Page 4 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

4

Ami stood in front of Price House with a bag in her hand and a scowl on her face. Father often scolded her for being too swift to form an opinion, but even without entering this house she knew exactly what she’d find inside. Arrogance. Strict protocol. And worse, a mawkish cloud of lemon beeswax permeating the air to a sickly degree.

Oh, but she could not abide lemons.

Tossing back her shoulders, she snubbed her nose at the carved granite lions on either side of the stairs and rang the bell. Off-putting smells or not, she was anxious to dig into Mr. Price’s precious load of relics, though admittedly a bit apprehensive as well. She’d finished her business with the shabti doll, pleasing Mr. Clampstone just as she’d hoped to, but being tied up here could cut into her shadow brokering ... a dilemma she’d been wrestling with the past two days. She’d instructed Mr. Dandrae only to contact her here if something extraordinary came up, but if that happened, how would she explain her absence to the indomitable Mr. Price? Wealthy men thought they owned everyone working for them, and the thought of being owned made her feet itch to run.

Moments later, a tall, thin butler cocked his head at her like a crow. His dark eyes assessed her in a hasty blink, and if the twitch of his upper lip was any indication, she fell somewhere between a traveling trinket seller and a gypsy waif.

“The servants’ entrance is around back, miss.” His voice was distinctly nasal.

Hmm. Perhaps Father ought to have his don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover monologue with this fellow. She lifted her chin. “Thank you for the information, but I am no housemaid. I am here at the ... em, steward’s request. Well, actually, I didn’t inquire after the man’s position so that is an assumption, but nevertheless, it must have been Mr. Price’s man of business who employed me to catalogue and value a soon-to-arrive collection of Egyptian artifacts.”

He reared back his head. “ You are the professor?”

A common response. Expected, actually. But all the same, she bit her tongue and curved her lips into a pleasant smile. “I am Miss Dalton, Egyptologist.”

“I see.” Humor glinted in his eyes. “Crawford put you up to this, did he? I should have expected some sort of retribution, I suppose. That imitation spider in the corner of his room was one of my better pranks. Shrieked like a little girl.” A chuckle squawked out of him. “At any rate, you may tell Crawford you played your part well, and here is a penny for your trouble.” He produced a coin from his pocket.

She fended off the payment with an upraised palm. “I don’t know what sort of hijinks you and this Mr. Crawford have going on, but it sounds rather a jolly game. Even so, I assure you I truly am the Egyptologist employed by Mr. Price’s steward, so if you wouldn’t mind announcing me?”

Stooping somewhat, he narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t a jest?”

“No, this is not a jest.”

“Well, well. My mistake, then. Do come in, Miss Dalton.” He flung the door wide and ushered her inside. “Jameson’s office is this way.”

She followed, purposely putting weight on the instep of her left foot. Though it was yet morning, a mighty fine blister would likely emerge on her pinky toe by nightfall. She’d bought a sturdy pair of new boots thanks to the steward’s advance, but she had yet to break them in.

Bypassing the sitting room, the black-coated butler crossed a vast receiving hall. How many ball gowns and bespoke suits had graced this marble floor in years past? If she listened closely enough, would she hear the tinkle of flute glasses and strains of Haydn or Mendelssohn haunting the air? What a dreadful pastime. She’d attended a dance once and had been heartily glad when it was over. A good book and hot cup of drinking chocolate was much to be preferred.

As they skirted a collection of bronze pedestals at the center of the room, she slowed her pace, inhaling deeply. Each pillar varied in height and sported a crystal vase of multicoloured lilies. How delightful. If the housemaids had polished the baseboards today, the lemony scent was obliterated by this heavenly fragrance.

The butler turned into a corridor, and she scurried to catch up. He entered a door at the far end, announcing her the moment his foot crossed the threshold.

“Mr. Jameson? A Miss Dalton to see you.”

“Is that so? Send her in, then.”

Shoving her hat back atop her head, for the silly thing had slipped in her haste, she strode past the butler.

The man behind the desk glanced up at her. He was a ruddy-faced fellow, likely accustomed to the elements when not squirreled away with ink and ledgers. Side-whiskers drew to a point down his jawline, bristly as a Shetland’s shorn mane. The coat he wore was familiar—dark green with a brown collar and oval patches on each elbow—but the fabric of it did not stretch as tightly across his shoulders. He didn’t have dimples or a fine strong mouth or a manner that both chafed and intrigued simultaneously. And those eyes were certainly not the same dusky blue. She ought to know. Much to her chagrin, she’d revisited that face many times in her dreams over the past couple of nights.

Mr. Jameson set down his pen. “How may I help you, Miss Dalton?”

“Em...” Perhaps this really was a jest, but not one of the butler’s design nor of the aforementioned Crawford. Had Polly set someone up to play a trick on her? Had Mr. Dandrae? Or maybe—

“Miss?”

She lifted her chin. If this was some sort of prank, she may as well go along with it for now. “I was hired two days ago to catalogue and price a shipment of Egyptian artifacts belonging to Mr. Price. This is Mr. Price’s home, is it not? And he is expecting a cargo of valuable items?”

Mr. Jameson sucked in a breath. “ You are the professor?”

She shoved down a sigh. Nefertiti probably hadn’t been subject to such offense. Must she always prove to God and man that she was an intelligent creature? “For your clarification, sir, I am an Egyptologist, and I was under the impression the offer of employment had been made by Mr. Price’s steward. Clearly that is not the case.”

“Ah, I understand now.” Mr. Jameson chuckled as he leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “Though I must say I am quite surprised he took on a woman.”

She gripped the life out of her bag handles to keep from flailing her arms. “Who is he ? Who took me on?”

“I did.”

She turned at the deep voice—and there stood the man who’d refused to vacate a corner of her mind ever since he’d caught her up in his arms on a stuffy Oxford stairway. She popped her fist onto one hip, annoyed at the slight thrill fluttering in her chest. “And who, may I ask, in all the wide, wide world are you, sir?”

“I am Edmund Price, Miss Dalton.” A crafty grin spread on those fine lips of his. “Welcome to my home.”

Edmund grinned. Miss Ami Dalton was a sight, all right. One he’d been anxious to see again if only to confirm whether his memory of the anomalous woman was fact or fiction. And he was not disappointed in the least. There she stood in all her mismatched glory. A jaunty blue hat sat askew on hair that had slipped some of its pins. She wore a loose-fitting blouse with part of the collar folded in on her neck, a yellow cutaway jacket, and a striped burgundy skirt that would serve better as a pair of draperies. Shiny boot tips peeked out from the hem. New ones. So she had in fact used the money to get herself some shoes.

Even so, his grin faltered. Now that she knew his identity, would she transform into one of the many bubbleheaded women who swooned at his feet, hoping to become the new Mrs. Price, with all the wealth and prestige attached to that name?

Her eyes widened. Her fine little nostrils flared, the freckles on the bridge of her nose riding the wave.

Blast. Here it came. The fawning. The flattery. All the inane coy giggles and fluttering of eyelashes. Edmund stiffened.

“While I thank you for your greeting, Mr. Price, I cannot help but wonder if you are frequently given to deception? Because if I am to work here, that could be a troublesome problem, one I cannot abide.”

Jameson snorted a laugh, yet to his credit, he quickly turned it into a cough by pounding his chest with his fist. The action did nothing, however, to hide the mirth in his eyes. Bah. The steward would have this little comeuppance spread from one end of the estate to the other, for the man was a bigger gossip than all the old tabbies in the Ladies Aid Society combined.

Edmund swept his hand toward the front hall. “How about we take our conversation to the sitting room, Miss Dalton? I am sure Jameson here has business to attend.”

“As you wish.” She strode past him.

He arched a warning brow at his steward. Not that it would do any good. Jameson could no more keep a good tale to himself than stop his heart from beating.

In several long-legged strides, Edmund caught up to the saucy Miss Dalton. “I trust your journey here went well?”

A playful grin lit her face. “I hardly traversed the Sahara to get here, Mr. Price, but yes. Aside from a squeaky spring, the coach ride was uneventful. Oh, could perhaps one of your staff collect my trunk from the drive? It was a bit too heavy for me to haul up the stairs.”

“I take it that means you’ve decided to stay?”

She eyed him for several steps before answering. “For now.”

Once inside the sitting room, he indicated the sofa. “Shall I ring for anything else? Tea, perhaps? Coffee?”

Surprise furrowed her brow. “I am not a guest, Mr. Price. I came here to work, and I am most eager to begin. But first, I’m afraid I must insist on an answer to my earlier question, for if a working relationship is not based on truth, then it isn’t a relationship at all.” She angled her head like a curious tot. “Why did you not tell me who you were when you offered me the job?”

“As I recall, Miss Dalton, I offered your father the job, not you. This employment is due more to your machinations than mine.” If that made her prickle, she didn’t show it. She merely stared up at him, a living Mona Lisa. “However”—he grinned—“if your career in Egyptology doesn’t go well, I suspect you’d make a fine businessman.”

“Ah, but I am a woman, sir, so that would go over about as well as my scholarly endeavors. But to the point, you purposely hid your identity from me, and I begin to think I can guess as to why.”

A dog with a bone, eh? And an inventive one at that. He took the adjacent chair, intrigued beyond reason and not just a bit wary. “Go on.”

“I was hoping you’d say as much.” She settled on the sofa cushion, eyes gleaming. “Everyone knows you’ve been out of the country for years, and yet here you are now, showing up in Oxford incognito. It is my premise that you wish to keep your presence a secret because you’re working undercover for the Crown. Maybe trying to crack some sort of smuggling ring that’s moving relics from country to country or the like. No, no! I’ve got it.”

She leaned forward, face alight with conspiracy. “You’re not seeking to bring down smugglers but a counterfeiting gang that is flooding the market with fake artifacts. You’ve somehow managed to buy such a load of supposed relics and are eager to prove their fabrication. That’s why you sought my father, for in the past he has worked with government agents. Am I correct, sir? If so, rest assured your answer will go no further than my ears.”

He laughed. Really laughed. This was becoming a habit in her presence. An enchanting tale, but not nearly as endearing as the quirk of Miss Dalton’s lips. Truly, it may have been a mistake to have invited her into his home, for this woman could leave an indelible mark if he wasn’t careful. “Allow me to revise the career path I suggested. You have a very promising future in the publishing world penning novels of espionage and danger.”

She frowned, which was just as appealing. Why, he’d not enjoyed a woman so much since ... no. Dredging up that tragedy now would ruin the fun of bantering with Miss Dalton.

She shifted on the cushion. “I would prefer a career as an expedition director at an Egyptian dig.”

Rising, he strode to the beverage cart and poured two glasses of lemon water. Miss Dalton shook her head at the offering, so he set hers on the tea table and drank a few swallows of his. “Well, at any rate, as much as I hate to dash your fine stories to bits, I am afraid my truth is not so clandestine. The sad fact is I merely wanted to avoid money-hungry mothers who wish to saddle me with their daughters.”

She narrowed her eyes. “There wasn’t a single mother or daughter in my father’s office when we spoke.”

“But there was you, and you are female.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting...” She gasped. “You are suggesting!”

Laughter pure as a summer morn rang out of her, so much that she dabbed the corners of her eyes with her knuckles. “Oh, Mr. Price, that is hilarious. Of course you cannot be expected to know my partialities for we have only just met, but you will soon find I am not the average female. My head is turned by a finely wrapped, mummified corpse, not a flesh-and-blood pile of muscles.”

“Muscles, eh?” He set down his glass with a curve to his lips. “So you do find me attractive.”

“What I find is a man who’s been told he’s attractive so many times that he’s come to believe it.” All her humor fled as she pressed her fingers to her mouth, a flush pinking her cheeks.

He blinked, unsure what to do with such candor from a woman. Though she clearly regretted what she said, was such a criticism true? Had he let all the feminine attention over the years get to him so he no longer recognized himself? Or was she being catty for the sake of retribution? Either way, such forthrightness was refreshing, if not a little stinging.

“Please pardon me, Mr. Price.” She pressed her hands against her belly as if she were ill. “My tongue has been known to run away from me, and this time it has completely broken its leash.”

A little girl caught with her hand in the biscuit tin couldn’t look more contrite, which banished any remaining prickle from such rash words. “I would rather hear your unguarded thoughts, Miss Dalton, for as a wise woman once said, if a working relationship is not based on truth, then it isn’t a relationship at all.” He winked.

Relief flashed in a smile. “You are very gracious, sir.”

They both looked up as his butler entered the room. “Sorry I’m late in answering your call, sir, but your shipment has arrived. I directed the lead driver where to go.”

Edmund rose, rubbing his hands together. “And so it begins. Oh, Barnaby, will you have Miss Dalton’s trunk brought up to her room?”

“Already taken care of, sir.”

He might’ve known. The faithful retainer could set right an overturned applecart before one red fruit hit the ground.

“Very good.” Edmund turned to Miss Dalton. “Would you like to see what you’re up against?”

She hopped to her feet. “By all means.”

He led her out the front door to view a line of wagons snaking around the side of the house. An impressive sight, if not a little daunting. Perhaps he ought to have rented a warehouse instead of expecting so many goods to fit inside Price House.

Miss Dalton craned her neck. “How many are there?”

“Ten drays in all. I wasn’t jesting when I said it would take up to a month to sort through this lot.”

“It could take much longer than that.”

“Yet you will finish it in four weeks’ time.”

She peered up at him, a little scrunch to her nose that sent her freckles bobbing. “Why such a restraint?”

“Price House is not a museum. I wish to sell the lot as soon as possible. The money is needed elsewhere.” Indeed, the woman could have no idea how much his old friend in India was counting on the proceeds from this sale. If he didn’t get the funds to Sanjay before the new tariff was enacted at the end of September, the man’s business would fail—and with it, the means to provide for his large family ... and being destitute in India was a death sentence.

“But surely, Mr. Price, you do not need—”

An unearthly howl of pain violated the July morning. Shouts followed. So did more howls. Edmund set off at a run, calling over his shoulder, “Wait there, Miss Dalton.”

He tore along the row of wagons, closing in on a huddle of men near the lead dray. By the time he reached the scene, several burly fellows were hefting an enormous crate off the leg of a man on the ground. His cries stilled as his eyes rolled back and his body went slack.

Lighter footsteps raced up behind him, a feminine “What’s happened?” competing with the shout of a foreman to get a stretcher.

Edmund shot out his arm, holding back Miss Dalton. No woman—nor man, for that matter—ought to witness a leg broken to such a grotesque angle. Would that he could have done something to prevent such a tragedy, and yet this was beyond his control.

“I tol’ ye this load were cursed! The whole lot of it.” A sour-faced workman snatched his fallen hat from the ground and jammed it on his head as he stomped away. “I’ll not have another thing to do with this unholy business, and if yer smart, none o’ you men will either.”