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Rhys never wouldhave confessed the words aloud but… he missed balls. Cotillions and routs and interminable midnight suppers. Mindless social events where he’d nothing with which to concern himself but watered punch and the occasional aggressive female.
It wasn’t that he missed dancing, although he’d never complained about the feel of a lady’s waist beneath his hand as they turned in a waltz. No, he missed thenormalcyof the life he’d made for himself and Fiona.
Who knew the sudden appearance of the inconvenient lady before him, with her crisp taffeta and carefully styled tresses, would prompt such wistful longing? But more than dancing for his own enjoyment, he yearned to see Fiona twirling once again. His jaw firmed on that thought, and he was reminded of his purpose.
“You should know the watch are on their way.” The taffeta lady’s voice was soft and cultured, richer than he would have expected from one so petite. She was bluffing, he was certain of it, but he’d not survived this long by underestimating his adversary.
When she moved as if to sound the alarm, he quickly pressed a hand to her mouth. Her skirts rustled against his rougher linen clothing, and he felt the stiff bones of her stays beneath the hand he held to her middle.
Of all the nights for him to retrieve the amulet… The museum was normally tucked up by this time, hushed and still beneath the weight of history filling its halls. He’d certainly not expected to encounter anyone. It should have been a simple enough task to slip in and out the back, but then nothing about the past weeks had been simple.
The lady shifted in his arms, and he caught the faintest scent of flowers rising from her hair. The fragrance was at once sweet and exotic, spicy and completely at odds with the refined, silk-clad Englishwoman pressed against him. Night jasmine, he thought, bright and wild. It put him in mind of lush hanging gardens in Persia, but he’d have sworn the lady before him was more the English-holly-and-boxwood sort.
He’d been too long in the desert. The sun had turned his brains to dust, but the feel of cool silk beneath his fingertips nearly undid him. He closed his eyes and when she agreed to count, he slowly lowered his hand from her mouth.
“One, two,” she whispered. He was pleased and not a little relieved when she obeyed his command. He’d thought this life far behind him—had worked hard, in fact, to put distance between himself and the hangman’s noose. To be caught now by a tiny slip of a woman was the height of irony. Despite that, he couldn’t deny the unexpected current that flashed through his veins. It was fear, of course. Fear for Fiona if he failed in his mission. It had nothing to do with the warm weight of the woman in his arms, and it most definitely wasnotthe thrill of adventure.
When he was confident the lady wouldn’t scream, at least for as long as it took him to escape, he pressed her fallen gloves into her soft hands and edged past her. Miss Helen Corbyn, daughter of the president of the Royal Astronomical Society, granddaughter of Earl Something-or-Other, continued counting into the darkness.
He found the window he’d left open—the museum’s locks had been laughable—and checked his pocket once more. Satisfied to feel the smooth edge of the amulet inside, he climbed through the opening. As he went, he chanced one more look over his shoulder, unsurprised to see Miss Corbyn angling for a glimpse of him.
CHAPTER TWO
Helen counted as far as thirty-five, then she lifted her skirts and ran. Her slippers slid on the smooth marble as she turned first one way, then the other, trying to regain her bearings in the dark maze of corridors. She rushed about for an embarrassing length of time, following the strains of the Trustees’ quartet until finally spying the lights of the gathering ahead. She tugged her gloves back on and stood breathless in the Egyptian Saloon’s entry.
Her heart slowly regained its normal rhythm as men in dark evening suits and women in colorful silks began a new set. Her mother chatted with a group near the bust of Rameses II, and Lord Thorsby’s arm was now occupied by Professor Tyndale’s niece. The baron’s attentions, which earlier had been so fixed on his mummy, were now diverted as he leaned his head close to the young lady. Lydia Tyndale, with her vibrant laugh and flirtatious eyes, had that effect on gentlemen, although Helen doubted the lady had everseenan ancient text, much less translated one.
The pair looked up, and Miss Tyndale’s features pinched when she spotted Helen. It was a familiar expression, and one that often mirrored Helen’s own feelings. In a practiced but not unexpected maneuver, Lydia rearranged herself to draw Lord Thorsby’s gaze away from the entry. Helen resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the other woman’s efforts, but only just.
Finally, she found her quarry. Her father and Professor Tyndale stood talking with two more gentlemen, and she wound her way through the crowd to their side.
“Helen, dear, did you find your handkerchief?” her father asked. The wry look on Harry Corbyn’s face said he knew her flimsy excuse for leaving the gathering had been just that.
“Yes, Papa. Although, I wonder if I might have a private word with you and the professor?”
Both men nodded their agreement. Of course, by the time she explained what had occurred and the watch had been summoned, the sandalwood-scented thief was nowhere to be found. The unlocked window through which he’d escaped was re-secured, but there was no sign that any of the locked rooms had been disturbed.
Professor Tyndale cleared his throat. His brown eyes tipped down in concern as he said, “It appears you interrupted the man before he could make off with anything of significance. It was well done, Miss Corbyn, although I wouldn’t have liked you to place yourself in any danger.” The aging gentleman patted her hand before excusing himself to alert one of the Trustees.
“I don’t like it, Helen,” her father said. “You could have been injured, or worse. You’re certain the thief didn’t harm you? He didn’t touch you, did he?”
“I’m certain, Papa,” Helen said with a twist to her lips. Nothing good would come of telling her father about the man’s impertinence, and if Helen were honest, she was still a trifle breathless over the whole incident. The intruder’s arm had been strong as he’d held her to him, his chest firm as she imagined a man’s chest ought to be. Lydia Tyndale, she was certain, could not claim an evening half so exciting.
Her father eyed her skeptically. He’d always had a confounding sixth sense about her and her siblings’ veracity that had found them out more often than not. He didn’t press the point, though, saying instead, “If this is what you encounter within the confines of the British Museum, I don’t even wish to contemplate the dangers you’ll face abroad.”
Helen’s decision to accompany Professor Tyndale and his wife to Egypt was an old topic, and she thought they’d long since exhausted it. “Papa,” she said gently, “we’ve already discussed this. I’ll be perfectly safe with the professor, and you know this is a singular opportunity that I’ve no intention of missing.”
“I know, I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“And besides,” Helen added, smoothing a wrinkle on his dark sleeve, “it’s as you said. Tonight’s danger occurred within the British Museum. Soon, I’ll be leaving the thief behind to plague good Englishmen and women while I escape to another continent altogether. You should be relieved for my departure.”
It was a poor argument, but she hoped to tease her father past his objections. He merely scowled, though, unconvinced and unmoved.
She was five and twenty and well past the age when her father would forbid her from going, but one word from Harry Corbyn and the professor would withdraw his invitation. While he’d been nothing but kind to her in the time she’d assisted him with his work, she had no illusions about where his loyalties lay.
Her father crossed his arms and his gaze landed on Lord Thorsby, who was still being chatted up by Miss Tyndale. In a surprising change of topic, he said, “Have you cut Thorsby loose then?”
