An Improper Aristocrat

Chapter Twenty

Prologue

The Valley of the Kings, Egypt

1820

From the shadowed walls of the desert wadi, the Frenchwoman watched. Truly it was him—and from her hidden vantage point he lived up to every whispered tale making its way along the Nile. Her heart quickened.

He sat alone in his tent, scratching out notes by the weak light of his lamp. Narrowing her gaze, she studied him. Ah, yes. The light might be dim, but it illuminated a feast for the discerning female eye: a strong, chiselled profile, impossibly broad shoulders, rugged muscles straining the fine linen of his shirt.

He set down his pen and indulged himself in a lengthy, catlike stretch. Even in so unwary a pose she could sense his power, feel the pull of unwavering confidence and absolute masculinity. Inwardly, she smiled. This assignment, which she had objected to with such vehemence, was going to be no hardship at all.

She crept closer, moving carefully in the mix of rock and sand that littered the valley floor, mentally reviewing all that she knew of this renegade. The Englishman was a legend. He had discovered valuable antiquities in India, Persia and throughout the Orient. In the short time since his arrival in Egypt, he had already made some remarkable finds.

A great man, yes. But here, alone in the cool, dark hours of the desert night, just a man. And one who looked simply weary, and oddly content. Her lips curled wryly. Soon she would fix that.

Her quarry closed his ledger and rose. Stepping lightly, she approached the open tent flap. In one lithe movement she released the catch and stepped inside. Both the canvas and her cloak swirled satisfactorily at her feet.

The Earl of Treyford paused, caught in the act of peeling off his shirt. Fixing his unexpected visitor with an impassive stare, he reached for a name to go with the lovely face. ‘Madame Fornier, is it not?’ he asked, shrugging back into his shirt.

Her smile appeared to be one of genuine pleasure. ‘Indeed. How flattering it is that you remember me, my lord.’

‘I make it a point to know my rivals, madame.’ Deliberately he did not return the smile.

‘Rivals?’ She pursed her lips. ‘An ugly word, and one I’m not at all sure applies to our present situation.’

Trey didn’t reply. The less he said, long experience told him, the quicker she would get to the crux of this late-night visit.

‘My husband—you met him as well at le docteur Valsomaki’s?’

At his nod, she continued. ‘Fornier, he would be happy with your choice of words. Nothing more would he like than to be considered your rival. He tells himself and anyone who will listen that he is Monsieur Drovetti’s foremost agent. But your accomplishments?’ She raised a brow. ‘He belittles them and says you have only been lucky in Egypt.’

She gave a sad shake of her head and reached up to loosen the fastenings of her cloak. ‘Jealousy steals the sting of his words. He has done nothing to equal your feats. I myself saw those figures of Sekhmet you shipped back to England. Very impressive, my lord.’

He inclined his head and watched as the last tie came undone. One lift of her shoulders and the cloak fell away. She stood proudly, her magnificent body skimmed by a shimmering, transparent shift. The effect was infinitely more arousing than even her bare skin would have been.

Trey merely nodded again. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

She advanced until she stood pressed up against him. ‘There are other reasons that my husband envies you.’ Her voice dropped to a husky tone that set his pulse to jumping. ‘All of Egypt talks of your many lovers. They whisper of your ability to take a woman beyond herself and into a world of passion that few ever know.’

Against his chest he could feel the softness of her incredible gown and all the abundance it showed to advantage. Their gazes locked, then with a coy smile she snaked a hand inside his shirt, running her palm up and over the muscles of his chest. Moving slowly, she stepped all the way around him, trailing soft fingers across his arm and the breadth of his back as she went.

‘Surely you were made for these harsh Eastern deserts,’ she whispered. ‘When first I came here I thought it foolish and arrogant that the men keep so many wives.’ Her orbit complete, she pressed into the front of him once again. Trey knew she could be in no doubt about his interest. She cast a sultry look down at the throbbing evidence of it. ‘But you…’ she sighed ‘…you are the first, the only man to make me believe. You alone could do it, pleasure so many women, keep them satisfied and happy.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Perhaps, in addition to your other talents, you will be the first Englishman to practise poly…poly…’ She paused. ‘What is the word I want? For marriage to too many wives?’

‘Monogamy?’ He returned her smile.

She laughed, a dark, throaty sound. ‘It is a certainty that no woman would wish to share you. Already I hate all of those on whom you have practised your wiles. I want to tear their hair and scratch out their eyes.’

Her eyes met his boldly. With an unspoken challenge she pushed him gently back until his knees struck the cot. Searching and warm, her hands crept up, sliding slowly along his ribs, his neck, the line of his jaw, before pressing firmly down on his shoulders.

Trey allowed it, sitting on the cot and finding himself at eye level with her lovely bosom. He reached up and pushed aside the fabric, baring first one breast, then the other. ‘So, we have established that your husband envies me.’ Slowly he traced a finger around one dusky areola. ‘And that you envy all the ladies who have come before you.’ He teased the other now, circling both erect nipples in an ever-narrowing path.

He watched her shift restlessly, leaning into his caress. ‘But what I wish to know, madame, is what Drovetti thinks.’

Her breath was coming fast, her pupils dilated with desire, and yet she smiled in appreciation of his tactics. ‘The consul-general thinks only of winning the ancient riches of Egypt for France.’

She pressed his hands against her and again he obliged her, cradling the fullness of her breasts and running his thumbs over her peaks.

‘And?’ he prompted.

‘And he thinks you are a talented Englishman with no love for England.’ She sighed with pleasure. ‘I am to offer you a partnership.’

He laughed. ‘Is that what you are offering?’

‘That is what Drovetti offers.’ She pushed him away and shed the gown, standing confident before him in all of her naked glory. ‘This, I offer of my own free will, for nothing other than the pleasure you can give me.’

The smile still lingered on Trey’s face. ‘And if I accept the one, must I accept the other?’

Her only answer was a hungry look of intense desire. She leaned forward, straddled him on the cot and kissed him deeply. Burying his hands in her hair, Trey abandoned himself to his own inclinations. As was his habit—nay, his life’s chosen philosophy—he seized the pleasures of the moment and left the inevitable trouble for tomorrow.

Unfortunately, trouble couldn’t wait.

She knelt above him, her hands on the fall of his trousers, when the scream echoed along the craggy walls of the valley. Their gazes locked. Trey could read only puzzlement and alarm in hers as he grabbed her roughly by the arms. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded, his voice harsh.

‘Nothing!’ she cried. ‘What is it? I must not be found here.’

Another shout. Cursing, Trey flung her away. He was out of the tent and running before the last chilling echo bounded off the rocky outcroppings. His partner’s tent was dark, and, he realised after a quick search, empty. He stood a moment in the middle of camp. From which direction had the screams come? His feet and his gut knew the answer before his head, sending him pelting towards the closest tomb.

‘Richard!’ he shouted into the dark. ‘Where are you?’

No answer. He ran harder, gravel and sand making the canyon floor treacherous, but at last he reached the spot. It was the first of eight tombs that had been discovered four years earlier by the Italian, Giovanni Battista Belzoni. Almost invisible during the day, now it was little more than a blacker maw against a background of darkly shadowed rock.

There, just outside the opening to the tomb, he found his partner sprawled against the rough, rock wall, a knife imbedded in his chest.

Trey gasped. ‘No!’

He stumbled to Richard’s side, frantically feeling for a pulse. It was faint, but present. His shirt was soaked in blood. Underneath him a dark stain was fast disappearing into the sand. Trey fumbled at his belt, and cursed himself for not bringing a flint.

‘Richard. Who has done this?’ He clutched the man with bloodstained fingers. ‘Never mind. I’ll go for help. Just hold on, damn it! Hold on!’

‘No.’ Richard’s voice was faint, but insistent. ‘Treyford, stay.’ He lifted a feeble hand to the open neck of his shirt.

‘Damn it to hell!’ Trey cursed. ‘Richard, was it the French? What have you got mixed up in?’

‘My pendant,’ he breathed. ‘Bastards…heard you…ran off.’ There was a long pause, punctuated by Richard’s slow gasp for air. ‘You take it.’