Page 5 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

5

Miracles did still happen. Despite her frequent loose-lipped blunders around Mr. Price the past few days, Ami hadn’t been dismissed yet, so there was that. And then there was this stunning alabaster vase. A marvel that stole her breath as she ran her gloved finger over the translucent curve of it. It was a valuable piece. A New Kingdom beauty, nearly four millennia having passed since its creation. Who had it belonged to? What sort of oil had been stored inside? Which crypt had it been stolen from? For indeed it was stolen. No self-respecting mummy would have authorized its removal.

She rubbed at a speck near the base, heart swelling with a deep love for this precious link to the forgotten past. A persistent internal whisper tugged at her ambition, urging her toward the sands of Egypt, where she might one day unearth a relic of her own. But was her true purpose to preserve finds such as this vase or to unravel the secrets of the untouched by exposing them?

Or was it something entirely else?

And what if—as Polly had said—her worth wasn’t solely tied to what she achieved? Now, there was something to ponder.

“Will you take some tea, Miss Dalton?”

Ami startled, pulled from her thoughts by a now-familiar nasal tone. In strode Barnaby, his steps echoing in the banquet-hall-turned-makeshift-valuation-room.

“Goodness.” She smiled while peeling off her cotton gloves. “Is it that time already?”

“Afraid so. Where shall I...?” He glanced at a sideboard she’d recently covered with a canvas tool roll, her various instruments peeking out from the pockets.

Good thing it was Barnaby serving the tea today instead of the housekeeper, Mrs. Buckner. She would have fussed about such an inconvenience. Nevertheless, Ami sprang into action, rolling her pouch into a bundle. “There you are.”

He set down the tray, and as he poured the hot brew, she couldn’t help but tease. “I heard from the maid that Mr. Crawford had his revenge on you this morning.”

“He did indeed, the rotter.” Barnaby’s sharp cheekbones stood out as his lips curved upward. “Used the ol’ salt-in-the-sugar-dish trick. I can still taste that first swig of coffee.” His mouth puckered as he handed her a saucer with a rose-sprigged teacup balanced atop.

“Ah, so you are even, then.” She eyed him over the rim as she took a sip.

“For now.”

She blew on the hot Assam, hoping to cool it a bit. “I’ve never worked in such a grand house as this, so forgive my ignorance in asking you, Barnaby, but why do you play pranks on your underlings? I haven’t heard of such a thing. Unless my preconceptions of upper staff are completely off-kilter.”

“I suppose it is a rarity.” He shrugged. “Most houses wouldn’t allow such loose decorum. But that is exactly why I work here. You see, Miss Dalton, Mr. Price is rarely in residence, but when he is, he is an exacting employer who brooks no slack. That being said, he also understands that it takes faithful yet pliable people to work in a home where duties tend to be feast or famine. Thus, as long as the work hums along and everyone is happy, he’s willing to allow good-natured jollity amongst the staff. For my part, I find it builds a sort of camaraderie, a sense of unity, if you will, in seeing that no matter the station or occupation, we are all brothers-in-arms.”

A compelling premise. One she’d not thought of. She drank her tea, mulling on the enigma of Mr. Price and his home, the playful tomfoolery that established rapport amongst servants and—oh my. A rogue thought popped into her head. “Does Mr. Price partake of such antics as well?”

“Not at all, nor would I allow any of my staff to engage in such japery with him. The boundary between employer and employee ought never be crossed. I am strict on that rule.” Barnaby covered the sugar bowl, then straightened. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Price insists you dine with him this evening, that he’ll not take no as an answer as he has the past three nights.”

Now, that was interesting. Where did she fall on the employee/employer line? Mr. Price had hired her, and yet he’d also asked her to dine with him every night since she’d started. If she did so, wouldn’t that cross the boundary Barnaby spoke of?

She sipped her tea, conflicted by the thought. It would be nice to have a real meal instead of another bread-and-cheese plate left up in her room, eaten between yawns as the clock neared midnight. And Mr. Price had invited her. It wasn’t as if she were trying to root her way into his good graces. Then again, that might not be a bad idea. Perhaps she could plant a seed for him to donate or sell the lot to an Egyptian museum instead of selling it to a private buyer who would hide it away in some mansion. This could be a fantastic opportunity to return to the Egyptian people what was rightfully theirs.

“Well then, Barnaby.” She lifted her chin. “I suppose I ought not dally over a teacup if I’m to start on a new crate before changing out of my work apron.” She drained her cup and set it down. “Thank you for the refreshment.”

“Quite welcome, Miss Dalton.” He gave her a sharp nod as he collected the tray, then pivoted with military perfection and strolled from the big room.

Passing by the alabaster vases and a large terra-cotta urn she’d already unpacked and valued, Ami reached for the crowbar. Her first crate felt like a victory, and she couldn’t wait to see what the next container might hold. But as she approached it, her gaze landed on the damaged corner stained with ... Was that blood? The tea in her stomach churned. This was the monster that had crushed the workman’s leg so cruelly when it toppled from the wagon bed. The poor man had undergone an amputation to save his life. While she worked to pry off the lid, she lifted a prayer for the fellow. Only God knew if he had a wife and children to provide for, and if he did, they would surely need God’s help.

A grunt and a heave later, she levered off the wooden cover, setting it—and the crowbar—on the floor. Backtracking to the table, she snatched up her gloves and snugged them on. She reached into the crate with care, fingers gently searching through the curly excelsior shavings for the next priceless piece to examine. When her touch met a cloth-wrapped bundle, she worked her hands beneath the shape and gently lifted it out with a grunt. My, but the thing was heavy! Cradling the package like a babe in arms, she carried it to the massive table and eased it down, then began the arduous process of untying the twine and removing the wraps, praying as she did so.

God, help me excel in my work here. Give me the intelligence to show Mr. Price he hasn’t made a mistake in hiring me.

It wasn’t a huge item. Two feet in length, half that as wide. A small statue, perhaps, or a figurine of some sort. Layer by layer she unwound the gauzy material, pulse racing faster as a golden glow appeared. Whatever it was would no doubt be spectacular.

But as she pulled off the last of the binding and studied the effigy from tip to base, her heart stuttered to a standstill. Could it be? Carefully, she stood the pure gold image on the table, then retreated a step, unable to look away from the legendary Golden Griffin of Amentuk—for surely it was. She’d studied the detailed sketches of this relic many times in her father’s journal.

In a day of miracles, this was not one of them, leastwise not as far as legend was concerned. Despite her faith in a God who was good, a shiver snaked down her spine.

This artifact was said to be cursed.

Edmund snapped his pocket watch shut, a smirk lifting his lips. Most women would have been a quarter hour early instead of late for the chance to dine with him. Yet here he sat alone at a fully set table, waiting for Miss Dalton. She was truly singular, this woman, one he’d spent the past three days trying to figure out, and the only conclusion he’d come to was it would take a long time to decipher that quick mind. A lifetime, perhaps, yet a fine puzzle to keep a man occupied ... if one were of the matrimonial inclination, that is. Which he certainly was not.

He tucked away his watch and leaned back in his chair. He’d known returning to Oxford wouldn’t be easy. The lifestyle here was much more tightly wound than in India, and—bah! Who was he to complain? God forgive him! At least he was of sound mind and body to carry out his responsibilities, unlike the poor chap whose leg had been crushed. Oh, the fellow’s life had been saved, and he’d learn to walk again, but Edmund felt inordinately responsible for the man’s future. He’d have Gil set up a trust fund posthaste.

Footsteps rushed into the room, pulling him from his thoughts.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Price. I lost track of time while cleaning a one-of-a-kind relic I wish to discuss with you.” She dropped into the chair at his right hand, her plain blue gown rolled up at the sleeves, revealing porcelain-skinned forearms. Loose bits of hair tumbled down her neck. Clearly she’d put no effort into dressing for the evening. It was a wonder she’d taken off her work apron.

“You’ll never believe it.” She gripped the table edge as she leaned toward him, completely ignoring the bowl in front of her. “Though...” She bit her lip. “Come to think of it, you probably have no idea how rare the piece is. In fact, judging by what I’ve thus far unpacked, your whole collection is unique.”

“I admire your exuberance, Miss Dalton, but your soup is cold enough as is.”

“What?” Her nose scrunched, the faint spray of freckles all but disappearing.

Such a single-minded creature. He pointed at the consommé.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She gulped an obligatory mouthful, then set down the spoon. “Now, as I was saying, there is a history to this particular artifact I think you should know about and—”

“ And I have no doubt you shall tell me, but in due time.” With a wave of his finger, he signaled for the soup to be replaced with the fish. “I did not invite you to dinner to talk shop but rather to get to know you.”

“Me?” A musical little laugh trilled past her lips. “I assure you I am far less interesting than what I’ve just discovered.”

“Yet as your employer, I require it. Five minutes—just five—and then you can tell me all about your discoveries.”

“You are a very insistent man, Mr. Price.” Playfulness lit the golden flecks in her eyes. “If your career in business doesn’t go well, you’d make a fine archaeologist.”

How deftly she turned his words from days ago back on to him. He couldn’t help but respect the complex thoughts behind that lovely face, storing away trivialities to be reclaimed at will—and to her own benefit. He grinned. “I shall take that to heart. Nevertheless, my request still stands.”

Suddenly interested in her food, she took a bite of cod, chewing with a thoughtful tilt to her head. How curious. What sort of woman was not given to speak about herself for hours on end?

“Very well,” she said at length. “What is it you wish to know about me?”

“All your deep, dark secrets, naturally.”

Her lips parted slightly, her face paling to the colour of her fish, but only for an instant. Had he blinked, he’d have missed the slip. So ... his instinct about her did prove true. The eccentric Miss Dalton was a woman of mystery.

“Do not fret.” He arched a brow. “I merely jest. A lady ought to keep her secrets. While it is no great riddle you love all things Egyptian, I wonder if other interests ignite your passions. What else do you enjoy besides your work?”

“Well, you may think it silly, but there are two other things I adore. One is poetry—nonsense poetry, to be exact.” She set aside her fork, cleared her throat, then flourished her hand in the air. “‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch . ’” Her voice lowered to an ominous tone, her eyes narrowing. “‘Beware the Jubjub bird and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!’”

So animated, so earnest was she, a great belly laugh ripped out of him. Sweet heaven. When was the last time a woman had so enthralled him? “Oh, Miss Dalton, I hardly think that a silly passion. After all, ‘poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.’”

Her head reared back. “You are familiar with Percy Bysshe Shelley? I wouldn’t think that standard fare for a man of your business savvy.”

“Ah, but you see, Miss Dalton, I have my secrets too.” He winked. “Besides poetry, what else do you love?” Once again he signaled for the next course.

Miss Dalton dabbed her lips with the serviette, leaning back slightly as her plate was replaced. Picking up her fork to tackle the beef and gravy, she paused before stabbing a piece. “Honeybees,” she said simply.

Honeybees? He cocked his head. “Is that some sort of feminine delicacy like petit fours or bonbons?”

“Do you really think I’m the type to sit about and eat sweets, Mr. Price?”

“Surely you don’t mean the sort that buzz and sting.”

“The very same.” She grinned, then chewed a mouthful. “Someday I hope to have my own apiary, though I suppose I shall have to learn the details as to how to go about that.”

Of all the oddities. He set down his fork, more entranced by the enigma in a blue skirt than his beef and potatoes. “Why such an interest?”

“It’s a bit of a story, but since you ask.” She set down her fork as well. “I don’t recall much about my mother, as she died when I was young, but I do remember her great love of gardening. I’d spend entire days with her outside, and it was the bee skep that most intrigued me. Flitting in and out, gathering pollen and nectar, those honeybees worked tirelessly, each doing their part to make the hive a success.”

She leaned back in her chair, eyeing him. “There’s a connection between teamwork and achievement, you know. Just like bees, people can accomplish so much more if they work together toward a common goal instead of insisting upon selfish ambitions.”

“Lofty thoughts for a young woman. If I didn’t know any better, Miss Dalton, I’d say you were trying to impress me.”

“Bosh!” She snorted—quite unladylike but endearing all the same. “I didn’t mean to imply I was a philosopher. Those are merely ideas that have come to me over the years.”

“Well, whether you meant to or not, the fact is, I am impressed. And if you care to ruminate any further on the matter of bees or teamwork, Price House maintains a garden out back. You are welcome to visit it any time.”

“Thank you. I may take you up on that offer.” She tossed back her shoulders. “But now for you. Don’t think for a moment you’ll escape the same question. What does a businessman find captivating other than coins and ledgers?”

“I suppose it’s only fair.” He waved away their plates. She didn’t seem any more interested in what was left of dinner than he was, not if the gleam in her eye was any indication. “I enjoy cricket, for one, though I am no champion of the game by any stretch of the imagination. Other than that, I adore traveling. I’ll never turn down the chance to explore a new land.”

She shook her head, lips twisting. “No good.”

His brows shot up. “Do you presume to tell me what I do or do not care for?”

“Not at all. Your answers are simply too common. I daresay any man would spout travel and sport as a passion. You’re going to have to be more creative than that. What do you, Edmund Price, find intriguing enough to spend time studying?”

You.

The thought hit him broadside. Where the deuce had that come from? Banishing the outlandish idea, he allowed a slow smile to curve his lips. “Point taken. All right, then. Besides the textile, tea, and spice markets, I know an excessive amount about drinking chocolate, as it is a particular favorite of mine.” He wagged his finger at her. “And if word of that gets out to the social page, I shall have you boiled in the liquid.”

She ran her pinched thumb and forefinger across her mouth, twisting it at the end and tossing away an imaginary key ... the sprite.

He set his serviette on the table. “And my other interest is fingerprints.”

Folding her arms, she tapped a bitten nail against her lower lip, adorably puzzled. “As in you’ll scold a maid should some of the silver not get buffed clean of marks?”

“Clever, but no. I mean as in the mark of our Creator.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Palmistry—unlike fortune-telling—is a way to admire the handiwork of God. We are each fearfully and wonderfully made, yet few take the time to appreciate the little details that are right in front of our eyes. God’s character is displayed in creation as much as your character is revealed in visible ways.” He held out his hand. “Will you let me show you?”

A bold request, one that flew out before he could snatch it back. What on earth had possessed him to suggest such a thing? But the moment she laid her bare palm gently in his, he knew. He wanted to hold her hand. Blessed stars above! He sucked in a breath, angry for having suggested this turn of conversation in the first place, and angrier still for entertaining such misguided thoughts about this woman.

“Mr. Price?”

He couldn’t back out now. Not gracefully. Hang it all. He bent over her hand, trying not to notice her smoky-cinnamon scent for it was far too enticing. “These lines on your fingers are unique to you, each one formed in a pattern before you were born. I see a prominent whorl, indicating you have a strong sense of purpose and direction in life. The ridges are quite deep, suggesting you are a person with a sharp mind, one who pays close attention to detail. And here.” He angled her index finger for a closer look. “These lines are long and curvy, suggesting you have a creative and imaginative streak.”

“All that from a fingerprint? I never would have guessed,” she murmured, then spoke louder as she pulled his hand toward her. “Let me try.”

While she fixed her gaze on his finger, he studied the smooth arc of her cheek, the endearing little mole at the edge of her jaw, the pulse gently bobbing at the curve of her neck.

“Your lines are very symmetrical, Mr. Price. I suppose that could mean you’re balanced.” She glanced up at him. “In logic and intuition would be my guess, the necessary traits of a successful businessman.”

He dipped his head. “Go on.”

She lifted his hand closer, focusing on his thumb. “There are deep ridges here, same as you said mine were, so that’s easy. Sharp mind, attention to detail. But this?” She squinted, her warm breath feathering against his skin. “Ah, a scar. From when you were young, no doubt. Good thing you didn’t lose the finger. A tangible reminder for us both, hmm? That despite tribulation, God’s goodness prevails.”

The truth of her words, her soft voice, her softer touch, and the glass of wine he’d taken on an empty stomach while waiting for her ... all made him feel suddenly light-headed. He pulled away, pushing back his chair to gain space from the bewitching woman. “Very good, Miss Dalton. Correct on all accounts. Now, about that discovery of yours?”

“Yes!” She grinned. “Would you like to see it? I’ll tell you about the history along the way.”

“Brilliant.” Indeed. Better to walk side by side than entertain the idea of gazing into her eyes for the rest of the evening.

“I believe,” she began as they strode from the dining room, “the item I uncovered today is a sacred artifact from the Old Kingdom, fourth century before Christ. According to legend, this statuette belonged to the Egyptian god Anubis. It is alleged to have the power to bring about great fortune and prosperity—until a rival kingdom stole it away for themselves. At that point, Anubis himself cast a curse upon his favorite relic.”

“Allow me to hazard a guess.” They entered the large front hall, steps muffled by Turkish carpets. “Anyone who now possesses that relic is doomed to ruin.”

Peeking up at him, she furrowed her brow. “You know the story?”

He shrugged. “Don’t all Egyptian tales end that way?”

“No. Some have happy endings. But you’re right. This one doesn’t. It is said that whoever owns this piece will face the wrath of Anubis.”

“Good thing I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

“Nor do I.”

Even so, it appeared a shiver ran across her shoulders. Was she merely chilled, or could it be the stalwart Miss Dalton hid an irrational fear based on myth?

But when she spoke, her voice didn’t quiver in the least. “At first I was going to suggest that after cataloguing and pricing your collection, you sell it to the British Museum where others could enjoy viewing such finds. But now after unpacking such a rare piece?” She shook her head. “I think it better if you simply send the whole lot back to Egypt where it belongs.”

“Don’t tell me you believe such ancient poppycock, Miss Dalton.” He snorted. “Some old chunk of pottery or figurine isn’t going to do me in, I assure you.”

“What I believe, Mr. Dalton, is that your collection isn’t of commonplace items that could have been sold to anyone along the ancient trade routes. These are one-of-a-kind pieces that are an integral part of Egyptian history. They belong in Cairo, not in England.”

They swung into the banquet hall, where the large wooden boxes lined the walls, only three of them with tops pried off thus far. She stopped in front of a two-foot-high statue of a creature with a lion’s body and the head and wings of an eagle leering at him from the end of the long table. “Behold, the famed Golden Griffin of Amentuk.”

He stooped over the relic, studying the familiar form from all angles. The hook-nosed beak, the slanted eyes, the powerful muscles and curved wings lifted to the heavens—he knew these things intimately, for he’d seen this creature time and time again. Clapping his hands together, he rubbed his palms back and forth. “What a find! I shall not sell this piece. It is too fortuitous.”

“How so?”

Straightening, he faced her. “There is a golden griffin in the Price family crest, the very image of this one, and so I shall keep it as my own.”

Her jaw tightened, her nostrils flaring slightly. “You cannot be serious.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Dalton.” He flashed her a grin. “I am relatively certain that Egyptian curses do not work here in England.”