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It wasn’t until the entire, ugly and honest truth was out that he realized the depth of the cut in his words.
Lady Eleanor had stopped. The shade of trees had thinned out and her bonnet was dappled with splashes of gold. She turned toward him, pulled her arm from his, and slowly lifted her face. Her eyes gleamed in the light, glowing like gemstones with the gloss of what appeared to be carefully restrained tears.
The realization struck Charles in the chest.
He had gone too far.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but Lady Eleanor spoke first.
“My mother and her friends are waiting for me.”
She nodded to the women on the riverbank. The entire group looked their way—and immediately snapped their heads in the opposite direction once they realized they’d been caught.
Lady Eleanor gently cleared her throat. “Thank you for your candor. Good day, Lord Charles.”
She ducked her head down, hiding her face with the rim of her bonnet, and slipped away. Her gait was stiff, her back ramrod-straight and her shoulders squared. The maid hurried along after her.
Charles watched Lady Eleanor walk away, feeling very much the cad. He’d assumed such a speech would render him victorious, and yet his joy had been marred by something rather unexpected—the stab of guilt.
Later that evening Charles sat among a collection of his father’s greatest acquisitions. If Charles hadn’t thought it possible to feel any lower than he had after his honest assessment of Lady Eleanor, he’d underestimated what coming home to Somersville House would do. Especially as he surveyed the unboxed treasures.
There was a sarcophagus containing an intact mummy, found in a sealed-off tomb in the Valley of the Kings. The paint stood vivid blue against un-flecked gold, as if it had been created only weeks ago rather than centuries before. Its discovery had earned his father a private audience with the King. Then there was a gold scarab encrusted with priceless jewels, of which the ton had talked for three months.
Charles hefted an ancient tome into his grasp. The pages within the leather binding were unevenly cut and yellow with age. They crackled when handled. But the drawings and words within were still dark with ink. The discovery of this particular book had left scholars in a state of frenzy.
Every item found by his father in a foreign world and brought to London had been met with praise and acclaim. And Charles had been witness to it all his life—first as a young boy, peering from the stairs, later from the corner where his governess had grudgingly allowed him to sit, and later by his father’s side, as an honored son. That was, until the Duke had begun to suffer from gout and declared himself too old for travel.
Charles set the tome down gently on the desk and regarded the key, studying its flat, cool metal surface.
It had indeed been a sad day when the Duke of Somersville had had to put away the old floppy hat he’d worn during his Adventure Club days.
At the time of its dissolution, the club had still been obsessed with locating the Coeur de Feu. Each man had gone about his own adventure, following leads on its location and documenting his journey. It had been when they returned home that everything had dissolved around them, their trust ripped apart by perfidy and speculation.
The Duke and the Earl of Westix had been the wealthiest of the men in the club, but they had not been the brightest. Only one man, whose name was never mentioned, had been cleverer than the rest, and had put his findings in code. And, while the previous Duke of Somersville had somehow obtained the key, and had known of its purpose, he had not known which of the journals was needed.
Charles had already been through all the journals at Somersville House, of course. He’d found nothing but descriptions of places the members of the club had gone, and accounts of treasures acquired. Until his father’s effects were returned from their country estate there was nothing more to look through.
Regardless, Charles was certain the one he needed lay in the Earl of Westix’s home.
He let the key slip from his grip and the metal sheet fell silently against the thick Turkish carpet. There was a story behind that carpet as well, only he couldn’t recall it at the moment.
Every item in the house had a story—had come from a different homeland, after a new adventure. He put his face in his hands and let the coolness of his fingers press into the heat of his skin. They all had far better stories than his own—the son who had watched with adoration the father whose magnificence he would never measure up to...the sole heir who had cast aside his promises in search of his own adventures.
His father had been larger than life, experiencing every day to the fullest. Charles couldn’t believe he was gone, leaving him with no more chances to fulfill his promise and finally gain what he had always wanted—his father’s respect and pride in his accomplishments rather than always standing in his father’s shadow.
A knot formed stubbornly in Charles’s throat.
“Your Grace?”
A man’s voice nudged gently into Charles’s awareness. He looked up and met the dark gaze of his valet.
“Your Grace, you asked to be reminded when it was near time for you to depart for Miss Lottie’s.”
Charles nodded. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Thomas glanced at the treasures surrounding Charles. “Several doors down there is another room filled with the items you discovered on your own travels.”
The trouble with good valets was the way they oftentimes were far too perceptive.
“They aren’t the same.” Charles looked at a jade pendant of an elephant with gilt tusks.
“You are a good man, Your Grace. He would be proud of what you’ve accomplished in such a short period of time.”
Charles nodded absently. His father wouldn’t be proud. Not after his failing to locate the Coeur de Feu. No, his father would be disappointed.
The thought sliced into him as he recalled his father’s last words, hastily scrawled with the desperation of a man with only moments left to live. And once again he felt the crushing weight of disappointment, because they’d been about the damned ruby.
Thomas bent in front of Charles and lifted the key from the floor. “When you’re ready, Your Grace?” He carefully set it on the desk beside the massive tome and departed.
Charles sighed, but the weight in his heart did not lighten. He had committed many wrongs in his life, and all the treasures of the world wouldn’t make it right. Getting those journals from Eleanor would be a start.
In truth, she had wormed her way into his thoughts several times since their discussion. Her forthright demand for what she might do to improve herself had taken him aback. And yet it had been refreshing. It was a rare thing indeed for a member of the ton to request an opportunity to better oneself. Not in dance or watercolor or singing, but in the general composition of their personality.
Charles got to his feet and strode out the door. He stopped at the top of the stairs and gazed down to the entrance hall below, where polished marble gleamed in the candlelight. He’d stood there so very many times before, watching his father prepare to leave for another trip.
When he was a boy he’d held onto the ornate railing, his small fingers curled around the cool wood, as if clutching it would keep his father from leaving again. When he was an adolescent he’d propped his elbow on its bannister and let his imagination carry him to the places his father would go, where Charles knew with the whole of his heart he would also venture someday.
And this was where Charles had seen his father for the last time...
The bustle of servants began to calm and Charles found himself alone in the foyer. His blood danced in his veins at the thought of the impending adventure awaiting him—the foreign lands, the excitement of experiencing everything he’d ever heard about from his father and had spent a lifetime dreaming of.
The back of his neck prickled with the awareness of being observed. He turned and looked up the curving stairs to where his father leaned heavily on a carved ivory cane just at the top.
They’d said their farewells already. Promises had been made to pursue the Coeur de Feu, and wisdom and advice had been passed from father to son.
The Duke did not make his way down to offer another goodbye. Instead he stood at the top of the stairs, leaning on the cane gone yellow with age, and nodded down at his son.
This time it was the Duke of Somersville who was seeing Charles off. And this time it was not just information which had been passed from father to son, but a role...
The memory wrenched at Charles’s heart. Not because he hadn’t been there to offer his father a final farewell when the Duke had passed on, but because he had failed.
There would be no moving on with Charles’s life until the gem was found. The dukedom could wait. It had been unattended for the previous six months, after all. Charles was young. He had time for life to wait as he finally fulfilled his promise.
The steel of determination set in his spine as he climbed into the waiting carriage. He would get those journals by any means necessary.
Chapter Five
Late evening was often the hour of illicit deeds. Eleanor’s deed posed no exception. She slipped into the town house on Russell Square in Bloomsbury, utilizing the servants’ entrance for discretion.
It wasn’t until the footman had led her into the drawing room that she allowed him to take the domino from her shoulders, the wig from her head and the mask from her face.
While last time divesting herself of her disguise had left her trembling with vulnerability, now it rendered her lighter, freer. Perhaps now she saw the lessons for what she hadn’t fully understood previously that they were: a second chance. Possibly her only chance.
Not just in acquiring a husband, but in living her life. Having passion, as Charles had said. Being a painting with depth.
The very idea of it prickled over her skin. She had restrained her emotions for so long, the very idea of letting them free was exhilarating.
Her mother had been equally eager to have her attend another lesson, especially after she had been seen in Hyde Park, speaking with a mysterious man. Eleanor had remained closed-lipped about Lord Charles, and her mother had been too pleased with the development to press for more information.
Eleanor watched the door with anticipation—waiting for it to open, for Lottie to saunter through it with her sensual confidence. And for Charles to follow behind her.
Perhaps Eleanor ought to have been offended by the bluntness of his words—certainly they had stung. But they had also thrown open the doors of her comprehension. What might have been the harshest criticism had also been the introduction to opportunity.
A glass of sherry, she noticed, was sitting once more on the small table beside the buxom bust. She leaned over the marble woman, considering... Her eagerness to change, however, did not extend far enough to allow her to reach between the pert nipples and claim the glass.
The doors swept open and Eleanor lurched around like a child caught doing something naughty. Lottie passed into the room like a queen. The length of her black curls cascaded down her right shoulder and the blue silk gown she wore made her skin gleam like the flawless surface of a pearl. Charles entered the room behind her and bowed low.
“Good evening, Lady Eleanor.”
He rose and bestowed upon her a charming smile, which she ought to have ignored but which set her heart tapping at an odd rhythm.
“It’s good to see you again.”
There was a genuine note to his tone, indicating he was indeed happy to see her. Her cheeks went warm.
“So wonderful to have you back.” Lottie clasped her hands together and pressed them over her chest.
“Forgive my previously disparaging attitude,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t understand how valuable a chance this was. If your generosity is still extended, I am eager to avail myself of and continue with the lessons.”
Lottie waved at the air. “Oh, pish—there’s nothing at all to forgive. And of course I’ll continue with your lessons. I’d never have taken you on unless I truly wanted to instruct you.” She touched the underside of Eleanor’s chin, the way a mother might do a cherished child. “You are going to be magnificent, dear one. You need only to believe in yourself.”
The touch and her proximity were startling, but the affection behind both was innocent. It served to endear Lottie to her all the more.
“Shall we start with introductions?” Eleanor asked gently.
Lottie gave an appreciative laugh. “By all means, let’s.” She cleared her throat and straightened, her demeanor taking on a regal bearing. “Do you remember what I told you?”
Eleanor nodded. “Make eye contact, smile, be sincere.” The way Lord Charles had just been.
Suddenly the understanding of it all washed over her with even more clarity.
“Perfect.” Lottie waved Lord Charles closer.
He obligingly stepped forward. The strength of his muscular thighs was visible beneath the light-colored fabric of his pantaloons.
Oh, dear.
A sudden thought occurred to Eleanor. Was Lord Charles a client of Lottie’s? They would cut a fine pair, with their dark hair and beautiful blue eyes.
Except he was smiling at Eleanor as if she were the only woman in all the world. How very devastating of him. And how very different from their last meeting.
What had changed? Her stomach twisted. Was it that he felt sorry for her? Did he find her so piteous that he had taken it upon himself to make up for it with flattery?
“Lady Eleanor, may I introduce Lord Charles?” Lottie indicated him.
Eleanor extended her hand and Lord Charles bowed over it. His fingers curled around hers and his mouth kissed the air above her gloves. Though his lips never touched the kidskin, she swore she could sense the heat of his mouth over her knuckles, like a caress against her skin. The sensation was not unpleasant.
When he rose from his elegant bow she let her eyes meet his and linger. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Charles.” She infused the words with everything she could dredge up—gratitude at his temerity in being honest with her the prior day, the kind of charm he offered her, even her hope of becoming a better person than she might otherwise be.
His smile broadened. Was it truly possible for one’s teeth to be so brilliantly white?
Lottie laughed somewhere a world away. A joyous sound that dragged Eleanor back to the sumptuous red silk detail of the drawing room, where that nude bust stared boldly at her behind the temptation of a sherry glass and a wide gilt-framed mirror reflected Eleanor’s own flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
Was that truly her in the mirror?
She quickly looked away, to ensure she was not seen staring at her own reflection.
For a moment she had allowed herself to be drawn into the alluring pull of Charles’s presence, sharing his confidence. For a moment, she had been someone else, open and sincere. The realization, however, brought back the sensation of being completely vulnerable. She had worn her expressionless mask for so long that without it she was naked.
“Oh, Lady Eleanor, that was so very marvelous.”
Lottie nodded appreciatively at Charles, and the look between them was intimate, conveying so much more than a friend aiding another.
Immediately a wave of humiliation curdled the success Eleanor had mustered. What a fool she’d been, blushing at a courtesan’s lover as if he might find her truly enchanting. Hadn’t she already learned her lesson once before when it came to men who offered interest in her?
“Shall we try again?” Lottie asked.
Eleanor nodded, even though the shine of her newfound opportunity had greatly diminished. Not that she’d expected Lord Charles to find her truly interesting. But he’d said she was lovely.
Was she so desperate to be found attractive? Especially with a woman like Lottie in the vicinity?
“Lady Eleanor, may I introduce Lord Charles?” Lottie said in her silky voice.
Eleanor lifted her eyes, but found Charles’s gaze harder to meet this time. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She heard the rigidity in her own voice and lifted her hand awkwardly.
Charles did his part with the same smoothness as before. Again and again and again he demonstrated his mastery over his part of the introduction. Again and again and again Eleanor found she could not with hers.
The flare of hope began to dim. She was lacking once more. Inadequate.
Lottie’s question from the prior lesson surfaced in her mind once more—the way it had many times since the query had been issued: What was Eleanor afraid of?
Eleanor had the answer. Or rather the answers. For there were many. After living behind the shield of her apathy for so long, to lower it was frightening. To be sincere was to be vulnerable, and to open herself to what rejection might do to that fragile, exposed part of her.
She could not stomach such embarrassment again. She could not be a failure.
Charles was home late that evening from Lottie’s. They’d worked with Lady Eleanor for longer than before. All to no avail. He was weary of introductions. Indeed, Eleanor’s disappointment in herself had been evident in the flush of her cheeks, despite her otherwise cool demeanor. And, though she was Westix’s daughter, he had not been able to help the swell of sympathy.
She had persisted, patiently facing each new introduction with a determined set to her brow. He’d wished he could give her the passion she so lacked, could encourage the flame of life in those green eyes.
Charles’s butler, Grimms, took his coat, hat and gloves as he entered Somersville House. “Good evening, Your Grace.” Grimms offered a formal bow. “I believe you’ll be pleased to learn that your father’s effects have arrived this evening. All have been placed within the library.”
Charles’s exhaustion fell away, to be immediately replaced by excitement. He hadn’t anticipated the arrival of his father’s items from the country estate for at least a few more days.
“Thank you, Grimms.”
The butler inclined his head, showing the glossy skin atop his head where his snow-white hair no longer grew, and strode off.
Charles immediately made his way to the library, and found a mountain of wooden crates beside one of the curio cabinets laden with his father’s treasures. At least twenty boxes, by his estimation. Going through the lot of them would take a considerable amount of time.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” Thomas entered the room and held up a metal hook with a grin. “I heard you were back and thought you might require some assistance.”
“Your timing is impeccable as always, Thomas.”
Charles stepped back from the pile to give his valet better access. Thomas pulled down the top box with a grunt and shoved the point of the hook into the narrow gap under the lid. He pushed, and the top lifted off with a splintering crack.
Inside were stacks of papers and journals. Enough to take the night to get through—if Charles was lucky.
Thomas regarded the contents within the box and lifted his brows. “Fancy a brandy?”
Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I think that might help.”
His valet quit the room, leaving Charles alone with piles of correspondence and notations written in the Duke’s neat, narrow writing.
The first few layers were accounts for the country estate—a detailed overview of funds spent and rents collected. Those were followed by letters from museums and from scholars, thanking the Duke for his contributions to their institutions.
Charles stopped and took the time to read those, awash in his father’s greatness. Interesting how even when he had been alive Charles had always felt on the outside, looking in with awe.
Eventually he carefully set the correspondence in a stack to one side. Next he lifted a large journal from the box. The gilded compass on the front indicated that it had been part of the Adventure Club. Unfortunately, the pages were too large to fit the key.
Charles opened the cover, regardless. The spine creaked and crackled in protest at its disuse. Clearly the journal was older than the others he’d gone through previously. Indeed, the first page placed the previous Duke thirty years ago, somewhere off the Nile in Egypt. A careful perusal revealed only his father’s handwriting.
Charles strode to the desk, hesitated, and then reverently sat upon the chair his father had occupied for so many decades. The leather was cold beneath him, and stiff to the point of providing little comfort. He would have Thomas find him a more accommodating one the following day.
For the time being Charles settled back rigidly and perused the aged book. He’d read all the Adventure Club’s journals in his possession, and traveled their adventures vicariously. This was the oldest he’d seen, and the first written only by his father.
Thomas came in and placed the brandy before Charles. “Shall I open another box?”
Charles shook his head. “This will do for now. Thank you, Thomas.”
The valet nodded and left Charles alone with the journal.
The brandy remained untouched while he delved into the words written by his father.
The pyramids rose before me, dotting the horizon with triangles, their tips pointing toward the sun. These wondrous fossils of an age long dead are rife with treasures beyond my wildest dreams, ready for presenting to England.
Thus far my findings have been well received, at least by the English. It would appear there are some within Egypt who begrudge my presence. People who declare the excavations pillaging and deem these sites sacred.
For those unable to apply reason, certain documents can be replicated to allow us the access we require.
It was a perfectly constructed plan from one of our members—a man who has proved himself a genius in his approach to dealing with these obstacles as well as finding treasure.
He shall surely be a worthy asset among us, especially in gaining access to the most guarded treasures.
Charles paused in momentary confusion. Surely his father didn’t mean he’d bribed people and forged documentation? There had been many instances when Charles had heard descriptions of finding tombs and temples long-ago abandoned and left to fall in on themselves in the middle of nowhere.
Charles’s father had been a good man, with a name honorably built on the findings of great pieces which he’d shared with England. He’d been a hero—one who would never have stooped to such low levels as deceit and theft.
Not his father.
Charles read through the rest of the journal, which described the findings within the tomb in considerable detail. No further suggestion or implication was made of any untoward acts.
The absence of such eased the twist in Charles’s stomach. Surely his father’s earlier words had been written merely as a precaution, in the event that he’d need to go beyond the rules a little in order to bring an item home. The Duke had been an honorable man whose efforts had always been morally sound.
Charles closed the book and lifted the glass of brandy. He drank half in one great swallow before settling back in the seat. His mind nudged from his father to the distraction of Lady Eleanor.