pried Violet’s grip from her robe. With the hem of the fabric, she dabbed away the woman’s tears while humming “Nami, Nami,” the same Egyptian lullaby her grandmother had used to quiet her after her mother’s death.

“Mmm,” Violet murmured, eyelashes fluttering. “Pretty.”

With a light touch, she brushed back the locks of hair clinging to Violet’s sticky face—and continued to do so until the woman’s breaths evened and her eyes closed.

Rising ever so slowly, Ami tiptoed to the door. Out in the corridor, she debated a moment about turning back to her own bed, but it was probably better to alert Barnaby to summon Violet’s maid in case the woman suffered any more nightmares.

At the end of the passage—right where she thought she’d seen the figure—her toe sent something skittering against the baseboard. Bending, she plucked up a small, thin piece of curved metal, like a broken part of a spectacles frame. Odd, that, for the maids kept the floor spotless. She pocketed the item. One more thing to ask Barnaby about.

The corridor opened onto a flat landing where the grand staircase descended. Overhead, a large domed glass window bathed the area in a ghostly glow. The perfect haunt for specters, if one believed in such things. Just past the stairway at the entrance to the east wing, where the men slept, another small lump sat on the carpet trapped in a ray of moonlight.

Pausing her butler-finding mission, Ami forged ahead and collected the trinket—the other half of the curved frame. She glanced down the passageway, scanning the floor, but it was too shadowy to see very far.

She tucked the piece away with the other. None of the guests she knew wore spectacles, nor any of the staff she’d had contact with. Unless she was wrong about the source and the metal had fallen from some other contraption. But why here?

Curiosity piqued, she set off down the men’s corridor, sweeping an intent gaze from wall to wall as she went. A fruitless search. She made it all the way to the end, where a curtain billowed from an open window, flapping against a small table with a vase of red roses. If the breeze gusted any harder, that crystal container would crash and wake whoever slept behind the nearest door.

An easy fix, though. She grabbed the sash and pulled. The frame budged only an inch. Giving it a bit more muscle, she tried again, but the thing was wedged tight. Bosh! A quick coating of tallow would have made this a much easier task. This time she gave it a good valiant shove. The window plummeted.

And her elbow smacked into the vase.

Flowers flew.

Crystal shattered.

Glass glinted in the moonlight all around her feet.

Her bare feet.

Good heavens. That hadn’t gone as planned. She crouched, carefully collecting as many large shards as possible when the nearest door brushed open.

“Miss Dalton? What are you doing here?”

She glanced up, and her jaw dropped. It couldn’t be helped. Nor stopped.

For there stood Edmund Price in all his glorious manhood, bathed by moonlight. He’d donned a robe the colour of midnight, the silk accentuating the flesh—and darkly curled hair—on his chest where the material didn’t close tightly. She ought to look away, for this was far too intimate a sight.

Yet all she could do was stare.

And he stared right back.

Instant heat flamed in her cheeks. In her shift and gauzy wrap, she was garbed no more decently than him.

“Miss Dalton?” He stepped closer. “Are you all right?”

She shot up a hand, forcing her gaze to fix on his face. “Stop right there. I am fine; however, the crystal vase that was on the table is not.” Carefully rising, she held out her open palm, revealing the largest pieces she’d collected. “Step any closer and you’ll be picking out glass slivers from your feet.”

“Leave it. Mrs. Buckner can have a maid deal with the mess in the morning. I’ll not have you risk getting cut.”

“I appreciate that, truly, but I can’t very well fly past this broken glass, and I’m afraid I’ve not got any shoes on my feet.”

Humor pulled at his mouth. “It always comes down to shoes with you, eh? Wait there.”

Wheeling about, he disappeared inside his bedchamber. Surely he didn’t have a spare pair of women’s slippers in there ... did he? She set the glass pieces on the table, pondering what he might be doing.

A few moments later, he reappeared with shoes on his own feet, his heels grinding crystal into the carpet as he strode to her and slung her up in his arms. His chest was a fortress, his bare skin feverish. Or was that hers? Hard to tell, for fire licked along every nerve she owned. Such an embrace was wrong. Shameless. Forbidden. And yet as he carried her past the sharp bits littering the floor, she didn’t care. She could live in this moment, relishing the shift of his body against hers. Forget about pyramids and mummies and think only of the life they might build together.

Three long-legged steps later, he set her down, yet by God’s good grace, he did not move away. Nor did she. They stood toe to toe, breath mingling, his hands yet on her arms. His sleep-tousled hair for once as loose as hers. Promise, desire, need ... all glimmered in his eyes.

And then his gaze flicked to her lips.

“Ami?” he whispered, a thousand questions in her name.

All she had to do was rise up. Murmur a yes. Claim his of fering and feel what it was like to have that fine strong mouth pressed against hers.

A wave of yearning crashed over her, so strong it terrified her. Her! The Shadow Broker. The fearless buyer of stolen goods. Sucking in a breath, she pulled from his touch, thoroughly shaken by the effect this man had on her.

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Thank you, but I’m sure that after picking up a few more pieces of that glass, I could have safely made it through without a scratch.”

One of his brows arched. “And yet you never answered me as to how you came to be here in the first place. Why are you roaming the halls of Price House instead of tucked safely in your own bed?”

“Violet had a night terror. I thought to wake Barnaby to summon her maid.”

He cocked his head, suspicion flashing in his gaze. “Surely you know the butler’s quarters would not be on this floor.”

“Of course, but I got a little sidetracked.” She pulled out the fragments of curved metal from her pocket. “I found these on the carpet, one part in the west wing, the other at the entrance to this one. And I thought I saw a figure leaving Violet’s room shortly after her first scream.”

He glanced from the pieces to her. “Who do you think it was?”

“I don’t know. I was too preoccupied with Miss Woolsey.”

“Hmm. Clearly something is afoot.” He gathered the busted pieces of frame from her hand and slid them into a slit in his robe. “I’ll see you back to your chamber.”

Oh no, he wouldn’t. Her heart couldn’t take much more of this nighttime tryst. She shook her head. “I’m a big girl, Mr. Price, not given to flinching from shadows.”

“And yet I insist.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and set off down the corridor.

For several steps neither of them spoke, which was to her liking. She couldn’t string a sentence together without it unraveling.

“This terror of Miss Woolsey’s, what did it involve?”

“She claims she saw the Amulet of Death hovering near her draperies, which I highly doubt for I examined the area thoroughly. I’m sure it was nothing more than her mind overworking Mr. Fletcher’s story as she slept.”

His lips twisted into a smirk. “His tale was a bit much.”

“Indeed. He doesn’t seem like quite the right business partner for you.”

“Oh?” His gaze traveled her face as they walked. “And who would you choose for me?”

Anyone but that unstable fellow. She bit back the saucy retort. Still, it was a fair question, one she mulled over as they left the corridor for the expanse of the staircase landing. “I should think you’d need someone who is more unwavering. Someone discreet. A partner who is a truly hard worker.”

“Add in beautiful and you’ve got the job, for you are all those things.” He winked.

He was flirting, of course, but all the same she stowed the words away in her heart to revisit as she went to sleep. “I am already in your employ, Mr. Price.”

“One of my best business decisions. I may purchase another load of Egyptian antiquities just to keep you on.” He grinned, and in the soft moonlight drifting down from the dome window, she couldn’t imagine any man more handsome.

Bosh! Better not to wander down that lane of thinking. She gave herself a mental shake. “I thought you were heading to London, Mr. Price.”

“Please, I think we have moved beyond such formalities. Call me Edmund.” He patted her hand in the crook of his arm, his touch warm against her skin. “And I have a big town house in the city. A simple word to the renovators and the entire third floor would fit you and some crates very nicely.”

She stifled a snort. “I daresay Miss Woolsey would not approve of such an arrangement, nor would she appreciate me using your Christian name.”

“Miss Woolsey’s opinions matter naught to me.”

Pulling away, she faced him before they strode down the corridor to her room. The need to finally sort out his relationship with Violet pounded stronger with each beat of her heart. “May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Price?”

“Hmm. That could be dangerous.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What would you like to know?”

She curled her toes into the carpet. It wasn’t too late to back out. She could come up with a different query.

And yet she forged ahead. “Are you intending to pursue Miss Woolsey as your bride?”

He laughed, a merry sound in the dark, if not a little bitter. “Does she not seem like quite the right partner for me either?”

Ami shook her head. “Not at all.”

“Who do you think I should marry, then?”

Me.

Egad! Where had that bold thought come from?

Banishing the impetuous musings, she tossed back her shoulders. “I think you must find someone who is kind yet not soft as pudding, for I don’t think you’d admire a spineless woman. You need a lady able to keep your keen mind engaged. The future Mrs. Price should be a champion of your ambitions while also holding tightly to her own, for you wouldn’t esteem a wife who is a mere shadow of yourself. And of course, you must marry someone full of surprises, for you have intrigues of your own.”

“Again, add in beautiful, and you’ve once more described yourself.” The words traveled on a husky breath, the gleam in his eyes suddenly primal.

Her hands flew to her cheeks. “I never meant to insinuate such a thing.”

“What if I did?” He stepped closer, and once more they stood nose to nose in the night. “I know I don’t compare to a cloth-wrapped corpse, but could you— would you—consider a man such as me to spend the rest of your life with?”

Was he jesting? In a heartbeat she would! But was he truly offering, or was this just a game to him? Her jaw stiffened. “I would turn that question back to you, Mr. Price. I am no socialite.”

“No, there is so much more to you than that.”

The heat of his gaze. The subject they danced around. This was perilous ground, far more daunting than a back-alley deal gone bad.

Footsteps raced up the stairs. They turned in unison as Barnaby dashed toward them.

“Sir,” the butler puffed. “A doctor must be sent for at once.”

“Why?” Edmund stepped away from her, angling a bit, as if his body could block her from whatever ill tidings Barnaby carried. “What’s happened?”

“Two of the staff members have fallen ill.” Even in the dim light the distinct bob of the butler’s Adam’s apple could be seen. “ Deathly ill.”