Page 3 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

3

Of all the hallowed halls and prestigious libraries dotting the many Oxford campuses, the stairwell down to the archives ranked highest on Ami’s list of loves. Well, not so much the stairwell, perhaps, but the thought of retrieving a little piece of her father. Though he be a continent away, once she laid eyes on one of his old journals, she’d hear his voice loud and clear in every scrawled word.

Smiling at the thought, she had nearly cleared the last step when her ankle slipped sideways. She grabbed the railing just in time to avoid a nasty fall. What in the world? She bent to examine her left boot. A hairline crack fissured where the heel and sole met. Bother. These old balmorals would either have to be fixed or tossed in the dustbin. Yet neither option would do for the moment. She’d simply walk with more care until she could return home.

That settled, she shoved open the door to the University of Oxford record vault, where a ray of sunshine smiled at her from a massive desk. Clerk Polly Watkins never failed to dazzle everyone with her brilliant grin. Quite the contrast in this dimly lit crypt of files.

Ami approached the desk. “Good day, Polly.”

“It’s always a good day to see you, miss.” She squinted, and a bouquet of little creases fanned out at the corners of her eyes. “Though I wonder if others will be of the same opinion.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Rising, Polly reached for Ami’s hat. “For one, your boater is on all knurly. The bow goes on the side, goose, not the front. And then there’s the whole matter of what some might consider an indecency.”

Ami snapped a look downward. Sure enough, her bodice bulged out most unseemly where she’d missed putting a button into a hole, and her white shift showed through the gap. Bosh! With quick fingers, she righted the wrong, then tipped her head triumphantly. “There we are. All shipshape.”

“True,” Polly drawled, a flash of mischief lightening the deep blue in her eyes. “Yet I cannot help but wonder if you dressed in the dark.”

Ami scrunched her nose. Either Polly was making a jest she couldn’t understand, or there really was something wrong with her garments. “What could possibly make you say such a thing?”

“This.” Polly circled her hand in the air, indicating Ami’s figure from collar to hem. “Your bodice is embroidered with yellow and purple thread, that chemisette is red and green plaid, you’ve embellished it all with a striped chartreuse overskirt, and—” She narrowed her eyes on Ami’s feet. “Ami Dalton, are you wearing one brown boot and the other black?”

Huh. How had she not detected such a faux pas when she’d taken note of her wobbly heel? “Unfortunately, yes.” She smoothed her hands along her skirt. “But it’s a matter soon to be righted. The black boot and its mate are going to the cobbler the moment I can manage it.”

“Oh, my friend, what is the world to do with you?” Laughter, light as a summer rain, bubbled out of Polly while she doubled back to her desk chair. She plopped down, then planted her elbow on the tabletop and her chin on the heel of her hand. “Just imagine the man you could catch if you took a care with your looks.”

What fiddle-faddle. If a man cared only about her outward appearance, then she most decidedly did not want him. And she had yet to meet a man who didn’t. How her mother had managed to find her father had truly been a miracle, for as far as she knew, he was the only exception to the rule. It would have to be a very special man indeed to not only put up with her eccentricities but value them as well. She doubted such a fellow even existed, and as such, marriage seemed a distant prospect, overshadowed by the grandeur of someday leading a dig of her own.

But even so, she straightened her sleeve hems, now overly conscious about every aspect of her attire. “Actually, Polly, what I want is a particular journal of my father’s to price a recent find.”

The cluck of Polly’s tongue echoed from stack to stack in the big room. “So you’ve been at it again, have you? It was an ill-fated day when you met Mr. Dandrae at that art auction, I tell you. He ought not be enticing you from your home while your father is out of the country. Speaking of which, what will your father say about you taking such risks in his absence?”

“He needn’t know. Besides”—she shrugged—“I am always careful.”

“Not careful enough with your face paint, though. That’s quite the bruise you’ve got there.” The slim little clerk aimed a finger at Ami’s cheek.

Unbidden, her hand flew to her face, adding to the indictment. Evidently all the pains she’d taken with cosmetics before she’d left the house hadn’t hidden last night’s blow. And she still had a bit of a headache to contend with.

Polly shook her head. “Your fascination with ancient artifacts is turning into quite the star-crossed love affair. It’s consuming you, goose, to your detriment. If Miss Grimbel sees that blemish, you’ll be dismissed, and then what will you do?”

Ami dropped her hand, her lips twisting wryly. “Too late.”

A snort riffled Polly’s lips. “What did you do now?”

It was a fair question—if not a familiar one. Polly knew her long history of disappointing the headmistress of Grimbel’s School of Conduct and Comportment. Ami tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted my girls to understand there’s more to life than knowing which fork to use or how to execute a perfect royal curtsey. History is so rich, you know?” She spread her hands. “I merely wished to impart a curiosity about it, that’s all.”

“I see.” A prosecuting barrister couldn’t have sounded more imposing—which was quite the feat for the petite clerk. “And how exactly did you do so?”

Ami smiled at the memory, a perfectly wicked thing to do, but oh how satisfying the girls’ natural curiosity had been. “Easy enough. As a volunteer at the museum, I borrowed a mummified cat.”

Polly’s eyes rounded. “You didn’t!”

“I did. Oh, Pol, you should have been there. The girls were wholly enthralled, asking loads of questions, but now that I think on it, perhaps I might have overdone fanning the flames of their curiosity. They simply couldn’t stop talking about the experience. I still can’t figure out if it was Lucy or Alice whom Miss Grimbel overheard.” Ami tapped her lower lip for a moment. “But let us dwell on happier topics, hmm? I’ve brought you a little something.” She shoved her hand into her pocket and retrieved a small white box, then pushed it across the desktop.

“Is it . . . ?” Polly’s voice fairly squealed with anticipation.

“It is.”

A green-sleeved arm shot out, and before Ami could say another word, Polly ripped off the cover and popped a piece of Turkish delight into her mouth. And a second. Followed by a third. “Mmm,” she purred. A kitten with a dish of cream couldn’t have showed more enthusiasm.

“Care to revise your opinion of my working with Mr. Dandrae? It does have its benefits, does it not?” Ami grinned. “Now then, while I hate to interrupt your obvious bliss, I should like to see an old journal of my father’s. 1867 to ’68, I believe. At least I hope that’s the correct one. Can you give it a look, Pol?”

The clerk shoved one more candy into her mouth before dashing down an aisle to the right of her desk.

Minutes later, however, Polly returned empty-handed. “Sorry, Ami. That particular portfolio seems to be missing. The folders jump from ’66 to ’69.”

Ami cocked her head. “Did someone else check it out?”

“Let’s see.” Polly ran her finger down several columns on the big ledger atop her desk, then glanced up. “Doesn’t appear that happened.”

“Well, bosh.” Ami bit her lip. “That means I shall have to brave the abyss.”

“Good thing you’re not afraid of adventure, though I suggest you forgo any further opportunities provided by Mr. Dandrae. Your father won’t be very happy about it, and you know it. He never has been.”

“Then perhaps he ought to have finally taken me along on that dig of his to keep an eye on me. It’s not like I haven’t begged him to allow me to accompany him ever since I was a little girl.” She sighed as bitter memories arose. Since her mother died when she was but seven years old, she’d longed to travel whenever her father pulled out his beat-up old trunk instead of being shuffled off to her grandmother’s house. Not that it had been all bad, though. Grandmother had laid a strong foundation for Ami’s current faith with all her Bible stories and insistence on attending services each Sunday. If she closed her eyes right now and inhaled, she might just catch a whiff of Grandmother’s lilac perfume wafting across time. But even nineteen years later, she still wished Father would have relented to her request to allow her to go on a dig.

Well. Just wait until she was a recognized Egyptologist and managed to arrange her own dig. Perhaps he’d be the one asking her if he could go along!

Polly narrowed her eyes. “So you’re walking headlong into danger out of spite, is that it?”

Ami snorted. “Now who’s being the goose? It’s not dangerous—usually—to purchase items from willing sellers. And if I don’t rescue those stolen relics from careless criminals for the museum, who will? It is far better to see such artifacts purchased for all the public to enjoy than allowing them to get stuffed away in some private collection that benefits no one ... though in a perfect world I’d rather them returned to the Egyptian people. But this isn’t a perfect world now, is it?” She blew out a heavy sigh. “At any rate, I’m building quite a good reputation with Mr. Clampstone. Not only does he value my services, he’s considering hiring me as an Egyptologist for the department. Well, part-time, that is. And not necessarily with an official title, mind. Not yet, anyway.”

“That’s wonderful, my friend. But truly, you needn’t put yourself in risky situations to prove something that’s already true.” She aimed her finger at her. “Egyptologist or not, you are valuable. As God’s creatures, we all are.”

“God may think so—at least I hope He does—but men deem otherwise.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for those of lesser intelligence. I’m of a mind to scrap the whole lot of them after Charlie left me for that strumpet at the Eagle and Child. His loss, though.” Polly wiggled her eyebrows before shoving the last piece of Turkish delight into her mouth.

“You are out of control, Pol. Until next time.” Ami grinned all the way to the door.

Her mirth faded as she made her way up to ground level. Weaving past clusters of male students who paid her not the slightest bit of attention, she jammed her hat tighter on her head lest it blow away in the breeze. The truth was Polly had been wrong. Searching Father’s office would be more of a nightmare than an adventure, for he was ever the disorganized pack rat. The notes she sought could be shoved in a box of chipped china that ought to be donated. Or for all she knew, the journal might be buried beneath a dish of sparrow feathers. For a man who appreciated fine Egyptian artifacts, one would think he could at least collect senet pieces or kohl pots.

Sighing, she trotted up the stairs to the humanities building, each step making her more cross. It could take her hours to find that journal. She ought to simply toss out all the worthless items and ... wait a minute. What a brilliant idea. After she successfully priced the shabti doll—which she would, even if it killed her—she could thoroughly clean her father’s office. Give him a real surprise when he returned to England, which wouldn’t be for at least—

Crack.

The world tipped. She toppled sideways.

Ami flailed for the railing.

And missed.

Pulling his hat low on his brow, Edmund glanced right and left before stepping out of the carriage. In ten long strides, he made it inside the sanctuary of Oxford University’s courtyard, where nothing but suits milled about. The tightness in his shoulders melted. Apparently he hadn’t needed to borrow his steward’s shabby hat and coat as a disguise. There wasn’t a woman in sight.

Even so, he increased his pace toward the humanities building. There was no time to spare in securing the country’s foremost Egyptologist for his shipment, which would arrive in two days. Hopefully the professor would not only be in his office but also able to devote the next month to Edmund’s employ. He’d certainly make it worth the man’s effort, far more than the fellow would pocket from teaching.

A gust of wind blew, nearly stealing his steward’s old hat. He slapped his hand against the derby as he ducked around a marble column. The colonnade led to a staircase, where a shocking swirl of colour ascended. Edmund slowed his pace, giving the eccentric woman plenty of time for a lead. If she was this outlandish in her choice of garments, he could only imagine the trills and shrills that would squawk out of her were she to spy Oxford’s most eligible bachelor.

Halfway up, though, her left heel gave, the black nub of it bouncing down the granite toward him.

Edmund took the stairs two at a time as she flailed. With a wide-armed lunge, he caught her before she cracked her head.

So much for avoiding women.

“My, my.” Her words came out on a soft puff of air. Which was odd. Most women would’ve screamed at such an ordeal.

He guided her to the railing and was about to release her when she twisted in his arms, facing him head on. Eyes blinked at his, the colour of which was so mesmerizing it was impossible to look away. Were they blue? No, green. Hmm, not quite right either. Brown, then. But no. He leaned closer, staring hard. Great heavens. A master painter couldn’t capture such a changeable hue. Depending on which way the light caught her face, one might say they were any of those shades.

“Thank you.” She tipped her head, clearly dismissing him.

But when she did so, a shaft of sunshine landed on her cheek, where deep purple darkened the flesh beneath a layer of cosmetics. Either the woman was perpetually clumsy, or someone had struck her full-handed—and the thought of that clenched tight in his gut. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine.” She smiled, surprisingly straight teeth flashing brightly.

“Of course you are,” he murmured. She was a fascinating creature. Like a great portrait, the longer he studied her, the more details he saw, from the spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose to the darker dot of a mole at the edge of her jaw.

“You can let me go now.”

“What? Oh. Yes.” He released her, and she sank to the stairs, the top half of her body folding over her shoes. Alarm charged through his veins. Had he saved her from a fall only to have her swoon? He crouched by her side, arms at the ready to sweep her up should she need. “Are you certain you are all right, miss?”

“Yes, it’s just ... this...” She yanked off her shoe. “Blasted boot!” Her free hand flew to her mouth as a most becoming shade of dusty rose spread like the dawn on her face.

He laughed—really laughed—which was new. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman made him feel anything other than the urge to run away.

“Please pardon my unconscionable outburst. It’s just that, well”—she waved her shoe in the air—“it appears my heel has decided to completely run off without me.”

“How inconsiderate of the thing.” He retrieved the little fugitive, then returned and held out his hand. “Why don’t you let me see what I can do?”

She offered him the broken shoe. He shook his head. “The other one, if you please.”

Her lips lifted into a most adorable quirk, yet without an objection or even a question, she unlaced the other boot—a completely mismatched one—and gave it to him.

Eyeing the crisp marble edge of the wall just above the handrail, he swung back the shoe, then struck with all his might. Another heel flew high in an arc. He caught the nub before it hit the ground and handed all the broken bits and now-heelless shoe to the woman.

Glowering, she hugged the boot to her chest. “What did you do that for?”

“You had a problem. I solved it. Unless you wanted to hobble around like the hunchback of Notre Dame?”

“Hmph.” She jammed her feet into her shoes. “I’m not quite sure if I ought to thank you or censure you.”

“No need for either.” He grinned. My, but she was spunky. “I am happy I came along when I did, or you may have been more seriously hurt. How about you try those out while I’m still around to be your safety net?”

“Thank you all the same, but I need no such thing.” Rising, she smoothed the creases out of her skirt, totally ignoring him.

And he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.

“Don’t let me keep you, Mr. Problem Solver. Good day.” Clutching the railing, she mounted the rest of the stairs, leaving behind a smoky-cinnamon scent and a completely foreign emptiness in his chest.

He caught up to her three strides past the landing. “Actually, I am going the same direction.”

“Is that so?” She slanted him a sideways glance, her step not hitching once.

Astounding. Any other woman would have needed smelling salts if he offered to escort her. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Of course I do.” She shrugged. “You are Mr. Problem Solver.”

What an anomaly. Clearly the woman didn’t read the social columns. Who was this peculiar lady? He matched his pace to hers. “It is rather unusual to find a woman gracing these halls of learning.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“Have what?”

“I am rather unusual.” Her lips curved into a mischievous grin. “And this is where we part ways. Good day.” Retrieving a key from her pocket, she opened an office door.

Edmund looked from the woman to the nameplate on the wall—then sucked in a breath. Professor Archer Dalton. The very man he was looking for. What were the odds?

He followed her inside to a small room filled with an assortment of empty ink bottles, spent candle nubs, rolls of rags, and broken crocks holding dried snakeskins. And was that a painted elephant tusk hanging by a frayed rope from the ceiling? Stars and thunder. This place was a curiosity shop, as varied and colourful as the woman’s garments. ... Ah, perhaps she was the supplier of the professor’s odd collections.

“Do you work here?” he asked.

“In a sense. Now, if you don’t mind, I am rather busy.” She turned away.

A bold move, one he often employed when hoping to close a deal, but he hadn’t even submitted his proposal yet. He planted his feet. “I should like to hire Professor Dalton to catalogue and price a shipment of Egyptian antiquities soon to arrive at the Price mansion, which is just outside of town. The work would require a fortnight or so of employment. Possibly more, but it will be very much worth his while.”

She whirled back around. “Am I to understand you are in charge of hiring the professor for Mr. Price?”

“In a sense.” Her pert little nostrils flared at his repetition of her own words, and he stifled a grin.

“That being the case...” She circled a cluttered desk and planted her hands atop two stacks of books. “I have both bad and good tidings for you.”

“Intriguing. Start with the former—for things are often not as bad as they seem—and then I should like to hear the good.”

“Very well.” She tipped her chin. “Unfortunately, Professor Dalton is indisposed for another six weeks at a dig in the Biban el-Muluk valley. There is no possible way he could accept your offer.”

“Hmm. That is a problem.” He scrubbed his knuckles along his jaw, thinking aloud. “Those antiquities must be priced and moved within a month. It never pays to sit on a shipment overlong, and the funds are needed.”

“Well, you can call me Miss Problem Solver, then.” She grinned. “I have just the solution for you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know of another Egyptologist for hire?”

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

Instant admiration flared at her adept play of bandying his words against him. “I am afraid I am at a loss, Miss...?”

“I am the professor’s daughter.” She threw back her shoulders, a soldier at attention. “Miss Ami Dalton at your service.”

Well. That was a twist he hadn’t seen coming. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Dalton.” He dipped his head. “But how does that solve my problem?”

“I, sir, am a rescuer of forgotten fragments, a story guardian of the past, a fervent believer in bringing history to life for the masses. There is no one on this campus who knows as much about Egyptian relics as I do. I grew up living and breathing artifacts.” She swept her hand around the room—though it didn’t do much to prove her point. He wouldn’t give two shillings for the lot of eclectic items filling the small space.

“If Mr. Price has a shipment that needs an accurate inventory and appraisal, I’m the woman for the job. I have a bachelor of art degree from Lady Margaret Hall, I currently work with the Ashmolean Museum’s Egyptian department, and I have studied at my father’s knee since a young girl. You won’t find anyone in all of Oxfordshire who knows as much about Egyptology as I do. Well, except for my father, that is. And as I’ve already stated, he is not here.”

He inhaled deeply. He’d been trying to avoid women, not hire one. “I am not so sure—”

“We’ll just see about that.” She rummaged through the books on the desk, then held out a thick one. “Here. Quiz me.”

He cocked his head. “Pardon?”

“Clearly you have doubts. I mean to put them at an end. Ask me about anything.” Leaning across the desk, she pushed the book into his hands.

She was a determined little firebrand, he’d give her that. He’d play her game, although with much trepidation. He paged to a random chapter and scanned the first paragraph, praying to find some words he could decipher. Sweat sprung out on his brow. He hated this weakness. It was a chink in his armor. Unmanly. Humiliating.

God, please, do not shame me in front of this woman. Help me to trust in Your strength, not my own—for in this particular instance, I have none.

He continued scanning and ... perfect. A sketch with numbers beneath. Numbers were always easier than letters. He peered at her. “When was the Great Sphinx of Giza discovered?”

“Oh, bosh! Please don’t go so easy on me. I am no novice, sir.” Removing a ratty conquistador hat that looked as if it had died in the Spanish Inquisition, she sank onto the now-cleared-off chair and laced her fingers beneath her chin. “The Italian Giovanni Battista supervised an archaeological dig in 1817, at which point the Great Sphinx was first uncovered all the way up to its chest.”

“And let’s say by some miraculous movement of God that you were able to come into possession of that magnificent artifact. How much would you value it at for resale?”

She blew out a huff. “What a ridiculous question. It is beyond value, sir.”

“Mmm. Fair enough.” He flipped to another page, looking for something more obscure yet readable, leastwise to him. And ... victory. Another sketch, this time with small words describing it. “What is the name of the dolls that are placed in tombs as servants in the afterlife?”

Her shoulders stiffened, and her voice dropped an octave. “Who sent you here?”

Odd. Hadn’t he made clear his business? “As I said, I have a shipment that needs—”

“Yes, yes.” She fluttered her fingers at him as she dashed to the door. Craning her neck, she swept a gaze along both sides of the corridor.

“Is there a problem, Miss Dalton?”

“Hopefully not.” Tugging down her garish bodice, she resumed her seat.

“Say,” he drawled. “You’re not trying to stall on answering the question, are you? If you don’t know the answer, there’s no shame in admitting it.”

Pah! What a hypocrite. As if he’d admit to the difficulty he had with reading. Granted, poetry had helped his affliction, but his lack when it came to the written word still haunted him.

She shook her head, loosening a strand of brown hair. “No shame involved. What you described is a shabti doll, sometimes referred to as a ushabti. It’s a small figurine usually made of clay and frequently carries a hoe or a basket on its back. Along with scarabs, shabtis are the most numerous of all ancient antiquities to survive. In fact, I am about to sell one to the Ashmolean once I verify the price.”

His brows rose. “Impressive. How much do you hope to gain?”

“Ten pounds.” Folding her arms, she leaned back in the seat. “Go on, and be sure to make the next one a challenge, if you don’t mind.”

You better believe he would, for it was a downed gauntlet now to stump such an eccentric little beauty. This time he ignored the text and instead squinted at the footnotes in small print. A slow smile eased across his lips as he closed the book and thunked it onto the only clean corner of the desk. “What is a sister-um, Miss Dalton?”

Musical laughter bubbled out of her. “A—what did you say?”

Heat flared up his neck. She’d heard him all right, which could only mean one thing ... he’d read it wrong. “Did I mispronounce it?”

She grinned, but she didn’t poke fun. “A sistrum is a member of the percussion family, a U-shaped musical instrument made of bronze or brass, generally from the ancient Egyptian era. When shaken, small rings or loops—”

He held up his hand. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” She rose from her seat and folded her hands primly in front of her as if ready for a recital. “I can do this all day if you like.”

No doubt she could. He chuckled, for once savoring a battle he hadn’t won. “I’ll expect you at Price House two days hence. It’s a large project, one that will take upward of two to four weeks’ worth of work. Being that the manor is outside of Oxford’s city limits, bring along a chaperone as you’ll be expected to stay until you are finished.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are there no other women on the premises?”

“Of course there are. Price House prides itself on a full household staff.”

“Then tell me, sir.” Miss Dalton planted her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “If my father had been in this office today and you hired him, would you also have required him to bring along a chaperone?”

“That’s a preposterous question.”

“And yet it stands.”

He blinked. What a headstrong young woman, and yet instead of being annoyed by her brash manner, oddly enough it amused him. “No, Miss Dalton, your father would not need an attendant.”

“Then neither do I.” She lifted her chin. “I expect complete professional courtesy, no matter my gender and with all the same benefits.”

He eyed her, uncertain if he truly ought to take on such a firebrand.

“Very well,” he said at length. “Nine o’clock Saturday morning. Don’t be late.”

“I shan’t be.” She grinned. “And thank you.”

“I hope I am not making a mistake, so by all means, prove me wrong.”

“I’d like nothing more.”

He reset his hat as he headed toward the door. “Good day, then, Miss Dalton.” Before he crossed the threshold, a new thought hit him, and he doubled back. Reaching into his pocket, he planted several bills on the desk.

Her brow wrinkled. “Is that some sort of retainer fee?”

He straightened, enjoying the confusion on her face far too much. “No, it’s for a new pair of shoes—ones that match. I shall see you in two days.”

He strolled out the door, wondering if he’d done the right thing by hiring a woman. When she discovered who he really was, would she turn into a lovelorn schoolgirl? He’d hate to terminate her, but he would in an instant if need be.

Strangely, though, deep down he hoped he wouldn’t have to.