The other man swallowed audibly. "Taxes?"
"Try again."
"Virgins."
"Troublesome, I grant you. But fixable."
Carnelly's head ducked, but not quickly enough to hide a smile. He shuffled his feet. "Moreland," he said grudgingly.
"Bang on," said James. "Now, I have asked myself: knowing this about me—knowing my motive for seeking a truly remarkable specimen from Egypt, one that would make my father green with envy—why, then, would you risk my patronage and my
immense
displeasure by selling me a second-rate fraud?"
Carnelly gasped and tossed the rag onto the counter. "My lord! I would never!"
James sighed. "How long have we known each other?"
"Two beautiful years," Carnelly said earnestly, "and never was there a happier day than when you first walked into my shop—"
"I believe I came in to retrieve my billfold, but we will leave aside your nephews thieving tendencies."
"Bless his wee heart. He takes after his father's side. No Carnelly would never unload a fake on you."
"I would hardly expect one to. So what in bloody hell is
this?
James thumped a heel onto the rock.
Carnelly pulled his apron over his head and came around the counter to squat down next to it. "Well, well." His fingers brushed lightly over the stela's chiseled surface. "Oh, yes. Its fake, all right. But its not mine."
"It most certainly is. It came over in the same crate as the urn and Amenemhat's papyrus."
"What?" Carnelly came to his feet with a bounce. "I sent you that? That wasn't part of Colby's haul. Hold on a minute. I've got the packing list for that shipment." He crossed behind the counter and proceeded to ransack a hidden area beneath it, causing an enormous cloud of dust to be raised. "Here," he said, coughing as he produced a ledger. His fingers flipped to a page near the back. "All the items what were acquired in Cairo. My man does a final inventory before they're transported to Port Said for shipping."
James came forward to browse over his shoulder.
A necklace with scarab amulet. Sculpture of goddess Bastet, with cat head. Papyrus from nineteenth dynasty. On and on it went, a remarkably diligent chronicle. "You'll leave nothing for Egypt, man."
"But you'll see, the stela's not listed in Colby's shipment."
James turned the page. "No," he said after a moment. "Did your man slip it in?"
"There's no reason for him to risk his job over a worthless piece of rock. Don't mistake me," Carnelly added hastily. "I believe you, gov. It's only—ah!" He snapped and reached down, producing another account book. Licking his thumb, he flipped through the pages. "Yes," he said. "Here. It was from the wrong crate, see. This was meant to go to another gentleman. Bloody Wilkins! I'll have his head. This is the third shipment he's sent astray."
James was beginning to feel amused. "So you keep a different ledger for the fakes? An admirable system of bookkeeping."
Carnelly frowned. "No, sir. I meant what I said—I don't knowingly trade in fakes. Too much risk for the profit. I have my good name to think of. It's a great disappointment, this." He tapped his finger against the sheet. "Our man Boyce is usually very reliable."
James straightened. By God, and a point to Phin! "Did you say
Boyce?”
Carnelly looked aggrieved. "Yes, and he's a reputable sort. Official, I mean, not a tomb raider like Colby or Overton. Publishes in all the major journals, he does. Since Mariette died and the trade started up again, he's sent some good pieces. Not flashy, mind you, but nice and legal, like. I cant think what happened here. That piece of rock wouldn't fool a ten-year-old!"
James let this unflattering assessment of his own perspicacity go unremarked. "Does his
daughter
see the pieces he sends?"
"Miss Lydia, you mean?" Carnelly hummed a little tune. "A looker, ain't she?"
It was not the first phrase James would have chosen to describe her. The term seemed too commonplace to capture her appeal—or her rash and ill-fated bravado, if she thought to conspire with his father against him. "That's the one. I take it she does come here for a look."
"Well, she
sees
most of the pieces, sure enough. She's arranged most of his sales, these last three years."
"Did she see this one?"
"I expect not. It was meant for Hartnett. He's one of Boyce's special clients."
"You expect not, or you
know
not?"
Carnelly hesitated. "Well, I can't recall. I don't keep track of it. I'd have to check my files for the instructions from Boyce."
James cast a glance into the disordered gloom of the warehouse. "Your files," he said skeptically.
"It'll take an hour or so," Carnelly said. "But I'll find it."
"Please do." It was one thing to be upstaged by a forthright bluestocking who knew her antiquities better than he did. But it was another thing
entirely
to be upstaged by a conniving spinster who'd plotted with his father to arrange the whole scene. If the little minx had conspired with Moreland, she was about to regret it extremely.
Chapter Three
“What preoccupies you, Miss Boyce?"
Lydia glanced up, startled. Mr. Romney had borne her lackluster conversation through four courses, choosing instead to gossip with the lady to his left. But now the lady was snoring lightly in her chair. Whether this bore greater testament to the immense heat from the fireplace, the free-flowing wine, or Mr. Romneys stentorian manner, she could not guess. She supposed Mrs. Fillmore had been doomed from the outset.
Clearing her throat, she said, "I was contemplating the lovely spread our hostess has laid." She gestured toward the excess of silver vases and candelabra weighing down the table. Through all of it, Lady Moreland had twined a cunning assortment of ivies and flower vines. Such Grecian beauty had proved unkind to at least one guest, the poor Lord Stratton, who had barely taken his seat before a sneezing fit compelled him to excuse himself.
"Nothing unusual there." Mr. Romneys humor was high; he broke with habit and did not seize the opportunity to lecture her on the seasonal dangers of gluttony and intemperance. "Tell me, now, what do the ladies say of the developments in the recent bombing?"
Lydia repressed a sigh. He had been greeted earlier with great fanfare; some police victory to do with the Irish plot targeting Scotland Yard and the Junior Carlton Club. Mr. Romney would not, of course, have been involved in this victory. Nevertheless, by virtue of his editorship at one of London's largest dailies, he had the peculiar gift of appearing to facilitate all good news, since most often he was the one to break it. "I confess, we talk little of it." As he frowned, she added, "The season, you see . .. it is taxing."
"Yes,
yes,
this dratted custom," Mr. Romney agreed. "Long nights and heavy meals! No good can come of such indulgences, I assure you."
The doors to the dining room burst open.
A gasp went up. Lydia nearly dropped her glass. San-burne stood on the threshold, dressed in full evening wear. He looked up from straightening his glove to cast a cordial smile in the direction of the table. Had he
kicked
the doors open? "Good evening, everyone." His eyes flicked down the chairs.
a
Ma mere.
And Father! You look jolly well."
Moreland, caught without his cane, slapped his hands on the table to push himself up. For a moment it seemed he wouldn't manage it; a footman stepped forward to assist. With an angry grunt; the earl elbowed away the help and came to his feet. "What is the meaning of this?"
"I'm hungry," said Sanburne. "Countess, is that Egyptian quail I spot? How apropos."
Lady Moreland, a petite, fragile-looking woman with a head of graying blond hair, craned to look calmly toward the game platter in the hand of the footman behind her. "Why, so it is. Would you like some?"
"Ellen," Moreland said beneath his breath, but the countess's benign smile silenced him.
Lady Moreland glanced across the table to the footman whose help her husband had rebuffed. "Please have another place set for our son."
Total silence reigned during the minutes it took for the servants to arrange another place setting. The project required a great deal of shuffling; each of the guests rose in turn to allow for the rearrangement of the chairs. Throughout it all, Sanburne lounged in the doorway, insouciant as a street arab. At one point he gave a great, cracking yawn, exposing his tonsils to the assembly. He acknowledged the scattered flinches with a lazy smile, then scrubbed a hand over his head, leaving his sun-streaked hair in disorder.
All in all, Lydia thought, he looked more likely to fall asleep than make trouble. But when it became clear that the servants intended to lay the new setting at the far end of the table, he straightened and came forward. "I should like to sit
here,
"he said, and planted his fingertip on the tablecloth precisely opposite Lydia.
A premonition stirred in her gut. Ana, who had been disguising a laugh, dropped her hand and shot Lydia an anxious look. Lydia shook her head. It was a coincidence, surely. Over a week had passed since her ruined lecture; had he wished to act on it, he would have done so earlier.
In another minute, the table was prepared. The countess gave a nod, and the guests resumed their seats. Thank goodness they had not been dining
en famille.
It would have taken half an hour to remove and then replace the dishes.
The interruption cast a pall over the gathering. As dining resumed, the only sound was the clink of silverware and crystal. Lydia peeked at the earl. His color was very high and he had not retrieved his fork. His glower fixed firmly on his son.
The son took no note of it. With overstated enthusiasm, he'd begun to consume a quail. "Very tasty," he said. And then, after the next bite: "My, my. As delicious as irony."
These comments did not reinvigorate the conversation.
Lydia noticed that Ana was ogling him. She repressed a sigh. Formal blacks suited the viscounts tall, lean build. The severe knot of his tie accentuated the planes of his face—the high cheekbones and firm lips, the precise line of his jaw. The light from the chandeliers picked out the gold highlights in his light brown hair; his long eyelashes threw shadows as he looked to his plate. But his form was not a painting, to be admired for its appearance. There was a man behind that face— one who probably used his beauty to achieve all manner of disreputable ends. Indeed, the only meaning to be drawn from his looks was that the world knew no justice, or else the philosophers had it wrong, and beauty evidenced a black heart. For Lydia feared that the Devil himself would not outshine James Durham.
Perhaps her resentment was tangible, for his gaze lifted briefly to her. His eyes were a striking light gray; she could not imagine how she had failed to notice them at the Institute. As she stared into them, his lips curved and his brow rose.
Mocking me.
She looked down, flushing. The vain knave probably thought her enamored.
Just as the silence grew intolerable, the countess recalled herself to duty. Clearing her throat, she said, "How goes your fathers work, Lady Southerton?"
"It goes well, I think," said Sophie. "But you will have to ask my sister for the details. I confess I have no head for such things."
"It goes very well," Lydia said immediately. Why she hadn't been the first person asked, she couldn't understand. "He is on the edge of a tremendous breakthrough. Further excavations are required, of course, but we believe he has located the true site of the first stop in the Exodus!"
Sanburne's fork crashed onto his plate. "How excit-ing!
Lydia did not dare look at him. The rube! Thankfully, the countess tried again. "How marvelous, Miss Boyce. What an historic moment that would be."
Gratitude warmed her. "Yes, wouldn't it?" Papa would finally get all the recognition he deserved. Even George would be forced to acknowledge the greatness of his work. "It would be ... beyond anything, really."
"But I recall that you dabble in science yourself. Lord Moreland attended one of your lectures at the Anthropological Society. Also, of course, your recent appearance at the Archaeological Institute."
Sanburne snorted. Lydia ignored this, giving a look of grateful acknowledgment to the earl. "Thank you for remembering, sir." He managed a small smile in return. "I've done no original research, yet, but I've had occasion to publish articles that synthesize the findings of other scholars. Recently, for instance, I wrote a piece on Mr. Tylor's study of the indigenous cultures of Mexico.
In conjunction with the work of Mr. Morgan, I find his theories tremendously inspirational."
"Oh, yes?" This from Lady Stratton, who sat across the table and a few seats down. It seemed that Sanburne's interruption had freed the other guests from the usual constraints. "But not as exciting as ancient Egypt, I expect." Here the lady cast a sly glance toward the viscount. Like everyone else, Lydia could not prevent herself from following it.
Heedless of the tables attention, Sanburne tipped his head to swill the entirety of his Madeira. As he swallowed, the golden line of his throat made her breath catch. A purely animalistic reaction, nothing to be upset by, but—
oh!
How ridiculous that such beauty should be squandered on a man. What did a man need to be admired, but good family, a good seat, and a bit of money?