An Improper Aristocrat. Deb MarloweЧитать онлайн книгу.
complimentary skills; it had been enough to forge a bond of companionship and camaraderie. And, yes, of friendship.
Eventually their dragoman and some of the workmen arrived. Trey saw more than one of the natives furtively making the sign against the evil eye. Spurred on by the headman, a few hearty souls stepped forward to tenderly bundle Richard’s body and prepare to carry him back to camp.
‘Where is the woman?’ Trey asked harshly when the dragoman approached him.
‘She slipped away. I let her go.’ Aswan cocked his head. ‘Shall I find her?’
Trey shook his head. ‘Do any of them know anything?’ He jerked his jaw towards the milling men.
‘I will discover it if they do,’ Aswan said firmly. ‘We go back. Latimer effendi must be prepared for burial. Do you come?’
Trey stared down at the pendant in his fist, then up into the lightening sky. ‘No,’ he said. The tide of anger inside him was rising with the sun. Grief and guilt and rage threatened to overwhelm him. He experienced a sudden empathy with the howling dervishes he had seen in Cairo; he wanted nothing more at this moment than to scream, to vent his fury into the deceptively cool morning air. Instead, he turned to the opposite direction than that which the workmen were taking, and headed for the ancient trail leading to the top of the cliffs.
It was little better than a goat path and required all of his focus, especially in the poor light and at the pace he was taking it. He was sweating heavily when he reached the top, and he stood, blowing against the cool morning breeze.
The sun was just topping the eastern cliffs, the sky above coming alive in a riot of colour. Trey ignored the incredible vista, looking away as the light crept across the fields and kissed the waters of the Nile. Stately temple ruins and the humble villages came to life beneath his feet. But Richard was dead.
Trey straightened, aware only of his own overflowing bitterness and the bite of the pendant in his grip. This was the reason Richard had been killed. Trey was sure of it. Richard had searched relentlessly for the thing since he had first arrived in Egypt, nearly a year ago. The day he found it, he had told Trey that the object filled him with both hope and dread.
Trey could see nothing to inspire such deep feelings. Shaped like a scarab, it looked almost alive in the rosy light of the burgeoning day. Until one felt the empty indentations—in the shape of the insect’s wings—where at some time in antiquity thieves had pried the jewels out. Or until one turned it over to gaze at the underside, scored with the old writing.
Such defects had not lowered the value of the thing in Richard’s eyes. He had strung it on a chain and never, as far as Trey knew, removed it since. Until today.
Trey ignored the stab of grief and fought to tighten his thoughts. He dragged his mind’s eye back over the past months. Yes, it was true. All the strange little occurrences they had suffered had begun after Richard acquired the scarab. They were only small things at first: a few insignificant items missing, their belongings rifled through. Once an itinerary of antiquities that Richard had purchased for the British Museum had disappeared.
Lately, though, the situation had become more sinister. Their rooms had been ransacked and some of their workmen scared off. Richard had refused to discuss the matter, and had scorned the incidents as that which any foreigner might expect to endure in this harsh land.
Trey had not believed him. He had suspected that something more was going on, but he had trusted Richard to handle it. The boy was young, yes, but half-Egyptian himself. Like many of his countrymen he had appeared old beyond his years. He had handled himself with such dignity and their workmen with such ease; it had been easy to forget he hadn’t much beyond a score of years in his dish.
And now Richard was dead. Trey should have pushed him, demanded an explanation. He hadn’t. He had been too caught up in his work to spare it much consideration. Damn, he thought, letting the sour taste of guilt wash over him, and damn again.
He focused his rage at the pendant, glaring at the offensive thing, for a long moment sorely tempted to pitch it out into the abyss; to leave it once more to the ravages of time and the elements.
But he had promised. Given his word of honour to deliver the cursed thing to Richard’s sister. A gruesome memento, in his view. And he had vowed to protect the girl. But from whom? Drovetti? Why would the French want the thing? Why would anyone?
He sighed. It didn’t matter; he had promised. He would do it. He turned away and set his feet back on the path into the Valley.
Back to England.
Chapter One
Devonshire, England
1821
The ominous drip, drip of water echoed against the roughhewn walls of the hidden chamber. It was true; the idol was here. It sat enthroned on its pedestal, bathed in a mysterious light that set its ruby eyes to glowing. Nikolas reached for it. Almost he had it, but something gave him pause. The glow of the eyes had become more intense. The idol was staring at him, through him, into him. He shook off the notion that the thing could see every stain ever etched into his soul. He reached again, but…
‘Excuse me, lass.’ Neither the impatient tones nor the broad Highland accent belonged to brave Nikolas.
With a reluctant sigh, Chione Latimer abandoned her rich inner world and slid back into her only slightly more mundane life. She set down her pen and turned towards the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Ferguson, I am quite busy. I thought I had asked to be left undisturbed.’ She had to suppress a flash of impatience. She had pages to write. There would be no payment from her publisher until the latest installment of Nikolas’s adventures was in his hands.
‘That ye did, and so I told the gentleman, but bless me if some of us dinna act as high and mighty as the day is long.’
A strangled sound came from behind her. The squat, solid figure of Hugh Hamlyn, Viscount Renhurst, stood right on Mrs Ferguson’s heels.
‘Lord Renhurst,’ Chione said in surprise. ‘Are you back from town so soon?’ A quick surge of hope had her instantly on her feet, her heart pounding. ‘Have you heard something then? Has there been word of Mervyn?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’ He waved an impatient hand. ‘My steward wrote me in a panic, some sort of blight got into the corn. I had to purchase all new seed for the upper fields, and since nothing momentous was happening in the Lords, I decided to bring it out myself.’ His habitually harsh expression softened a bit. ‘I’m afraid your grandfather’s whereabouts are still a mystery, Chione. I’m sorry.’
Chione smiled and struggled to hide her disappointment. ‘Well, of course, a visit from you is the next best thing, my lord.’ She filed her papers away, then stood. ‘Will you bring tea, please, Mrs Ferguson?’
The housekeeper nodded and, with a sharp look for the nobleman, departed.
‘Now what have I ever done to earn her displeasure?’ Lord Renhurst asked in amused exasperation.
Chione waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Oh, you know how Mrs Ferguson’s moods are, my lord.’ She shot him a conspiratorial smile. ‘I know the perfect way for you to get back into her good graces, though.’ She led her visitor over to a massive desk centered at one end of the room. ‘You know how she loves it when people make themselves useful.’
She indicated the large bottom drawer of the desk. It was wedged tightly askew and impossible to open. ‘Could you please, my lord?’ Only with a long-time family friend like the viscount could she ask such a thing. ‘All the sealing wax is in there and I’ve desperate need of it.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I come bearing news and get set to servants’ work!’ Yet he gamely folded back his sleeve and bent over the drawer. He pulled. He pounded. He heaved. ‘Why haven’t you had Eli in to take care of this?’
Eli was the ancient groom, the only manservant she had left, and also the one-legged former captain of the Fortune-Hunter,