Page 7 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

7

Edmund crouched next to Jameson, trying to focus on the steward’s explanation of why and how the drainpipes needed replacing. It was conscientious of the man to include him on the mundane workings of the estate, but he didn’t care a fig about gutters and water management. Of late he was much more interested in a certain Egyptologist.

Jameson tapped the rusty pipe. “Fifty pounds ought to do her nicely.”

For a few pieces of metal? Edmund snorted. “What are you replacing it with? Gold?”

The steward shrugged. “It’s a big house, and costs have gone up.”

Edmund gave a noncommittal grunt as he rose. Sanjay could feed his entire family for a year on such an amount. Mayhap even two. And the fellow would need that and more if the tariff passed. So would many other men. The Indian Export Act the greedy members of Parliament wished to impose would harm countless natives by taxing the cost of certain goods coming from India into England, as well as by imposing new restrictions for attaining local business licenses. There were other ways of raising revenue besides hefting such a load onto the backs of those already struggling—and he’d do his best to present other options and stop this nonsense if he could land a seat in the House.

Stifling a scowl, he glanced at Jameson. “Get a few other estimates before you commit.”

The steward’s brows arched high. “Who are you, and what have you done with Edmund Price?”

Edmund chuckled. “I assure you I am one and the same, old friend.”

“The man who left here eight years ago never would have suggested I shop around.” A slow smile crept along Jameson’s lips. “You’ve changed.”

Pah! What an understatement. Absently, he rubbed the snakebite scar on the inside of his forearm. He’d have been a fool to face death and not be changed. “I suppose you could say I’ve learned a few things since then.”

Jameson cuffed him on the shoulder. “Your father would have been proud.”

“About my caution, yes, but motivation? Now, there’s where we would have differed. He was a tightfisted old duff, and well you know it. All for the sake of greed.” He huffed a long breath. His relationship with his father had been complicated at best. There had been many things to admire about his father—and even more to despise. But despite it all, he yet mourned the man’s loss even after these past ten years.

Edmund shook his head. “God forbid I ever become such a miser, and if by chance I do, you have my permission to wallop me.”

“Ho ho! We could sell tickets to that spectacle, earn a small fortune.”

No doubt, for the loose-lipped steward would spread the news from one coast to the other. “Maybe so, but for now, just see what you can do about keeping down costs.”

“Ought I and the staff be concerned about our jobs?”

Edmund chuckled. “No, nothing of the sort. I’m just a bit cash strapped at the moment, so I shall have to be more judi cious when paying outright for goods and services. But don’t fret, all my investments are secure. More than secure, actually. I hope to make a fortune off those relics in the banquet hall.” He tipped his head toward the mansion’s front door.

“Speaking of which...” The mirth faded from Jameson’s tone.

Edmund suspected he knew why, for the man never could abide things out of place. These past eight years, he and Mrs. Buckner had had free rein to keep the house in perfect order. All that had changed now that their master had returned.

“Allow me to guess.” Edmund eyed the man sideways. “The clutter is giving you a rash. But in less than four weeks the banquet hall will be returned to its former beauty.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m more concerned about thieves, and so I mean to increase security. I’m sure the word is already out about the priceless items inside, which is certain to attract every light finger in the area. I’ll have some armed men on patrol, particularly at night.” Carriage wheels ground on the drive, and Jameson craned his neck, peering over Edmund’s shoulder. “Are you expecting someone?”

He turned. A dusty carriage pulled by a single horse rolled toward the house. Nothing fancy. Indeed, the transport was a bit on the rickety side with the way it leaned heavily to the right. At least no hopeful debutante could be expected to step from such a nondescript coach.

“I’ll see to that while you see to a few more quotes on the gutter works.” Edmund strode away as the driver halted the horse near the front stairs.

Out stepped a well-dressed gent, pressing creases from his trousers as he gazed up at the house. The garments were of quality, though ill-fitted and quite wrinkled, and as for the man? A strange unease prickled across Edmund’s shoulders. If he didn’t know any better, he’d be tempted to shoo the fellow away for the unnerving glint in his eyes as he studied the mansion ... eyes that were familiar yet with a calculating gaze that was not. The broad forehead, wide nose, and cleft chin where whiskers didn’t grow were all recognizable—but somehow different.

“Gil?” he wondered aloud. “Can it be?”

He hadn’t seen his business partner, Gilbert Fletcher, since before he sailed to India. The silver threads in the man’s dark hair were new, as were the sharp cheekbones and the pallor of his skin. My, how he’d aged, and not kindly.

Gil strode over and grabbed his hand for a hearty shake. “Good to see you.”

“You as well.” Edmund pulled back. “But I wasn’t expecting you until the end of the month. You should have sent word.”

Indeed. Fletcher was usually scrupulous about such minute details.

“Thought I’d surprise you.” Gil slapped him on the back.

Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “You hate surprises.”

Gil laughed. “People change all the time, old man.”

Edmund rubbed his jaw to hide a frown. First popping in unannounced and now such common language? The conservative businessman really had changed. “How have you been?”

“Never better. Quite invigorated, I should say. What man wouldn’t be with the sun on his face and wind in his hair? I’m hoping we can strike up some new deals while I’m here.”

He frowned. New deals? Did Gil think so little of the Egyptian antiquities? “I should think my recent acquisition would be deal enough.”

“Oh? Already got a game on, have you? Capital!” Gil rubbed his hands together. “Say, you don’t mind if I stay on here, do you? Save us both the trouble of commuting back and forth and, well, a hired coach isn’t the way to go.”

“Agreed. You shall stay here and have the use of one of my carriages. I cannot wait to hear about the good news you mentioned in your recent letter. But I suppose you’d like to see the cargo I’ve acquired first, eh?” Edmund swept his arm toward the house.

Gil cocked his head, a smile spreading, though it seemed more a baring of teeth than anything. “Why, yes, I’d love to see it. Lead on, my good fellow!”

Edmund trotted up the stairs, conflicted about the changes in the other half of Price & Fletcher. It was to be expected, though, after so long an absence. Even Jameson had remarked on the changes in him.

They barely crossed the threshold when the butler strolled out of the sitting room, an empty decanter in hand. Edmund signaled him over.

“Yes, sir?” Barnaby asked.

“Mr. Fletcher will be staying with us a few days. See that he is taken care of, will you?”

“At once.” He nodded, then faced Gil. “Price House always aims to make its guests feel comfortable. Let me know if there is anything I can do to be of service to you, Mr. Fletcher.”

Gil grinned. “I have no doubt I shall be very comfortable.”

A scream rang out, ruining the prospect of comfort for any of them. Footsteps pounded across the great hall in the corridor—the same passageway housing the room where Miss Dalton worked.

Edmund took off at a run.

Ami yawned as she entered the workroom. Spending the night scheming how to squeeze twenty-seven hours from twenty-four was never a good recipe for sleep. But a little sluggishness was worth it, for in all that tossing and turning, she had devised how to shave time off a run into town tonight to purchase those amulets ... as long as Polly agreed to help her. Which shouldn’t be difficult if Turkish delight was involved.

Her mouth stretched for another yawn when a scream from the far side of the room scared it away. Before she could even blink, a white-faced maid sprinted past her, apron strings flying in the air. What in the world had spooked her so?

Ami bypassed the golden griffin, giving it the evil eye as she strode to the dropped tote of brushes and rags the frightened girl had left behind. Something moved. Steadying her pulse, she peered into the thin space between two crates. A dark shadow twitched—one that stared right back at her. She stretched her arm into the abyss as footsteps pounded into the room.

“Great heavens! Miss Dalton, are you all right?” Worry pitched Mr. Price’s voice to a husky tone. And no wonder. What a sight she must be contorted into such a strange position.

“I’m—ow!” Pain pierced her finger. She flinched. Bosh. She’d be hanged if she’d let this little demon get the best of her. Undaunted, she wedged her shoulder as far as it would go between the crates, stretching until her muscles ached. And...

Triumph!

She pulled out a cat as black as a moonless sky, one who was every bit as terrified as the young maid had been.

“Shh.” She cradled the ball of fur while wiping the blood from her finger onto her apron. “All is well.” She turned about to face three pairs of wide eyes all focused on her.

The butler’s brows lifted clear to the rafters. “How did that get in here?”

“Odd place to keep a pet, old man.” The stranger next to Mr. Price elbowed him in the arm.

Mr. Price was the only one to fix his gaze on her injured finger. In a trice, he whipped out a handkerchief from his pocket. “You’re hurt. Barnaby, take that cat out to Phineas. No doubt he’ll welcome a mole hunter in the rose bed.”

“Take care, Barnaby,” she told the butler as he reached for the feline. “She’s a bit skittish, poor thing.” Carefully, she nestled the cat into the crook of his arm.

Biting one corner of the cloth, Edmund tore a thin strip of fabric. He drew close, gathering her hand and winding the makeshift bandage around her finger. “This will do until you can see the cook for some salve, and the sooner the better.”

She inhaled sharply, for his touch—while infinitely gentle—sent a strange wave of heat up her arm. Bosh, but she could get used to this man holding her hand, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with that craving, for she’d never experienced such a weakness before. Stranger still, the longer they stood this close, the more her knees threatened to give way. La! She didn’t usually feel this giddy around anything but a mummy fresh from a sarcophagus. Perhaps that cat bite really was affecting her.

The man at Mr. Price’s side snorted. “Such hubbub over a stray feline.”

“I cannot say I am surprised.” Mr. Price tied off the cloth and stepped back, taking his pleasant scent of curry along with him. “The village girls are given to superstition, and black cats are a bad omen.”

“Ridiculous,” Ami huffed. “The Egyptians believed just the opposite, thinking them to be a symbol of divine protection, not evil intent. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“I didn’t say I believed such poppycock.” Mr. Price studied her. “But I must say your insight is quite astute.”

Though she couldn’t be sure, it looked as if admiration flickered in his eyes—which flared warmth into her chest.

“I will have my housekeeper speak with the maid. For now, allow me to introduce you to my business partner, Mr. Gilbert Fletcher.” He swept his hand toward the stranger. “Gil, this is Miss Dalton.”

“Charmed to meet you.” Collecting her uninjured hand, the man bowed over the top of it and pressed his lips to her skin. An old-fashioned gesture, one that smacked of chivalry. And yet he was no knight of old. He looked more like one of the gin bibbers hanging about the Folly Bridge.

She pulled away, her stomach oddly queasy. “Mr. Fletcher.”

Mr. Price tipped his head toward her. “Gil would like to see some of the artifacts.”

“Well, I’ve not gotten any further than the griffin from last night, but over here are the vases and a mirror from the first crate I emptied.” She led them to a long trestle table at the far end of the room. Soon that tabletop would be filled with treasures of the past, which carved a melancholy hole in her heart. She wouldn’t have an infinite amount of time to persuade Mr. Price to sell—or better yet, donate—the lot to a museum in Cairo, and if she failed, all these historical pieces would be locked up in some wealthy man’s curio cabinets. Someday—someday soon, God willing—she’d go on a dig of her own and bypass this whole ghastly process. Unearth her own treasures and put them where they belonged—on display in their homeland.

“Very nice.” Mr. Fletcher moved from one item to the next. “How much are they worth?” He snapped a hawkish eye toward Mr. Price.

Ami clenched her jaw. Just because Mr. Price wore trousers did not make him more of an authority than her. “ I have valued the vases at twenty pounds apiece, and this mirror”—she circled her hand in front of the ornate bronze looking glass—“is ceremonial instead of functional, which ought to fetch at least fifty.”

Mr. Fletcher let out a low whistle, his head swiveling to take in the many crates filling the room. “And there’s more where that came from, eh?”

Mr. Price nodded. “There’s no telling what other riches may be uncovered. Just last evening Miss Dalton showed me this unique piece down here.” He strode the length of the long table, stopping at the head, where the golden griffin sat.

“Do you mind?” Mr. Fletcher nudged him out of the way and reached out to run a finger over the griffin’s wings.

Before he made contact, Ami batted away his hand. “Mr. Price may not mind, but I do. Your touch will mar the finish, and I have already buffed the gold.”

“Gold.” His teeth flashed in a wide grin. “How much is this beauty?”

Mr. Price shook his head. “It’s not for sale.”

Not yet, anyway. Not if she could impress upon him how important this particular relic was.

“Whyever not?” Mr. Fletcher jabbed his finger toward the griffin. “If that’s solid gold, we could both retire here and now.”

“I should like to keep it.” Mr. Price arched a brow at her. “Curse or not.”

“Curse? On this little gem?” Mr. Fletcher chuckled. “I suppose that explains the black cat, eh?”

Ami rolled her eyes. “Merely a coincidence. Now then, if you gentlemen wouldn’t mind, I really ought to be getting back to work.”

Mr. Gilbert narrowed his eyes. “Should you not wait until the scholar in charge arrives?”

“I am the scholar in charge.”

Mr. Gilbert’s wide brow wrinkled. “But you’re a woman.”

“Nice of you to notice,” she fumed.

Mr. Price laughed as his gaze bounced between them. “I own the situation is a bit unorthodox, Gil, but Miss Dalton has done a fine job thus far. Her knowledge is all-encompassing, and I find she takes great care with the relics, going so far as to handle each one with gloves.”

Well. At least one man recognized her worth. She peered up at Mr. Price. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“Hmph.” Mr. Fletcher grunted. “For your sake and mine, old man, I hope you are right.”

“I have no doubt on the matter.” Mr. Price smiled at her.

As did Mr. Fletcher. “I meant no offense, Miss Dalton. I am merely surprised to find such a beautiful woman tucked away in a room of dusty old artifacts.”

“And on that note,” Mr. Price cut in, “we shall leave you to your work. I look forward to hearing about what you uncover tonight at dinner.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it.” She spread her hands. “If I’m to meet that deadline of yours, I really ought to keep at it.”

“And yet you need to eat, Miss Dalton.”

“A bowl of soup will serve just fine.”

“Good. Then first course it is. Though I’ve asked the cook for Indian fare, which you might find more irresistible than cracking open another crate. Besides, with your zeal for the project, I have no doubt you’ll finish your work before the end of the month.” He tossed her a wink before pivoting away.

Ami grabbed the table for support. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear the man was flirting with her. And worse...

It was working.