Trey bent low over the girl, shielding her

from their gaze with his body.

“Laugh,” he said, his face perilously close to hers.

“What?” Her eyes were wide with alarm.

“Laugh.” He whispered the harsh command. “Like the sort of woman who should be out alone with a man at this time of night.”

Still she did not comprehend. Speechless, she just stared at him, her pupils dark with surprise and, if he was any judge, with sudden want.

So Trey did what he must. What some part of him had burned to do since he’d first laid eyes on her. He pulled her hard against him and seared her with his kiss.

An Improper Aristocrat

Harlequin® Historical

Author Note

I came to romance as a reader long before I even conceived of being a writer. Broken marriages were common in my experience as I was growing up. Looking back now, I realize how lucky I was to discover romance as a teenager, and to find so many wonderful examples of strong women and the men who value them. Every time I picked up a romance novel I learned a lesson about characters struggling with difficulties in life and fighting their own personal demons. I struggled and fought along with them, and rejoiced as they truly earned their Happily Ever Afters. I think I picked up a few valuable lessons along the way.

An Improper Aristocrat is my second novel for Harlequin Historical. I hope you enjoy riding along with Trey and Chione on their journey to a happy ending.

DEB MARLOWE
An Improper Aristocrat

Available from Harlequin®Historical and DEB MARLOWE

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Prologue

The Valley of the Kings, Egypt

1820

From the shadowed walls of the desert wadi, the Frenchwoman watched. Truly it was him—and from her hidden vantage point he lived up to every whispered tale making its way along the Nile. Her heart quickened.

He sat alone in his tent, scratching out notes by the weak light of his lamp. Narrowing her gaze, she studied him. Ah, yes. The light might be dim, but it illuminated a feast for the discerning female eye: a strong, chiselled profile, impossibly broad shoulders, rugged muscles straining the fine linen of his shirt.

He set down his pen and indulged himself in a lengthy, catlike stretch. Even in so unwary a pose she could sense his power, feel the pull of unwavering confidence and absolute masculinity. Inwardly, she smiled. This assignment, which she had objected to with such vehemence, was going to be no hardship at all.

She crept closer, moving carefully in the mix of rock and sand that littered the valley floor, mentally reviewing all that she knew of this renegade. The Englishman was a legend. He had discovered valuable antiquities in India, Persia and throughout the Orient. In the short time since his arrival in Egypt, he had already made some remarkable finds.

A great man, yes. But here, alone in the cool, dark hours of the desert night, just a man. And one who looked simply weary, and oddly content. Her lips curled wryly. Soon she would fix that.

Her quarry closed his ledger and rose. Stepping lightly, she approached the open tent flap. In one lithe movement she released the catch and stepped inside. Both the canvas and her cloak swirled satisfactorily at her feet.

The Earl of Treyford paused, caught in the act of peeling off his shirt. Fixing his unexpected visitor with an impassive stare, he reached for a name to go with the lovely face. ‘Madame Fornier, is it not?’ he asked, shrugging back into his shirt.

Her smile appeared to be one of genuine pleasure. ‘Indeed. How flattering it is that you remember me, my lord.’

‘I make it a point to know my rivals, madame.’ Deliberately he did not return the smile.

‘Rivals?’ She pursed her lips. ‘An ugly word, and one I’m not at all sure applies to our present situation.’

Trey didn’t reply. The less he said, long experience told him, the quicker she would get to the crux of this late-night visit.

‘My husband—you met him as well at le docteur Valsomaki’s?’

At his nod, she continued. ‘Fornier, he would be happy with your choice of words. Nothing more would he like than to be considered your rival. He tells himself and anyone who will listen that he is Monsieur Drovetti’s foremost agent. But your accomplishments?’ She raised a brow. ‘He belittles them and says you have only been lucky in Egypt.’

She gave a sad shake of her head and reached up to loosen the fastenings of her cloak. ‘Jealousy steals the sting of his words. He has done nothing to equal your feats. I myself saw those figures of Sekhmet you shipped back to England. Very impressive, my lord.’

He inclined his head and watched as the last tie came undone. One lift of her shoulders and the cloak fell away. She stood proudly, her magnificent body skimmed by a shimmering, transparent shift. The effect was infinitely more arousing than even her bare skin would have been.

Trey merely nodded again. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

She advanced until she stood pressed up against him. ‘There are other reasons that my husband envies you.’ Her voice dropped to a husky tone that set his pulse to jumping. ‘All of Egypt talks of your many lovers. They whisper of your ability to take a woman beyond herself and into a world of passion that few ever know.’

Against his chest he could feel the softness of her incredible gown and all the abundance it showed to advantage. Their gazes locked, then with a coy smile she snaked a hand inside his shirt, running her palm up and over the muscles of his chest. Moving slowly, she stepped all the way around him, trailing soft fingers across his arm and the breadth of his back as she went.

‘Surely you were made for these harsh Eastern deserts,’ she whispered. ‘When first I came here I thought it foolish and arrogant that the men keep so many wives.’ Her orbit complete, she pressed into the front of him once again. Trey knew she could be in no doubt about his interest. She cast a sultry look down at the throbbing evidence of it. ‘But you…’ she sighed ‘…you are the first, the only man to make me believe. You alone could do it, pleasure so many women, keep them satisfied and happy.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Perhaps, in addition to your other talents, you will be the first Englishman to practise poly…poly…’ She paused. ‘What is the word I want? For marriage to too many wives?’

‘Monogamy?’ He returned her smile.

She laughed, a dark, throaty sound. ‘It is a certainty that no woman would wish to share you. Already I hate all of those on whom you have practised your wiles. I want to tear their hair and scratch out their eyes.’

Her eyes met his boldly. With an unspoken challenge she pushed him gently back until his knees struck the cot. Searching and warm, her hands crept up, sliding slowly along his ribs, his neck, the line of his jaw, before pressing firmly down on his shoulders.

Trey allowed it, sitting on the cot and finding himself at eye level with her lovely bosom. He reached up and pushed aside the fabric, baring first one breast, then the other. ‘So, we have established that your husband envies me.’ Slowly he traced a finger around one dusky areola. ‘And that you envy all the ladies who have come before you.’ He teased the other now, circling both erect nipples in an ever-narrowing path.

He watched her shift restlessly, leaning into his caress. ‘But what I wish to know, madame, is what Drovetti thinks.’

Her breath was coming fast, her pupils dilated with desire, and yet she smiled in appreciation of his tactics. ‘The consul-general thinks only of winning the ancient riches of Egypt for France.’

She pressed his hands against her and again he obliged her, cradling the fullness of her breasts and running his thumbs over her peaks.

‘And?’ he prompted.

‘And he thinks you are a talented Englishman with no love for England.’ She sighed with pleasure. ‘I am to offer you a partnership.’

He laughed. ‘Is that what you are offering?’

‘That is what Drovetti offers.’ She pushed him away and shed the gown, standing confident before him in all of her naked glory. ‘This, I offer of my own free will, for nothing other than the pleasure you can give me.’

The smile still lingered on Trey’s face. ‘And if I accept the one, must I accept the other?’

Her only answer was a hungry look of intense desire. She leaned forward, straddled him on the cot and kissed him deeply. Burying his hands in her hair, Trey abandoned himself to his own inclinations. As was his habit—nay, his life’s chosen philosophy—he seized the pleasures of the moment and left the inevitable trouble for tomorrow.

Unfortunately, trouble couldn’t wait.

She knelt above him, her hands on the fall of his trousers, when the scream echoed along the craggy walls of the valley. Their gazes locked. Trey could read only puzzlement and alarm in hers as he grabbed her roughly by the arms. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded, his voice harsh.

‘Nothing!’ she cried. ‘What is it? I must not be found here.’

Another shout. Cursing, Trey flung her away. He was out of the tent and running before the last chilling echo bounded off the rocky outcroppings. His partner’s tent was dark, and, he realised after a quick search, empty. He stood a moment in the middle of camp. From which direction had the screams come? His feet and his gut knew the answer before his head, sending him pelting towards the closest tomb.

‘Richard!’ he shouted into the dark. ‘Where are you?’

No answer. He ran harder, gravel and sand making the canyon floor treacherous, but at last he reached the spot. It was the first of eight tombs that had been discovered four years earlier by the Italian, Giovanni Battista Belzoni. Almost invisible during the day, now it was little more than a blacker maw against a background of darkly shadowed rock.

There, just outside the opening to the tomb, he found his partner sprawled against the rough, rock wall, a knife imbedded in his chest.

Trey gasped. ‘No!’

He stumbled to Richard’s side, frantically feeling for a pulse. It was faint, but present. His shirt was soaked in blood. Underneath him a dark stain was fast disappearing into the sand. Trey fumbled at his belt, and cursed himself for not bringing a flint.

‘Richard. Who has done this?’ He clutched the man with bloodstained fingers. ‘Never mind. I’ll go for help. Just hold on, damn it! Hold on!’

‘No.’ Richard’s voice was faint, but insistent. ‘Treyford, stay.’ He lifted a feeble hand to the open neck of his shirt.

‘Damn it to hell!’ Trey cursed. ‘Richard, was it the French? What have you got mixed up in?’

‘My pendant,’ he breathed. ‘Bastards…heard you…ran off.’ There was a long pause, punctuated by Richard’s slow gasp for air. ‘You take it.’

Trey bowed his head. The pendant, ancient and carved with old Egyptian markings, was Richard’s most prized possession. His partner’s breath rasped, sounding harsh and frightening in the dim light, but his fingers still fought to remove the piece. Trey closed his own hand over Richard’s and gently lifted the chain from around his neck.

‘Chione,’ he choked. ‘Give it to Chione.’

‘I will.’ The pendant was warm, but Richard’s hand was cold.

‘Promise.’ Richard was emphatic. ‘Promise me, Trey.’

‘I do promise. I will deliver it to her myself.’ It was the least he could do to comfort his partner, who was as close to a friend as Trey was ever likely to get.

Richard’s grip, when he grasped Trey’s arm, was surprisingly forceful. ‘My sister. They will come for her. Trey…help her.’

‘Of course I will,’ he said soothingly.

Richard’s grip tightened. His breath was coming now with a sickening gurgle.

Trey squeezed his opposite hand. ‘I give you my word.’

Richard’s body relaxed. For a moment, Trey thought…But, no, Richard’s hand was moving again, clasping his with grateful pressure.

‘Sorry…take you from your work,’ he whispered. Somehow he summoned the strength for a faint smile. ‘Know you hate…to go home.’ Richard’s eyes closed. ‘Protect Chione.’

‘I…’ Trey paused until he could go on with a steady voice. ‘I swear to you, I will keep her safe.’

It was then, in the darkest time of the early desert morning, that Richard breathed his last, his hand still clasped tight in Trey’s.

Trey stayed, crouched where he was, unaware of the passage of time, unaware of anything save the familiar ache of loss. More than a colleague, Richard had been the one person who understood what this work meant to him. Mutual interests, similar drives, 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, her grandfather’s first merchant ship. ‘He does not come in the house,’ Chione explained. ‘He claims his peg will scuff the floor, but I think he is afraid of Mrs Ferguson.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Renhurst huffed in disgust. His fashionably tight coat was straining at the seams, and a sheen of perspiration shone on his brow. ‘We’re all afraid of Ferguson,’ he grunted. ‘And you still have not told me what I did to end up in her bad graces.’

Chione smiled. ‘It appears that Mrs Ferguson was, at one time, of the opinion that you were on the verge of marrying again.’

The viscount was startled into losing his grip. ‘Good God. Marrying whom?’ he asked, applying himself and pulling harder.

‘Me.’

With a last mighty heave, the drawer came loose. Chione hid her grin as both the sealing wax and the viscount ended up on the library floor. He gaped up at her, and Chione could not help but laugh.

‘Oh, if you could only see your expression, sir! I never thought so, you may rest assured.’ He wisely refrained from comment and she helped him rise and motioned him to a chair before she continued. ‘Can you imagine the speculation you would be subject to, should you take a bride of three and twenty? And though society’s gossip is nothing to me, I could never be comfortable marrying a man I have always regarded as an honorary uncle.’

Chione tilted her head and smiled upon her grandfather’s closest friend. ‘And yet, although I’ve said as much to Mrs Ferguson, I’m afraid that, since you have no intention of marrying me, she has no further use for you.’

The viscount still stared. ‘I confess, such a solution has never occurred to me! I know I’ve told you more than once that a marriage might solve your problems, but to be wedded to an old dog like me?’ He shuddered. ‘What if, against all odds, you are right and Mervyn does come back after being missing all these months? He’d skin me alive!’

Chione smiled. ‘Mervyn himself married a younger woman, but he did so out of love. He’d skin us both if we married for any other reason.’

‘You are doubtless right.’ He sat back. ‘Not every man in his dotage has the energy that your grandfather possessed, my dear. There is not another man in a hundred that would contemplate a second family at such an age.’ He smiled wryly. ‘So sorry to disrupt Mrs Ferguson’s plans. I suppose now it will be stale bread on the tea tray instead of fresh bannocks and honey.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Chione chuckled now. ‘But I would not put it past her.’

‘Actually, I did have a bit of news for you, but before we settle to it, I must ask—where are the children?’

‘Olivia is napping.’ She smiled and answered the question she knew he was truly asking. ‘Will has gone fishing and taken the dog with him. You are safe enough.’

The viscount visibly relaxed. ‘Thank heavens. The pair of them is all it takes to make me feel my own age. Leave it to Mervyn to spawn such a duo and then leave them to someone else to raise!’ He smiled to take the sting from his words. ‘When you throw that hell-hound into the mix, it is more than my nerves can handle.’

Mrs Ferguson re-entered the library with a clatter. She placed the tea tray down with a bit more force than necessary. ‘Will ye be needing anything else, miss?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs Ferguson.’

‘Fine, then. I’ll be close enough to hear,’ she said with emphasis, ‘should ye require anything at all.’ She left, pointedly leaving the door wide open.

Lord Renhurst was morose. ‘I knew it. Tea with bread and butter.’

Chione poured him a dish of tea. ‘I do apologise, my lord. It may not be you at all. Honey is more difficult than butter for us to obtain these days.’

He set his dish down abruptly. ‘Tell me things are not so bad as that, Chione.’

She gazed calmly back at him. ‘Things are not so bad as that.’

‘I damned well expect you to tell me if they are not.’

Chione merely passed him the tray of buttered bread.

He glared at her. ‘Damn the Latimer men and their recklessness!’ He raised a hand as she started to object. ‘No, I’ve been friends with Mervyn for more than twenty years, I’ve earned the right to throw a curse or two his way.’ He shook his head. ‘Disappeared to parts unknown. No good explanation to a living soul, just muttering about something vital that needed to be done! Now he’s been missing for what—near a year and half again? Then Richard is killed five months ago in some godforsaken desert and here you are left alone. With two children and this mausoleum of a house to look after, and no funds with which to do so.’ He lowered his voice a little. ‘No one respects your strength and fortitude more than I, my dear, but if it has become too much for you to handle alone, I want you to come to me.’

Chione sighed. The longer Mervyn stayed missing, the worse her situation grew, but still, this was a conversation she never wished to have. It was true, her life was a mess, and her family’s circumstances were hopelessly entangled. It was universally known, and tacitly ignored, at least in their insular little village and along the rugged coast of Devonshire. Chione coped as best she could, but she did not discuss it. She was a Latimer.

She winced a little at the untruth of that statement. All the world knew her as a Latimer, in any case, and in her heart she was truly a part of this family. She would prevail, as Latimers always had, no matter how difficult the situation they found themselves in.

She stiffened her spine and cast a false smile at Lord Renhurst. ‘We are fine, my lord. We have learned to practise economies. Now come, what news have you?’

‘Economies!’ he snorted. ‘Mervyn built Latimer Shipping with his own two hands. If he ever found out what a mess it’s become and how his family has been obliged to live…’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve spoken with the banks again, but they refuse to budge. They will not release Mervyn’s funds until some definitive word is had of him.’

‘Thank you for trying, in any case.’ She sighed.

‘Least I could do,’ he mumbled. ‘Wanted to tell you, too, that I went to the Antiquarian Society, as you asked.’

Chione was brought to instant attention. ‘Oh, my lord, thank you! Did you speak with the gentleman I mentioned? Did Mr Bartlett know anything of use?’

‘He offers you his sincerest condolences, but could only tell me that, yes, Richard did indeed spend a great deal of time in their collection before he left for Egypt.’

‘Could he not tell you specifically what Richard was looking for?’

‘He could not.’

She closed her eyes in disappointment. Chione knew that Richard had been hiding something; something about her grandfather’s disappearance, she suspected. Now his secrets had died along with her brother. Trying to ferret out the one kept her from dwelling on the other. But it was more than that. She needed to find her grandfather, and the sooner the better. She refused to consider what the rest of the world believed: that he was most likely dead as well.

‘Bartlett did say that he spent a great deal of time with a Mr Alden. Scholar of some sort. He recommended that you speak with him if you wished to know what was occupying your brother’s interest.’

Chione brightened immediately. ‘Alden,’ she mused. ‘The name is familiar. Yes, I believe I have read something of his. I shall look through Mervyn’s journals.’ She turned to Lord Renhurst and smiled. ‘Thank you so much. You are a very great friend, to all of us.’

The viscount blinked, and then sat a moment, silently contemplating her. ‘You think this is something to do with the Lost Jewel, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘I fear so,’ she answered simply. ‘But I hope not.’

‘I hope not, as well.’ His disapproval was clear. ‘You are in a devil of a fix already, my dear, without adding in a lot of nonsense about pharaohs and mysterious lost treasures.’

‘We might think it a parcel of nonsense, but you know that Richard believed in it. As does Mervyn.’ To put it simply, they had wanted to believe. The men in Chione’s family were adventurers in heart and deed. They craved travel and excitement as fervently as the débutantes of the ton craved young and single heirs to a dukedom, as constantly as the opium eaters of her mother’s country craved their drug.

Chione cast her gaze down at her tea. What she craved were far simpler things: food for the table, a warmer coat for Will, the ability to pay her remaining servants’ wages. But she would achieve none of those by drinking tea with Lord Renhurst.

‘Do try not to worry, my lord. We shall muddle through.’ Strategically, she paused and cocked her head. ‘Listen, do you hear barking?’

The viscount’s manner abruptly changed. He set down his dish of tea. ‘Well, then,’ he said briskly, ‘we will scheme together to bring you about, but another time. I cannot stay longer today.’

Chione had to hide her smile at his sudden eagerness to be gone. ‘Of course. Thank you so much for talking with Mr Bartlett for me.’

‘Certainly.’ He paused and a stern expression settled once more over his features. ‘I’ve let you have your way so far, Chione, but I’m watching you closely. If I need to step in, I will.’

‘I appreciate your concern, sir.’

He offered his arm, listening intently. ‘Will you walk me out? I must be off.’

Chione resisted the impish urge to drag her feet. They stepped outside and she wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders. She breathed deep of the sea scent blowing strong on the wind. It was the kind of wind that brought change, her grandfather had always said. She closed her eyes and hoped it would bring change. She hoped it would bring him home again.

‘Good day to you, Chione. We will speak again soon.’ Lord Renhurst’s groom pulled his phaeton up to the house and he hurried towards it. He skidded to a stop, however, when a horse and rider suddenly emerged from the wooded section of the drive.

The sun obscured her view, and Chione caught her breath, believing for an instant that she had indeed wished Mervyn Latimer home. The rider approached, and stopped in front of the house, allowing her to see that it was not the imposing form of her missing grandfather, but that of a younger man instead.

A man, indeed, and a specimen of the species like she had never seen.

Most of the men in the village were fishermen, gnarled from their constant battle against wind and sea. Lord Renhurst and her grandfather were older, and stout with good living. Her brother had always looked exactly what he had been—a rumpled, slightly grubby scholar. But this man…She gave a little sigh. He dismounted and she could not look away. He stood tall, broad and powerful. He looked, in fact, as if he could have ridden straight from the pages of one of her adventure novels.

As if he had heard her thoughts, he strode boldly towards the house. The closer he came, the faster her heart began to trip. He stopped and the skin on Chione’s nape prickled, every tiny hair there standing at quivering attention.

‘Good day,’ he said to the viscount, who still stood in the drive. ‘I am looking for Oakwood Court.’

His clothing looked as unusual as he. A coat of dark green, made of fine material, but cut loose, with a multitude of pockets. Snug trousers and scuffed, comfortable-looking boots. His linen was clean and his neckcloth a bit limp, as if he had been tugging at it.

‘You’ve found it, sir,’ Lord Renhurst replied. Chione thought he might have conversed further if not for a loud and happy bark that sounded suddenly nearby. ‘Sorry, must be off,’ he said as he edged towards his phaeton. Gravel crunched as the vehicle began to move, then the viscount twisted around on the seat. He looked back at her visitor and advised loudly, ‘Good God, man, take off your hat!’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ The gentleman removed said article and turned to face Chione once more. He raked her with an assessing glance and his face softened a bit. ‘Can you tell me where I might find Miss Latimer?’

Chione’s mouth went dry. Gracious, but the man could not be real. He did not speak, he rumbled, with low tones that she could feel, echoing in the bones behind her ear, vibrating in the pit of her belly. His hair was too long to be fashionable, and dark. Nearly as dark as her own, in fact. Yet his eyes were the same colour as the cerulean sky overhead. It was a striking combination, especially when set off by sun-browned skin.

She swallowed and forced herself to gather her wits. ‘Yes, I am Miss Latimer,’ she said. But Lord Renhurst’s last words finally dawned on her and made her realise how near the dog’s barking had come. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said.

The gentleman was oblivious to the danger. ‘Miss Latimer, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve come a great distance to find you.’ He bowed. ‘I am Treyford.’

The barking had grown louder still and had changed in tone. Chione could see the beast now, coming from the stables. She was no longer making noise for the sheer fun of it, now she was broadcasting a frenzy of doggy ecstasy.

‘The pleasure is mine,’ Chione strode down the steps towards her visitor. ‘Pray, do excuse me.’ She reached up and snatched the very fine beaver hat from the man’s grasp just before the dog reached them. Then she turned and threw the thing away with all her might.

Trey’s jaw dropped as his brand new hat sailed out to the middle of the gravelled drive. Good God, was the girl mad? Was this why Richard had been so adamant that Trey protect his sister?

He soon realised his mistake. The largest, ugliest dog he had ever seen came out of nowhere and pounced on the hat with a yelp of joy. The creature shook the thing as if to break it, tossed it in the air, growled ferociously at it, then settled down right there in the drive and began to tear into it with powerful jaws.

‘I am sorry,’ Miss Latimer said, ‘but she would have knocked you flat in order to get it.’

The lady looked at him at last. He saw recognition in her eyes—eyes so dark they appeared nearly black. Slightly slanted, they were rimmed with the most astonishing eyelashes he had ever seen.

‘Treyford, did you say?’ she asked. ‘As in the Earl of Treyford? How nice to meet you at last! I feel we must know you already, so frequently did Richard mention you in his letters.’ She cocked her head at him. ‘But what a surprise to find you in England, my lord. I had thought you meant to stay and continue your work in Egypt.’

A shout from what he took to be the path to the stables distracted her, and Trey seized the opportunity to study the girl. She looked younger than he had expected. Richard had spoken often of his older sister and it had been obvious that they were close, her support a steady influence that Richard had relied upon. He knew she must be near to five and twenty, but she still looked little more than a girl.

She was also prettier than he had expected—a far cry from the strong-willed spinster he had imagined. Her skin was flawless, with a slight exotically olive tint, but still very pale in contrast to her dark eyes and even darker hair. Her face, finely moulded with high cheekbones, was set in a serious expression, as if she carried heavy burdens.

The shout came again, and Trey recognised her name.

‘Chione! Just see what I’ve got!’

Her face had softened. ‘It is young Will,’ she said, as if that explained anything. ‘Most likely covered in mud, but do not fear. I will not allow him near enough to ruin any more of your wardrobe.’

‘Chione!’ The boy came into view. He looked perhaps nine or ten years old, and carried a large open basket that bounced against his side as he ran. He was indeed slathered head to foot in mud.

‘Beef, Chione!’ he called in triumph. ‘I was walking past the vicarage with my string of fish and Mrs Thompson called out to me. She vowed she had been longing for her cook’s fish stew, and she asked me to trade. An entire joint of beef, can you imagine? I’ve got it right here!’

‘How nice, Will,’ Miss Latimer began, but a look of caution crossed her face as the boy drew near. ‘Watch your feet. Careful!’

The warning came too late. The brim of Trey’s beaver hat had come completely detached and lay directly in the boy’s path. Even as her warning rang out, his feet became tangled and he went down heavily, the basket flying out ahead of him.

The cloth-wrapped bundle within took flight. Trey watched, prophetically sure of its trajectory even before it landed, with a splat, in his arms. He looked down at the stain that now managed to decorate both his coat and his linen, and then he glared at the disastrous duo before him.

Miss Latimer was solicitously helping the boy to his feet. ‘My lord, we would be pleased if you would stay to dinner.’ She indicated the dripping bundle in his arms. ‘As you see, we shall be dining on roast beef.’

Chapter Two

Trey was in the grip of an excessively bad mood. He had travelled halfway round the world, only to end up in Bedlam. He had given his word, and so he had given up Egypt. And he had ended up in a madhouse.

It hadn’t been his first impression. He’d left the village this afternoon, taking the coastal path as directed, and he’d thought this must be one of the most wild and beautiful spots on the Earth. Oddly enough, he found himself uncomfortable with the surrounding lushness. After the spare desert beauty of Egypt, this part of Devon appeared to be blessed with an embarrassment of riches: stunning ocean views of harbour and bay, woodlands full of gnarled trees, rocky cliffs, and charming dells bursting with early springtime displays.

Oakwood Court blended right into the undisciplined vista. The long, meandering drive left the coastal path and took one on a leisurely trip through a wooded grove, then abruptly broke free to cross a sweeping lawn. A traveller found oneself gifted with a stunning tableau of a many-gabled Elizabethan manor nestled against a rising, wooded slope. It was a distinctive old house, full of character.

Trey had never met Mervyn Latimer, Richard’s famous grandfather, who had won a cargo ship in a card game and turned it into one of the biggest shipping companies in England. Yet just by spending a short amount of time in his house, Trey felt as if he knew something of the eccentric old man. His larger-than-life presence fairly permeated the place, along with many fascinating objects that must have been collected throughout his travels.

And although the many curiosities hanging on walls, gracing the tables and filling the shelves of the house were interesting, they were as nothing compared to the arresting collection of human oddities he’d found here.

Directly after Trey’s heroic rescue of dinner—the boy’s words—his horse had been taken up by the groom. The wizened little man with a peg leg looked as if he belonged in the rigging of a Barbary pirate’s ship. Yet he soothed the fidgety horse with a soft voice and gentle hands, and the skittish hack followed after him like a lamb.

Trey, in all his greased and bloodied glory, had been handed over to the housekeeper. A dour Scot if he had ever met one, she wore a constant frown, spoke in gruff tones, and carried heavy buckets of water as if they weighed nothing. Yet she worked with brisk efficiency and made sure he had everything a gentleman could ask for his toilet. Save, perhaps, clothes that fit.

She’d come to fetch him once he was changed into some of Richard’s left-behind things, rasping out a crotchety, ‘Come along with ye, then, to the drawing room.’ He did, stalking after the woman along a long corridor with many framed maps upon the wall, and down a dark stairwell.

One notion struck Trey as they moved through the large house. There was a curious lack of activity. There were no enticing kitchen smells, no butler guarding the door, no footmen to carry water, no maids dusting the collection of bric-a-brac. Trey might be the black sheep of his family and a dark hole on the glittering map of the ton, but he had grown up in a substantial house and knew the kind of activity required to run it. The lack was somehow unnerving, and lent the house a stale, unused air. Somehow it felt more like an unkempt museum than a home.

Eventually they arrived on the first floor, and the housekeeper stopped before a richly panelled door. She pushed it open without preamble, stood aside and said, ‘In here.’ Without even waiting to see him cross the threshold, she shuffled off towards the back of the house.

Trey entered to find yet another room filled with the inanimate detritus of a well-travelled collector. And one animate specimen.

It was a child, of perhaps two or three years. Trey blanched. The only thing more inherently threatening than a respectable female was a child, and this one was both. She was very pretty, with long chestnut curls, but her heart-shaped face was smeared and her grubby little hands were leaving marks on the sofa she stood upon.

‘Livvie do it,’ she said, pointing down behind the piece of furniture.

Why the devil would a child be left alone in the parlour? Suppressing a sigh, Trey crossed the room to peer into the narrow space she indicated. The wall behind the sofa was smudged with what looked to be honey and a crumbled mess lay on the floor below. ‘Yes,’ he agreed with the solemn-faced sprite. ‘You did do it, didn’t you?’

She sighed and abruptly lifted both hands towards him.

Trey grimaced. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, shaking his head.

She only grunted and lifted her demanding little arms again.

Trey decided to take charge. Children responded to authority, did they not? ‘Come down from there,’ he said firmly. ‘We shall find the irresponsible creature meant to be in charge of you.’ He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor.

The child’s lower lip poked out and started to tremble. Great, fat tears welled in her brown eyes. ‘Up,’ she whimpered.

Hell and high water, were females born knowing how to manipulate? It must be a skill transferred from mother to daughter in the womb. Well, stubbornness was the gift his mother has passed to him, or so he’d been told many times in his own childhood. ‘No,’ he said more firmly still. ‘Now hop down from there at once.’

The tears swelled and ran over, making tracks on her dirty cheeks. ‘Uuuuuppp!’ she wailed, and her little body began to shake with the force of her sobs.

Oh, Lord, no. ‘Don’t do that,’ Trey commanded. ‘I’m picking you up.’ Grimacing in distaste, he plucked her off the sofa, trying to keep her at arm’s length. Quicker than a flash, more subtly done than the most precise of military manoeuvres, she foiled his effort and nestled up tightly against him.

Trey was suddenly and fiercely glad of the borrowed coat he wore. Underneath the chit’s sweet honey smell lurked a more suspicious odour. ‘Let’s go, then,’ he said, ‘and find your keeper.’

The door opened with a bang and a distracted Miss Latimer rushed in. ‘Oh, no,’ she gasped, rushing forward to take the child.

‘Shone!’ cried the little girl. ‘She-own! Livvie do it.’

‘I do beg your pardon, my lord.’ Miss Latimer strode back to the doorway and shouted in a most unladylike fashion, ‘I’ve found her!’

The dour housekeeper arrived a moment later. She never glanced at Trey, but took the child and scowled at her young mistress. ‘She’s taken a plate of bannocks with her,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, ‘so there’s no tellin’ where we’ll find the mess later.’

Miss Latimer shot an inquiring look at him. Trey had not the smallest desire to witness the fuss created should that discovery be made. He shrugged and maintained an air of innocence, and the young lady soon bundled the girl and the older woman out of the door.

Miss Latimer winced. ‘I must apologise, my lord. Our household has been greatly diminished since Richard’s death and Olivia will wander.’ She continued on, but Trey was not listening. He knew he was glowering at her, but he could not help himself.

God’s teeth, but he could not get over how beautiful she was. Her heavy, black tresses shone, as black as the moods that plagued him, as dark as any he had seen in his travels to the east. It was the perfect foil for her exotic skin, just exactly the tawny colour of moonlight on the desert sands.

Her eyes, framed by those lush lashes, agitated him. They were too old for her young and beautiful face. It was as if she had experienced too much sorrow, too much of the dark side of life, and it could not be contained. It spilled out of her, tinting her gaze with mystery, with knowing.

He realised most men would find her beauty fascinating, but damn it, this was exactly the sort of situation in which a man couldn’t afford to give in to attraction. Women like this came with a multitude of strings attached, and Trey hadn’t thrown off his own yoke of responsibility so he could take on someone else’s.

He could see that his glare was unsettling her. He knew that she was at best unnerved, and at worst unhappy, at his presence. He did not care. He was unnerved and unhappy, damn it, so she might as well be, too.

He had come to England to aid an ageing spinster facing an undefined danger. He had been fully prepared to root out the trouble, deliver the damned scarab, and then quickly return to Egypt. There had been no mention of thick eyelashes and long ebony hair. He was not supposed to be dealing with children, and their flying joints of meat and their artful tears. In fact, the only danger here appeared to be to his wardrobe.

And the girl was still talking. Trey had the sudden, nearly irresistible urge to get up and walk out, to drop the scarab in her lap and to never look back. He suppressed a sigh at the thought, for he knew he could not do it. But damn Richard for getting himself killed and thrusting his responsibilities in his lap! He rubbed his temple and wished the girl would stop talking. He wanted to get this over with and get back to his work as quickly as possible.

Miss Latimer did stop, at last, as the door opened again and young Will, freshly scrubbed, bounded into the room, the dog at his heel. The boy dutifully made his bow and went to kiss her. The dog made a beeline for Trey, collapsed upon his Hessians, and gazed adoringly at him, tongue lolling.

‘Oh, dear, I am sorry,’ Miss Latimer said yet again. ‘She has a hopeless passion for gentlemen.’

‘Mrs Ferguson says she likes their accessories—particularly the ones made of hide or leather.’ Will grinned.

‘Will—take the dog outside.’

‘She will howl,’ warned Will. He turned to Trey. ‘Morty likes you, Lord Treyford. Do you like dogs?’ he asked ingenuously.

‘For the most part,’ Trey said, reaching down to scratch behind the beast’s ears and lift her drooling head off of his boots. ‘Morty?’ he asked.

‘Her real name is Mortification,’ Will explained. ‘Squire named her because he said he was mortified that such an ugly pup came from his prize bitch. I shortened it to Morty so her feelings wouldn’t get hurt.’

‘Will saved her life,’ Miss Latimer explained. ‘Squire was going to have her destroyed.’

‘I gave my last guinea for her,’ said Will. ‘She’s my best friend.’

Women, babes and puppy love. Good God. No wonder Richard had fled to Egypt.

‘I’ve asked Mrs Ferguson to save a bone for her,’ she continued. ‘She will have it in the kitchens, so you may be left in peace, Lord Treyford.’

As if summoned by the mention of her name, the housekeeper appeared in the parlour door. Without ceremony she snapped her fingers at the dog. ‘Come, you hell-spawned hound. Bone!’

Evidently the dog was familiar with the word. She rose, gave herself a good jaw-flapping shake, then trotted off after the housekeeper, casting a coquettish glance back over her shoulder at Trey.

The damned dog was flirting with him.

He looked up. The girl gazed back, expectation clear in those haunting eyes.

Trey faltered at the sudden, strange hitch of his breath. Something sharp moved in his stomach. This was, suddenly, all too much for him. Too much clutter, too many people. Hell, even the dog seemed to want something of him. Trey knew himself for a hard man, surviving in a harsh world. He lived his life unencumbered, with relationships kept to a minimum and always kept clearly defined. Servant and master, buyer and seller, associate or rival. It was simpler that way. Safer. Neither of those attributes, he was sure, could be applied to this family, and that made him uncommonly nervous.

The intense stare that young Will was directing at him only increased his discomfort. Suddenly the boy opened his mouth and a barrage of questions came out of him, like the raking fire of a cannonade.

‘How long did it take to sail back to England? How hot is it in Egypt? Did you see any crocodiles? Have you brought back any mummies? Did you climb the pyramids? Were you afraid?’ Red-faced, the boy paused to draw breath. ‘Will you tell us over dinner? Please?’

Trey’s breath began to come faster. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well,’ he said, trying to keep the harshness from his voice, ‘actually, I’ve come to your home with a purpose, not on a social visit.’ The boy looked mutinous, and Trey rushed on. ‘I need a private moment with your sister, lad. I’ve a sort of…message, from Richard for her.’

The boy’s expression cleared of its clouds. ‘My sister?’ he scoffed. ‘She don’t know enough words to have a proper conversation, my lord. Did you mean Chione?’ He shot a devilish glance at the young lady, then turned to Trey, eyes sparkling as if sharing a great joke. ‘Chione’s my niece, not my sister!’

Now Trey was flustered, something that did not happen often. Niece? What sort of tangled mess had Richard dropped him into? He knew with certainty that there was only one answer to that: exactly the sort he had spent a lifetime avoiding.

Will was staring at him now. ‘Didn’t Richard tell you anything? He wrote us all about you. You see, my papa is Chione’s grandpapa, so I get to be her uncle. And Olivia gets to be her aunt! Isn’t that funny?’

It wasn’t funny. It had been a long time since Trey had felt this awkward. But there was no way he could tell the boy how he had discouraged Richard’s tendency to talk of his family, of anything other than their work. Trey didn’t like chitchat. He liked focus, and determination, and hard work. He liked travel. Distance. Adventure. There was nothing wrong with that. So why was his stomach churning now?

He breathed deeply. It was too damned late to avoid this fiasco, but he’d be damned if he didn’t extricate himself in record time.

Miss Latimer helped him take the first step. ‘Will, why don’t you run along and help Mrs Ferguson with dinner? Lord Treyford and I will take a stroll in the gardens. If that is acceptable, my lord?’

Trey nodded and watched as the boy started to protest, then hung his head. ‘A pleasure to meet you, my lord,’ he said, and turned towards the door.

The boy’s dejected profile was impossible for Trey to ignore. He let loose a silent string of curses. But he was all too familiar with the heavy weight of childish disappointment. ‘Hold, lad,’ he said roughly, and the boy turned. ‘Egypt is as hot as blazes. Yes, I climbed the pyramids, and, no, it was not the least bit frightening. I’ve been uncomfortably close to some crocodiles, too. Egypt is full of wondrous things.’

Trey closed his eyes. Just the thought of Egypt calmed him. He hadn’t expected it, but the country had beguiled him. Time flowed differently there; he’d had a sense that the secrets of the past were just out of his reach, hidden only by a thin veil of mist.

‘And the mummies? Did you bring any back?’ The boy’s eyes were shining.

‘No, although I encountered plenty, both whole and in pieces.’ He glanced over at the girl. ‘Perhaps I will have time to tell you about it before I must go.’

‘Thank you, my lord!’

Miss Latimer wore a frown as she rose to her feet. ‘Just allow me to stop in the front hall to fetch my wrap, and we can be on our way,’ she said.

Good. Perhaps she was as eager to be done with this as he.

Chione wrapped herself well against the chill and led their guest outside, once again restored to her habitual poise. She should be grateful that he had made it easy for her to slip back into her normal, contained role, she told herself firmly, for she had been acting a fool since her first glimpse of Lord Treyford.

She had scarcely been able to help herself. All of that overt masculinity and absolute self-assurance touched something inside of her, stirred to life a part of her that she would rather be left slumbering.

And then she had heard it in his voice. That all-too-familiar longing when he had spoken of the wonders of Egypt. She knew that tone and exactly what it meant. He was one of them.

Like her grandfather, her brother, and even her father. Never happy where they were, always pining for something more exotic, more adventuresome, more dangerous. Or perhaps, just more.

That tiny wistful note that had crept into the earl’s voice; that was all it took to effectively quench all of the flutterings and tinglings and ridiculously rapid heartbeats that had plagued her every time their eyes met.

An adventurer—just like the others. With that realisation she reached for calm, breathed deep and let the veneer of her assumed identity fall back into place. They stepped down into the formal garden and he grudgingly offered her his arm. She took it, then had to school herself not to gasp as a slow, warm burn started in her fingertips, flowed like honey through her, and settled in a rich puddle in the pit of her belly.

Perhaps she wasn’t rid of all of those stirrings. Yet.

‘You are very quiet, Miss Latimer.’ Though his voice was rough, there was a hint of irony hidden in it. ‘Not at all like your brother.’

Chione had to smile at that. ‘No, indeed. Richard was many things, but quiet was not a label he was often burdened with.’ She swept aside a low hanging branch and held it back invitingly. ‘He was too full of life to keep quiet for long.’

He did not answer and they walked in silence for several moments. Despite her disillusionment, Chione could not but acknowledge her heightened awareness of his looming presence. It was more than the sheer size of him, too. The air fairly crackled around him, as if the force of his personality stamped itself on the surrounding atmosphere.

She wondered just what it was that brought him here. Not a happy errand, judging by his nearly constant frown, but really, who could blame the man? Since his arrival he’d had his hat eaten, his clothes bloodied, been entertained in the drawing room by a toddler and quizzed by a little boy. They should count themselves lucky he hadn’t run screaming back to the village.

Chione was glad he was made of sterner stuff than that. ‘Richard wrote of you so often,’ she began. ‘I know he held you in very high regard. Forgive me if I am rude, but I was surprised that you did not know of our…unusual family. Did he not speak to you of us?’

She had chosen poorly, perhaps, because his frown deepened. ‘He spoke of you,’ he said gruffly. ‘And of your grandfather.’ He paused. ‘I should have asked sooner—is he still missing? Have you had no word of him?’

‘No, not yet. Soon, I hope.’

‘Do you still have no idea what might have happened to him, then?’

‘On the contrary, there are many ideas, but no proof of anything.’

‘It has been what? Two years? And yet you hold out hope?’ He sounded incredulous.

‘Not two years, yet, and indeed, I do have hope. I hope every day that this is the one that brings him home. My grandfather has been in a thousand scrapes and survived each one. He told me once that he meant to die a peaceful death in his bed, an old man. I believe he will.’

The earl looked away. ‘Richard felt much the same,’ he said.

Chione felt a fresh pang of loss at his words. Yes, Richard had understood. She blinked and focused intently on the surrounding wood. The forest was alive around them as the birds and the insects busily pursued all the industries of spring. She sighed. Life did go on, and Richard’s responsibilities were hers now.

‘I am happy to have the chance to thank you for the letter you sent to us, on my brother’s death. It was a comfort to know that he had a friend like you with him when he died.’

For a long moment, Lord Treyford made no reply. The path had begun to climb and he paid careful attention to her footing as well as his. When at last he did speak, he sounded—what was it—cautious? Subdued? ‘That is truly what I’ve come for, what I’ve travelled all this way to do. To speak to you about Richard’s death.’

He fell silent again. Chione waited, willing to give him the time he needed. She harboured a grave feeling that she was not going to like what he had to say.

‘Richard’s last thoughts were of you,’ he finally said. They had come out on a little ridge. A bench had been strategically placed to take advantage of the spectacular view. The earl motioned her to it and gingerly lowered himself beside her.

His gaze wandered over the scene. ‘When one hears of Devon, it is always the desolate beauty of Dartmoor.’ He paused. ‘It seems that nothing here is as I expected.’ His gaze was no longer riveted on the view. Instead it roamed over her face, the blue of his eyes more than a match for the sky overhead. After a moment the intensity of his regard began to discomfort her.

She ducked her head and ruthlessly clamped down her own response. She breathed deeply, gathering her strength and reaching for courage. She raised her head and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me about Richard’s death.’

It was enough to sweep clear the thickening tension between them. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

He reached into an inner pocket, drew something out. ‘Just before he died, your brother asked me to give this to you.’ He took her hand from where it rested in her lap and placed the object in it.

It was sharp-edged, and warm from the heat of his body. For several moments that was the sum of Chione’s impressions, for she could not see through her sudden swell of tears. She breathed deeply again, however, and regained control of her emotions. As her vision cleared she got her first good look at the object.

Only to be seized by something uncomfortably close to panic. A wave of nausea engulfed her and she let the thing fall from her suddenly lifeless fingers.

Good God, he had found it.

Chapter Three

Trey watched, shocked, as Miss Latimer dropped the scarab as if it had seared her. She sat lifeless, eyes closed, fists clenched, neither moving nor speaking. He could see the sheen of sweat upon her brow. She really was frightened.

‘Miss Latimer?’ He grasped her cold hands and began to chafe them. Still she sat, frozen. ‘Miss Latimer?’ Already unnerved, he began to get impatient. ‘Damn it, answer me!’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was faint.

‘What is it?’ Her eyes were opened now, but glazed, her focus obviously fixed on some inner torment. ‘What ails you?’

There was no response. Trey bent down and retrieved the scarab, still on the chain that Richard had worn around his neck, and tried to press it into her hand.

‘No,’ she said sharply, shying away.

He closed his hand around it, feeling the bite of the insect’s sharp legs. ‘Richard’s last wish was for you to have this,’ he said roughly.

‘I don’t want it.’ The words emerged in almost a sob. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as if in horror at her own lack of control. Trey watched as she drew a deep breath and stood. ‘Do you hear me, Lord Treyford? I do not want it!’

Trey was dumbfounded. Here was yet another twist to this horrifyingly convoluted day. He stared at the girl, wondering where the calm and remote young lady he had walked out with had gone. ‘That is unacceptable,’ he said flatly. ‘I made a pledge to your brother that I would deliver it to you.’

She looked unimpressed.

‘I gave my word of honour.’ As far as he was concerned, that was the end of the matter.

Apparently it was for the girl, as well. It quickly became obvious that he had pushed her past the point of restraint. She stood poised, indignation in every taut line of her body, those incredible dark eyes glittering with emotion. ‘I don’t give a tinker’s damn for your honour,’ she ground out. ‘Family honour, a man’s pride, I’ve had my fill of it. It is all just fancy trappings and convenient excuses for doing whatever fool thing engages you, regardless of who you hurt or neglect in the process.’ She cast a scornful glance over him. ‘You keep it, Lord Treyford, and if by some miracle you do find the Jewel, then you may keep that as well.’

‘Jewel?’ Trey asked. He was getting damned tired of feeling like the village idiot, not understanding who was who or what was happening around him.

She let out a distinctly unladylike snort and turned away from him.

‘Now, you wait just a moment. Keep it?’ Hastily Trey got to his feet, trying to tamp down on the flickering rise of his own anger. ‘Keep it, you say? If I had wanted to keep the cursed thing I would have stayed in Egypt,’ he said, growing more furious with each word. ‘I would not have abandoned my plans, given up my work, and tramped halfway around the world to this…’ he swept his arm in an encompassing gesture ‘…this insane asylum.’

He rubbed a hand across his brow, dampened the flames of his temper, searching for patience. ‘Months, this has cost me months.’ With a sudden fluid movement, he thrust his arm out, dangling the scarab from its chain, forcing her to look at it. ‘This thing meant something to your brother. It was so important that he spent his dying breath securing my promise to see it returned to you. And you ask me to keep it?’

For the briefest of moments he saw a stricken expression cross her lovely face, but then her eyes narrowed and her expression hardened. ‘I know what it meant to my brother, and, worse, what it means to me.’ She looked as if she meant to go on, but could not. Her spine straightened as she grappled with her emotions.

Trey was fighting the same battle, and losing fast. He glared at the girl, feeling helpless in the face of her irrational reaction, and resenting her for it. ‘I promised Richard,’ he repeated harshly. ‘He lay in the sand with the life spilling out of him, and he took my hand and made me promise. To deliver this, and to protect you.’

‘Protect me?’ The sound that came from her was bitter, ugly. ‘From what? The folly of trusting in selfish, egocentric men?’ She raked him with a scathing glance. ‘That lesson I have—finally!—taken to heart.’

She turned away, shaking with the force of the emotion racking her, and Trey could see the moment when she gained a measure of control. She turned, dashing the tears from her face, her voice once more composed. ‘I apologise, sir, for taking my grief and anger out on you. I cannot…I need to spend some time alone just now. I trust you can find your way back on your own?’

She did not wait for an answer to her question. Trey stared in disbelief as she walked off, following the path farther into the wood. He stood watching her for several moments, debating whether to chase her down, before he glanced at the scarab in his hand. Turning, he walked back up the path towards the house.

He passed it by, going straight to the stables to fetch his horse. The wiry groom silently readied his mount, and Trey set out at a brisk pace, more than eager to put a stop to the most unsettling day he had experienced in years. He wished, suddenly and intensely, that he could send the scarab and a note and be done with the matter, that he could be free to make plans to return to his work.

The thought brought on a sudden longing for the simplicity of his time in Egypt. Long days, hard work, hot sun. It had been vigorous and stimulating. Hell, even the complexities of dealing with the wily Egyptian kashifs were as nothing compared to the chaos he’d unwittingly stumbled into.

There were too many things here he just did not understand. He had a promise to keep, it was as simple as that, but he could not quiet the worrisome thought that things were much more complicated here than they appeared on the surface.

Aswan had secured him a room in the village’s best inn. The former headman—who had consented to leave Egypt and travel as Trey’s manservant—expressed a substantial amount of surprise at his employer returning in a different suit of clothes from the one he had sent him out in. And though he was not usually the sort to chat with a servant, or anybody else for that matter, Trey found himself spilling the whole muddled tale as he stripped for a proper bath.

Now, as he gratefully sunk into the steaming tub, Aswan occupied himself brushing out Richard’s coat. ‘This vicar’s wife, who made the trade with the boy,’ he mused, his clever fingers making quick work of the task, ‘she sounds most worthy. Should I wish to meet her, would it be frowned upon?’

Trey stared at the man. ‘No, but why the hell should you wish to?’ He regretted the harshness of his words when the Egyptian man raised a brow at him. ‘If you do not mind my asking,’ he said.

Aswan bowed. ‘You may ask, effendi.’ He returned to his work while he spoke. ‘It is not often that one hears of a woman so generous and so wise as well. She accomplished her task, pleased the boy, and saved the young lady’s face all at once.’

‘Saved the young lady’s face?’ Trey wondered if there was some miscommunication at work here. ‘From what?’

‘From the discomfort of accepting charity. This is something of which you English do not approve, no?’

Trey sat up in the tub. ‘Do you mean to say that that girl has been reduced to taking charity?’ He experienced a sudden vision of the dusty, empty halls of Oakwood Court.

‘Reduced? That is a good word,’ Aswan said. ‘Reedooosed.’

‘Aswan.’ His warning was clear.

‘Yes, sir,’ the man relented. ‘It is common knowledge in the village that they are in trouble. The elder of the family, he is gone—no one knows where—yes?’

‘Yes,’ Trey said impatiently.

‘His business—it goes on. There are the men who look after it.’ ‘Directors.’

‘Directors. But the old man’s own money, it is…iced? Froze?’

‘Frozen? His assets are frozen?’

‘Yes! And the family is left to support themselves until the old one is found. With Latimer effendi crossed over, it is difficult for them.’

Trey sank back into the warm depths of the tub. Well. That explained quite a bit. Perhaps it also explained Richard’s pleas for him to help Chione? Could her trouble be as simple as a lack of funds?

In any case, it gave him a clear reason to ride back out there first thing tomorrow. If Miss Latimer did not wish to keep the scarab, perhaps she would allow him to sell it on her behalf. After that, other arrangements could be set up to see the family through, at least until there was some word of Mervyn Latimer.

With hope, however slight, that his time in Devonshire might actually be near an end, Trey could at last fully relax. He heaved a sigh and laid his head on the back of the tub.

Poor Nikolas was still trapped in the tomb of the Ruby Idol.

Chione had fled to the library upon returning to the house, shutting herself in and the ugly truth out. Here she had sat at her desk, staring at the empty page before her, aware of how much more crucial that payment from her publisher had become, and yet unable to put a single word to paper.

She told no one the terrible news. Not yet. Mrs Ferguson brought her dinner in on a tray. Will came through seeking his lost atlas. Each time she pretended to be busy scribbling. They would know soon enough. Perhaps her household had accepted the truth long ago, along with the rest of the world, leaving her clinging to fruitless hope alone. Now, as the darkness grew around her and the house slipped into silence, she was forced to let that hope go.

He was dead. Her grandfather was dead. She had known it the moment she had seen that scarab. He had been obsessive about it and had worn it on his person always. In some way that she did not understand, the thing was tied up with the story of the Pharaoh’s Lost Jewel. Richard, who had shared his unflagging interest in the ancient mystery, had believed that to be the reason that Mervyn Latimer kept the scarab close, but Chione had always believed it to be a symbol, a remembrance of his beloved son and of all the people he cared for, lost in the course of a long and dangerous life. For him to be parted from it, something catastrophic must have happened. But how had Richard come to have it? Why? A sound escaped from her, a rasping, horrible sound. It didn’t matter. They were both gone and she was alone.

The place deep inside of her where her hope had been, her faith in her grandfather’s ability to survive anything, was empty. But not for long. Pain, and, yes, anger and betrayal too, rushed at her, filling the hollow spaces, until she could contain herself no longer. She stood, unable to bear even the light of the single candle on her desk. She fled to the darkest recesses of the library, to Mervyn Latimer’s favourite stuffed wing chair, and, flinging herself into it, gave in to her grief.

Long minutes passed as her inner storm raged, battering her with emotion. She cried for her grandfather, her brother, for her parents who had died long ago. She cried for the two children upstairs who were orphans now, just as she had been. She cried for herself. But gradually the howling wind of grief abated, leaving her spent.

Unflinching acceptance, warm approval, boundless love—these were the things her grandfather had given her, what she would never feel from him again. The thought loosed another painful, racking sob. He had taken her from chaos and given her security, happiness, a family.

Chione had been born in Egypt, to the Egyptian wife of Mervyn Latimer’s son. But her parents had died when Richard was an infant, and Chione a child of only eight. She had recollections of them, of her mother’s soothing hands and Edward Latimer’s booming laugh. But she had other memories too, harsh and ugly memories that she had locked away, hidden from the world and even from herself.

She had no wish to bring them to light again. And for a long time there had been no need to, thanks to Mervyn Latimer. He had come to Egypt, carried both Richard and her to England, taken them in, and raised them with love.

Now he was gone and their roles were reversed. It was Chione who was left alone, with two children who had no one else to turn to. Chione was the protector now, and though the weight of yet another role might be heavy, it was one she would embrace. Not just because she already loved those children as if they were her own, but also because it was fitting somehow. Here was her chance to give back some of what she had herself been given. Acceptance. Family. Love. And if it came with a price, well, then, she was happy to pay it.

The thought had her rising, going back to her desk. She pulled out the well-worn letter from Philadelphia and spread it with gentle fingers. America, a land where people focused forwards instead of back, where new ideas were welcomed instead of shunned. She thought she might have flourished there, been of use, accomplished something truly worthwhile. A tear dropped on to the vellum, blurring the ink. Carefully, she folded it and put it away. Her dreams might need to be smaller now, but they would be no less important.

The untouched dinner tray still sat on the edge of her big desk. Chione saw that Mrs. Ferguson had placed today’s post on it as well. Wearily she glanced at the notice from the butcher, a cordially worded reminder, which none the less explained why she had sent Will to fish for their supper today. She put it aside and picked up the next, and then she stilled. It was a letter from Mrs Stockton.

The woman was grandmother to Will and Olivia, though a cold and self-involved one at best. Chione read the note quickly and with distaste. Yet another hint for an invitation to visit. The horrid old woman had shown no inclination to become involved with the children after their mother, her daughter, had passed on. She had even refused to see Olivia, the infant her daughter had died giving birth to. Her renewed interest in them had not come until after Mervyn Latimer had been gone long enough to cause concern—and when the possibility of his fortune passing to her young grandson occurred to her. Well, she would have a long wait before she received what she was hinting for; Chione had enough trouble without inviting it into her home.

Her home, yes. Her children, her responsibility, and not just now, but for ever. Chione straightened her spine and looked to her empty paper with new determination. She doubted the trustees would believe the scarab to be as definitive a sign as she did. Which meant no money coming in and no further hope of rescue, either. It could be years before they decided to release Mervyn’s funds. Her writing had made the family a little more comfortable in the past few months. It would have to do more in the future. Dashing the last tear from her eye, she took up her pen and bent to work.

Nikolas had at last scrambled free of the collapsing tomb when she heard the noise. She dropped her pen and lifted her head, straining to hear.

Chione might not be a mother, but she had the instincts of one. She knew all the noises the old house gave forth as it settled during the night. She knew the far-off buzzing that was Mrs. Ferguson’s snore. She hunched her shoulders each night against the gritty sound of Will grinding his teeth in his sleep, and she recognised the occasional thump that was Olivia falling out of bed. This sound was none of those.

Her candle had burned low, its pool of light spreading no further than the paper she had been writing on. Heart thudding, she left it and rose to slip into the hall.

The noise had come from upstairs. Chione paused long enough to cross to the wall where a collection of antique knives was hung. She slipped one from its mount, an ancient flint blade with an ivory handle. At the foot of the stairs she removed her sturdy boots, then silently padded up in stocking feet, instinctively avoiding the creaking spots.

Halfway up, she froze.

A muffled sound had come from below, from the direction of the kitchens. Someone was in the house. One person moving about, or two? It did not matter; she had to check the children first.

Chione eased on to the landing and trod as silently as she could into the hall. There was another, smaller noise that still sounded loud in the inky darkness. Her room, she thought gratefully, not Will’s and not Olivia’s.

But Will’s room was nearest and the door was slightly ajar. She put her back against the wall right next to the door and listened. Nothing. Peeking in, she saw only Will, sprawled out fast asleep. But where was Morty? Her customary position at the foot of the bed was empty.

Chione found the dog a little way down the hall, bristling silently directly outside the closed door to her own room. Sending out a silent prayer, she crouched next to the dog and placed one hand on the knob. The ivory knife handle in her other hand had grown warm. She gripped it tightly, breathed deeply, then gave the knob a quick turn and thrust the door open.

Morty was through in an instant, emanating a dangerous rumble as she went. A bark, a crash, a thump. Cautiously, Chione followed the dog in. Her window was open. Bright moonlight spilled through it, illuminating the shambles her room was in, framing the figure crouched in the window frame, and blinking wickedly off the long blade he held over Morty’s head.

Chione didn’t stop to think. She hefted the well-balanced blade and threw with all her might. The black figure grunted, then turned and went out the window.

‘A very nice throw,’ a deep voice said right behind her.

Chione gasped, and her heart plummeted to her feet. She spun around and fell back. Two large and capable hands reached out to steady her and she looked up, directly into the brilliant blue eyes of the Earl of Treyford.

Chapter Four

Trey waited until the girl had steadied herself before he released her.

‘There are more below,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Fetch the boy, I’ll get the girl. Where is she?’

He had to give credit where it was due. Miss Latimer did not bluster, swoon, or ask idiotic questions as he had half-expected her to do. ‘Across the hall,’ she whispered, and, taking the dog, turned back towards Will’s room.

Trey crossed the hall and stealthily opened the little girl’s door. He sent up a silent request to whichever deity might be listening, hoping that the babe would not squall when awakened. He need not have worried. Nerves of steel must pass with the Latimer blood, along with those incredible eyelashes. Hers lay thick against her round, little cheeks, until he hefted her into his arms. Their one brief meeting must have made an impact, for she peered up at him, then tucked her head against his shoulder and promptly went back to sleep. He heaved a sigh of thanks and crossed back to the hall.

Miss Latimer was already there, along with a wide-eyed, young Will.

‘We must move quickly and silently,’ Trey whispered. He shook his head when Miss Latimer would have taken the little girl from him. ‘No, I’ll hold on to her, unless we run into one of them. Then you take her and run for the stables.’

‘Mrs Ferguson?’ she asked.

‘Is already there, with my man and your groom. They should have a vehicle ready when we get there.’ Trey nodded and set out for the stairwell. ‘Quietly, now.’

She reached out a restraining hand. ‘No, Lord Treyford. This way.’ She took a step backwards, and gestured farther along the hallway.

He might have argued, but Will grasped his forearm and hissed, ‘Listen!’

Everyone froze. From the direction of the stairwell came a soft, ominous creaking sound.

Trey promptly turned about. ‘Lead on,’ he whispered. ‘As fast as you can.’

They did move quickly, passing several more bedchambers before taking a connecting passage to the left. Almost at a run, they reached the end of that hallway in a matter of moments. Trey cursed under his breath. There was nothing here except a shallow, curved alcove holding a pedestal and a marble bust. Not even a window to offer a means of escape.

There was no time for recriminations. Trey’s mind was racing. Could these be the same bandits who had murdered Richard? Was it possible they had followed him all the way from Egypt? If it were true, then they were desperate indeed, and he had to keep these innocents out of their hands. ‘Back to one of the rooms. Are there any trees close to this end of the house?’

‘No, wait a moment.’ Miss Latimer was part way into the alcove. It was hard to discern in the near darkness, but he thought she was probing the wainscoting. ‘Ah, here we are,’ she whispered.

He waited. The dog gave a soft whine. There was a grunting sound from Miss Latimer’s direction. ‘Give it a push, Will,’ she urged. ‘No, there. Go on, hurry!’

The boy disappeared into the alcove, followed closely by the dog. Trey moved closer and could only just make out the outline of an opening in the curve of the back wall.

‘In you go,’ said Miss Latimer calmly. ‘I will come behind you and close it.’

‘Archimedes, is it not?’ Trey said with a nod towards the bust. ‘Someone has a fine sense of irony,’ he whispered as he squeezed past her in the tight space.

He, in the meantime, had a fine sense of all the most interesting parts of Miss Latimer’s anatomy pressing into his side as he passed. No, she was not the dried-up spinster he had expected, but apparently neither was he the jaded bachelor he had believed. One full-length press—in the midst of a crisis, all clothes on—and his baser nature was standing up and taking notice. Ignoring it, he moved past.

He had to stoop to enter the hidden doorway, and found himself on a tiny landing. Ahead he could barely discern a narrow set of stairs. Then the door slid home and the blackness swallowed them.

He reached out a hand. The other wall was mere inches away. If he had stood erect and unbowed, his shoulders might have brushed both sides of the passage. Suddenly she was there, close against him again, her mouth right at his ear. ‘Archimedes fought and died. We shall run and live.’

Her words were in earnest. The situation was serious. And still a shiver ran through him as her breath, hot and moist, caressed his skin.

Trey muffled a heartfelt curse. His head was still bent in the low-ceilinged corridor, an awkward position made more so by the child resting against his shoulder. Danger lay behind and the unknown ahead, and he must face it saddled with a woman and two children. This was hardly the first scrape he’d found himself in, but it ranked right up there with the worst of the lot. And despite all this, still his body reacted to the nearness of hers. To the scent of her hair. To the sound of her breathing in the darkness. For some reason he did not fully comprehend, all of this infuriated him.

‘Go,’ he said in a low, harsh whisper. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

She moved on silent feet down the narrow stairs. Trey followed, one arm cradling the child close, the other feeling the way ahead. At the bottom, the passage continued in a bewildering set of sharp turns. Several times Trey’s trailing fingers found the empty air of a connecting branch, but Miss Latimer passed them by, moving forward at a good pace and with an air of confidence that he hoped was well founded.

Presumably the upkeep of the secret corridors was not high on the housekeeper’s duty list. Cobwebs clung to his hair, stuck to his face, and soon coated his seeking hand. Dust, disturbed by their passage, hung in the air and tickled his nose. Desperate, he turned his face into his shoulder, trying not to sneeze. The occupant of his other shoulder had no such compunction.

How did such an immense noise come from such a small person?

The adults both froze, listening, hardly daring to breathe. Not far away, on the other side of the passage wall, sounded a triumphant shout.

Once more he felt the press of that lithe body, soft against his. ‘We’re near the upper servants’ quarters,’ Miss Latimer whispered. ‘They will waste time searching them. There is another set of stairs just ahead.’

For just that moment, her scent, light and fresh, engulfed him nearly as completely as the darkness. But as she moved away and they began to descend the second stairwell, the air grew dank and the walls moist. They were moving underground.

‘Where?’ Trey growled quietly.

‘The bake house,’ she replied.

It was not far. In a matter of a few minutes they were climbing out of the clammy darkness, emerging into a small, stone building, still redolent with the rich, yeasty smell of fresh bread. Will stood on a box, just next to one of the high windows.

‘There was a man at the kitchen door, but he went into the house a moment ago,’ he whispered.

Trey turned on the girl. ‘Who are they?’

‘You don’t know?’ Her startled look was authentic, Trey judged. ‘I have no idea!’

Perhaps not. He decided to leave the rest of that conversation for later. ‘How far to the stables?’ he asked, handing the child over.

‘Not far,’ said Will.

‘Past the gardens and the laundry, beyond that grove of trees,’ Miss Latimer answered. ‘Perhaps a quarter of a mile.’

Trey suppressed a groan. It might as well be a league, with this ragtag group.

‘We will stay off of the path,’ he ordered in dictatorial fashion, ‘and under the trees as much as possible. If you see anyone, drop to the ground as quick as you can, as silently as you can. We’ll go now, before the sentry comes back to the kitchen door.’

Moonlight was streaming in the high windows; he could see the worry in Chione Latimer’s eyes, though she had displayed no other sign of it. ‘I’ll go first,’ he said. ‘To the back of that garden shed.’

He paused, and caught her gaze with intent. ‘If something happens, go back into the passages and find another way out. Don’t stay there, they will find their way in, eventually.’

Her expression grew grimmer still, but she only nodded.

Trey went to the door and opened it a fraction. He stood watching for a short time, but saw nothing, heard nothing except the usual nighttime chorus. The noise, in and of itself, was reassuring. Taking a deep breath, he plunged out of the door and sprinted to the shelter of the tiny garden shed.

Nothing—no shouts of alarm, no explosion of gunfire, no whistle of a knife hurtling through the air. He looked back at the seemingly empty bake house and motioned for his little group to follow.

They came, silent and swift. When they had reached him and stood, gasping in fright and fatigue against the old wooden wall, he felt something alien surging in his chest. Pride?

He pushed it away. Emotion, never a safe prospect, could be deadly in a situation like this, and besides, his stalwart band still had a long way to go. He took the child back again and nodded towards the nearby grove of trees.

What followed had to be the longest fifteen minutes in the history of recorded time, let alone in Chione’s lifetime. Like mice, they scurried from one place of concealment to the next, always stopping to listen, to test for danger. They saw no one. Eventually they reached the stables. In the moonlight Chione could see that the great door stood open a foot or so. Morty, who had been sticking close to Will’s side, suddenly surged ahead, tail wagging, and slipped in the building.

Chione sighed and hefted Olivia a little higher on her shoulder. She’d endured a maelstrom of emotions today, and now it seemed they were all coalesced into a heavy weight upon her soul. The scarab, she thought. It had to be that damned scarab.

She had barely set one foot in the door before she found herself enveloped in Mrs Ferguson’s arms, the housekeeper’s heavy rolling pin poking her in the side. For one, long, blessed moment, she leaned into the embrace. All she wanted was to just collapse, sobbing, into the older woman’s arms, and not only because of the handle digging into her ribs.

‘What did you mean to do—make the man a pie?’ Lord Treyford asked the housekeeper with a nod at her weapon of choice.

‘Wouldna be the first heathen I beat the fear of God into with this,’ Mrs Ferguson answered, releasing Chione to brandish her rolling pin high.

‘Speaking of heathens, that is my man, Aswan,’ Lord Treyford said, waving a hand at the man standing watch near the door.

He bowed, and Chione’s skin prickled. She handed the still-sleeping child to the housekeeper. It had been a long time since she had seen an Egyptian face. ‘With you be peace and God’s blessing,’ she said in Arabic.

He bowed low, but did not answer. He looked to the earl. ‘Effendi, we should go now.’

They had everything ready for a quick escape. Will’s sturdy Charlemagne had already been hitched to the pony cart. He was the last left; the other horses had been sold to finance Richard’s trip to Egypt. Her heart heavy, Chione tried to ignore the empty stables, the stale atmosphere.

Would the house look as forlorn, when those men did not find the treasure they had come for? Would they destroy the place in revenge? Steal away Grandfather’s collections as a substitute? Or, God forbid, set the house ablaze in their anger?

She stiffened her spine and raised her chin. Let them. All of her valuables were right here. And tonight, they were under one man’s protection. She looked for the earl and found him watching her. Inexplicably, she felt her spirits lift.

‘Can you drive the cart?’ he asked her. ‘Aswan and I will ride.’

She nodded. He put his hands on her waist to lift her up to the seat, and Chione felt her hard-fought-for composure slip. She waited for him to release her, but his large grip lingered. One heartbeat. Two. Three. A swirling flood of warmth and unfamiliar pleasure flowed from his hands. It filled her, weighed her down, slowed her reactions, and very nearly stopped her mental processes altogether.

With difficulty she broke the contact, moving away from his touch, berating herself as she settled on the seat and took up the reins. Could nothing—not grief, danger or exhaustion—temper her inappropriate reactions to the man?

She turned to watch as old Eli helped Will and Mrs. Ferguson into the back of the cart and found that, yes—something could. Shock, in fact, proved most effective. ‘Who is that?’ she gasped. An injured man lay in the front of the cart, curled on to a makeshift pallet.

‘Watchman,’ Lord Treyford said tersely. ‘His fellow came to alert us when they spotted the intruders lurking about. We found him out cold. Eli has seen to him.’

She stared as he took the lead of the village hack Aswan led forward. ‘A watchman? Then you were expecting trouble?’ The accusation hung unspoken in the air.

‘No, not exactly,’ he bit out, swinging up and into the saddle. He spoke again and the timbre of his voice crept even lower than his usual rumble. ‘I promised Richard that I would bring you the scarab. When he begged me to, I promised to protect you. But truly, I thought it to be a dying man’s fancy. Not for a moment did I believe that any danger connected with the thing wouldn’t be left behind in Egypt. I never imagined the sort of trouble we’ve seen tonight.’

He made a grand sweep of his arm, indicating the stable, the wounded man, the cart packed full of her dishevelled family. ‘I expected to come here and find Richard’s spinster sister facing a civilised problem: a neglectful landlord, investments in want of managing, a house in need of shoring up. Not a girl barely out of the schoolroom, grubby children, flirtatious dogs and village gossip. Definitely not a hysterical tirade, secret passages and a narrow escape from armed intruders in the night!’

His mount, sensing his ire, began a restless dance. Seemingly without effort, he controlled it, bending it to his will even as he continued his tirade. ‘The answer to your question is “No”. Thanks in part to everyone leaving me in the dark—no, I was not expecting trouble. In fact, you have only Aswan, who had the foresight to suggest a lookout, to thank for our presence here tonight.’ He glared at her from the back of his horse and finished with a grumble. ‘Not that we were much use, in any case.’

Chione should have been insulted. She stared at his flashing blue eyes, his big frame emanating pride, anger and chagrin, and she was once more reminded of the exaggerated characters in her novels. The Earl of Treyford was prickly, harsh and bossy. He was also clearly angry with himself for not anticipating tonight’s events and honest enough to admit that it was his servant’s precaution that had saved the day—or night.

Though he might be the last to admit it, Lord Treyford was a man of honour. And she was not so easily subjugated as a restless mount.

Clearing her throat, she met his defiant gaze squarely. ‘Then I extend my most heartfelt thanks to Aswan, my lord,’ she said with all sincerity, ‘for I am very glad that you are here.’

Her conciliatory tone mollified Trey, but only for a moment. In the next instant, he grew suspicious. In his experience women used that tone when they wanted something. Her wants did not concern him, only his own needs.

Unfortunately, he became less sure just what they were with every passing moment. Guilt and frustration gnawed at him, and he resented the hell out of it. He had years of experience behind him, decades of avoiding people and the tangled messes they made of their lives. And look what one day in the Latimer chit’s presence had brought him to.

‘Let’s move,’ he said as Aswan opened the door wide enough to get the cart out. ‘Will says the track through the wood will bring us out on to the coast road. From there we’ll go straight to the inn.’

Cautiously, they set out. The forest lay in silence; the few noises of their passage were the only discernible sounds. The coastal path was deserted as well, leaving Trey no distraction from the uncomfortable weight of his own thoughts.

There was no escaping the truth. He hadn’t taken the situation seriously, had not considered that something like this might happen. The thought of that girl, those children and what might have been was unbearable.

Damn it—he was tired of being kept in the dark! What did everyone but him know about that wretched scarab? What was it about the cursed thing that could possibly have stirred these bandits to follow it halfway around the world? He didn’t know, but he was damned sure going to find out.

To that end, and to the hopeful thought that the sooner he dealt with these sneak thieves, the sooner he could shake the Devonshire dust from his boots, Trey left his ragtag group in the care of the disconcerted innkeeper and turned his horse’s head back the way they had just come. Fortunately, the first watchman had not been idle. He had a half-dozen men gathered, and though they were armed only with cudgels and pitchforks and one battered French cavalry pistol, they were eager enough. Trey gave them a terse set of instructions and they set out again for Oakwood Court.

But it was to no avail. The intruders were gone, leaving behind only a thoroughly searched house and a flattened juniper bush below the open window of Miss Latimer’s chamber.

The taste of frustration was not one Trey was overly familiar with. Now he found it had a sour flavour that he did not care for at all, especially when he’d spent the last four-and-twenty hours having it forced down his gullet. So he was in a foul mood as he took to the saddle for what—his third trip today?—back to the little village of Wembury. Aswan wisely kept his own counsel and without a murmur took possession of the horses as they dismounted once again in the inn’s courtyard.

The innkeeper, Mr Drake, had evidently been awaiting their arrival. Trey eyed the man with a bit of distaste; he found him rather dandified for a proprietor of a backwoods inn.

‘Lord Treyford, your…guests have all been accommodated. I must warn you, though, that the boy has been put on a cot in your room.’

‘Thank you,’ Trey answered. ‘Of course, you will apply all of their expenses to my account.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I had wondered…’

Trey was sure he had. In fact, he was sure that the whole village would be wondering by morning. But that was the least of his worries. Was he going to have to wait until morning to get some answers? ‘Are they all abed, then?’ he asked.

‘Aye, they are.’ The man leaned in close. ‘Had you any luck, sir?’

‘Only the ill sort.’

‘Bad news, that is, my lord.’ He shot Trey a wry look. ‘Today all the good citizens of Wembury will be a-twitter with the gossip. Tonight they’ll be wide-eyed in their beds, sure that they will be the ruffians’ next victims.’ Sighing, the innkeeper shook his head. ‘Every rusty blunderbuss in the county will be hauled out of storage, just like in those hungry, restless months after the war. Back then, old Jeremiah Martin shot his own brother in the arse, thinking he was a run-down Peninsular veteran come to steal his prized hog. We’ll be damned lucky if no one is killed.’

Drake heaved another sigh, then slapped a hand down on the counter, startling Trey. ‘Well, then, my lord, I’ve an extremely nice brandy laid out in the private parlour, should you like a nip before you retire.’

Trey hesitated only a moment. It was obvious that Mr Drake was not averse to a little soporific gossip. Suddenly, despite his usual scruples, Trey discovered he might not be averse, either. He needed answers, and he might finally begin to ask the right questions if he had a better understanding of the situation. And tired though he was, somehow retiring to a chamber with Will—and no doubt the dog—held little appeal.

The private parlour was more elegantly done up than one would expect, and the brandy was indeed very fine. Trey leaned back into the comfortably stuffed chair. ‘I would like to think that discretion is one of the services my money will buy, Mr Drake.’

‘Certainly.’ He returned Trey’s look with a sober one of his own. ‘In this case, however, my discretion is of no use to you. The men who rode with you tonight, they will talk.’

Drake held up the decanter and, at Trey’s nod, poured them each a second drink.

‘Gossip, superstition, unlikely tales of the supernatural, and the mysterious,’ Drake said as he settled back into his chair, ‘they are all an integral part of the atmosphere here. The locals thrive on it, repeat it and embellish it.’ With a lift of his chin he indicated the floors above. ‘Your friends, they are favourites, both in the locals’ hearts and in their whispered conversations.’

‘But what the hell is a wealthy shipping merchant like Mervyn Latimer doing setting up his family here?’ Trey nodded his head towards the ceiling. ‘Shouldn’t the lot of them be living in Plymouth, close to the shipping offices?’

Drake sighed and took a drink. ‘Mervyn is a man who likes his privacy. Not easy to come by when you are famous twice over. In addition…’ he leaned closer and lowered his voice ‘…there are rumours that the young lady has dealt with her share of snobbery.’

Trey raised a brow in question.

‘It’s her foreign blood, I suppose, although if you ask me it’s a damned shame. A lovelier girl you couldn’t ask to meet, in every way. But you know how dreadful people can be to an outsider. Here, in a smaller society, it is easier for her.’

‘Not to mention that here the people are more needful of her grandfather’s money?’

‘That too. In any case, we’ve our own deep-water quay, and in his sloop Mervyn could be at his main offices quickly enough.’

Trey took a drink and thought a moment. ‘It seems to me that the girl is a sight more needful of her grandfather’s money than anyone else.’

‘And so she is,’ sighed Drake. ‘But without proof of Mervyn’s death—no body or any known catastrophe such as a shipwreck—the company remains in the hands of its board. Without his influence that group squabbles more than the local Ladies’ Aid Society. So much so that the courts have ordered Mervyn’s shares frozen pending investigation into the matter.’

‘And who knows how long such an investigation will take?’

‘Who knows when they will even begin, is the question.’

‘So,’ Trey mused, ‘the girl is accepted here, but left near to destitution and still gossiped about?’

Drake flashed Trey a rueful smile. ‘But who among us could resist—especially when you throw in such a topic as the Pharaoh’s Lost Jewel?’

The jolt of excitement Trey felt had him sitting up a little straighter. Miss Latimer had mentioned a jewel, had she not, when he tried to give her the scarab?

‘I don’t know the legend,’ he said, striving for a casual tone. ‘What can you tell me of it?’

‘Perhaps I would be better suited to answer that,’ a sharp feminine voice said from the doorway.

It should have been impossible for a man of his age and experience, but Trey found himself blushing like a schoolgirl caught gossiping under the covers. Drake, however, seemed unperturbed, rising to greet the Latimer girl with his usual smoothness.

‘Miss Latimer, I had thought you abed. Ah, it is not surprising that you should have difficulty sleeping after such a dreadful experience. Shall I warm you some milk, to help you drift off?’

Arms crossed, she leaned against the doorjamb, all injured dignity and unrelenting disapproval. ‘No, thank you, Mr Drake.’

‘Well, then, since you are awake…’ he glanced at Trey with sympathy. ‘A message was left here for you earlier. I shall just fetch it.’

He eased his way past her, but her disdain appeared to be focused firmly on Trey. He pasted on his most obnoxious look of unconcern and waved her into the room. ‘Good, I am glad you are up. We have much to discuss.’

‘Yes, so much that you decided not to wait for me, I see.’

Trey shrugged. ‘Drake said you were abed. I merely meant to begin sorting out this mess.’

She glared, but held her peace as Drake returned, a sealed missive in hand. He handed it to her and shot Trey a mute look of apology.

Trey ignored him. A belated sense of uneasiness had him watching the girl instead. Who would be sending the chit a message here? A curious look passed over her face as she broke the seal and began to read.

‘Something is not right,’ he said. ‘Who, besides the people in this room, or asleep upstairs, would know you are here?’

She did not answer. Trey glanced over at her. Even in the candlelight she looked bloodless. Her face was blank, her gaze fixed to the sheet she still held with trembling fingers. Trey had to suppress a sigh of exasperation. Lord, not again.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Miss Latimer?’

Mutely, she handed him the paper.

It was too much; too many emotions for a person to process in a single day. Chione found that her trembling legs would not support her. She sank into Mr Drake’s abandoned chair and watched Lord Treyford read the note.

Le grand homme de la vague déferlante, he lives. He is in need of help. Find the coffer.

Alive. For a moment she was convinced that it was an illusion, a hallucination concocted out of her own grief and fear. But the proof was right there in Lord Treyford’s hand. Hungrily, she stared at it. Thank God, she had been wrong. Mervyn was alive.

‘What is this? A man from the…surf? What nonsense is this, Miss Latimer?’

‘Great man of the surf. Or something close to that. I think perhaps that part of it was originally in an island dialect.’

‘What was in—?’His voice, growing loud again with impatience, suddenly broke off, and the look he gave her softened into a sort of exasperated pity. ‘Miss Latimer, as much as it pains me, perhaps we should postpone this discussion. I fear the excitements of the day have been too much for you. Let Mr Drake show you back to your chamber.’

‘No, I am fine. Do not fear, Lord Treyford. I have not come unhinged.’ Chione’s weary brain had finally processed the rest of the message. Mervyn was alive, but he needed help. How could she help him? She hadn’t a clue as to where he was. And what was the coffer? All at once the fatigue that had swept over her was gone, lifted by her incredible relief, replaced by her anxiety, her need to be doing something, anything, to get to the bottom of all of this. She stood, then began to pace, from the fire to the window, and back again.

‘Miss Latimer,’ Lord Treyford began with a commanding rumble, ‘sit down. I am a man of very little patience, and you have already consumed what small amount I possess.’

Chione swore she could feel his words resonating in the pit of her belly, and for some reason the sensation sent her restlessness spiralling even higher. He wore a tremendous frown and his knuckles were white where he clutched the note she had given him.

Her fingers shook as she went to extricate it. For a moment she was close enough to feel the heat and the aura of masculinity that emanated from him. ‘I do apologise, but do you understand what this means? It means I was wrong. Mervyn is alive.’

He ran a hand along his jaw and up to his temple. When he spoke it was with the exaggerated patience one uses with a wayward child.

‘I think, Miss Latimer, that it is time for you to sit yourself down and start giving me some direct answers.’

She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a halting hand. ‘No, don’t talk. I am going to do the talking, you are going to answer only the questions I put to you. But before we begin, I am going to need another drink. Or two.’

He crossed over to a tray already set with a decanter and glasses. Chione sat in a chair in front of the empty fireplace and watched him toss one drink back immediately and pour himself another. When he returned, he held two glasses. He offered her one.

‘Oh, no. I don’t think…’

He held up his hand again. ‘No. No talking and no thinking. Either is bound to get me in trouble. Take the drink, and just answer.’

He took the chair across from her and sat, staring at her with that broody frown that set her insides to simmering. Chione had had enough. ‘Before I answer your questions, I have one of my own. Do you still have the scarab?’

He was startled enough to answer. ‘Of course.’

She sat back in her chair in relief. ‘I’m afraid I must apologise for my earlier outburst and tell you that I do indeed wish to have it.’

‘Tonight would illustrate that you are not alone in that desire.’

She started to speak, but he cut her off. ‘No, I do not want to hear protestations that it could have been something else that those thieves were after. We both know the truth. They wanted the damned scarab, and it’s only dumb luck that they don’t have it right now.’

Chione froze. Had his intentions shifted upon the discovery of the scarab’s value?

It seemed he read her mind. ‘I travelled here to bring the curst thing to you,’ he growled, ‘and so I shall. After you have given me what I need.’

Chione took a sip from her glass for courage. She managed—only just—not to cough and sputter as it went down. ‘And what is it that you need, my lord?’ Her saucy delivery might have had an impact if not for the brandy-induced wheeze at the end.

‘Information,’ he clipped. ‘I want you to tell me just what the hell that scarab really is. Why Richard was killed for it, why you damn near swooned at the sight of it, why someone followed me all the way from Egypt, damn it, to try to steal it from you tonight.’ The rumbling volume of his voice had raised a notch with each question.

Chione sat silent, considering. He might be curt, temperamental, cranky, even, but Richard had trusted this man. And he had proven himself worthy, keeping his word, abandoning his work, clearly against his own inclination. And tonight he had saved them all.

Chione was many things, but not a fool. She needed to find Mervyn and knew she would not get it done on her own. She needed help. And as much as it galled her to put her faith in yet another adventurer, she wanted his.

‘Tell me about the scarab,’ he said gruffly.

She took another drink of the brandy. ‘For as long as I can recall, it has belonged to Mervyn. He wore it always—in a pocket, or on a chain. When I saw it today in your hands, I believed that it meant that he was dead.’

‘Believed. Past tense.’ He glanced toward the note she still held in her hand.

‘Yes.’ She raised her chin in defiance. ‘ I know you will think that I am foolish, but there is good reason to trust in that note.’

He didn’t challenge her statement, or pursue her reasoning. ‘Did you know that Richard was searching for the scarab?’

‘Not really. He seemed genuinely thrilled to be going back to Egypt at last, and excited about his position with the Museum.’ She looked away. ‘I suspected that he was also searching for information about Mervyn’s disappearance, but he did not confide in me.’

‘Neither did he confide in me,’ Trey said flatly. ‘I do not know just where he found the thing. I do not know if the others who sought it in Egypt are the same ones who were here tonight. I still know nothing of importance, in fact. Yesterday you spoke of a jewel, but the jewels have long since been pried from the scarab. Tonight Drake talks of a Pharaoh’s jewel. Tell me now, just what is going on here?’

‘It is an old tale, an ancient legend.’ Her throat tightened until she thought she might choke on the words, but she forced herself to go on. ‘No one is sure just what the Jewel is. Some say it is a collar fashioned in the ancient style, made of gold and inlaid with hundreds of precious gems, others say that it is a huge diamond brought from the deepest Africa. I have also heard that it is an entire cache of jewels, stolen from a great king’s tomb long ago.’

‘Is the scarab part of the treasure, then?’

‘No, the scarab is reportedly the key.’

‘The key to what—the cache? Or is it a key such as you find on a map?’ She could heard the impatience in his voice.

‘Perhaps. I think someone once told Mervyn that the Jewel itself was a map, one that would lead to a lost land of many treasures.’

‘I see.’ The earl’s gaze wandered for a moment. She jumped when he snapped suddenly back to attention and barked out a question. ‘What did you grandfather believe?’

‘I don’t know!’ Her hands were clenched to the arms of the chair. ‘I was never truly interested in the legend, not in the way that the men in my family were. Did you know that my father was killed because of that cursed Jewel?’ She paused and swallowed, but now was not the time to reveal the truth of her family relationships. ‘He was murdered just because someone believed he knew something of it! When you showed up bearing that scarab, I knew that Richard had met the same fate and likely Mervyn as well. Now this note says that Mervyn is alive! His fate may hang in the balance and I just do not know!’

Panic reached down her throat and stole her breath away. What if it was true? She had despised the legend, hated the light in her grandfather’s eyes when he spoke of it, the excitement in her brother’s tone when he talked of leaving, of chasing after a myth. She had resented the way the story grew, interfering with their lives. When talk turned to the legend, she had turned away. And she had been right. Her father had been murdered because of it; most likely her brother had been killed seeking it. But what if her ignorance also doomed Mervyn?

‘Calm yourself,’ Trey ordered. He refilled her glass. ‘We shall sort it all out. Tell me what you do know.’

She breathed deep. Panic accomplished nothing. If there was one thing she had learned from her troubled early life, it was the value of a clear head in a time of crisis. She drank again and drew courage from the warmth the brandy spread through her chest. ‘That is nearly all of it,’ she said shakily. ‘The legend is old. It came to Europe when Bonapart and his delegation of scholars and artists returned to Egypt at the turn of the century. There was talk then, that the scarab had been found, and brought to France.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me to find that true. Many items went home with the French.’

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