An Improper Aristocrat

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.