Wicked (13 page)

Camille bit into her lower lip. “I don’t believe that she sinned,” she whispered. “I think that she just…she loved too deeply, too rashly.”

“Well, I’m afraid then that your father was an ass.”

“Ah!” she said. “Something upon which we might agree.”

His hand moved over hers, oddly warm and assuring. “As I have said, there is no shame.”

She was surprisingly touched by his words, and the warmth and power of his hand upon hers. “That, Lord
Stirling, is not how most of the world would view the situation. But you are warned. And I beg you, remember this—you could well cost me my livelihood.”

“If there is ever such a ridiculous repercussion, I could well afford a pension.”

“My livelihood is also my passion.”

“I have tremendous influence upon the museum,” he reminded her.

Her eyes fell. His hand was still closed over hers. She was ridiculously tempted to draw it to her face, to feel the palm against her cheek. In fact, her heart was beating far too quickly and erratically. The flush that had come over her stirred sensation into heart and limbs and torso.

She drew her hand back, frightened, not so much by the man as by her reaction to him.

“You’ll forgive me. I’m exhausted,” she told him. “Please…I’ve got to retire.”

“I’ll escort you to your room.”

“I’m sure I can find it.”

The gentle man she had glimpsed so briefly made an abrupt change. “I will escort you,” he snapped firmly. He strode to the door, opened it for her.

She passed by him, acutely aware of everything about him. She was even convinced that she heard him breathe, felt his heart beat…. Felt again the leashed tension, the violence that could erupt.

When she was out the door, he followed, then took the lead. Ajax had risen and followed. Curiously, he remained by her side, rather than hurrying to catch up with his master’s tread.

They traversed the long hallway, and at last came to her door. He opened it for her.

“Thank you,” she told him stiffly.

“Indeed.”

“I could have found my own way.”

“No,” he said harshly. “No. And don’t ever—ever—wander these halls at night, do you understand? Ever!”

“Good night, Lord Stirling.”

“Good night. Ajax!” As he said the dog’s name, the animal dutifully loped ahead into Camille’s room. With a glance of blue fire, Lord Stirling pulled the door shut.

She heard his footsteps echo down the hallway. And it occurred to her that, though it seemed they had come a long distance, the master’s chambers might well abut the very room in which she slept.

C
AMILLE
M
ONTGOMERY
was dressed in deep blue when Brian saw her in the solarium. Evidently Evelyn had found some garments that would provide the proper wear for her workday.

“Quite lovely,” he informed her.

Her eyes, with their beautiful marbled hazel color, flashed at the compliment. “It pleases me to no end that you approve, since it seems that I am unable to return to my abode for my own clothing.”

She wasn’t pleased in the least, of course. But he didn’t intend to argue at that moment. As he poured himself coffee, he wondered if she was aware just how enticing she could appear. That her features were perfectly hewn was one thing; that she had a rich head of hair in a glorious color was another. She was slender, yet delightfully shaped, with a tiny waist, slim hips and perfect breasts. But it wasn’t just in her appearance that she exuded such an allure; it was in her every expression, her determination not to be cowed, even by a man such as himself. The flash of her eyes held a keen intelligence and pride.

He walked some distance from her. Yes, he had asked his questions. And she had replied with such anger and passion that he had not doubted her words. He had dragged her in on this. Evidence seemed to show that he could trust her. As yet, though, he could not put his faith in her,
and neither did he want to feel the growing attraction for her that was beginning to tease his senses mercilessly.

He set his coffee cup down, locking his jaw, hardening his resolve. “Shelby will be there to pick you up at four this afternoon.”

“I cannot possibly leave at four!”

“Yes, you can. Sir John will give you permission. The sisters are quite talented, Camille, but they must have a few days if they are to create a ball gown.”

She looked as if she was struggling to maintain her temper. “Lord Stirling, this whole thing is quite ridiculous. You’re on a hunt—whether justified or not, I do not know! But this charade will end, and I must keep my employment!”

“Trust me. I have written a letter that Shelby will deliver to Sir John. You will be given the time.”

“Lord Stirling—”

He turned to leave the hall, having a great deal of business to attend to that day. She was disturbing in many ways, like a rose—with thorns.

“Good morning, Camille. I will see you this evening, in my quarters, for dinner as usual. And I will appreciate a report on the events at the museum.”

She rose, irritated, calling after him. “Events at the museum! I will put on an apron and work over ages of dust! There. I have given you the events of the museum that concern me.”

He stopped, turned. “Oh, Miss Montgomery. You are ever so much more observant and clever than that!”

He didn’t allow her to reply, but headed quickly for the exit.

T
HAT MORNING,
C
AMILLE
found it difficult to concentrate.

As she stared at her work, the symbols continued to
meld before her eyes. She hadn’t managed an exact translation of the continuation of the text, but it seemed that the warning involved something about the curse falling upon not only those who invaded and defiled the tomb, but upon their offspring, as well. However, that didn’t seem so startling, since the “Beast” of Carlyle Castle was already reputed to be cursed.

Anxious that she needed a break, she emerged from her little workroom and looked to Sir John’s desk, determined to ask him if she might step out for a cup of tea, anything to settle her nerves. But Sir John wasn’t there.

Restlessly she wandered the office, then sat at his desk. His top drawer was ajar, and when she went to close it, she discovered that it was stuck. Wrangling with it, she managed to draw it wide-open. When she would have closed it properly, she stopped, her eyes caught by the newspaper clipping that had been left on top of the assorted pens, pencils and paperwork utensils.

It was the front page of the
Times
from a little over a year ago. And the headline was definitely provocative.

There was a photograph below the line. Though poor and grainy due to the newsprint, Camille recognized the woman in the picture as being Lady Abigail Stirling. The fellow at her side, the late Lord Stirling, was quite tall and imposing with a handsome, well-chiseled face. They were standing at the site of a dig. Both smiled radiantly. The lord’s arm was around the shoulders of his lady. She was dressed simply in a light blouse and long skirt, while he was in a tweed jacket. There were others around them, Egyptian workers and fellow Europeans.

Camille floundered in Sir John’s top drawer, seeking his magnifying glass. She continued to study the picture. Seated on a slab of Egyptian marble was Mrs. Prior. At her side, mopping his brow, was Lord Wimbly. Two men were close to the entry of the tomb, involved in carrying out artifacts that were carefully wrapped for transportation. They were Hunter and Alex. In the doorway of the tomb itself stood Sir John. And she had to stare to see that it was Aubrey Sizemore directing the Egyptian workers in the background as they transported a coffin up a hill.

Below the picture and caption, another line read,

Someone was coming! Camille wanted to read the entire article, but she couldn’t risk being caught delving into Sir John’s desk. She quickly returned the article and shut the drawer, then set the magnifying glass back in its place. She leaped to her feet.

Her heart was thundering and she didn’t know why. What she had done wasn’t so terrible. She had righted a drawer. She had seen an article and started to read it. Certainly she had seen it when it came out, but that was a year ago, before she had become part of the museum. She read the paper constantly. The news would have faded behind that which had occurred more recently.

Sir John entered, seeming preoccupied at first, but then frowning when he noticed her standing there.

“Is there something wrong, Camille?” he asked. The silent question behind that, of course, was, why aren’t you working?

“I’m sorry, Sir John. I have been doing well, but I’m feeling a bit tired. I was hoping to slip out for a cup of tea. I won’t take any lunch at all later. You’ve been so kind to agree with Lord Stirling that I must leave early to meet with the dressmaker.”

To her surprise, Sir John waved a hand in the air, returning to his somewhat distracted state. “If you were not to come in at all during the week, my dear, it would be quite all right. You’ve done us great service in a day’s time. Go, enjoy some tea. Your work will wait.”

“Thank you. I do not mean, however, to neglect my responsibility in any way!”

“Even I need a cup of tea upon occasion. Or a whiskey! Something to clear the head.” As if thinking in that direction and seeking another cure, he shook his own. “Tea, yes. And take what time you need.”

With that blessing, Camille eschewed her apron and picked up the little blue reticule that matched so well with the sedate but beautiful gown Mrs. Prior had afforded her. Then she fled the offices.

Heading out through the exhibits, she found herself pausing. The cobra was lying relaxed and dormant. There were no children about to tease it. She walked close to the glass, wondering if they really were wise to keep the creature on display. Glass could break after all.

She frowned. It was Aubrey’s responsibility to care for the cobra. He knew something about the creatures from his time on expeditions. An unease filled her. She had seen Aubrey in the picture of the last expedition the Stirlings had sponsored. Just as she had seen the others.

She turned to leave, then stopped, an uneasy feeling trickling down her spine.

She turned, glanced around, then gave herself a shake. Had she really been afraid that the snake had leaped from
its terrarium to come slithering after her? No…She hadn’t been afraid that the snake had been following her. But she had felt someone…watching. Yet there was no one around. At least, no one she could see.

Still not able to shake the odd sensation that she was being followed, Camille hurried on out of the building and headed for the tea garden directly across the street.

G
REGORY
A
LTHORP WAS SEATED
on a stool, deeply focused on the object beneath his microscope.

Brian had to clear his throat to get his attention.

Gregory looked up. “Brian!” he said with surprise. “Uh, sorry, Lord Stirling.”

“Brian suffices just fine, thank you,” Brian said, walking forward and shaking hands with the man. They had served together in the Queen’s Service. To Brian, that put the two of them on a first-name basis.

Gregory was so tall and thin, calling him lanky was a kindness. He had taken his medical expertise onto the fields of war, but then shrapnel in his calf had sent him home. He didn’t need to be in the teaching college, yet there he was, as usual, because the field of medicine fascinated him endlessly. He had once told Brian that if he worked every minute of his life, there would not be enough time to begin to explore all the areas that called to him, all the areas that
needed
to be explored.

A skeleton hung on a frame nearby. As Gregory’s passion was discovering the true source of death, he usually worked in one of the dissecting labs. A body lay covered on a table, awaiting the cold scalpels of teachers or students.

Though the soul of the departed was surely long gone, Brian couldn’t help but feel an inkling of sympathy for the corpse. There had been, in the past, hideous ado over the
procurement of bodies for medical schools. There had been terrible incidents of ghastly murders since many a man and woman had been worth more dead than alive. The trial of Burke and Hare, the “body snatchers,” in Edinburgh had brought attention to the dangers of making corpses so valuable.

They were still valuable, though the government had worked hard to make them more available. Therefore, Gregory would use every inch of the dead man, just as a poor hunter might make use of every bit of a slain animal. Gregory’s determination, however, would be to advance his own passion—an understanding of the human body and how it worked. And what forces brought about death.

“How are you?” Gregory studied Brian’s eyes. “Surely, the wounds have healed and cannot be quite so fearsome as that mask!”

Brian shrugged. “Maybe the mask is what I’ve become,” he said lightly.

Gregory continued his study. “It’s been a while since you visited. I’m sorry I’ve not pursued some of your questions further. I’m afraid that the police have requested my help many times in the past several months. I wish that there was more I could tell you, Brian. Actually, since it seems I’ve been able to give you questions rather than answers, I’m rather sorry I ever called upon you when…when your parents died.”

Brian shook his head. “You did the right thing.”

“I sent you on a horrible quest, and it seems that there is no answer. If there had been, you’d not be here now.”

“Observant, of course,” Brian told him, grinning ruefully. “But I’d like to go over your notes again, if I might.”

“I’ve created an obsession,” Gregory said sorrowfully.

“Is justice an obsession?”

“Is revenge justice?”

Brian shook his head. “I believe someone so coveted riches and fame that they were willing to kill. It isn’t revenge to see that such a crime never occurs again.”

“Ah, Brian!” Gregory murmured.

“It’s true, I’m angry. And perhaps I do seek vengeance, of a kind. But time has passed and my anger is now cold and calculating. And though the scar I bear on my heart is far deeper than any of my flesh, it is truly justice I’m seeking.”

“After all this time…? We’re talking about asps! How will you ever prove it?”

“Perhaps I can’t.”

“Then…”

“Perhaps, with the proper knowledge, I can force the killer to show his true colors.”

“I cannot dissuade you?”

“You did start me on the quest.”

Gregory sighed. He rose, a slim man in a white coat among Bunsen lamps, test tubes, chemicals, a skeleton and a corpse. “I’ll get my notes.”

T
HE REST OF THE DAY
passed quickly enough. Camille was happier with her work after having taken her break, and the symbols seemed to fall into place nicely, verifying what she had already suspected. She understood quite well how Brian Stirling had acquired his reputation as “the beast,” since the curse was to be visited upon the heirs of those “who dared defile” into perpetuity. It was natural that anyone in the least superstitious would find themselves embracing a certain fear of the earl. Therefore, he became a beast. Not that his behavior at times didn’t warrant such a reaction!

Alex stopped by as she worked into the early afternoon, not having much to say but staring at her morosely. “He may be quite mad, you know,” he said from the doorway.

“Pardon?”

“The Earl of Carlyle. Camille, I am so afraid for you!”

She sighed. “I don’t think he’s insane.”

“Do you call it rational that he should choose such a mask, let his grounds become a jungle and live within those walls of his as if he were a cornered animal?” Alex demanded.

Behind him, she could see the old fellow Aubrey had been seeking the day before. Stooped and bent, with long gray whiskers and a beard to match, Jim Arboc was busy sweeping the outer office.

“A man has a right to be eccentric,” Camille told Alex.

Alex shook his head. “He has everything in the world. A man born with a title can get away with anything. Why, if I were an earl, with that kind of money, with his resources…”

“Alex, he’s not doing anything terrible. He prefers to live a quiet life within his own walls.”

“You don’t get a reputation for being a beast without a reason.”

She arched her brows. “Alex, you’ve seen him in here. He can be entirely courteous.”

“Ah, Camille. Even you!”