Page 22 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

22

Setting down his pen, Edmund leaned back in his chair. Late morning light filtered into the study, exposing dust motes hovering in the air. Most of the staff had recovered from the bout of influenza, but not all ... and when they did, he’d request a thorough cleaning of Price House.

His gaze drifted back to the words he’d scrawled on the notepad.

What soft lite doth brake be-ond,

At donning, a yonning, a yell-oh howr,

In yor eyes, my wurld’s reborn,

New promis, new luv, for-ever sworn.

He smiled. This was nearly as dramatic as the Egyptian story Ami had written. Had her tale influenced his thoughts? But no. He sucked in a breath. She had influenced him. She filled every crack and crevice of his mind, and this poem—God help him—was not only about her, it was for her.

He grabbed the pen and slashed a thick black line through the words. There wasn’t a chance in all creation he’d ever go through that sort of humiliation again.

A knock rapped on the frame of his open door. Professor Dalton peeked in his head, his explosion of grey hair looking as if he’d just been struck by lightning. “I wonder if I might have a word, Mr. Price? Shouldn’t take long.”

“Absolutely. Come in.” He rose slightly, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “I was going over the tally from yesterday. It’s quite impressive.”

“As is your collection.” The professor chuckled while he sat. “I don’t think you realize what an exceptional lot of antiquities you’ve purchased.”

He stifled a snort. “So I’ve been told several times.”

“Oh good. Then it should be no surprise when I advise you those relics must be returned to the Egyptian people.”

This time he did snort. “I’ve been told that as well.”

“Excellent.” Shoving his hand into his coat pocket, the professor pulled out a calling card and shoved it across the desk. “Here you are.”

Edmund collected the offering, skimming the sparse information.

Mahmoud Ali, 27 Al-Muizz Street, Cairo

He angled his head at the professor. “What’s this?”

A distinct twinkle lit the man’s hazel eyes. “The fellow to handle your donation.”

He grinned. Ami’s father was as presumptuous as his daughter. “I’m afraid I cannot simply give away the collection.”

“Not to worry. Mahmoud will connect you with the Cairo Museum. I’m certain they will pay handsomely once they learn of the rarity of these findings.”

Handsomely? That was a matter of opinion. Though to be expected from a scholar who spent more time buried in books than in ledgers.

Sensing this conversation could take a turn for the worse, Edmund picked up a pencil and twirled it around. “I’ve already checked into that, Professor. The museum is not able to offer as much as the interested buyer I already have here in England.”

“I see.” He pursed his lips exactly as Ami might have. “Yet there are things in life that hold more value than money.”

“Agreed.” He flipped the pencil again. “But still, you must concede there is no getting around the fact that one needs money to survive in this world.”

“Pardon my boldness, Mr. Price, but after enjoying your hospitality these past few days, it appears you are doing more than surviving .”

So that’s where Ami got her cheek. He grinned. “By God’s grace, yes, I have had a measure of success.”

Sinking back in his chair, leather squeaking, the professor steepled his fingers. “I wonder if you have considered the legal and ethical ramifications of selling looted artifacts to private parties. Engaging in such a practice not only undermines the integrity of archaeological sites but also fuels illicit activities and damages the nation’s cultural heritage. Those items, sir, belong to Egypt and its peoples. Or at the very least, in a museum where the masses can and should appreciate them.”

His grin grew. “You sound like your daughter.”

The professor sighed. “Which brings me to my next point of topic.”

The pencil stilled in his hand. “Your daughter?”

“Indeed. Tell me, Mr. Price.” He tapped his fingertips together. “What are your intentions toward Amisi?”

Now there was a dangerous question. He set the pencil down lest it snap from the sudden wariness tightening his muscles. “What do you mean?”

“I may have only been here two days, but I’ve noticed the way you look at her, and more importantly, how she responds to you. She’s never given a man a second glance before. I hope you do not take that lightly.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before. Fathers here and in India had often informed him of their daughters’ affection for him. But this time, with this father, the words breached his wall of defense.

Rising, he strode to the window and looked out, unseeing. Too many thoughts vied for attention. Too many emotions thickened his throat. Better that the professor did not witness such a struggle.

At length, he murmured, “I regard your daughter in very high esteem, sir. She is bright, confident, able to stand her ground when challenged, and beneath that eccentric exterior of hers beats a rather soft heart. So, yes, Professor, I am honoured she considers me worth a second look.”

“Honoured?” The word shot out like a cannonball. “Is that all?”

Hardly. Not if that poem he’d been working on was any indication. And yet could she be happy living the social life in London tied to an MP? Was it fair of him to ask her to give up her dream of digging about in the sands of Egypt? Sadly, he shook his head. “What more would you have me say?”

“I would have you say you love the woman, for clearly she is smitten by you.”

He closed his eyes, and against his better judgment, savored the declaration.

“Well, Price?”

The professor was persistent, he’d give him that. Inhaling deeply, he donned his businessman mask. A cowardly retreat, perhaps, but the safest route for now. He’d do what he could to protect her—and himself—from heartache and disappointment, for well did he know those were the trappings of love.

He strolled back to his chair and met the man’s gaze, choosing to handle the remainder of this discussion as if it were a deal to be negotiated. “I cannot deny I care deeply for your daughter.”

The professor scooted to the edge of his chair, eyes narrowed, studying him so hard that Edmund wouldn’t be surprised at all if he whipped out his magnifying glass. “No, Mr. Price, I sense there is more to your feelings than mere care. The ques tion is, Are you man enough to admit it not only to yourself but to Amisi?”

By all that was right and good, was he ready for that step? To become vulnerable to a woman again? To open himself up to complete destruction? True, Ami was no Louisa, but loving anyone was risky.

He plowed his fingers through his hair, wishing now he’d kept his study door shut. “You give me much to think about, Professor Dalton.”

“As is a professor’s wont.” The man stood, the many lines on his face softening. “I have made the mistake of putting my profession ahead of personal relationships, and I’m afraid I’m too old now to change my ways. You have many years ahead of you. Don’t do the same. Woo Amisi. Pursue her. You will not find a finer woman, and she deserves to be cherished. God knows I’ve done a poor enough job in that department.”

Wheeling about, he strode away, leaving the haunting words behind.

“Woo her.”

“Pursue her.”

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. He did love her, God help him, but even admitting that to himself drained the life out of his bones. As a young lad he’d loved his father, only to have it thrown back in his face in front of the family for being such a disappointment. He’d loved his mother as well, and she’d loved him right back, but a tragic fall down some stairs had ended that relationship when he’d been but eight years old. He’d also loved learning despite all the jumbled letters and strain to comprehend, and that had ended with a humiliating dismissal from school. And then there’d been Louisa. Opening himself up to that woman had stripped him of any shred of pride. Then again, Ami wasn’t his father, his headmaster, nor a grasping, arrogant woman.

And she owned his heart as none of them ever had.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Could he overcome the scars of the past to pursue her as her father suggested? Should he?

Another knock on the door was followed by Barnaby’s rather pale visage entering with a paper in hand. “A message for you, sir.”

Edmund rose to meet him. “Thank you.”

The familiar header of a telegram from Lord Bastion scrolled across the top. He skipped to the content.

Dinner and dance at my London town house next Saturday. Arrive on Friday. Time for the big announcement.

Once again he strolled to the window, this time with a smile curving his lips. With the election happening in just shy of a month, it was more than time to publicly announce his run.

And more than anything, he wished Ami to be at his side when the declaration was made.

Ami put all her angst into rubbing the last bit of shine onto the hind leg of an ebony statue of Bastet, still shaken from last night’s encounter with Mr. Brudge and his associate’s knife. She’d never come so close to getting seriously hurt. And it was even more humiliating that it’d been such a ragtag operator who’d gotten the jump on her. Either she’d grossly underestimated him, or she was losing her touch.

Puffing out a breath, she surveyed the cache of relics she’d cleaned the past hour. Five clay figurines. An alabaster jar. A lovely ankh pendant, and ten pieces belonging to what must’ve been an extraordinary game of hounds and jackals. Amazing how much work one could get done when agitated—leastwise for her. Farther down the table, her father yet brushed at the same small Isis amulet.

An item he’d finished yesterday.

She set down her cleaning cloth. “All right, Father. Out with it.”

“Out with what?” He spoke without sparing her a glance.

“Any more work on that amulet and there’ll be nothing left. You’ve been agitated ever since you returned from your morning constitutional. Whom did you cross paths with while on your walk?” Couldn’t have been Phineas. Despite his penchant for asking any warm body to help him with a task, he was a delightful old soul who wouldn’t put anyone in a foul mood. Actually, most of the staff were pleasant. She nibbled the nail on her pinky, thinking hard until an idea hit. “Let me guess, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Bah! I don’t take anything that man says seriously.” He glanced at her sideways, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Personally, I think he’s got one too many bats in his belfry.”

True. The man was a bit unhinged at times, but that didn’t explain her father’s sudden obsession with the amulet. “Well, if it’s not Mr. Fletcher, then what has got you so preoccupied? And don’t try to deny it.” She aimed a finger at him. “I know your penchant for fixating on an object when you’re deep in thought.”

“Too smart for your own good,” he muttered as he set down his brush. “The truth is, I didn’t take my usual outside stroll. Instead, I stopped by Mr. Price’s study. I thought to have a word with him about these antiquities.”

Her lips twisted into a smirk. “So that’s what did it.”

His brow furrowed into lines deep enough to plant oats. “You know as well as I do where these relics belong.”

“Of course I do, Father.” She pulled out some fresh squares of cotton and began wrapping the game pieces. It was either that or flail her hands in the air. “But don’t be too hard on Mr. Price. He has good reason to sell to the highest bidder.”

“There can be no good reason.”

“Normally I’d agree with you, but in this instance, I’m afraid I must side with Mr. Price.”

Her father planted his fist on the tabletop, knocking his brush to the floor. “I taught you better than that.”

True. He had. But after all Edmund’s talk about Sanjay, she couldn’t bear the thought of his family plummeting into poverty, starvation, and ultimately death. She shook her head. “It’s not my place to share Mr. Price’s business, but trust me, there is a lot at stake if his cargo doesn’t bring in a fair amount of money.”

Her father snorted. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were more enamored with a man than with artifacts.”

She’d never thought so either, and yet here it was. Heart sold to a businessman of all things.

But that wasn’t the point.

She wrapped the last game piece, then shifted in her chair to meet her father’s gaze squarely. “It’s not a matter of being enamored. It’s about understanding the complexities of life and the hard choices we sometimes have to make. As much as I love history and these relics, I do believe that current life and relationships must be given priority. There has to be a balance between preserving the past while existing in the present, else are we truly living? Somehow, Father—and don’t ask me to explain this—but sometimes I feel my purpose is evolving and the relics are only a part of a much larger story. I just don’t know what that story is yet.”

Or if it involved a certain blue-eyed man.

His lips parted, several times, as if words would not come out.

Well. That was new. The great Professor Dalton at a loss for what to say? And was that, perhaps, a glimmer of admiration sparking in those hazel eyes of his?

He leaned back in his chair, a slight shake to his head. “Have you been studying philosophy in your spare time?”

“I hardly have time for such trifles.” She grinned.

“Speaking of time, how did you manage to talk Miss Grimbel into letting you take off so many days?”

“Oh. That.” She cleared her throat, stalling. She’d supposed the topic would come up sooner or later, but she’d dearly hoped for later ... as in never. “I, em, I’m not currently employed by her anymore.”

“Oh, Amisi.” A sigh deflated him. “I am running out of schools to recommend you to. First there was the live scarab fiasco at St. Winifred’s Academy.”

“That’s not fair,” she shot back. “How was I to know there was a hole in the box?”

“Then there was your Cleopatra Day in which henna and kohl stained half the school’s uniforms at Rosewood Hall.”

“I never should have trusted those girls. Delinquents. Every last one of them.”

“And Ivybrook Institute, that was just...” He shook his head, disgust pinching his lips.

“You have to admit that an archaeological dig in the school garden was a clever way to give the girls a hands-on experience.”

“The gardener was not amused, as I recall. Nor was the gas company when you nicked a pipe.”

“It was only a small explosion. No one got hurt.”

He plowed his hands through his hair, fluffing the wild ends into complete chaos. “I suppose that is water under the bridge at this point. Tell me what happened at Miss Grimbel’s.”

“All I did was bring in a mummified cat. For all the hubbub, you’d have thought I’d brought in a fresh corpse from a body snatcher. She dismissed me shortly after you left for your dig, and I didn’t want to ruin your trip with such news. I intended to tell you when you returned.”

“So if you haven’t been teaching, what have you been—no.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “You’ve been restocking the Ashmolean with new items, haven’t you? I told you before I left there was to be no more shadow brokering!”

His voice bounced off the workroom walls.

Oh dear. This was going about as well as her meeting with Brudge last night. She stifled a cringe. “I know, Father, but I also know that had you been here, you would have wished for the relics Mr. Dandrae had come by to go to the museum.”

“Hmm. Maybe so...” He blew out a long breath. “But one of these times, Amisi, you’re going to cross the wrong man. It is a dangerous game you play, especially as a woman.”

Unbidden, her fingertips fluttered to her throat—right where the cold metal of a blade had nearly taken her life. A shudder ran down her backbone. “You’re right.”

His jaw hardened to granite. “Then give me your word you’re done with such risky business.”

Truly she ought to be, especially after last night’s threat. But next time Mr. Dandrae contacted her with a valuable find that deserved a home in a museum, would she truly have the gumption to turn him down?

“Amisi?” her father prodded. “I would have your word here and now on the matter.”

She dipped her head. “I—”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Edmund’s deep voice turned both her and her father’s heads. “But I have a rather urgent question.”

“Sounds dire,” her father rumbled.

“On the contrary.” Edmund glanced at the artifacts spread on the table. “Though on seeing this progress, I suspect your answer will be more than satisfactory.” His gaze flicked between her father and her. “I am wondering how much longer it will take the two of you to finish the artifacts.”

“I’d say maybe a week more, if that.” She arched a brow at her father.

He nodded. “We should be able to complete the valuations by next Friday.”

“Excellent. That’s when I must leave.” Edmund gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “And I should very much like you to accompany me, both of you, that is.”

She angled her head, noting the boyish gleam in his eyes. “Where to?”

“Lord Bastion is ready to announce my candidacy, so London it is.”

Blast that woman! Blast her smug smile. Her snobby little nose. And especially blast that starchy look of hers tagging him as naught but a scabby bufflehead. Brudge tossed back his gin and slammed the glass onto the countertop, earning a cross look from the barkeep.

Scupper scratched behind his ear, wincing from the jostle to his jaw. “Seems to me we’re but two foxes scamperin’ after the moon. That prize is outta our reach. So what we gonna do, guv’ner?”

Exactly. What was he to do? He couldn’t very well break into that fine manor home and crack a safe, not with armed men patrolling the place. A belch rose, and he pounded his chest, heartburn lighting a fire up to his throat. Only one week remained to pay off Wormwell. Seven days to raise more money than had dribbled through his fingers in the past year.

He never ever should have signed a contract with that devil. Never should have tried to deal with ...

A deal?

Hmm.

Now there was a thought.

He shot to his feet, then grabbed the counter to keep from toppling. “Come on, Scupper. Time to move.”

Scupper drained the rest of his drink, then swiped his hand across his thick lips. “Where we goin’, guv’ner?”

“London. Time to negotiate a new pact with ol’ Wormwell.”