“You’ll dazzle the whole of London, miss.” Lydia said.
Abigail’s smile was wistful. “Let us hope only a portion of it, and not all at once.”
A gentle knock broke their quiet interlude. The door opened slightly, and Harriet peeked inside, her sharp eyes immediately noting Abigail’s chosen attire.
“The green is acceptable,” she pronounced curtly, “though you might have considered something more striking. Still, perhaps Lord Beaumont will prefer subtlety.”
Before Abigail could reply, her mother disappeared down the hall, leaving an amused Lydia shaking her head. “Well, it seems you’ve chosen wisely indeed, miss,” she jested. “Or acceptably, at least.”
Abigail nodded once. Her gloves were already in place. She lifted her chin, summoned a smile that would serve her in good stead, and walked toward the door.
Charles waited for her downstairs, dressed in his usual impeccable fashion—a deep-blue coat, buff breeches and polished shoes—his hat tucked neatly beneath his arm. “Abigail, you look splendid. Egyptian Hall shall scarcely know what has befallen it,” he jested gently, his eyes sparkling with their usual warmth.
Abigail smiled warmly, feeling at ease with her cousin’s easy presence. “I rather doubt it. But it shall at least make the day tolerable.”
He laughed gently. “Ever the realist.”
She laughed softly, linking her arm in his as they descended the steps to the waiting carriage. “Not really. Indeed, not today. It’s a performance, after all.”
Charles glanced at her curiously, a flicker of understanding passing briefly over his features before he smiled again. “A performance it shall be. One we shall execute flawlessly.”
They entered the waiting carriage, and soon it was rolling smoothly along bustling London streets, vibrant with merchants hawking their wares, elegant carriages threading skillfully through the traffic, and street performers vying for attention. Abigail watched quietly, her mind preoccupied with the upcoming meeting and the ongoing charade with Arthur.
“Charles,” she began softly, “Do you ever worry that we might be playing a dangerous game?”
Charles looked thoughtful, folding his arms as the carriage moved toward Piccadilly. “Life itself is a dangerous game, Abigail. But if anyone can handle it, it’s you. Besides,” he added lightly, “Arthur Beaumont seems honourable enough.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Abigail sighed gently, though a slight worry still lingered in the depths of her heart.
***
The Egyptian Hall on Piccadilly, known affectionately by some members of the ton as “England’s Temple of Wonder”, stood proudly beneath the late afternoon sky. Since its construction, it had rapidly become one of London’s most fashionable destinations, attracting crowds of the city’s most refined inhabitants, who eagerly embraced any opportunity to demonstrate their intellectual curiosity and sophisticated tastes.
Its facade, inspired by the temples of ancient Egypt, was a marvel of exotic beauty, elegant columns carved to imitate lotus stems, and vibrant frescoes that hinted at the wonders within.
The entrance was thronged with elegantly dressed patrons—a vibrant tapestry of London society mingling beneath the intricately painted ceiling.
Inside, Abigail immediately felt the change of atmosphere. A hushed reverence prevailed, broken only occasionally by the gentle rustle of skirts or the quiet murmur of admiration. The air was thick with a palpable sense of awe as Abigail and Charles entered the first gallery.
“Oh, Charles,” Abigail whispered, her eyes wide as they took in the array of artifacts displayed meticulously beneath protective glass. “It’s utterly splendid.”
Charles nodded, impressed. “Indeed. It seems half of London has turned out today.”
“With good reason,” she replied, moving toward an ornate, gilded case. Inside lay a necklace of finely wrought gold, inlaid with carnelian and turquoise. Its elegance was astonishing, each stone catching the muted light and winking mysteriously.
“Look here,” Abigail said softly, her voice low in the quiet of the gallery as she took in the beauty of the intricate craftsmanship. “This piece belonged to a priestess of Hathor—see the depiction of the goddess’s cow-horned headdress at its center?”
Charles leaned in, fascinated. “And what does that signify?”
“Hathor was the goddess of beauty, music, and love,” Abigail explained gently, tracing the shape lightly on the glass. “Her priestesses wore such amulets to invoke her protection and blessings. The stones represent life and rebirth—most appropriate, wouldn’t you agree?”
Charles chuckled softly. “A fitting talisman for our charade, mayhap?”
Abigail raised an eyebrow, feigning sternness. “Very funny, cousin. Mind yourself now. There are far too many ears around.”
They moved on, their gazes drawn upward to massive sandstone statues that were most imposing in their silent dignity. It was Charles’s turn to share his knowledge as he gestured toward an enormous basalt scarab, beautifully carved and inscribed with hieroglyphs.
“Did you know, Abigail,” he began warmly, “the scarab beetle was sacred to the Egyptians because it represented Khepri, the sun god associated with creation and renewal? They believed the beetle rolled the sun across the sky every day.”
