An Improper Aristocrat

She did not wait for an answer to her question. Trey stared in disbelief as she walked off, following the path farther into the wood. He stood watching her for several moments, debating whether to chase her down, before he glanced at the scarab in his hand. Turning, he walked back up the path towards the house.

He passed it by, going straight to the stables to fetch his horse. The wiry groom silently readied his mount, and Trey set out at a brisk pace, more than eager to put a stop to the most unsettling day he had experienced in years. He wished, suddenly and intensely, that he could send the scarab and a note and be done with the matter, that he could be free to make plans to return to his work.

The thought brought on a sudden longing for the simplicity of his time in Egypt. Long days, hard work, hot sun. It had been vigorous and stimulating. Hell, even the complexities of dealing with the wily Egyptian kashifs were as nothing compared to the chaos he’d unwittingly stumbled into.

There were too many things here he just did not understand. He had a promise to keep, it was as simple as that, but he could not quiet the worrisome thought that things were much more complicated here than they appeared on the surface.

Aswan had secured him a room in the village’s best inn. The former headman—who had consented to leave Egypt and travel as Trey’s manservant—expressed a substantial amount of surprise at his employer returning in a different suit of clothes from the one he had sent him out in. And though he was not usually the sort to chat with a servant, or anybody else for that matter, Trey found himself spilling the whole muddled tale as he stripped for a proper bath.

Now, as he gratefully sunk into the steaming tub, Aswan occupied himself brushing out Richard’s coat. ‘This vicar’s wife, who made the trade with the boy,’ he mused, his clever fingers making quick work of the task, ‘she sounds most worthy. Should I wish to meet her, would it be frowned upon?’

Trey stared at the man. ‘No, but why the hell should you wish to?’ He regretted the harshness of his words when the Egyptian man raised a brow at him. ‘If you do not mind my asking,’ he said.

Aswan bowed. ‘You may ask, effendi.’ He returned to his work while he spoke. ‘It is not often that one hears of a woman so generous and so wise as well. She accomplished her task, pleased the boy, and saved the young lady’s face all at once.’

‘Saved the young lady’s face?’ Trey wondered if there was some miscommunication at work here. ‘From what?’

‘From the discomfort of accepting charity. This is something of which you English do not approve, no?’

Trey sat up in the tub. ‘Do you mean to say that that girl has been reduced to taking charity?’ He experienced a sudden vision of the dusty, empty halls of Oakwood Court.

‘Reduced? That is a good word,’ Aswan said. ‘Reedooosed.’

‘Aswan.’ His warning was clear.

‘Yes, sir,’ the man relented. ‘It is common knowledge in the village that they are in trouble. The elder of the family, he is gone—no one knows where—yes?’

‘Yes,’ Trey said impatiently.

‘His business—it goes on. There are the men who look after it.’ ‘Directors.’

‘Directors. But the old man’s own money, it is…iced? Froze?’

‘Frozen? His assets are frozen?’

‘Yes! And the family is left to support themselves until the old one is found. With Latimer effendi crossed over, it is difficult for them.’

Trey sank back into the warm depths of the tub. Well. That explained quite a bit. Perhaps it also explained Richard’s pleas for him to help Chione? Could her trouble be as simple as a lack of funds?

In any case, it gave him a clear reason to ride back out there first thing tomorrow. If Miss Latimer did not wish to keep the scarab, perhaps she would allow him to sell it on her behalf. After that, other arrangements could be set up to see the family through, at least until there was some word of Mervyn Latimer.

With hope, however slight, that his time in Devonshire might actually be near an end, Trey could at last fully relax. He heaved a sigh and laid his head on the back of the tub.

Poor Nikolas was still trapped in the tomb of the Ruby Idol.

Chione had fled to the library upon returning to the house, shutting herself in and the ugly truth out. Here she had sat at her desk, staring at the empty page before her, aware of how much more crucial that payment from her publisher had become, and yet unable to put a single word to paper.

She told no one the terrible news. Not yet. Mrs Ferguson brought her dinner in on a tray. Will came through seeking his lost atlas. Each time she pretended to be busy scribbling. They would know soon enough. Perhaps her household had accepted the truth long ago, along with the rest of the world, leaving her clinging to fruitless hope alone. Now, as the darkness grew around her and the house slipped into silence, she was forced to let that hope go.

He was dead. Her grandfather was dead. She had known it the moment she had seen that scarab. He had been obsessive about it and had worn it on his person always. In some way that she did not understand, the thing was tied up with the story of the Pharaoh’s Lost Jewel. Richard, who had shared his unflagging interest in the ancient mystery, had believed that to be the reason that Mervyn Latimer kept the scarab close, but Chione had always believed it to be a symbol, a remembrance of his beloved son and of all the people he cared for, lost in the course of a long and dangerous life. For him to be parted from it, something catastrophic must have happened. But how had Richard come to have it? Why? A sound escaped from her, a rasping, horrible sound. It didn’t matter. They were both gone and she was alone.

The place deep inside of her where her hope had been, her faith in her grandfather’s ability to survive anything, was empty. But not for long. Pain, and, yes, anger and betrayal too, rushed at her, filling the hollow spaces, until she could contain herself no longer. She stood, unable to bear even the light of the single candle on her desk. She fled to the darkest recesses of the library, to Mervyn Latimer’s favourite stuffed wing chair, and, flinging herself into it, gave in to her grief.

Long minutes passed as her inner storm raged, battering her with emotion. She cried for her grandfather, her brother, for her parents who had died long ago. She cried for the two children upstairs who were orphans now, just as she had been. She cried for herself. But gradually the howling wind of grief abated, leaving her spent.

Unflinching acceptance, warm approval, boundless love—these were the things her grandfather had given her, what she would never feel from him again. The thought loosed another painful, racking sob. He had taken her from chaos and given her security, happiness, a family.

Chione had been born in Egypt, to the Egyptian wife of Mervyn Latimer’s son. But her parents had died when Richard was an infant, and Chione a child of only eight. She had recollections of them, of her mother’s soothing hands and Edward Latimer’s booming laugh. But she had other memories too, harsh and ugly memories that she had locked away, hidden from the world and even from herself.

She had no wish to bring them to light again. And for a long time there had been no need to, thanks to Mervyn Latimer. He had come to Egypt, carried both Richard and her to England, taken them in, and raised them with love.

Now he was gone and their roles were reversed. It was Chione who was left alone, with two children who had no one else to turn to. Chione was the protector now, and though the weight of yet another role might be heavy, it was one she would embrace. Not just because she already loved those children as if they were her own, but also because it was fitting somehow. Here was her chance to give back some of what she had herself been given. Acceptance. Family. Love. And if it came with a price, well, then, she was happy to pay it.

The thought had her rising, going back to her desk. She pulled out the well-worn letter from Philadelphia and spread it with gentle fingers. America, a land where people focused forwards instead of back, where new ideas were welcomed instead of shunned. She thought she might have flourished there, been of use, accomplished something truly worthwhile. A tear dropped on to the vellum, blurring the ink. Carefully, she folded it and put it away. Her dreams might need to be smaller now, but they would be no less important.

The untouched dinner tray still sat on the edge of her big desk. Chione saw that Mrs. Ferguson had placed today’s post on it as well. Wearily she glanced at the notice from the butcher, a cordially worded reminder, which none the less explained why she had sent Will to fish for their supper today. She put it aside and picked up the next, and then she stilled. It was a letter from Mrs Stockton.

The woman was grandmother to Will and Olivia, though a cold and self-involved one at best. Chione read the note quickly and with distaste. Yet another hint for an invitation to visit. The horrid old woman had shown no inclination to become involved with the children after their mother, her daughter, had passed on. She had even refused to see Olivia, the infant her daughter had died giving birth to. Her renewed interest in them had not come until after Mervyn Latimer had been gone long enough to cause concern—and when the possibility of his fortune passing to her young grandson occurred to her. Well, she would have a long wait before she received what she was hinting for; Chione had enough trouble without inviting it into her home.

Her home, yes. Her children, her responsibility, and not just now, but for ever. Chione straightened her spine and looked to her empty paper with new determination. She doubted the trustees would believe the scarab to be as definitive a sign as she did. Which meant no money coming in and no further hope of rescue, either. It could be years before they decided to release Mervyn’s funds. Her writing had made the family a little more comfortable in the past few months. It would have to do more in the future. Dashing the last tear from her eye, she took up her pen and bent to work.

Nikolas had at last scrambled free of the collapsing tomb when she heard the noise. She dropped her pen and lifted her head, straining to hear.

Chione might not be a mother, but she had the instincts of one. She knew all the noises the old house gave forth as it settled during the night. She knew the far-off buzzing that was Mrs. Ferguson’s snore. She hunched her shoulders each night against the gritty sound of Will grinding his teeth in his sleep, and she recognised the occasional thump that was Olivia falling out of bed. This sound was none of those.

Her candle had burned low, its pool of light spreading no further than the paper she had been writing on. Heart thudding, she left it and rose to slip into the hall.

The noise had come from upstairs. Chione paused long enough to cross to the wall where a collection of antique knives was hung. She slipped one from its mount, an ancient flint blade with an ivory handle. At the foot of the stairs she removed her sturdy boots, then silently padded up in stocking feet, instinctively avoiding the creaking spots.

Halfway up, she froze.

A muffled sound had come from below, from the direction of the kitchens. Someone was in the house. One person moving about, or two? It did not matter; she had to check the children first.

Chione eased on to the landing and trod as silently as she could into the hall. There was another, smaller noise that still sounded loud in the inky darkness. Her room, she thought gratefully, not Will’s and not Olivia’s.

But Will’s room was nearest and the door was slightly ajar. She put her back against the wall right next to the door and listened. Nothing. Peeking in, she saw only Will, sprawled out fast asleep. But where was Morty? Her customary position at the foot of the bed was empty.

Chione found the dog a little way down the hall, bristling silently directly outside the closed door to her own room. Sending out a silent prayer, she crouched next to the dog and placed one hand on the knob. The ivory knife handle in her other hand had grown warm. She gripped it tightly, breathed deeply, then gave the knob a quick turn and thrust the door open.

Morty was through in an instant, emanating a dangerous rumble as she went. A bark, a crash, a thump. Cautiously, Chione followed the dog in. Her window was open. Bright moonlight spilled through it, illuminating the shambles her room was in, framing the figure crouched in the window frame, and blinking wickedly off the long blade he held over Morty’s head.

Chione didn’t stop to think. She hefted the well-balanced blade and threw with all her might. The black figure grunted, then turned and went out the window.

‘A very nice throw,’ a deep voice said right behind her.

Chione gasped, and her heart plummeted to her feet. She spun around and fell back. Two large and capable hands reached out to steady her and she looked up, directly into the brilliant blue eyes of the Earl of Treyford.

Chapter Four