Page 9 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

9

Well. This day was off to a bad start. Ami shoved back a loose strand of hair, annoyed with the way it dangled in her eyes. Granted, her morning likely wasn’t as awful as Mr. Fletcher’s must be, for surely he suffered quite a skull banger today—from so much drink and a gash on his head. After such a nasty tumble down the stairs last evening, he was fortunate a few stitches had remedied the situation. It could have been much worse.

Her belly rumbled—loudly—and she pressed a hand to it. Thus far she’d missed breakfast, failed at yet another attempt to authenticate the griffin, and broken her thumbnail when prying open the next crate.

And now this.

She ran her finger through a pile of Roman coins, spreading them out on the tabletop. Were they tetradrachms? Denarii? Who knew? Certainly not her. Egyptians usually bartered small items or traded gold and copper rings— deben —as currency. Valuing this small cache of money would take someone familiar with numismatics.

Out in the great hall, the case clock bonged a low chime. Half past the hour—thirty minutes until Mr. Price’s business meeting. It warmed her heart he wished her to be present. Too bad she’d have to disappoint. She reached for the valuation she’d penned for him and rose. As awful as this day was going, she had no desire to face the skepticism of some sour-faced buyer who’d undoubtedly question her credentials. Besides, she had plenty to do here, and that’s what Mr. Price had hired her for in the first place.

On her way out, she paused in front of the jackal-headed statue she’d unwrapped yesterday. Bosh. Dusty already? Doubling back, she snatched a cloth off the table and swiped it over the figure’s shoulders, the action not moving the heavy sculpture a whit. It seemed right having this guardian stand sentinel near the door as it would have been stationed in an ancient tomb. With a light toss, she landed the cloth over the back of her chair and strode from the room.

She didn’t have far to go. The study was conveniently located close to the front entrance of Price House. The door stood open, but even so she gave a cursory rap on the frame. No one answered, which was perfect. She’d nip in and out before anyone noticed.

Once inside, though, she veered away from the big desk at center, drawn irresistibly to the massive bookshelves lining an entire wall. The scent of leather-bound books and polished wood—beeswax, not lemon, thank heaven—filled her lungs. Gently, she ran a finger along the spines, angling her head to read the titles. Great Expectations. Middlemarch. Moby Dick. Her brows rose. Mr. Price—man of commerce and business—had a soft spot for fiction? Even better, the shelf below bore a selection of Indian artifacts. Though she’d rather see these items in a museum, at least he had the good sense to keep them away from the sunlight and stationed at eye level to admire while seated behind his desk. There were many things she respected about the man. His love and care for antiquities added to the tally.

A tally that was rising day by day.

Across from the shelves, cozy armchairs sat in front of the hearth. She didn’t need to close her eyes to imagine Edmund Price relaxing there, book in one hand, maybe a pipe filled with cherry tobacco in the other. His long legs would be stretched out, crossed at the ankle, his fine, broad shoulders nestled against the highbacked cushion. His dimple would crease as he concentrated. Ah, but he was a handsome fellow, one she didn’t care to admit had visited her in her dreams of late. What would it feel like to wake up to those striking blue eyes of his every morning, focused on her, cherishing her?

She stiffened. Bosh! What in all of England was she thinking?

Pivoting, she slapped down her estimate on his desk a little too forcefully, the swift movement knocking a small notepad to the rug. She swiped it up, catching a glance of the masculine handwriting. Many lines were crossed off with angry X ’s. These were not the numbers a businessman ought to be calculating.

Curious, she peered closer, holding the paper up to the sunshine streaming through the mullioned window.

Wut soft lite doth brake be-ond,

A donning, a yonning, a yell-oh . . .

Oh my. This was Mr. Price’s poetry? No wonder he’d labeled it abysmal. The sentiment was fine enough, but the spelling was atrocious. Almost as if a schoolboy first learning his letters had penned the words. How did he manage his business with such poor writing skills?

The low drone of men’s voices traveled down the corridor. Whirling, she set the notepad back on the desk, but apparently not quite well enough. Once again it thwacked to the floor.

“You’re here early, Miss Dalton.” Mr. Price’s rich tone entered the room.

Her heart banged against her ribs. If she bent to retrieve his poetry, he’d suspect she’d been poking about the papers on his desk. Which she hadn’t been—mostly.

“I, em...” Stalling, she punted the notepad with a smooth kick, hiding the action with the hem of her skirt. Hopefully the incriminating evidence had sailed beneath his desk. Guilt tasted like ashes in her mouth, but she’d choke on even more shame if she admitted she’d read his verse without his permission.

Grabbing her estimate, she held it out. “Here is the valuation you requested. Now then, I am afraid I cannot stay. I really ought to be assessing more artifacts. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Actually, I was about to suggest we convene this meeting in your work area.” He tucked the paper into his pocket. “That way Mr. Harrison here can take a peek at some of the relics you’ve already uncovered and get a feel for how many more are in the load. And with that, may I introduce Mr. Harrison.” He turned to the stout man next to him.

Ami stifled a sigh. As expected, the fellow was dour-faced and paunch-bellied, arrogance clinging to him as tightly as his suit coat. He needn’t say anything for one to deduce he was a pound snatcher, breathing money, speaking it, rolling in it if he had the chance. Should she step closer, no doubt she’d inhale the metallic scent of old coins.

“Mr. Harrison,” Mr. Price continued, “this is Miss Dalton, Egyptologist.”

Both the title and the gleam in Mr. Price’s eyes wrapped around her like a warm embrace. For the space of a breath, she relished the feeling.

Then steeled herself for the inevitable You’re a what? from Mr. Harrison.

However, the portly fellow merely dipped his head, jowls blending in with his collar. “Miss Dalton, pleased to meet you.”

Well, well, perhaps her bad day was turning a corner.

“Pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Harrison.” She smiled at the fellow, then faced Mr. Price. “If you’ll give me just a minute, I’ll tidy up the display table. It’s not in a fit viewing state at the moment.”

“As you wish.” Turning to his potential buyer, Mr. Price indicated the leather chairs. “How about we catch up on that recent hunting excursion of yours?”

Ami left behind the men’s chatter of fox and hounds, conflicted at the suggestion she’d made. She ought not care about an appealing presentation of the goods, and in fact, should leave it a mess to dissuade a purchase. Who knew where Mr. Harrison would store the valuable items if he got his hands on them? It would be in her best interest—make that the relics’ best interest—if the lot didn’t sell to a private buyer ... though that could be detrimental to Mr. Price.

And he’d been nothing but kind to her.

The debate raged in her mind all the way to the workroom—where it promptly flew from her head. Near the pile of Roman coins stood a man with a bandage wrapped around his head, back toward her, hand in his pocket.

“Mr. Fletcher?” Alarmed, she strode toward him. “Can I help you with something? You shouldn’t be up and about so soon.”

He faced her, half a smile lifting one side of his moustache. Other than the swath of white cloth on his brow, he appeared to be hale. “Don’t fret about me, Miss Dalton. You’d be surprised at how fast I bounce back from an injury. I am no stranger to being knocked about. Ha-ha!” He shoved his other hand into his pocket, grin fading. A sheepish look tucked his chin. “Actually, I came to apologize. There is no excuse for speaking so crudely as I did last night. I hope you will forgive me.”

He was right. He had been crude, but he’d also been intoxicated. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard worse from the scoundrels with whom she brokered deals in dark alleys. “Yes, of course, Mr. Fletcher. We all make mistakes.”

“You are a saint, dear lady. So then let us put the past behind us, eh?” He yanked out his pocket watch and, after a glance, snapped the lid shut and tucked it away. “While I’d love to stay and chat, I’m afraid I must cut this short, for I have a meeting with Mr. Price and Mr. Harrison. Until later, Miss Dalton.”

He strode past her.

“But they will soon be...” She closed her mouth. There was no sense finishing the sentence. Mr. Fletcher was already out the door.

Reaching for the nearest pile of papers, she tapped them against the tabletop, straightening them into a neat stack. She capped the ink bottle, relocated a pile of polishing rags to a nearby basket, and grabbed the pouch to stow the scattered Roman coins. After scooping them in, she pulled the drawstring and ... wait a minute. She dumped them back onto the table and fingered through the gold tokens, mouth pinching. Either she’d miscounted the first time she’d unpacked them...

Or some were missing.

“Right this way, Mr. Harrison.” Edmund led the man out to the corridor, thankful to leave behind the Pandora’s box he’d unwittingly opened. Harrison had regaled him with detailed descriptions of his many hunts, right down to the various dogs he’d used over the years and what food he fed them. Not being overly fond of hunting, Edmund found the tales tedious at best.

“I’m sure you’ll—” Edmund narrowed his eyes as they entered the great hall. “Gil?”

Striding toward them with a bandaged head and a smirk on his mouth, Fletcher closed the distance between them. “Sorry I skipped breakfast, old man. Bit of a sluggish morning for me, but I’m up to speed now. And you must be Mr. Harrison, I assume?” He shook the man’s hand. “I’m Gilbert Fletcher, Mr. Price’s business partner. I hope I haven’t missed the entire deal, but if so, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on acquiring such a unique collection.”

“You’ve missed nothing, Mr. Fletcher, for I’ve acquired nothing yet. We are just on our way to view the artifacts now.” Mr. Harrison’s gaze fixed on Gil’s brow. “Looks like you were in quite a tussle.”

“Just a quarrel with a staircase, but never fear, I came out the victor.”

Edmund stifled a snort. Gil had gained such a victory by Providence alone, for had he climbed any more than the three steps he’d taken, that tumble could have very well broken his neck.

“The workroom is this way, Mr. Harrison.” Edmund set off toward the refashioned banquet room, unaccountably perturbed by Gil’s presence. The man really ought to be in bed.

“Fine home you’ve got, Price.” Mr. Harrison puffed along beside him. For a fellow so given to hunting, he surely was unfit for physical activity. “I wonder you don’t keep your recent purchase for yourself?”

“I am rarely in residence here and in fact soon hope to move to London once renovations are finished on my town house.” If God showed him favor, that was ... and if Lord Bastion did as well. He’d not heard from the viscount since that telegram on the train. But that was another matter for another time. For now, he smiled at Mr. Harrison. “Displaying such a treasure in this house would be wasteful as there would be none other than the servants to admire it.”

“Treasure, yes!” Gil clapped his hands. “I daresay you’ll want to jump on this lot, Harrison, before other buyers get wind of it. Will it be a problem for you to acquire the funds within the week?”

Edmund clenched his jaw. Gilbert Fletcher never used to be this high-pressured or ill-mannered. “That won’t be necessary. As I’ve explained to Mr. Harrison, we are very early in the process, and not everything has yet been unpacked. Much as I’d love to sell the lot right now, it wouldn’t be prudent to do so.”

“Prudence is a nag to be goaded into motion. Ha-ha!” Gil’s voice bounced from wall to wall as they entered the corridor.

Mr. Harrison didn’t look amused. Neither was Edmund.

His irritation faded, though, as they entered the workroom, his gaze immediately drawn to Miss Dalton, who was handing a basket of rags to the housekeeper. Mrs. Buckner dipped her head at him as she passed by, but Edmund barely noticed. It was too hard to pull his eyes off Miss Dalton, for she was a veritable Cleopatra amongst these ancient relics. Sunlight illuminated her delicate features, her skin glowing as brilliantly as the alabaster vases. She was the true gem in the room, a timeless beauty even in an apron with her hair pinned haphazardly. The keen mind behind those sharp eyes only added to the allure.

He cleared his throat. “Are you ready for us to view the artifacts?”

“Yes. Why don’t you gentlemen join me over here?” She turned toward the vases. “These urns”—she swept her hand over three slender pieces—“are from the New Kingdom, dating from the sixteenth century BC to—”

“Harrison doesn’t care about such trivialities, Miss Dalton.” Gil tapped the table. “Tell him what they are worth.”

Her brow furrowed as she shot her gaze to Gil, clearly annoyed, and yet when she spoke, her voice hid any hint of agitation. “Twenty pounds apiece.”

“And a bargain they are at that, eh, Harrison?” Gil nudged the man with his elbow. “I should think you’d want to buy the goods here and now.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Miss Dalton moved on to the next item, circling her hand over a golden-framed looking glass. “Here we have a fine example of an article from the predynastic period, a ceremonial—”

“Yes, yes. We can all see it is a mirror, Miss Dalton.” Gil chuckled. “What Harrison needs to know is the value.”

Edmund’s hands curled into fists, giving his fingers something to do other than throttle the man. He’d given Gil the benefit of the doubt yesterday, what with his travel and then overindulgence of wine, but there was no excuse for his poor behaviour today. A word or two was definitely in order after Harrison left.

Miss Dalton frowned. “The worth of an item goes far beyond a number, Mr. Fletcher. Take, for example, the golden griffin over there.” She pointed across the room to the winged statuette. “If that piece truly bears the famed curse of Amentuk, then its value would—”

“Curse, you say?” Mr. Harrison’s eyes widened. “How very interesting, Miss Dalton. I have an ardent curiosity in all things cryptically metaphysical, so do tell.”

“If you like, though it is but a legend.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Follow me.”

Suddenly energized, Mr. Harrison tagged her heels like a playful pup.

Edmund grabbed hold of Gil’s arm and lowered his voice. “Stop pressuring Mr. Harrison. I’m not ready to sell.”

“That is why you need me, old man.” Gil pulled away. “You cannot let a buyer like this slip through your fingers. The sooner the sale, the better.”

“We don’t even know what’s in the rest of these crates!” he whisper-growled.

“That’s why you name him a figure.” Gil poked a finger into his chest. “Close the deal, then ship him only some of the items. He’ll never know what he’s missed out on, and the rest can be sold to another bidder.”

Edmund stiffened. The idea was exactly the sort of underhanded scheme his father would have devised. “You know very well that I will have nothing to do with such a ruse. It’s unethical.”

“It’s business!”

“Not my kind of business, and I’ll hear no more about it. As planned, Miss Dalton will finish her valuations, and the cargo will be sold by month’s end.”

A vein stood out on Gil’s neck. “No, it must be sooner.”

Not that he’d mind getting the funds to Sanjay more quickly, but he wouldn’t stoop to such a dishonorable sale. Interesting, though, that Gil was so insistent. “Why must the deal be made with such haste? What are you not telling me?”

“I—oh dear.” Gil pressed his hand to his bandage and closed his eyes.

Instant guilt punched Edmund in the gut. Clearly the man wasn’t one hundred percent yet, and he was being a bit harsh on him. “Pardon my severity, Gil. If you need a lie-down, why don’t you—”

“No.” His eyes shot open. “I am fine.” He glanced over at Mr. Harrison and Miss Dalton, then swung his gaze back to Edmund. “Look, the smart business move is to encourage Harrison to lay down his money. He’s interested enough, especially about the folklore. Look at him over there. He’s practically nose to nose with that ugly statue, eating up every word Miss Dalton is feeding him. He said himself he believes in that magic, so I say we play up that curse to entice him.”

“But that’s absurd. The griffin isn’t cursed. It’s just Egyptian folklore.”

“Harrison doesn’t need to know that. If a curse is what it takes to sell him, then a curse is what he shall get.”

Edmund shook his head. “Like I said, Gil, stop pressuring the man. I mean it.”

A disgusted sigh belted out of Gil as he turned toward Mr. Harrison, and though Edmund couldn’t be sure, it sounded an awful lot like he grumbled, “You know nothing about making a situation better for yourself.”

Edmund followed, hoping Gil took his admonition to heart.

Mr. Harrison looked up at his approach. “This is quite the find, Price— if all that Miss Dalton claims about this piece is true. The stories alone are worth a penny or two.”

“Supposed curses aside, that item will not be sold with the rest for I intend to keep it.”

“Hah!” Gil cuffed him on the back. “Such a jester. Likes to drive a hard bargain, you know. Why, Harrison, if a cursed artifact is what you’re after, this little devil is just the thing for you. In fact, though I’d been hesitant to say so earlier, I believe my tumble down the stairs last night was because of the Egyptian spell hovering about that statuette. Something invisible pushed me. Something supernatural. What power that little gem holds! And were that power to be harnessed, why, who knows that it wouldn’t turn into a good luck charm? A golden luck charm.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Harrison scratched his jaw. “Now there’s a thought.”

Edmund rolled his eyes.

So did Miss Dalton.

Gil put his arm around Mr. Harrison’s shoulder, propelling him into motion. “How about we continue this conversation over a glass of sherry in Price’s office?”

Blast! How could the man even think of drinking with a skull that surely had to be aching from his injury and overindulgence of the night before? Frowning, Edmund tipped his head at Miss Dalton. “Thank you. I shall leave you to your work.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, a word before you leave?”

He glanced at the door where Gil and Mr. Harrison had already disappeared. If he didn’t keep that decanter out of Gil’s reach, there was no telling what he might say to Mr. Harrison. “Yes, but it will have to be brief.”

She plucked a small leather bag from farther down the table. With one hasty movement, she loosened the drawstring and small golden coins plinked onto the tabletop. “It’s about this Roman currency.”

“Roman?” He rubbed the back of his neck, thoroughly confused. “What are these doing tangled up with Egyptian artifacts?”

“Could be several reasons, actually.” She held up one of the coins between them. “There was a Roman period in Egypt from 30 BC to AD 641, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility for these to have been found in a tomb. Or perhaps they were stashed away elsewhere as Egypt was part of the ancient trading routes. Or—and this is what I’m leaning toward—it could be a collector or dealer of coins added a pouch to this mix of artifacts, someone hoping to sell a variety of relics together.”

He plucked the coin from her fingers, studying it himself while she continued.

“Whatever the reason, here they are, and to be honest with you, I have no idea how to price them. You’ll need a Roman antiquarian for that.”

“Good thing I’m a problem solver, then.”

She arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

He set the coin back with the others. “I happen to know just the fellow who can help us with this. An old friend of mine at Cambridge. I’ll dash him off a note today. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, and for having the courage to admit the limits of your knowledge. Many a man wouldn’t have been so bold.”

For a few breaths she said nothing, but the pinking on her cheeks revealed his compliment had hit home. Most women would have tittered under his praise. She merely lifted her chin. “There is one more thing you should know.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“There were twenty-five coins here this morning when I dumped them onto the table.” With a few flicks of her fingers, she spread the golden circles so that none overlapped. “After I returned from your office, only eighteen remained.”

The air whooshed from his lungs. Never once had his staff stolen anything. Why, Barnaby didn’t feel he even needed to lock up the silver at night, such was his confidence in who he hired and the camaraderie he worked to instill in them. Though Edmund hated to doubt Miss Dalton, he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you certain?”

“I wasn’t at first, but I checked my tally sheet to confirm it.” She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket, verifying her words.

Disappointment bowed his shoulders. Naturally, theft happened in other great houses, he’d just prided himself that it had never happened here. “I shall have Barnaby speak with the staff at once.”

“You might first wish to ask Mr. Fletcher about it.”

He wheeled about. “Why?”

“Because—though I cannot prove it—I saw Mr. Fletcher in here alone, standing near the coins, tucking his hand into his pocket.”