Page 94 of The Secret of the Three Fates

“Youarean American socialite. And it was addressed toyou.”

Touché. “I still think it was that meddlesome lady down the street trying to make a subtle hint.”

“Or not subtle, as it may be.”

I rolled my eyes and opened my mouth for some sort of witty retort when I spotted Andrew Lennox’s driver running down the path and darting over the bridge—the scene of so much misery as of late.

“Lord Hawick.”

Oh, no. What now?

He panted, hands on his knees, a folded-up telegram in his hand. “Lord Hawick. There’s a”—another huff—“an important message.”

“I can see that.” Mr. Owen appeared rather amused, his dark brown eyes watching the driver. He gestured with his forefinger. “Do get it from the poor lad, Ruby. See what it is that’s important. Has there been a demonic possession in Devonshire? A haunting in Little Humby?”

I took the telegram from Hugh’s gloved hand while he caught his breath. “Not amusing, Mr. Owen. Thank you, Hugh. Please ignore him.”

The driver let out a breathless laugh and shook his head.

“I know!” The old man laughed at his own joke. Cheeks turning a jolly shade of red. “There’s been a selkie spotted in Skye.”

I furrowed my brow. “Are there selkies in Skye? And you shouldn’t make light. You’re the one who went and found yourself a Pellar of all things.”

I glanced down to the telegram to see who it was from.

Lord Carnarvon, the peer who had been financing Howard Carter’s numerous expeditions in the Valley of the Kings. There was only one reason that Lord Carnarvon would be writing to Mr. Owen, as the two had been corresponding furiously back and forth for at least a decade over antiquities and Egypt.

My hands began to shake.

Three words.

Three simple words.

Carter’s done it.

The edge of my mouth curved up slowly. I ought to have been jealous. Dreadfully so. Howard Carter must have found a new tomb in the Valley of the Kings while I’d been dabbling in the occult for the last three months.

“You owe me ten pounds.” I stuck out my hand.

Mr. Owen blinked. “What the devil is in that telegram to earn you ten pounds, lass?” He tilted his chin, straining to get a look at it. I handed it over and watched as the color drained from his face.

“Ten pounds, Mr. Owen. Or should I say Lord Hawick? As I recall,youwere the one who said Howard Carter would find nothing new in the Valley of the Kings.”

“Wee besom,” he grumbled, reaching into his pocket for his money clip.

Viscount or not, he was still my Mr. Owen. And nothing in the world could change that. I snatched his entire money clip, dropping it into my own pocket.

He swore loudly, crumpling up the telegram and dropping it to the snowy ground. It seemed things were going to get very interesting when we returned to Exeter. Very interesting indeed. But first things first. I had a letter to write.

Now how precisely did one apologize to a Pellar? Now perhapsthatwas something Miss Post might know.