Bound by Your Touch (16 page)

Mr. Pagett had behaved similarly with Ana last night. Now that their marriage had been set, he felt free to take such liberties.

Sanburne took such liberties with no license at all.

Lydia swallowed and looked back to her book. Two hours now she'd been trying to read this essay on the bedouins, but her thoughts preferred to wander. It was purely humiliating to acknowledge how long she'd lain awake, these last few nights, reliving that incident at the Stromonds'. She would not blame herself for being attracted; she understood the facts of biology. But how
vexing
that she could not seem to forget him! This must be how gin addicts felt. One read of their plight in the papers. They could deny the drink for weeks, but the hunger never died. Given cause to reawaken, it killed them.

She had not accompanied Sophie and Ana to any events since the Stromonds'.

She came to her feet to walk to the catalogue. The scents of ink and aging paper gathered most strongly here, acting like a tonic on her nerves.

"I have a message for you."

Lydia looked up. A young man stood a couple paces off, perusing the bookshelf. The watery light of a rainy afternoon was falling through the great glass dome overhead; it gilded his silver-blond hair, and lent his skin a bluish cast. Next to him, a girl in a green polonaise was browsing. He must have spoken to her. Illicit lovebirds, no doubt, making a grand production of their secrecy. With a wry smile, Lydia took hold of a directory by its zinc-faced bottom.

"I said I have a
message
for you, Miss Boyce."

Her fingers spasmed. The volume slammed onto the floor. Lithograph entries, their paste loosened from age, fluttered out across the ground.

Murmurs rose behind her. She was dimly aware of readers looking up from their desks, frowning. An attendant, bent over a stack of books, straightened and stared in her direction.

The weight of the blond man's regard pressed against her cheek. After a cowardly hesitation, she squared her shoulders and turned to face him.

In his dark, modest attire, he looked like a scholarship student, come to the British Museum to do a little research. His youth—the flush on his cheeks, the rounded contours of his jaw—should have eased her. "Who are you?"

"A friend of a friend," he said. "Here—" He reached into his pocket, and she took a sharp step away. Her skirts brushed up against a desk—an occupied desk, judging by
the
protest behind her. She paid it no heed. Her eyes had only one focus: his hand, sliding into his waistcoat.

The note he produced was thin. Unaddressed.

She licked her dry lips. "That is not for me. My friends communicate with me direcdy."

"Some things cannot be sent through the post," he murmured. "Won't you take this letter, miss? I have been charged to deliver it to you."

A movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention: the attendant was approaching. He would scold her for abusing the catalogue. Worse yet, he might revoke her readers ticket. It was too horrifying to countenance.

She straightened her spine. "I do not know you," she said stiffly. "I do not speak with strangers who accost me in public. Should you truly possess information for me, you may convey it through Baron South-erton."

His eyes, a steady, guileless blue, held to her own. "I think you know why this should best remain private."

Her heart, which had been doing a very steady job of it, began to knock. "No. I have absolutely no idea what you mean."

"I say, miss!" The attendant tapped her elbow, his bushy brows knotted in disapproval. "You must have a care with the catalogues! This one will have to be rebound with fresh guards, I fear!"

"I am sorry," she said breathlessly. "It was—I was startled. That gentleman said something very shocking, and the book slipped from my grasp."

"Hmph. Giving you trouble, was he?"

Trepidation lifting the hairs at her nape, she glanced behind her. The stranger was retreating, moving at a determined clip toward the exit.

"You must report such behavior to the attendants, miss. We are determined not to tolerate hooliganism."

"Yes," she said faintly.

"Oh—you've dropped something else." He started to bend down, but she beat him to it. The letter still held the warmth of the other man's body.

Back at her desk, she pulled out the little reading platform by its leathern handle and smoothed out the note.

I
must speak with you about Mr. Hartnett. I should not like to trouble you, but I require my share.

—
Polly Marshall.

An address in St. Giles followed.

She looked up. In a trick of the light shed by the dome, the room abrupdy grew darker. What on earth was this about? Mr. Hartnett was dead. And how could such a gentleman have formed connections in London's most notorious slum? And even if he had done, how could it concern
heri

Goose bumps rose on her arms. There was only one connection between them: the forgeries. But no one should know of those! It was impossible!

She stood. I
must tell Sophie.
And then, in the next second, she sat back down. Great ghosts. If the other news had troubled Sophie, this would give her fits.

"Looking lovely today."

She gasped and turned in her seat. Sanburne stood behind her. "You!" Was this one of his pranks? Lord knew he had already demonstrated a perverse taste in entertainments. Oh,
please
let it be a joke. "Did you send me this?"

His eyes flicked to the note in her hand, but his pleasant expression did not change. "That depends. Is it a love letter? If so, I'll gladly claim responsibility."

"No." Her spirits falling, she looked back to the note. I
require my share.
It made no sense.

"Wasn't it signed?" When she shook her head, he dropped into a crouch, so their
eyes
were level. "You look distressed." At her shrug, he said slowly, "I don't suppose this letter mentions anything about tears, or curses, or the whatnot."

"What? No, what rubbish. It— I beg your pardon!" For he had snatched the note out of her hand, and was straightening it. She came to her feet to grab it, but he held it out of reach.

"St. Giles, eh?" He gave a soft whistle of astonishment. "Not your usual haunt, I'd wager. Hartnett's the one who was to receive the forgery, yes?"

"Keep your voice down!" She made a rapid survey of the people around them. A sea of heads, bent industriously over books and newspapers. Generally the Reading Room was her refuge from the critical eyes of fashionable society. But if Sanburne of all people had taken to visiting, she could not say who might appear here.

He was studying her face. "So I'm right," he said. "How mysterious. And who's Polly?"

The temptation to confess caught her off guard. Had she lost her mind? She could not seriously think to share confidences with this man.

But to whom else might she turn? Not Sophie. Certainly not George. A wise woman would consult the police, but the mention of Hartnett made that course unthinkable. The inspectors would want to know his connection to Papa. And now that he was dead, the only connection was the five forgeries sitting in her dressing room. How would she explain
that?
She could not even explain it to herself.

The letter-writer might have explanations.

She eyed Sanbume. Her instincts, she discounted. They clamored like schoolgirls for her to step nearer; they were witless when it came to men. But logic agreed that she might rely on him. He already knew of one forgery. And by his own admission, he found her amusing. If she had formed any certainty with regard to the viscount, it was that he valued his little amusements. So long as she entertained him, he might prove amenable to keeping a confidence.

"All right," she said slowly. "Not here, though. If someone spies us together, it will raise talk."

Surprise crossed his face. He hadn't expected her to agree. As she fought down an irrational pleasure at having startled him, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to match hers. "That's right. Who knows what people would make of it?" His eyes widened. "Perhaps they'd assume I've taken an interest in you."

"Exactly," she said. "That would never do."

He laughed softly. "Are you stupid, Miss Boyce? Or only woefully naive?"

Oh, she took his meaning well enough, "I am neither," she said, her cheeks pinkening, and then turned on her heel, toward the exit.

Lydia led Sanburne out of the Reading Room, to the long hall where the Egyptian collection began. It was the best place she knew to conduct a discreet discussion: always crowded, but never crushed. Passing the cluster of visitors around the Rosetta Stone, she stopped at a bench facing a small statue of the goddess Isis and her spouse, Osiris.

Taking a seat, she briefly gave a summary of the events to date. "There is no way to tell when the forgeries might have been introduced," she concluded. "Port Said, where they're crated for a sea journey—the ports at Malta and Gibraltar—or even Southampton, where they're transferred to rail for London." Her
eyes
dropped to the note still clutched in her hand. Folding it, she slipped it into her reticule. "I can't imagine what this woman wants. But perhaps she knows something."

He sat beside her, his expression uncharacteristically thoughtful. "Why not take the matter to the police?"

She nodded. "For one thing, Southerton is a vocal critic of Scotland Yard. He's done nothing this month but rail in Parliament about their failure to stop that bomb attack. If the police learned that his father-in-law was connected, even tangentialJy, to art fraud—well, they would be glad to trumpet it from the rooftops, wouldn't they? No, it's out of the question. But perhaps ..." She felt herself blushing, and averted her face. Her attention focused on the black granite statue. Visitors, dazzled by golden sarcophagi and famous hieroglyphs, rarely remarked it. She had a soft spot for it, though. Rarely did paganism appear so clearly as in this statue. The goddess was twice the size of her husband.

Sanburne had followed her look. "Very fierce, isn't she? Rather reminds me of your look at the Institute." He pulled a face—his lips turning down, his
eyes
narrowing to a squint.

Offense made her stiffen. "I beg your pardon, sir. I looked nothing of the sort. And that does not resemble her in the slightest. She is stern, yes, but not ugly."

"Ugly? You're right, then; I didn't do it properly.

More like this, perhaps." He glanced back to the statue, then wrinkled his nose.

"How childish you are. Everything is a game to you, isn t it?

"Of course. If I took it seriously, I'd go mad." As she looked to him in startlement—his tone had sobered on that alarming statement—he went on, "But you're right. This is very serious research I undertake, here."

"Oh? And what is your research question?"

"Why, only this: was she carved from life, or is a human face unable to imitate her expression?"

She glanced back at Isis. It was actually an interesting problem; she could not recall any work that addressed whether ancient Egyptians had used human models for their art. "From life, I think," she said hesitantly. "If one's mouth can manage it—" She pressed her lips straight and scowled. "Like this."

He sat back in mock fear. "Dear God! That's it exactly! Miss Boyce, only show that face to your letter-writer, and you'll have an apology on the double."

She fought a laugh by frowning more deeply. "And when shall I have one from you?"

"That's right, I owe you one. Well, I do apologize, Miss Boyce. I should have kissed you longer, and insisted that you dance, whether you like it or no. I cannot think why I failed to do so."

No use in trying to disguise this blush: she was no doubt red as a postbox. "Congratulations, sir. You have squandered the opportunity to redeem yourself."

"As an admirer of Isis, you should have predicted that."

"You're familiar with the Egyptian pantheon?"

"I'm familiar with Cleopatra," he said amiably. "A Macedonian who wanted to be an Egyptian queen, and who claimed kinship with the goddess to legitimate her rule. Alas, she forgot what every true Egyptian knows: that Isis requires Osiris. And so, along came Antony, and she asked him a favor: play the obedient god, and share in her rewards. Unfortunately, like most men, Antony made a hash of the opportunity, and Cleopatra paid for it in snake venom. Make your requests carefully, is the moral of the story—particularly, I suppose, if you're a woman."

A dreadful suspicion knocked at her. This was not the layman's version of the story, which painted Cleopatra as a witless, malicious trollop. "You did not learn that from Miss Bernhardt's performance."

"Oh, there's a terrible rumor going the rounds. Apparently I
may
have taken a degree in Classics." As she sucked in a mortified breath, he added, "But very long ago, darling—and it was second-class at best. Not good enough to spot a forgery, at any rate."

The forgeries. Yes. Her ears burning, she turned back to the matter at hand. "As for that, I thought you might come along to St. Giles. Please don't mistake me," she continued hastily. "I'm not trying to ... Well, I need an escort, and I thought it might entertain you, that's all. You
do
seem to have a taste for odd amusements."