Temptress in Training (40 page)

That girl, the one who stood on a chair. Ah yes, he'd seen her quite clearly. He couldn't actually recall much of what she looked like, but he'd noticed something about her. She was wearing the scarab.

The Scarab of Osiris. He knew it instantly, had held it in his hand and felt the smooth gold, the carefully carved insect form, the warm amber orb at its head that fairly glowed like the sun. It was a beautiful piece. And it was stolen.

He knew, because he'd been the one to steal it.

After it was originally stolen from its place in a dead pharaoh's tomb, of course. He'd been merely trying to return the thing, along with several other treasures that had been looted from their rightful place and brought here, to England, where they did not belong.

Oh, certainly, he did not begrudge the legitimate men of science and conservation who worked within the proper authority to responsibly excavate and preserve antiquities to be shared with the world. He simply had a bit of a problem with the wholesale pillaging of one nation's culture and history to fund the luxurious tastes of a few private citizens in another. The young woman on the chair was a perfect example of that.

She was just another of these well-bred simpletons who were hungry for gold and sparkling things without ever stopping to wonder at the meaning, the history, the eternal significance of pieces like that scarab. No doubt she'd lined someone's pocket well, probably with more thought to how the lapis lazuli of the scarab's wings matched her blue eyes quite remarkably than to any concept of the hopes and dreams of its ancient creators.

Damn. Harris could do little but kick himself. What an idiot he was to fail so miserably at keeping these articles safe. And just a matter of days before he'd needed to give his reclaimed collection back to the people who'd asked—no, demanded—it returned.

But now that he knew where at least one piece was, perhaps he could track down the rest. Perhaps he could save these priceless treasures after all. And perhaps that would save his friend, Oldham. Indeed, far more than a friend.

First, though, he'd have to find a way to locate that woman. It wouldn't be an entirely unpleasant task, he had to admit. The scarab did bring out the blue of her eyes quite remarkably, now that he thought about it.

 

“W
E WILL HAVE NO MORE OF THIS
E
GYPT NONSENSE
,” Anthony, Lord Rastmoor, declared, silencing Penelope when she tried to protest the morning after the dance. “It's all I can do to keep you under control here in London. I can't even imagine the havoc you might wreak traveling off to some foreign land on your own.”

“But I wouldn't be alone,” Penelope protested to her brother. “I would be traveling with Mr. and Mrs. Tollerson. They've been friends of the family for ages. They'd keep close watch over me.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Tollerson can't even keep close watch over their own teeth. They are far too old to keep you on a leash, Penelope. You'd run all over them. Look what happened when I left you alone with mother and you nearly became prey to that loathsome Fitzgelder.”

Oh, he just loved to bring that up, didn't he? And he never seemed to have the facts right about it. Totally unfair.

“That was five years ago, Anthony,” she reminded. “And as you recall, I was quite in control of things where Fitzgelder was concerned.”

He merely snorted at her for that. “Just as you have been with your subsequent three fiancés, I suppose.”

“I never really intended to get engaged to any of them, Anthony. The first one was a misunderstanding. The second one tricked me, and the third…well, I'm not entirely certain what happened there.”

“It is always one disaster after another with you, isn't it?”

“But it's never my fault! Anthony, if you'd simply give me a chance—”

“No. If you want to go to Egypt, little sister, then find a husband. Let him take you there. Let him try to keep you from knocking over the Sphinx, or whatever ruddy mess you might make of the place.”

He was serious, she knew. But where on earth in all this sea of London foppery and English propriety did he expect her to find a husband who might have the slightest inclination to go to Egypt? She did not run with an especially adventurous crowd. He and Mamma had seen to it the young men she met were all properly dull and impossibly proper.

Very well, then. If a husband was what it would take to get to Egypt, then a husband she was going to find. Well, a fiancé, anyway.

She would implement her plan. She'd thought to give begging and pleading one last try this morning, but since that had clearly failed, she had no other recourse. Anthony had pushed her into it.

Now, all she had to do was find that dreadful gentleman from last night. And really, the morning post had already helped her along in that. The Earl of Kingsdere, as it turned out, was hosting a ball in honor of his own birthday. She and Mamma had received an invitation. They would accept, of course.

Surely the man's heir—the very hairy Lord Harry she had seen last night—would wish to help his uncle celebrate the occasion, even if he was a hermit. She only hoped he would not be forced to shave. True, he had seemed to be hiding rather nice features beneath that scruff, but Anthony would surely hate him more if he remained woolly.

Penelope smiled for her brother over her breakfast. “Very well, Anthony. Your word is law. I suppose there's nothing more to be said on the matter.”

“There isn't.”

Silly Anthony. He actually believed he was correct.