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Authors: Mia Marlowe

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BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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“You would hurt him like that?”
“Better a nick now than a dagger thrust later.” He offered her his arm, his glare daring her to take it.
She narrowed her eyes at him. He liked walking the edge of a parapet and wouldn’t be happy unless she tottered on the ledge beside him.
“Very well, milord.” She rested her trembling fingertips on his forearm, dismayed over the way his heat radiated through the fabric of his jacket. “But do not ask me to visit any other part of your home with you alone again. I don’t care how public the invitation. I don’t care if my refusal embarrasses you, I will still refuse.”
“Duly noted,” he said as he covered her fingers with his for a searing moment. Then he removed his hand and led her from the orangery with a step full of purpose. “And if you’re waiting for such an invitation, I advise you not to hold your breath.”
 
The sensual tension between them was so potent, Devon felt it humming in the air about them. The raging need was still there, seething beneath the surface of their even gaits and perfect grooming. They walked in silence toward the parlor, but he could hear her occasional hitched breath. It made his own catch in his throat.
She didn’t dare be alone with him. She was afraid of him, for God’s sake.
It confirmed what he’d always suspected.
He
was
a monster.
He’d long recognized that his unusual gift of touch imparted a sort of “otherness” to him that could be sensed even if one knew nothing of his ability. He doubted anyone could point to a specific reason why being around him made people uneasy. No one could say definitively, “
This
is why Lord Devonwood is different from the rest of us.” It was simply the sort of thing that raised the hair on the back of one’s neck for no apparent cause, left a vague uneasiness in the belly, and made a person shift subtly away from the source of difference.
Even his closest friends, whom he could count on the fingers of one hand, would charitably name him “a hard man to know.”
Theodore’s voice wafted toward them from beyond the open parlor door, his tone excited. Teddy was always one for great passions—French paintings and German composers, the latest medical advances, and new cartography from the South Pacific. His knowledge of arcane subjects was broad as the ocean, but shallow as a puddle. He never stuck with anything long enough to get bored. The long string of his past fixations would stretch from London Bridge to the Cliffs of Dover.
This Egyptian phase was only the latest.
Perhaps the woman on Devon’s arm was also a passing fancy. Maybe he worried for nothing. Emmaline Farnsworth might have no greater tenure in his brother’s attention than that canal-widening project Teddy had thought would make them a fortune. By the time Theodore had lost interest in it, Devon had already invested heavily on the strength of his brother’s enthusiasm. The family might have seen a devastating loss had Devon not guessed correctly that the rail system would eclipse canals for transporting goods. Fortunately, he moved his holdings to railway stocks before the market turned on the canal company.
All their lives, Devon had cleaned up after Teddy, making sure he didn’t suffer for his fecklessness. It was what an older brother was expected to do, especially once their father had died. He was six years Ted’s senior. There was enough difference between them that fourteen-year-old Devon must have seemed like a man already grown to Teddy when they’d buried their father and Devon had ascended to the earldom.
Or maybe it was only the weight of his guilt over their father’s death that made him seem so much older.
Devon slanted a gaze at the woman on his arm. Emmaline Farnsworth was just another of Theodore’s canal certificates. The sooner Devon moved her out of the family portfolio, the better.
“I tell you, the Tetisheri statue will revolutionize the way we view Egypt,” Theodore pontificated to his mother and sister as Devon entered the parlor with Miss Farnsworth on his arm. “It’s nothing short of a sea change in the body of knowledge on the subject.”
On the low table from which his mother usually served tea stood an object about twelve inches high. It was draped with a square of black silk, as if it was a new work of art about to be unveiled before an adoring public.
“Ah, Devon, there you are.” Ted waved a hand toward the covered object. “Will you do the honors?”
Devon supposed he should be grateful his brother was so wrapped up in his new amusement that he couldn’t be bothered to notice his intended was pale as parchment. It wouldn’t do to allow Teddy time to detect that something was amiss. Without thinking, Devon strode forward, reached out, and grasped the black silk.
Everything went suddenly hazy, as if watered gauze had been drawn across his vision.
Devon advanced toward a phantom table where a tall wicker basket stood. A musty, withering scent filled the room with an unwholesome tang.
His hand sank into the basket’s narrow opening, but he drew it back sharply when he heard the hiss. Coiled in the bottom of the basket was a black asp, its scales glittering like polished jet. The serpent reared its triangular head and flicked a bifurcated tongue, tasting the air. Its lidless eye fixed on Devon.
Death was hungry for its next meal.
Devon dropped the silk and the vision melted away, like steam evaporating from a mirror. He was back in the familiar parlor with his family and the Farnsworths with neither a bit of wicker nor a single reptile in sight. His mother and sister “ooh-ed” and “ah-ed” over the artwork he’d exposed, but he didn’t want to even glance at the Tetisheri statue.
The stench of evil surrounding it was too strong.
C
HAPTER
9
D
evon blinked hard, wondering if the flash vision had lasted long enough for anyone to notice. Aside from Emmaline, who’d gravitated toward the fireplace and seemed to be fascinated by the tips of her own shoes, almost everyone’s attention was riveted on the Tetisheri statue. Only his mother, the lone other member of his immediate family who was occasionally afflicted with the gift of touch, cast him a questioning look.
He’d been
Sent
an odd vision. Usually his glimpses of the future were much more concrete. He’d even class them as hideously vivid in detail. Since he couldn’t imagine any situation in which he’d be called upon to reach into a basket that held an actual snake, this vision had the illusory feel of an allegory. It was a mere impression, not a factual representation, of what was to come.
The realization that he’d likely not be confronted by an asp in the next twelve hours gave him no comfort. In fact, given the hazy nature of the vision, he doubted the twelve-hour rule applied. The danger of which he’d been warned was likely of an extended duration. The moldering scent of a crypt still lingered in his nostrils.
“What did I tell you?” Ted enthused. “Isn’t the statue amazing?”
Devon forced himself to look at the cursed thing. At first glance the carving seemed typical of Egyptian art. The granite sculpture rested on a basalt base, the darker stone emphasizing the lighter coloration of the schist. The work depicted a young woman seated on a throne wearing a braided wig and serpent crown. Her arms were crossed over bared breasts and in her clenched fists she held the crook and flail that bespoke royal rule.
Devon wasn’t an aficionado of Egyptian relics, but he’d visited the British Museum often enough to be aware of some of the conventions of the ancient culture’s art. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the work until he observed her features closely.
Devon snorted in surprise. “She’s as European as a Botticelli angel.”
“Exactly!” Teddy slapped him on the back. “No flies on my brother, eh? I told you he’d see it straight away.”
Devon frowned at him. “All I can see is this must be a forgery of some sort. That girl is no more Egyptian than our Louisa.”
“I confess I thought so myself, milord,” Dr. Farnsworth said, “At first. But then I began working on the hieroglyphs along the base. They are absolutely genuine.”
“Based on what?”
“In this endeavor, I confess to standing on the shoulders of giants. It’s been more than sixty years since the discovery of the Rosetta Stone first unlocked the key to this ancient tongue and I relied heavily on an English translation of the work of Antoine-Jean Letronne.” Dr. Farnsworth smiled at Theodore. “However, may I add that your brother has been instrumental in assisting me with the translation?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Teddy said with a self-deprecating smile. “Dr. Farnsworth does the work. I merely take notes most of the time.”
“Nonsense, my boy.” Farnsworth patted Devon’s brother on the back. “You’re invaluable.”
Devon squinted at the squiggles and abstract beasts parading across the base of the statue. “What does the inscription say?”
“Translating hieroglyphs is not an exact science, you understand. However, we are confident we have settled on a fair approximation of the original for the front section of the base. We continue to work on the rest.” Dr. Farnsworth adjusted his spectacles so they perched on the end of his nose and then ran a finger over the markings along the front. “Tetisheri, beloved of Isis and Anubis. Pharaoh of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms of the Nile.”
“I thought “pharaoh” was the designation for a male ruler,” Devon said with a skeptical scowl.
“Normally, yes, but there is precedent for a female pharaoh in Egypt. Remember Cleopatra. She reigned without benefit of a permanent male consort. If you’ll kindly direct your attention to this portion of the work . . .” Farnsworth pointed to the statue’s chin. “There’s a rough patch just there in the granite, if you’d care to feel it.”
Devon shook his head. Touching the silk that had covered the benighted thing was bad enough.
“At any rate, it suggests the statue once sported a false beard—an affectation common for female rulers of the Double Kingdom,” Dr. Farnsworth explained.
“But why does she look so . . . un-Egyptian?” Louisa asked, leaning forward to peer at the statue intently. “Give her a bonnet and a parasol and your Tetisheri would be perfectly at home strolling in Hyde Park.”
“And she’d turn more than a few heads,” Ted said. “But the more interesting question is how she arrived in Egypt. We have a theory on that. Dr. Farnsworth, if you’d care to do the honors?”
“You can explain it as well as I,” the old man said with a beneficent wave of his hand. He beamed at Theodore with the self-satisfied glow of a professorial soul basking in the accomplishment of his protégé. “Go on, lad.”
“We know that Egypt was overrun from time to time by other population groups. For example, about the era of the thirteenth dynasty, the Hyksos came down out of Syria with their chariots and conquered the Lower Nile and its rich Delta.” Ted spoke with confidence, but Devon noticed he tucked his hands in his pockets to keep from gesticulating nervously. It was an old trick their tutor had taught him. “The Egyptians had never seen a horse before that time so the Asiatic chariots made quite an impression.”
“Never seen a horse?” Louisa said with a giggle. “Can you imagine it?”
“Don’t laugh,” Theodore said. “I bet you’ve never seen a camel.”
Louisa pulled a face at him. “But at least I know they exist,” she grumbled.
“At any rate,” Ted said, determined to soldier on despite his sister’s interruptions, “the Egyptians must have thought horses were demons of some sort because the Theban royal court fled up the Nile and lived as exiles for years while the Hyksos intruders occupied their homeland.”
“Glad to see you’ve decided to get serious about studying history, Ted,” Devon said, impressed that his dilettante brother actually seemed to have learned something.
He noticed that Emmaline had settled into one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace, positioning herself as far as possible from the rest of the group without actually leaving the room. She stared into the cold hearth without the slightest hint of interest in Teddy’s exposition. Well, she’d presumably heard this story before, he supposed.
Or perhaps she was more troubled over that kiss in the orangery than he thought. Devon tried to put the lush softness of her lips out of his mind and concentrate on his brother’s new scholastic interest instead.
It was an uphill battle.
“What does the Hyksos invasion have to do with this statue?” Devon asked.
“It establishes a precedent for what we believe this statue proves,” Theodore said. “The Tetisheri statue indicates that at some time in the distant past, a
European
group swept down into Egypt, much as the Syrians did. Moreover”—he paused to emphasize his next words—“they stayed to rule.”
Dr. Farnsworth clapped softly. “Well done, Theodore. I want you by my side when I present a paper before the Society of Antiquaries on Tetisheri. In fact, I believe you should receive equal recognition for the find.”
“Speaking of that,” Devon said, “just where did you find it?”
“Therein lies the problem,” Dr. Farnsworth said. “Emmaline and I were strolling through a Cairo bazaar one day. If you’ve never been to one, I can only tell you, you have missed quite an experience. The smell of the spices alone is enough to fill a man’s head and—”
“Father,” Emmaline said from her self-imposed exile without a glance in his direction, “you’re rambling.”
“Ah, yes, well, a turbaned fellow there stopped us as we passed his stall and declared he had something for us. That’s a frequent opening gambit for a pretty hard sales pitch, but he disappeared behind a curtain and returned with the statue wrapped in cloth. Very excited he was, and adamant that we should take it.” Dr. Farnsworth leaned toward Devon’s mother in a confiding manner. “Most insistent, I tell you. He wouldn’t even accept payment, if you can believe it. He said he’d been expecting me and knew I was the one who should take the statue to where it belongs.”
“My, that seems very mysterious,” the countess said, fanning herself in excitement.
“Mysterious and in some ways, unfortunate,” Dr. Farnsworth said with a deep sigh. “Since the statue wasn’t discovered in a documented dig, its provenance is difficult. Moreover, it begs a number of tantalizing questions.”
“Such as?” Devon asked.
“Artifacts like this routinely find their way out of the desert and into the bazaars. This is probably a funerary statue for Tetisheri,” Theodore said. “The question is where is the rest of it? Where is her tomb? Someone must know where it is. If we could find that, we’d find the record of so much lost history.”
“And I suppose you have no idea where to begin that search,” Devon said.
If they did, the possible return on investment would be enormous. Back in 1799, when Napoleon’s forces commandeered the Rosetta Stone, scholars made much over the chance to decipher hieroglyphs. Earliest known bits of Egyptian culture were excavated and carted off to the Continent by the French forces, along with gushing reports of the splendor of tomb finds and tales of vast riches buried in the sand.
But the Egyptian desert was an exceedingly large haystack and the tomb of a previously unknown female pharaoh who looked strangely European was an exceptionally small needle.
“Actually,” Dr. Farnsworth said, “we may be making some progress on that front. As I said before, we’ve only translated one side of the base. The others may well give us the clues we need in order to mount an expedition.”
Devon studied the statue’s enigmatic smile. Tetisheri seemed to be privy to a secret joke. “Other than this statue, has any mention of this unknown queen been found on other ancient markers?”
Farnsworth blinked at him in surprise.
“Unfortunately, no, though your lordship is correct in assuming there ought to be. I applaud your comprehension of such arcane knowledge.” The quick frown that pressed his bottle-brush eyebrows together seemed to indicate the opposite. “Tetisheri
should
be listed on other stellae alongside previous and subsequent rulers, but the fact that she has not been discovered there is not, in itself, informative. It was not unknown for names to be expunged from such lists as the rulers fell out of favor with those who came after.”
“History is always written by the conquerors, you know,” Teddy said.
“No doubt the Theban court regained its ascendancy later and may have been the reason for her eradication from other monuments,” Dr. Farnsworth said. “Even so, it seems we have a genuine mystery on our hands. One that begs to be unraveled by an expedition.”
“Mounting an expedition is highly speculative,” Devon said.
“But it would be a quest for knowledge,” Theodore countered. “Even if we failed, we wouldn’t lose anything but time.”
“And someone’s money,” Devon said. While the potential payoff for such a gamble could mean great riches, the chances of success were slim. Even given the availability of cheap labor, an archaeological dig would be a logistical nightmare. Travel, equipment, bribes to the local officials for the necessary permits, food for the army of workers—a man could become deluged in debt quicker than the Nile flooded each year.
“That’s why I wouldn’t dream of seeking investors until we have something more concrete to go on,” Dr. Farnsworth said, removing his spectacles and cleaning them on his handkerchief. His face was surprisingly pale for someone who’d supposedly been on site in the Egyptian desert. “To do otherwise would be tantamount to . . . well, to fraud.”
The old man gave a devout shiver of distaste. Devon wondered how Farnsworth’s complexion could have remained so pasty when he’d arguably spent a good deal of time under the desert sun. It made Devon doubly suspicious of the professor and his highly questionable “find.”
“We’ll keep working on it, though I wish you had better help than me.” Theodore slapped his thigh as an inspiration struck. “Perhaps there’s someone from the Society of Antiquaries who knows about hieroglyphs and could help us with the rest of the translation.”
“A suggestion worthy of consideration,” Dr. Farnsworth said, “but I regret to point out that inquiries such as this are often fraught with layers of professional jealousy and bickering. Even among the very learned, the worst of human nature is likely to rear its ugly head. No, Theodore, we’d do well to keep the statue and our findings about it a secret until we feel confident enough to publish them.”
“Would a month be enough time?” Devon’s mother wondered. “By then we’ll have moved out of the city to Devonwood Park for the summer and could host a large party of guests to view the statue and hear your paper.”
Dr. Farnsworth cast a quick glance at his daughter, but Emmaline was still seemingly entranced by the cold fireplace. “Yes, milady,” he said. “We might very well have what we need by that time.”
“How lovely. It’s settled then.” Lady Devonwood clasped her be-ringed hands together in delight over the prospect of hosting a large gathering. “I’ll start working on the guest list tomorrow and—”
BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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