Page 31 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

31

It was mesmerizing, this clickety-clack. The gentle swaying of the train. The enchanting land between sleep and awareness. Slowly, Ami fluttered open her eyelids, scorning the loss of the delicious nap she’d been enjoying on the velvet sofa in Edmund’s private car. Truly, she ought not have given in to such a decadent rest, but after a full two days of police interviews and helping to haul Edmund’s antiquities to a workroom at the British Museum, she’d been exhausted.

Without moving a muscle, she narrowed her gaze on Edmund. He sat across from her at a table with pen in hand, afternoon sunlight a halo on his bowed head. My, but he was handsome ... and yet so much more. What a warrior he’d been on her behalf, both inside Wormwell’s warehouse and in the aftermath. So attentive to her needs. So protective of her safety. She couldn’t help but admire the scratches on his hand, the bruise near his wrist—all a tangible reminder he’d risked his very life to rescue her. How fiercely she loved this man!

As if feeling her perusal, he swiveled his head toward her. Affection glimmered silver in his blue eyes, twinkling all the more as a disarming smile lit his face. “Good timing. I was just about to rouse you. We’re nearly home.”

Home . What a slap in the face. What did she have to go home to but the empty rooms of a small cottage? A lonely life of ... what? She didn’t have a job anymore. And even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would be the same after living the past month at Edmund’s side. Just the thought of leaving behind his daily companionship felt like death.

She pushed up to sit. Continuing that morbid line of thinking would only burst the dam of hot tears gathering in her eyes.

Edmund padded over to her, the cushion sinking next to her as he sat. “What’s this?” His knuckle crooked beneath her chin, and ever so gently, he tipped her face to his. Concern marred his brow. “Are you not glad to forget everything that happened in London and return to Oxford?”

She forced a smile, though in truth it probably looked like a pathetic sort of grimace. “I am glad.”

“But?”

She squared her shoulders, eager to end such a close scrutiny of emotions that not even she wanted to deal with right now. “You don’t believe me?”

“Not at all.” He traced his finger along the side of her eye. “Your left brow droops ever so slightly right here when you’re sad.”

Bosh. He knew her far too well. Not even Polly had ever recognized such a telling gesture.

She angled her head, retreating from his touch. “I should think you’d be the gloomy one. You’ve lost your chance at Parliament. And after such rough handling of your artifacts, even with my father staying behind to salvage what he can, I daresay Mr. Harrison will renegotiate for a much lower price. It may not be the sum your friend Sanjay needs.”

“Those are my worries, not yours.” He bopped her on the nose, a playful move, one that only increased her melancholy.

“Come now,” he murmured. “What is it that troubles you?”

A great question. One she wasn’t sure how to answer. After the exhilarating—albeit deadly—adventure they’d shared, she was loath to go back to normal life ... but how did a lady gracefully say such a thing? She inhaled deeply, scorning such an aberrant notion. She was tired, that’s all. Weary. Which was to be expected after such a harrowing experience.

Steeling herself to live in the moment instead of borrowing sorrow from the future or past, she faced him. “Right now, I haven’t a care in the world.”

Brakes screeched, and the train juddered to a halt.

Edmund steadied her with a touch to her arm. “And yet time moves on. I would know what it is that worries you so I can vanquish it.”

She grinned, genuinely this time. “You cannot fix everything, Mr. Problem Solver.”

“If it concerns you, I will die in the trying.”

The scratches on the back of his hand backed up his words, doing all sorts of strange things to her heart. “I believe you would.”

“Then tell me.”

She sighed. The man was a hound with a mutton bone. A perfect trait for a successful businessman, but she wasn’t so sure she liked such an attribute when turned on her.

And that set of his jaw would not be denied.

“It’s just that...” She huffed against the sofa cushion. “Well, now that we’re back to our former lives, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. As it should be, naturally.” She flung her hand into the air, thoroughly frustrated. “You’d think after all these years of parting with my father when he goes on a dig, I’d have mastered saying good-bye. Apparently, I haven’t, so there you are.”

“Then don’t say good-bye.” He grabbed her hand, entwining his big fingers with hers.

A bittersweet smile trembled across her lips. “Saying ‘until later’ isn’t much better.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bringing her hand to his lips, he studied her fingers as he kissed them one by one.

Her breath caught, far too many tingles running up her arm. “Then what did you mean?”

“After spending so much time with Lord Bastion, I have come to realize there are different measures of success. The viscount’s measure is money and fame—the very things he hoped I would bring to his family. The same ideals my father valued.”

His gaze shot to hers. “But it is in your company, in the richness of our discussions, that I have discovered a world of depth that goes well beyond material pursuits. The way your mind works, the passion you hold for your interests, the bond we’ve formed, these things are truly valuable. People matter more than a hard-fought business deal. You matter more. So what I propose is that you don’t say good-bye at all, but rather that you say yes.”

“To what?”

He doubled back to the desk, then returned to her side with a paper in hand. Slowly, meeting her gaze with an unyielding stare of his own, he slid to one knee, pressing that paper into her fingers. “Say yes to this.”

But what was this? A sketched-out new business venture? Some sort of contract? An invoice or ... The words began to soak in, and the more they did so, the more her heart fluttered.

Wut soft lite doth brake be-ond,

At donning, in this golden morn,

In yor eyes, my wurld’s reborn

New promis, new luv, for-ever sworn.

Eturnal plej, owr harts in-twined

For-ever yors, for-ever myn,

Lite or shadow, blis or strife,

Wil yu, my darling, be my wife?

The paper trembled beneath her touch. Could this be?

“Ami.” Edmund’s voice dropped to a husky tone. “Say yes to the possibility of building a life together—you and I. Say yes to facing as one whatever comes our way. Say yes to being my wife.”

The words hung on the air like a promise, a joy, a dream she’d never quite dared allow herself to embrace. This sort of proposal was for other women, the genteel type, not a scarab cleaning, mummy scavenger like her. And from the most eligible bachelor in all of Oxford?

“Is this real?” she whispered.

“It is.” He grinned, the feel of his thumb rubbing along the inside curve of her palm, a maddening distraction. “So what say you?”

“On one condition.” Truly, it was wicked of her to string him along like this, but she didn’t get proposed to every day, and she didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

His eyes widened, but his voice didn’t falter. “Name your condition, and it shall be done.”

“Promise me another poem on our wedding day and every anniversary thereafter.”

“You must be jesting.” He snorted. “As you’ve just witnessed, I write abysmal poetry.”

“And that, sir, is a mere fraction of your charm.” She pulled his hand to her lips and kissed the back of it.

His grin grew cheeky. “And the rest?”

“You are brave. Witty. You make me smile like none other, and your loyalty and compassion for others is quite frankly astounding.”

His smile faded, a serious glint replacing the playfulness in his gaze. “You didn’t mention my wealth or status.”

“That’s because I would marry you, sir, were you the raggediest pauper in all of England.”

He sucked in air. “So your answer is yes?”

“My answer is...” Bending close, she kissed him full on the mouth and didn’t stop until his chest heaved. Only then did she pull away. “Yes.”

In one smooth movement, he yanked her from the sofa, both of them tumbling to the train car’s plush carpet, where he gathered her into his lap. “Then, my dear”—he looked down his nose with an imperial yet impish gaze—“allow me to state my one condition before I agree to be your husband.”

“Intriguing. What is it?”

“No more shadow brokering. As my wife, I would not have you in harm’s way ever again.”

She bit her lip, the delicious waft of his ever-present scent of curry making it hard to concentrate on the many reasons why his simple request bothered her so much. Of course he was right, but still ... she’d been rescuing relics for years now, placing them where they rightfully belonged, and yes, were she honest, perversely relishing the thrill of the deal—except in London. She could easily agree to never broker another deal there ever again.

“Ami?” Questions darkened the blue in his eyes.

“I...” She rested her palm against his cheek, seeking an anchor in her swirl of thoughts. “I’m not sure I know how to be me without rescuing the forgotten fragments of history.”

He covered her hand with his own. “I’m not requiring you to give up who you are or to forsake your God-given desires. I’m merely asking you to find a method of salvaging those forgotten fragments without putting yourself in danger. There is always more than one way to fulfill your calling in life. The Red Sea didn’t stop Moses from leading his people to safety. We shall both pray—and trust—that God will make a clear route for you to preserve artifacts without the threat of having your throat slit. Is that not reasonable?”

Sighing, she rested her head against his shoulder, peace washing over her despite the racket of departing train passengers. “There you go again,” she murmured.

“What?” The question rumbled against her ear.

“Solving all my problems.”

“Not me, love.” He chuckled. “Only God can do that.”

All was right in the world. Edmund had smiled for the entire carriage ride to Price House. She’d said yes! He still could scarcely grasp the idea that soon Amisi Dalton would be his wife. His wife! What a wonder. What a God-given wonder. Not only that she loved him but that he was able to fully love her in return ... a miracle he never expected to experience after Louisa.

Yet now as he trotted up the few stairs to the front door, his step hitched. Though he’d soon be wedding his best friend, it was time to let go of an old one—and the thought of it punched him in the gut. He may as well be cutting off his right arm.

But it must be done.

He doffed his hat and set it on the foyer table, running his fingers through his hair. Like yanking off a soiled bandage, it would be painful to confront his butler, and yet sooner would be better.

Hardly a few steps into the great hall, he spied Barnaby crossing the expanse, hefting a tea tray. The moment the butler’s gaze landed on him, the man smiled.

“Welcome back, sir! Happy to see you home.”

“Thank you.” Edmund advanced. “But I don’t think you’ll be so happy once I say what I must. Why don’t you set down that tray?”

“As you wish, sir.” Barnaby’s brows furrowed as he complied. Once relieved of his burden, he faced Edmund, chin dipping. “How can I be of service?”

“Allow me to come straight to the point. I cannot abide lying, Barnaby, especially not under my roof and by my most senior staff member at that. If what I have heard is true, then I am afraid I must ask you to pack up your belongings and leave posthaste.”

“But, sir!” Barnaby’s head snapped back as if he’d taken a hard slap. “I assure you I have never once deceived you about anything.”

Oh, if only that were true. But Ami had gotten it straight from Gil’s mouth that a certain prank-loving servant had been his right hand in pulling off the supposed golden griffin curse. Edmund rubbed his jaw, hating to ask a horrible question for which he already knew the answer. “Did you or did you not aid Mr. Fletcher in turning the Anubis statue as part of a prank to further the rumours of the curse of Amentuk?”

Barnaby straightened to full height. “I most certainly did not, sir! And as a matter of fact, I had intended to discuss this very matter with you tonight.”

An interesting deflection. Broaching the very topic for which one was accused was a business tactic he’d often employed himself to keep a prospective buyer or seller off their guard. He narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir, most emphatically so. I discovered it was the footman Crawford who partnered with Mr. Fletcher to conduct his nefarious deeds about the house. Apparently Mr. Fletcher paid him handsomely to partake in his hijinks. When I found out, I dismissed him posthaste. Furthermore, you have no need to worry that any further tomfooleries will take place in the future, for I have banned any and all pranks.”

The man was full of surprises this evening. Edmund shook his head. “What of your camaraderie building, as you call it? Are you so willing to part with that idea?”

“No, I’ve merely had a more civilized idea as to how to go about that. A literary circle. I shall induce household solidarity by discussing books, sir.”

“Not all the staff is literate, nor do I suspect the chambermaids will relish adding one more chore to their already busy day.” Edmund kneaded the back of his neck. The more he thought on it, the more absurd the idea grew. “I don’t think Mrs. Buckner will be so keen on the idea either. She keeps her girls on a tight leash, and I don’t imagine she’ll loosen her hold for the sake of running off to spend time reading a book.”

A sheepish grin curved half of the butler’s mouth. “I actually first got the idea from the housekeeper, sir. We figured that if I read a few pages each evening at dinner, no time would be taken away from anyone’s tasks and no shame would be incurred for not knowing how to read.”

He dropped his hand, surprise mixing with a fair amount of respect. That Barnaby—and Mrs. Buckner—cared so much about the rest of the workers was commendable indeed. “I must say I am impressed. Not many other households will employ such enlightened servants. What is your first selection to be?”

“ Don Quixote , sir.”

Perfect. With his unique traits, Barnaby was as peculiar as the man of La Mancha himself. Edmund returned his butler’s grin. “Very well. Let me know how it goes.”

“Absolutely, sir. Now then.” Turning aside, Barnaby picked up the big tray laden with tea, a plate of scones, clotted cream, and a knife for slathering on the spread. “Would you like to join your guest in the sitting room?”

“I have a guest?”

“You do, sir, and I’ve kept him waiting overlong.” Barnaby strode off, surprisingly fleet of foot for carrying such a large service.

Edmund caught up to his side just before the sitting room door. “Who is it?” he murmured for Barnaby alone.

“Oh, I think you will recognize him straight off, sir.” A mischievous glint lit the man’s eyes as he stepped aside and allowed Edmund to pass.

He strode in, then immediately grabbed the knife off the butler’s tray, rattling the porcelain and startling Barnaby. Crouching, Edmund clutched the dull bit of metal and faced Gil.

“How did you get here?” Edmund growled.

Gil rose from the sofa, hands in the air, his gaze fixed on the knife. “That’s quite a greeting for your business partner. Wholly understandable, though.” His gaze flicked to Edmund’s face. “Put away the knife and allow me to explain.”

“Barnaby!” Edmund bellowed. “Summon the constable at once.”

The butler merely set down the tea tray and stood placidly by the door. “Hear Mr. Fletcher out, sir, and if you still wish me to send for the law afterward, I shall do so.”

Edmund could hardly believe the man’s insubordination. Had his butler fallen under this devious man’s spell? He eyed Gil, debating if he ought to rush him, take him down before he could spring into action. But Gil stood as calmly as Barnaby. Looking younger. Less haggard. Certainly less wild and violent. There were no bruises on his face, no fat lip, no gash on his head, as if the man hadn’t been in a skirmish in a London warehouse a mere two days ago. How on earth could this be?

Edmund eased his stance but didn’t let go of the knife. “What is going on?”

“I have a story to tell you, one that is best heard sitting down.” Gil gestured toward the chairs near the hearth. “Please, Edmund, may we?”

He hesitated, unsure what to think, and yet oddly curious to hear what the man might say. Nodding, he waited for Gil to sit first in case this was some sort of ploy. He’d never ever trust this man again.

“As you’ll recall,” Gil began, “in my last correspondence, I said I’d travel here to Price House to discuss a recent development with you once I returned from the Continent at the end of August.”

“Yes,” he said, wary. “Good news, as I remember, and yet you gave me anything but the entire time you were here.”

“That is because I only just arrived.”

“What are you talking about?” He snorted. “I greeted you the very moment you stepped off the coach nigh on a month ago now.”

“That wasn’t me.” Gil loosened his four-in-hand, taking a moment to inhale deeply. “Before I left London—as you know I rarely do—I first stopped off to see that my brother’s needs would be met in my absence.”

Brother? Edmund blinked. That was news. In all his years of dealing with Gil, the man had never once mentioned a sibling. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Not many do. It is a dark family secret that first my father and now I have kept hidden all these years. I made a deathbed vow to my father never to reveal the disgrace that is Stuart, and yet with his recent escape, I can no longer keep that promise.”

Stuart? Escape? Disgrace? So many questions pummeled him that he was glad for the support of the cushion beneath him. None of this made any sense. “I don’t understand,” he admitted at length.

Gil nodded. “Of course not, Edmund. It’s a lot to take in at once. But as I was saying, I visited my brother to let him know I’d be out of touch for about six weeks. He is used to my regular visits, you see. It is not an easy life at Colney Hatch, even for those kept in the rehabilitation wing, and he looks forward to seeing me for my biweekly visits.”

“Colney Hatch.” He shook his head, which didn’t help in the least to connect all the dots. “That’s an asylum. Are you telling me you have a brother who is mad?”

“One could sympathize with such a condition, but no. There is nothing mentally unfit about Stuart. It is his morals that are decayed. His ... depravity, shall we call it, started at a young age.” Gil hefted a sigh, sorrow in his eyes. “It began with small things, the pilfering of a silver spoon or one of my mother’s earbobs, small but valuable household items that he blamed on others, creating a web of lies. While most lads were happy to spend time with their friends or playthings, Stuart spent his discovering compromising secrets about the household staff and using that information for manipulation. It only got worse from there. But when he ran off from reform school and fell in with the dark side of London’s worst criminals, disgracing the family name by becoming an opium eater, my father had him committed to an asylum to rehabilitate his moral failings.”

Edmund chewed on the information like a bite of gristle, not sure if he ought to spit it out or swallow it. He opted to remain on alert yet lessened his grip on the knife. “If this is so, then how did this Stuart end up at my home—and looking like you, no less?”

Gil shifted on the sofa, clearly uneasy. “I take responsibility for his appearance in Oxford. I’d given details of my travel plans—first to France, then to here—to the physician on staff when I went to visit Stuart. I thought I was out of his hearing range, but apparently not. When I received the telegram that my brother had escaped, I swear I had no idea he’d come to Price House. The administration assured me they’d most likely find him in one of the opium dens in the Limehouse district—if he hadn’t overdosed himself, that is.”

Edmund laid the knife in his lap, stunned, all his suspicions of the past weeks suddenly making sense.

Mostly.

He angled his head, once again studying Gil’s unbattered face and calm demeanor. “That doesn’t account for this supposed Stuart’s physical appearance.”

Gil shrugged. “Though he is two years my junior, we look uncannily alike. There are only minor differences that no one except my mother would notice—a mole behind my ear, a very slight height differentiation. Stuart’s shoe size is one less than mine.”

“And yet he looked older than you.”

“Addiction to such detrimental vices will do that to a man. Believe me when I say I am sorry you got pulled into this whole sordid affair, Edmund.”

Hmm. Plausible. Could be too plausible, though, yet another story to swindle him in some other way. He eyed his alleged business partner. “If what you’re saying is true, then tell me something only you and I as business partners would know. Something that cannot be fabricated or guessed.”

“Fair enough.” Planting his elbows on the chair’s arms, Gil steepled his fingers beneath his chin—a familiar pose. One Edmund hadn’t witnessed this entire past month. And now that he thought on it, it was odd he’d not seen the gesture for it was a favorite of Gil’s.

“Remember that negotiation with the East India Company a few years back?” Gil tapped his chin with his laced index fingers. “When we had to haggle over the shipment of rare spices for our client, Mr. Hagethorn?”

“Yes.” How could he forget such an infuriating deal?

“You were so frustrated with the delays that you placed a bet on the arrival date with one of your companions in India. A Mr. Gupta, if I recall correctly. I warned you against such a rash wager, and you scolded me for being a mother hen. And you were right. You won a fair amount, and as a consolation for the delay, we gained an extra three ounces of saffron from the ship’s captain—off the record, of course, as he’d smuggled it in.”

Edmund sucked in a breath. True, all of it. But still, he would not be so easily deceived. Not again. “Impressive, but Gupta and the captain were both involved in that situation and so could have informed you. What about the incident in Edinburgh the winter before I sailed?”

Gil laughed, his trademark snort cutting off the end—another trait that Edmund realized had been missing with the other Gil.

“Ah yes, we were walking the horses back from a meeting with the textile merchants. Your mount got away from you, and though I tried to help, you ended up a muddied mess. Ruined your trousers and you had to borrow mine. You said you’d never trust a...” He thought for a minute, then grinned at Edmund. “A nip-nappety, scabby-eared horse again.”

Edmund gaped. Not even he’d remembered the exact words he’d bellowed in frustration, but now that Gil reminded him, they rang true. And only Gil would have known such a detail. Plus, not once had he yet called him old man or regaled him with an annoying ha-ha .

Which meant this was Gil. It had to be.

Edmund leaned forward in his seat, hardly believing how duped he’d been. “It’s really you, then, is it, Gil?”

“It’s really me, my friend.”

“I can scarce believe it.”

“You likely won’t believe this either.” Reaching inside his coat pocket, Gil produced an envelope and handed it over. “It’s the good news I wished to tell you in person.”

Edmund pulled out a folded banknote, then choked when he read the staggering amount. “Where did this come from?”

“Remember that investment you gave me leave to dabble in, the steamship company? The one everyone claimed was fool’s gold?”

He nodded slowly. “I do.”

“Well, that shipping company is now a major force in the industry, landing a lucrative deal for exclusive cargo transport across the Atlantic. That little banknote is but the first in what I expect to be some rather hefty dividend payments.”

Edmund’s heart skipped a beat. With this much incoming funds not tied up in any other sort of market or investment, Sanjay would have the money he needed. Thank God! He glanced at the ceiling, nearly overcome with the unexpected blessing.

Indeed, thank You, God.

“This couldn’t have come at a better time.” He waved the note in the air. “I ... I don’t know what to say other than thank you and forgive me for ever doubting your identity.”

“Forgiven and forgotten.” Gil grinned. “Shall we celebrate the windfall with a cup of tea?” He tipped his head toward the big tray Barnaby had left unattended by the door.

“We can celebrate more than that, my friend, for I have good news of my own.” Edmund rose, smiling over his shoulder as he strode to the teapot. “I am to wed—and soon.”