Page 24 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

24

Right there in the viscount’s breakfast room, God smiled. So did Edmund. And why not? Last evening, Miss Woolsey had begged off early with a headache, which had given him time alone with Ami as he’d walked her to her room after dinner. Today, Gil was scheduled to sell the Egyptian collection to Mr. Harrison as per Edmund’s instructions in the contract they’d finalized before he’d left town. Tonight, Lord Bastion would publicly announce his sponsorship for Edmund’s political run. And here in this moment, Ami stood at his side, pouring him a cup of Darjeeling.

Indeed. Life couldn’t be any better.

Setting down the teapot, Ami peered up at him while handing him his tea. “Are you ready for the big announcement this evening? It will be a life-changing event, I should imagine.”

“Of course he is ready, aren’t you?” Violet swept through the breakfast room door and entwined her arm with his—which jostled the tea in his cup.

He frowned at the liquid on his shoe. “I’d like to think I’m prepared.”

Ami snatched a cloth from the sideboard, then bent and swiped away the offense. Thoughtful on her part—endearing, actually—but far too humbling a stance ... especially in front of Miss Woolsey.

He pulled away from Violet and guided Ami upright with a light touch to her elbow. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“No trouble at all.” She smiled as she set the soiled cloth onto the sideboard.

Violet merely scowled. “We have servants for that, you know.”

Undaunted, Ami grinned at her as well. “I trust you are feeling better this morning, Violet?”

“Much, but even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t miss tonight’s big event were I at death’s door.” Once again she coiled her arm through his.

And once again he pulled away. Had the viscount not yet spoken to his daughter about his refusal to marry her? The man had had plenty of time to do so ... unless Edmund was wrong and this was some sort of way for Violet to intimidate Ami. Which of course wouldn’t work. A mummy come to life wouldn’t daunt Ami.

He faced Violet. “Did your father have a chance to speak with you about our agreement, or lack of one, I should say?”

“La.” She flicked her fingers. “Father always drones on about everything, which can be very tedious at times.”

He studied her a moment, trying to decipher such a cryptic answer.

“Well, I am famished. Shall we join my father?” Ami tipped her head toward the table.

Whatever Violet had meant, now was not the time for further discussion. He’d have to quiz her later—if there was time. He took the place setting at the foot of the table, Violet at his right and Ami sitting at his left, next to the professor.

Her father eyed him while slathering jam onto his toast. Though no doubt the fellow had every toiletry London could offer as a courtesy in his guest room, the man’s hair had yet to meet with a comb. “As you know, Price, I stopped by the Brit ish Museum yesterday. A providence, that, for just this morning I received word my friend—the curator of the Egyptian collection—had dinner last night with the director. He’s very interested in your artifacts and may be able to offer a higher sum than your Mr. Harrison.”

Edmund reached for his own piece of toast from the rack on the table. “I appreciate the effort you went to on my account, Professor, but I am sure Mr. Fletcher will close the deal today—if he hasn’t already.”

“That would be a shame.” Ami’s father took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could send a telegram to confirm the sale? And if the deal hasn’t been finalized, then send another one to delay it?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid the time for negotiations is finished.”

“Such dull conversation!” Violet rapped her knuckles on the table, then smiled at Ami—a little too felinely for his liking. Clearly she was up to something.

“Your gown, Ami?” she purred.

“Oh dear.” Ami dipped her chin, glancing at her bodice. “Have I spilled something?”

“No, darling. I meant I should like to hear about what you are wearing to the dance tonight.”

Aha. So Violet was trying to bully Ami, and it pleased him far too much when Ami merely dished a large spoonful of scrambled eggs onto her plate, completely impervious to the wiles of the viscount’s daughter.

Ami enjoyed a bite before facing Violet. “Oh, my mistake. I brought my best gown. It’s green, mostly. Though I suppose the trim isn’t. Nor is the sash. Neither are the sleeves, come to think of it.” She scooped another forkful yet allowed it to hover over her plate. “At any rate, it really is a dazzler. I got rid of the traditional bustle and added a peacock feather arrangement at the back, cascading from waist to hem.”

Edmund’s gaze immediately shot to Violet’s face, and he wasn’t disappointed. She looked positively nauseous. Just wait until she saw Ami in the fabric creation with her own eyes. He stifled a grin with his serviette.

Violet cleared her throat. “I thought as much, which is why I have a little gift for you.” Raising her hand, she wiggled her index finger.

The footman stationed near the door stepped briskly to her side, giving her a little bow. “How may I be of service, miss?”

“Please see that my maid delivers my lemon-yellow gown to Miss Dalton’s room.”

Lemon yellow? Edmund’s gaze drifted to Ami. She hated anything to do with lemons.

To her credit, she didn’t fuss. She merely shook her head. “Thank you, but there is no need.”

“I insist. A memento of our friendship, if you will. Besides, you do want to look your best tonight, don’t you?”

So that was her game. Knock Ami emotionally off-center. A ruthless business move he’d witnessed by more than one unscrupulous capitalist. He set down his half-eaten toast, appetite fleeing at Violet’s underhandedness. “I am sure whatever Miss Dalton has brought along will suit her very nicely, and I for one am eager to see it.”

Violet grabbed her teacup, lips folded into a sneer.

Like daughter, like father, for in swept the viscount, a thundercloud darkening his brow. He slapped a folded newspaper onto the white linen tablecloth in front of Violet, rattling the dishes.

“Father! Such atrocious behaviour.”

“You may not think so when you see the front page.” He stabbed the paper with his index finger.

Interesting. What had Miss Woolsey done to earn such censure? She was her father’s little princess. As she picked up the Times , Edmund was tempted to lean aside and glance at the headline along with her. Judging by the widening of her eyes and sudden pallor on her face, though, he kept his distance. It never paid to step between two fighting dogs, and this promised to be a sharp-toothed tangle. The very walls of the room seemed to hold their breath.

Violet’s chest rose and fell in increasing succession, each huff gaining in intensity, until she whacked the paper every bit as violently against the table as her father had.

She turned a gangrenous eye not at the viscount, but at him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Her voice rang shrill, inducing winces from Ami and her father. She shoved the newspaper toward Edmund, faceup, where a photograph of Ami wrapped in his arms stared back at them all, followed by a banner that punched him in the gut.

Love at Last for Oxford’s Most Eligible Bachelor?

Ami’s fork clattered to her plate as her gaze locked onto the image of her caught up in Edmund’s embrace. Her hair was half-loose, caressing his face like a wanton hussy. Her cheek practically pressed against his. Of course the photographer had chosen to crop out her runaway hat they’d both been reaching for and omitted the way her foot had slipped from the step in the process. The angle made the innocent and rather gallant save on Edmund’s part look like a torrid love affair right there in front of the train. Heat burned a trail up her neck. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear she and Edmund were lovers of the most shameful variety.

And worse, deep down, she wished it were so. Oh, not the shameful part, but she longed to hear words of love whispered from his lips.

Her father looked at her askance—and she couldn’t blame him.

“Amisi?” It was more of an indictment than a query.

Her throat closed at the disappointment weighting his brow. All her life she’d tried to please this man only to have let him down yet again. Would that she could just slide off her chair and hide beneath the table, but that would only endorse the incriminating photo.

Inhaling for courage, she faced her father head-on. “That picture is not as it seems. The truth of the moment is far from what the photograph depicts.”

“Then what is the truth?” Lord Bastion boomed, his voice rattling the breakfast room’s windowpanes. “What are my daughter and I to believe, Miss Dalton?”

She sank in her chair, all her hard-won bravery fleeing. No wonder this man was one of the most powerful in Parliament. He could intimidate the Queen herself.

Edmund leaned closer to the table. “All that happened, my lord, was an ill-timed gust of wind that caught Miss Dalton’s hat. She lunged for it, as did I. In my haste, I knocked her off-balance. I merely righted her and saved her bonnet, nothing more. You know the press. Always printing the most sensational front pages to drive up sales.”

“It is sensational!” Violet wailed. All eyes turned toward her as she expertly flourished a white handkerchief, her tears sprouting faster than she could dab them away. “Edmund, how could you?”

Violet’s dramatic sobbing seemed to flow like a well-practiced performance. It was as if she relished the opportunity to be the center of attention, basking in all the tragedy and drama of the moment.

But even so, Ami softened her tone. “Mr. Price is a gentleman, Violet. You’ve said so yourself. Do you really think he’d behave in such a lurid fashion right there in front of God and country?”

“I-I should hope not!” She sniffled like a tot.

Lord Bastion shook his head. “Good intentions or not, that photograph is scandalous and blasted poor timing.”

Ami swallowed the lump in her throat. He was right. It was an indecent display that was likely even now making the rounds on breakfast tables across the city. This would most definitely not look good for Edmund’s candidacy announcement tonight, and all because she’d not taken the time to stitch that horrid little red ribbon. Hopefully her lack of domesticity wouldn’t ruin his chances to get elected.

Though it took every ounce of pluck she could muster, she faced Lord Bastion. “I would be happy, my lord, to go to the Times and explain the situation. Surely they can run a retraction.”

His sharp eyes narrowed on her. “You have done quite enough already, Miss Dalton.”

“Now see here, Lord Bastion, I understand your frustration for I am every bit as incensed.” Tossing down his serviette, Edmund rose and rested his hand protectively at the back of her chair. “But taking it out on Miss Dalton is unacceptable. I claim full responsibility for the situation and will do whatever it takes to mitigate the damage that photograph may have caused.”

“It’s already out there, Price. Your status has taken a hit. There is nothing to be done for it.”

“But, Father!” Violet sobbed. “What about my reputation?”

And there it was. The real reason for her tears, just as Ami suspected. The woman cared more for herself than she did about Edmund.

Shoving down her irritation, Ami attempted to paste on an encouraging smile. “All will be well, Violet. Things like this blow over.”

“That’s easy for you to say, stuffed away with your relics like a hermit.” She slumped in her chair. “I’m the one who shall have to bear the gossip.”

“I don’t see why,” Edmund cut in. “You’re not the one in the picture.”

“You don’t understand,” Violet wailed.

Ami tried hard not to roll her eyes. “You’re stirring a tempest in a teapot. Every onlooker who witnessed that mishap when I stepped off the train can attest to the fact that Mr. Price was reaching for my hat, not for me.”

“The point is, Miss Dalton”—the viscount swept up the newspaper and waved it in the air—“my daughter should not have to listen to any vicious rumours.”

“Nor should mine have to bear your censure, my lord.” Next to Ami, her father calmly reached for another piece of toast. “I agree it was an unfortunate event, but surely a few well-placed words from you to your guests tonight can right the whole situation. You hold more sway than the Times , do you not?”

“Hmm,” Edmund rumbled behind her. “The professor raises a valid point. Your reputation and influential position can greatly impact public opinion, especially since you’ve invited the most esteemed of society for tonight’s announcement. If we both address this article openly and honestly, it will show I run a campaign of the highest integrity.”

“It could do...” Lord Bastion murmured as he stroked his chin. “Perhaps we can use this to our advantage.” He wheeled about, calling over his shoulder as he strode away, “Come, Price. We have much to discuss.”

Edmund gave her shoulder a little squeeze an instant before following the man. “Excuse me, ladies, Professor.”

The moment the two men disappeared out the door, Violet tucked away her handkerchief and stood as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “I shall take my leave also. One must look one’s best for tonight’s festivities. You would do well to take a care with your appearance, Miss Dalton, for the highest of society will be in attendance tonight.” She flounced away.

Ami watched her go. Apparently they were no longer on a first-name basis.

“It’s been an eventful morning,” her father commented as he reached for the jam jar. “I cannot help but wonder what tonight will bring.”

“Indeed.” Pushing back her chair, she stood. Her father may yet have an appetite, but hers was ruined. “I suppose I shall do as Violet asks and prepare my gown, which, come to think of it, I should have hung up last night.”

Her father chuckled, toast crumbs flying from his lips. “You always were better at deciphering hieroglyphics than managing your wardrobe.”

Of course she was. Without a mother to teach her, what did she know of pretty garments and such niceties? Oh, Grandmother had tried during the summers she’d stayed with her while Father was on a dig, but she’d never truly been interested. She’d much rather don her work apron and lose herself in returning an ancient artifact to its former glory.

She ascended the staircase to her room, and the instant she opened the door, she pressed a hand to her stomach. There, lounging on the bed in front of her, was a gown of the most horrid lemon hue. She didn’t know much about fashion, but that monstrosity surely couldn’t be considered comely in any sense of the word.

“Pardon me, miss.”

She turned to the maid’s voice. “Yes?”

A slim lady in a spotless black gown and starched white apron stood in the doorway, a silver tray extended with a single envelope on it. “For you, miss.”

“Thank you.” Ami collected the missive, her brow bunching as she recognized Mr. Dandrae’s penmanship on the front. A bit smudgy, but his nonetheless. Odd that he’d send her a message here in London. How had he even known where she’d be?

A chill traveled across her shoulders. Had Mr. Dandrae had her followed? Did he keep such close surveillance on all of his sellers and purchasers?

Despite her sudden doubts of the man, she hurried over to the writing desk and slit the seal with a silver letter opener, then held the card inside up to the light.

Rare canopic jars holding the remains of Akhenaten.

Five hundred pounds. Tonight. Nine o’clock.

Angel Alley. Whitechapel.

She sucked in a breath. No wonder he’d taken the time and effort to track her down. This was more than important! Akhenaten was one of the most mysterious and enigmatic of all the pharaohs. If she could acquire those jars, what a gem that would be for the Ashmolean. As impressive as the golden griffin. But tonight of all nights?

She deflated into the chair. Of course she couldn’t go. Not with Edmund’s big announcement, one he’d specifically asked her to attend. He valued her. He’d said as much. Leaning aside, she dropped the envelope and the card into the small wastebasket.

Being there for him in the present was more important than chasing a relic of the past.