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“And so, you returned to London…”
He nodded. “I hated leaving Egypt without Fiona, but I’d already wasted time searching for her without success. I couldn’t see any other way.”
The fire caught once more, popping in the stillness, and he resumed his seat. Miss Corbyn studied him for a long moment before straightening, eyes wide. “So, this means you’re not… you’re not an artifact smuggler?”
Rhys couldn’t help but laugh at her expression, which leaned closer to dismay than the relief one might expect. “Miss Corbyn, you sound disappointed.”
“No,” she said softly, if a little too swiftly. “Of course not. The illegal trade of artifacts robs us all of the opportunity to appreciate this land’s unique history.”
“I’ve not led a saint’s life,” he confessed and her eyes widened. “But I don’t count artifact smuggling among my sins.”
“That is reassuring.”
He rubbed his jaw. The lady was a study in contrasts. She argued quite earnestly against the illegal trade of artifacts and staunchly defended the commandments. And yet, he suspected there was a part of her that delighted in the thrill of the illicit. The pair of them were matched in that regard, for as much as he’d fought to put distance between himself and his former life as a lock-pick, he couldn’t deny the exhilaration he’d felt in the museum’s dark corridors.
“Come, Miss Corbyn,” he challenged. “You claim relief, but I know you’re a lady who enjoys a bit of dash with her adventure. Was the experience of encountering a thief in the night not the merest bit exciting?”
“It was not,” she said firmly as she smoothed the fabric of herjalabiyaover her knees. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but her governess voice returned as she said, “It was frightening and unnerving, and no sensible lady would wish for such an encounter.”
Rhys bit back his grin to say, “I will refrain from pointing out the obvious argument tothatstatement and instead offer my apologies for frightening you—”
She waved his words away impatiently. “Oh, never mind that, but the door was still locked when the watch investigated. There was no sign anyone had disturbed the storage room. How were you able to come and go, unless”—her brows dipped as a thought occurred to her—“unless you involved the watchmen in your scheme?”
“The watchmen are innocent of any wrongdoing,” he assured her. He rubbed the back of his neck and added, “Locks are an especial hobby of mine.”
“Locks?”
He nodded. “And watches and pens… Farm implements. Steam engines. I build things.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re an inventor!”
“Of sorts. I’ve a workshop on my estate in Surrey, although I also invest in others’ inventions. I believe I told you my original purpose in Egypt was to see about a railway venture.”
She nodded, watching him with new eyes, and warmth flooded him at her regard. “Pens,” she said. “Truly?”
Of all that he’d listed,thatwas what captured her interest? Pens? Miss Corbyn was a rare one, but he couldn’t fault her interest, as he himself had spent untold hours with the devices. He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew his latest prototype. Removing the barrel, he showed her the mechanism inside.
“The ink goes in this cylinder here,” he said, pointing. Then, as he worked the tiny gear and spring mechanism, the nib retracted into the barrel, and she grinned her pleasure.
“Why, it’s brilliant! A body could take a pen anywhere with a design like that.”
“It’s a bit unreliable and prone to leaking,” he said, lest she overestimate his accomplishment. “I’ve ruined many a coat in the name of progress.”
“My brother Edmund fancies himself something of an inventor in the field of photography. I’m certain the two of you would have much to talk about, although I doubt he’s ever designed anything half so clever as your retractable pen.”
Her words pleased him more than they ought to have done.
Miss Corbyn soon returned them to the matter at hand, brow creasing as she said, “The men who attacked you in Alexandria—do you think they’re involved in your sister’s disappearance? Could they have been working on behalf of this Collector person?”
“I didn’t recognize them—the man I met had a scar on one cheek—but I believe it’s likely. No one else knows I have the amulet again.”
She gasped. “When you left your bag at the canal, you were leaving it for them. I interrupted your exchange. If I’d not returned your bag to you… Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said softly, and his heart twisted at the remorse in her voice.
“You couldn’t have known.”
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“I have to find the Collector, of course.” Even as he said the words, he heard how ridiculous they sounded. He felt like a character seeking the villain in some hack penny dreadful novel.
