AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Nicely done, Evelyn,” he said as he dusted himself. “You may have some talents after all.”
Rhys uncrossed his arms and moved in silence toward the villa’s back terrace, keeping to the shadows of a thick stand of trees. A broad lawn lay between them and the house, smooth and well-lit by the moon’s glow. They’d have to time their crossing of it if they hoped to avoid the guards’ notice.
To his surprise, Akeem darted away from the lawn. “This way,” he whispered. After some hesitation, Rhys and Tyndale followed more slowly. Akeem used the cover of the trees to skirt the lawn until he came to a small servants’ entrance tucked down a short flight of stone steps.
Rhys hung back and turned to Tyndale. “Do you trust him?”
The older man frowned. “I don’t know him all that well, to be truthful, but he seemed an honorable enough sort in London. A little overzealous perhaps, but I believe his intentions are good.”
“If we trust him and he leads us into a trap—” Rhys swallowed, unable to think past the fear churning his gut. If anything happened to Helen, he would never forgive himself.
“If anything happens to Dorothea or Miss Corbyn, I shall never forgive myself,” Tyndale said in a perfect echo of Rhys’s thoughts. Measured footsteps crunched the path beyond the fence as a pair of guards returned. They were met by another guard who walked with steady purpose. The third man spoke in urgent tones, alerting his colleagues to a pair of riderless horses found tethered near the stables.
“I think we can trust Akeem,” Tyndale said with more urgency, “but we haven’t much choice now.”
Anything else he might have said was lost as Akeem hissed, “Are you coming?”
With a short nod, Rhys followed him into the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Akeem led them on silent feet up a dark service stairway and along the villa’s dimly lit back corridors. At each turn, Rhys peered down the wide galleries to the formal spaces of Sir Rupert’s residence, where wall sconces cast shadows to dance along thick rugs and elaborate moldings. Tall doors marked the entrances to what he imagined must be salons and music rooms, libraries and receiving rooms for foreign dignitaries. Tastefulobjets d’artwere carefully arranged on carved pedestals alongside paintings set in massive frames. It was clear Sir Rupert enjoyed his collections.
Rhys committed his steps to memory, careful to note his surroundings in case a hasty exit was required. They finally reached a broad hall in what must have been the south wing. It was lined with elaborately carved columns, and Akeem motioned with one hand for them to slow their steps.
The tension in the air thickened as they neared the drawing room. A lone guard stood just inside the room’s entrance. His back was to the hall as he faced the room—clearly intent on keeping othersinthe drawing room rather than out of it.
The man was tall and dressed in dark linen, his waist cinched by a wide leather belt which held his sword. A coil of rope and an elaborate sheath with a curved dagger hung from his other side. Rhys suspected he carried a pistol elsewhere on his person. Possibly two. The Collector wouldn’t wish his guards to be at a disadvantage.
Hushed voices sounded from inside the drawing room, and Rhys and Tyndale edged closer, careful to remain out of sight in the shadows of the columns. Rhys strained to hear, to assess the situation within. As he listened, one voice became clear above the others, and his breath left his chest in a rush. Helen.
“Truly, Sir Rupert, your collection really ought tobe in a museum. Imagine what greater understanding we might gain if scholars had access to all the artifacts coming out of Egypt.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Rhys smiled. She waslecturingSir Rupert.
“Nonsense,” Sir Rupert said slowly. “These artifacts… they’re mine and shall remain so.”
Rhys couldn’t see the consul-general from his vantage point, but his words were slow. Slurred even. Rhys glanced at Tyndale and Akeem, a frown tugging his brow. The other men’s gazes were equally puzzled.
Mrs. Tyndale spoke next, her voice soft and tremulous. “Are you feeling quite the thing, Sir Rupert? You seem… unwell.”
Helen added, “Perhaps you need a restorative. It’s a shame I don’t have my medicine box. Would you like for me to send for one of your maids?”
Her voice grew louder as she spoke, and Rhys pictured her walking toward the bell pull.
“No… no,” Sir Rupert said, his words slow. Rhys understood then. He pressed a fist to his mouth as he recalled his own experience with Helen’s doctoring. Somehow, she’d managed to dose Britain’s consul-general.
He turned to his companions, but before they could determine their course, Akeem stepped from the shadows to stride boldly toward the drawing room. Tyndale’s eyes widened, and Rhys muttered a low curse. He could see now, quite clearly, how his own autocratic ways might have been a touch irksome.
The guard turned at Akeem’s entrance, surprise lifting his brows, but he let his colleague pass with only a nod. Rhys’s stomach twisted as he watched and waited to see if Akeem would betray them.
“Sir,” Akeem called as he advanced into the room. “I have the amulet you seek.” His voice had returned to that of toadying henchman, and Rhys couldn’t believe he’d been so easily fooled. The man had a talent fit for the boards of Drury Lane.
Sir Rupert appeared in Rhys’s line of sight then, his legs unsteady beneath him. “Bring it,” he commanded. Even from a distance, Rhys could see there was a feverish intensity to the man’s eyes as Akeem held up the scarab.
While the guard’s attention remained fixed on the pair, Rhys edged around the columns. He and Tyndale crept forward to gain their first full view of the drawing room, and Rhys’s heart skipped to see Helen seated demurely next to the professor’s wife.
The scene appeared eerily normal with the remains of a tea tray before them, but Mrs. Tyndale’s tightly clutched hands betrayed the seriousness of the situation. Helen glanced away from the men and spied Rhys behind the guard. Without a flicker to betray him, her eyes locked with his. The corner of her lips tipped up with the merest bit of a tremble, and warmth flooded his chest for his brave lady.
