Bella and the Beast (4 page)

Picking up the teapot, Lady Milford refilled Bella's cup and then her own. “Nevertheless, you did live in Egypt for at least a year, I'm certain of it. You see, the Duke of Aylwin's expedition was the talk of the ton. Especially when he was killed in that dreadful attack.”

Bella gasped. The news struck like a spear. “The duke is
dead
?”

“Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. He was set upon by grave robbers.”

To conceal her shock, Bella turned her gaze to the dancing flames of the fire. If Aylwin had been murdered long ago, her father must have known. So why had he urged her to return to Oxford and seek out the duke?

Perhaps it was just the fever. Papa must have been hallucinating.

Her briefly resurrected hopes burned to ashes. Her father's confused mind had transported him back in time, that was all. He had merely fancied Aylwin was alive again.

Strange, how neither of her parents had ever mentioned the sojourn in Egypt. Had the memory of the duke's violent death been too distressing? Now she would never know. Nor would she ever find the treasure map …

Bella released a ragged breath. “I—I'm sorry to hear of it,” she murmured, returning her gaze to Lady Milford. “Since he was a friend of Papa's, I should have liked to have met the duke.”

A secretive smile touched the woman's lips. “Very well. If you wish to meet the Duke of Aylwin, I'm certain it could be arranged.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The present duke—the fifth duke—inherited the title from his father. He also inherited his father's devotion to Egyptology, along with a vast array of artifacts that were shipped back to England many years ago.”

Bella sat in stunned silence as Lady Milford set aside her cup and arose from the chair. The elegant woman glided to the window to peer out at the rain before turning back to Bella.

“For more than two decades,” Lady Milford continued, “his son has devoted himself to organizing the collection. Alas, it is an enormous undertaking. I've long believed that His Grace needs to hire a curator.”

“A curator?”

“Indeed, that is precisely why I journeyed to Oxford, Miss Jones. I'd hoped your father might have returned, and that I might convince him to lend his aid to the duke.” She tapped her chin with one finger. “However, you seem a practical, intelligent woman. I do believe that
you
might apply for the post.”

Bella's mind raced. The opportunity was nothing short of a miracle. Lady Milford could never imagine how desperately Bella wished to gain access to the duke's antiquities. Did Aylwin have the map in his possession? The one that proved Papa's claim to a pharaoh's treasure?

Perhaps it was the
son
that Papa had wanted her to seek out.

She struggled to contain her excitement. “But … why would Aylwin hire me? I've little knowledge of Egyptian history.”

With a breezy flutter of her fingers, Lady Milford dismissed the problem as if it were nothing. “You're the daughter of his father's business partner and surely that will be recommendation enough. The rest shall be left to your own resourcefulness.”

Turning to the writing desk, she picked up a blue velvet bag that Bella hadn't noticed until now. The woman untied the cords and then reached inside the purse.

Bella paid little heed. She bit her lip, her mind intent on the problem of how to convince the Duke of Aylwin to engage her services. No doubt he would be prejudiced against females, especially one who lacked scholarly credentials. The interview was bound to be even more difficult than her job hunt here in Oxford. Only look at the disdain with which a lowly fellow like Fothergill had treated her.

A sense of urgency filled Bella. She
had
to secure this post. It was the only way to conduct a secret search for the missing map …

With a start, she realized that Lady Milford was standing directly in front of her. The woman held a pair of beautiful slippers. The rich garnet satin was frosted with tiny beads that glittered in the firelight.

She placed the shoes on the threadbare rug. “Since His Grace resides in a grand house, you must dress accordingly. Do try these on. If they fit, you may have them on loan for a time.”

Bella stared down at the high-heeled slippers. How peculiar that Lady Milford would carry an extra pair of shoes in her purse. Even more peculiar that she'd offer them to Bella. “When would I ever have occasion to wear such shoes?”

“To your interview, of course. Aylwin is a man of high stature and great consequence. You do wish to look your best, do you not?”

Bella despised handouts. But if she were to claim her half of the pharaoh's treasure, she had no other choice. This duke would not dismiss her as an unkempt Gypsy. He must not!

She bent down to tug off her half-boots. Scuffed and worn, they looked like lumps of coal beside the sparkly slippers. At least her white stockings hid the indelible tribal tattoos around her ankles. Lady Milford might withdraw her help if she were to spy such a foreign oddity.

Bella thrust her stockinged toes into the fancy slippers. At once, a sense of well-being lifted her spirits. The luxurious shoes enveloped her aching feet as if she'd stepped into a cloud. On a surge of vitality, she sprang up from the chair and paced the perimeter of the small parlor, marveling at how comfortable they felt.

“They fit perfectly, my lady. How amazing that we should wear the same size.” Bella glanced down, raising her still-damp hem to admire the shoes. “But I fear they're much too fine for a drab spinster like me.”

Lady Milford's expression had the satisfied look of a cat that had lapped up a bowl of cream. She stepped forward to lay her hands on Bella's shoulders. “My dear girl, never forget that you've noble blood flowing through your veins. With the proper wardrobe, you'd be the match of any well-born lady.”

Bella choked on a dubious laugh. “A lady? Me?”

“Yes, and you'll need an English gown for the interview, too.” Lady Milford took several coins from her bag and placed them on a side table. “Consider this a gift to the daughter of an old friend. There should be enough for you to purchase the necessities—and to hire someone to chaperone your brother and sister here while you travel to London.”

Aghast, Bella stared at the woman. “I cannot accept your money!”

“You must if you wish to be hired as curator. In return, I've only one request. You must never mention my name to Aylwin. The duke is a proud, reclusive man who dislikes being maneuvered.”

Bella felt like the one being maneuvered. It grated on her pride to take funds from this noblewoman. Yet how else was she to gain entry to Aylwin House? “As you wish, my lady.”

“And be forewarned,” Lady Milford added with a faint, mysterious stare. “Aylwin can be a difficult man. Some have even called him a beast. But never fear, I'll tell you exactly what to say to him.”

 

Chapter 4

Miles Grayson, the Duke of Aylwin, was crouching before a massive granite stela when the doors of the ballroom banged open. The sound of footsteps echoed through the cavernous chamber.

Two
sets of footsteps.

A curse hissed through his clenched teeth. In the afternoon sunlight from the wall of windows, he had been focused on the task of deciphering the chiseled inscription on the stela. He was close to identifying an unfamiliar hieroglyph. So close he could almost taste victory.

Now, his concentration had been shattered.

Miles glanced over his shoulder to see who had invaded his sanctum, but the vast collection of statues and other artifacts blocked his view. The servants knew better than to enter here when he was working. The ballroom was forbidden to all but himself.

Tossing his gold-rimmed spectacles onto the sheaf of papers on the floor, he straightened up and peered over a row of stone gods and goddesses. His scowl deepened when he spied the intruders. He should have guessed their identity—they were two of the silliest, most worthless people in all of England.

His cousin and heir, Mr. Oscar Grayson, wove a path through the maze of ancient relics, his gold-topped cane tap-tapping on the parquet floor. He wore a dandified forest-green coat with a knee-length skirt, a crimson waistcoat with brass buttons, and checkered stirrup trousers. His dark curly hair was trimmed as neatly as his muttonchop whiskers.

A jovial smile tilted his lips. “Oh-ho, we've found you, cousin! Hiding out in this jumble pile, as always!”

Beside him, his wife, Helen, looked like a fashion plate in a rose-pink gown with narrow, ruffled sleeves and an impossibly tiny waist. Her outward beauty of golden hair and creamy skin left Miles unmoved, for he knew too well her shallow vanity. In contrast to her husband's dull-witted features, she had the cunning amber eyes of a cat.

Those eyes skimmed over the loose shirt and black trousers that constituted his work clothes. She glided forward, enveloped him in a cloud of perfume, and smacked an air kiss near his cheek.

“Dear Miles, how wonderful to see you again,” she purred. “But we've caught you in dishabille. I trust we're not disturbing you.”

“Of course you're disturbing me,” Miles said, irritably clapping the dust from his hands. “It's the middle of a workday. I gave strict orders to be left alone.”

“Surely that doesn't include your only relations,” Oscar said. “Why, you spend every waking moment cooped up in this mausoleum. It would do you well to spare a few minutes for a visit with your kinfolk.”

Miles had every reason to doubt their familial affection. They never came to Aylwin House without a scheme in mind. “If you've been gambling again, I refuse to settle your debts. Nor will I grant you an advance on your quarterly allowance. There, I've saved you the trouble of trying to wheedle me.”

Oscar's grin turned sour. “I had no intention of asking for funds. However, now that you bring up the topic, you certainly
could
afford to increase my payment. You, with this great pile of a house and five vastly profitable country estates.”

“It shall all be yours someday. Perhaps then you'll be glad that I kept it from being squandered on frivolities.”

“Frivolities, bah! We live nearly as paupers on the paltry sum you provide—”

“Now, darling,” Helen said with an admonishing touch to her husband's forearm, “don't let yourself be goaded into another tiresome quarrel. That isn't why we came here.”

A private look passed between the couple. A look that Miles knew not to trust. “Speak up, then,” he snapped. “I'm extremely busy today.”

She gave him a winsome smile, her lashes fluttering. “First, allow me to express our great disappointment that you refused the invitation to our musicale last week. Really, Miles, you missed a very lovely evening.”

“Listening to the caterwauling of opera singers? God forbid.”

“I warned you he wouldn't attend,” Oscar said to his wife. “The fellow is a hermit. He has no interest in cultivating friendships.” To Miles, he added, “
We,
however, have an extensive circle of acquaintances in society. We're invited to all the finest parties in London.”

“And we always do our best to return their hospitality,” Helen said. The corners of her mouth turned downward. “But alas, our town house
is
rather cramped. Had you ever deigned to call on us, Your Grace, you would know that it lacks the space necessary to host a grand ball…”

Irked by their inane chatter, Miles stole a glance back at the stela. That unknown symbol nagged at him. Where had he seen it before? He had spent hours searching through Champollion's
Primer of the Hieroglyphic System
as well as the dictionary he himself had been compiling for over a decade.

All of a sudden, Helen's voice intruded on his thoughts.

“… holding our ball here at Aylwin House would be so very perfect. Why, look at this magnificent ballroom! It has been sorely neglected for too many years.” She spread out her dainty, kid-gloved hands to encompass the long chamber with its hundreds of Egyptian artifacts. “Imagine, if you will, this chamber restored to its former glory, the chandeliers sparkling with hundreds of candles, the walls draped with mint-green silk, the tall vases of pink roses on pedestals, the gentlemen and ladies dancing on the newly polished floor—”

“No!” Miles's thundering voice echoed off the arched ceiling with its painted cherubs and frolicking nymphs. “Absolutely not!”

Helen's eyes widened. “There is no need to shout, Miles. I assure you, I will personally see to all the arrangements myself. You won't be inconvenienced in the
least
. All of these”—she cast a shuddering glance at a large statue of the falcon-headed god Horus—“these
things
can be moved elsewhere. To a storage room, perhaps. A team of stout footmen could accomplish the task in a day.”

“I said
no,
” Miles enunciated through gritted teeth. The gall of her, to think she could banish these priceless objects in order to hold one of her inane parties. “Hear me well. There will be no ball at Aylwin House. Nothing will be moved. This chamber shall remain exactly as it is.”

“Please, dear cousin, you mustn't refuse,” she begged prettily. “Everything can be returned here afterward. The place will be restored to your satisfaction. At least give the matter some thought.”

“There is no need for reflection. My decision stands.”

The coquetry vanished from her expression and she pushed out her lower lip in a pout. “But this house is overflowing with dusty old relics. Surely you can work in another room for a week or so. Oh, do tell him not to be such a beast, Oscar.”

“Don't be such a beast,” her husband dutifully repeated, shaking his cane at Miles. “It's a small favor to grant to a family member. You've a hundred other rooms in which to play with all this rubbish.”