Wicked (16 page)

“I heard…a noise.”

“Ah! So something might be wrong—that would make you rush right to it?”

She didn’t know why she had done what she had done, didn’t know how to explain to him that she had been compelled to go forward when all sanity suggested she retreat.

His next words stunned her.

“What are you really doing here?”

“What?”

“Which one of those bastards are you working for?”

“What?”

“There is an entry, right?”

“I don’t know what in God’s name you’re talking about!” she cried, suddenly alarmed. He was on fire, his jaw clenched, eyes brilliant, muscles constricting with such tension that she could feel the ripple even beneath the simple cotton shirt he wore. She recoiled on the chair.

“Good God! After all this, don’t act the innocent with me,” he warned.

She exhaled, understanding then exactly what he meant. “You are not just a beast or a monster, but a lunatic!” she said icily. “You are obsessed, and you’ve come to see so
much evil in life that you think it exists everywhere. I am not working for anyone—I work for the museum.”

“Why else wander naked in the night?” he demanded.

“I am not naked!”

“You might as well be,” he informed her.

She hadn’t realized that the nightgown was so sheer, or that words could have such a profound and instant effect upon one. She suddenly felt as if she burned, as if her flesh, blood and even bones were on fire. The sensation stole breath from her.

Then she wondered if it was the words that caused such a reaction, or the fact they were spoken by him. What was it about him?

For the first time in her life she felt a rush of hunger, of longing. She wanted to be held by him, to feel the molten-steel strength of his arms around her, the whisper of his voice in assurance rather than anger. She yearned to know the man beneath the mask, the man with fire and fury and raw determination.

“I—”

“You what?” he demanded.

She shook her head helplessly, hugging her arms around her chest. “I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how to prove that I have no evil intentions. Damn you! I’d help you if I could, if there were a way…don’t you see? But there is no way! We can’t put asps on trial. They cannot bear witness. Nor am I part of the hierarchy of the museum. I wasn’t employed there when the expedition took place. I wish that I could help you but I cannot!”

He was still for a long time, and when he did move, she froze at first, afraid that he intended some kind of violence. But to her amazement, he reached out for her, pulling her up and into his arms.

Just as she might have wished, desired…

He took the chair himself, cradling her there, his arms around her to give her warmth. “You’re shaking like a leaf blown in winter, you little fool,” he said gruffly. “Dammit, lass, I’m not going to tear you to shreds. I’m merely trying to give you warmth!”

She nodded, unable to speak, and afraid of any sound that might issue from her lips. Again, her pulse was racing. She didn’t need to feel any warmer; her flesh might have felt cool to his touch, but rampant fires had ignited inside her. She closed her eyes, praying that he remain certain her shaking was from the cold.

She couldn’t bear for him to guess the truth, that he had stripped away the certainties and logic of a lifetime, making her believe that the world could be forgotten, that there could be no tomorrow, that everything important in existence lay in the way that he held her. It was like being intoxicated. She couldn’t begin to understand it, for logic struggled fiercely with sensation in her mind. She should have been horrified, repelled, but she was not.

His fingers found her chin and lifted it. She stared into the deep and endless cobalt of his eyes. And it all became worse when his thumb stroked over her cheek and he whispered softly, “You are either the most magnificently honest and courageous woman I’ve ever met, or the most beguiling liar.”

She stiffened, fighting the urge to remain where she was, held so tenderly. She had never allowed herself such vulnerability before.

“Don’t bristle, Camille. I tend to believe the first. As you say, I am bitter and angry and baffled. Time has not changed that.”

“Could you be wrong?” she whispered. “Perhaps…”

He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “No. One stray asp, one bite, maybe. But both my parents? And there’s more.
Too many artifacts have disappeared. Then there are the noises.”

She stared at him, newly mystified. “There is a huge wall around the place. It’s an overgrown forest. And you have the dog. If there are noises—”

“You know that there are,” he reminded her.

She shook her head. “But they have to be the natural settling of the building. This place is medieval. Besides, it’s impossible for anyone to get in here, isn’t it?”

“Your guardian managed.”

“Yes, but you caught him immediately.”

He shifted slightly, the better to meet her eyes, and the absurdity of her position struck her again. There was something more intimate about the way they sat together, speaking softly, feeling the warmth of the flames, than if…

She didn’t dare think about the “if.” Her cheeks would flame too brightly.

“What made you wander in the night?” he asked.

She exhaled, still meeting his eyes. “A…sound. Of course, you don’t believe me. You don’t have it in you to believe in anyone anymore—”

“I believe there’s a passage from beyond the grounds to the house,” he said, looking toward the fire.

“A passage?”

“An underground tunnel.”

“But wouldn’t you have known about it?”

He shrugged. “There are all kinds of stories associated with Carlyle Castle. The first walls were built not long after the Conquest. Different sides found a haven during the Wars of the Roses. Royalists were supposedly hidden here in Cromwell’s time. It’s said that Prince Charles once escaped to Scotland after taking refuge in the castle. It’s very likely that there is a secret entrance.”

“But you’re the earl. Wouldn’t you know about it?”

“We haven’t had any great civil conflicts in a very long time now,” he said softly. “My father was keen on the idea that such a passage existed. He was an explorer, loved mysteries. And God knows he might have found out something. I was away, in the military, for a long time before they died. He was always writing me with tremendous excitement, thinking he was on to something that would prove to be a wondrous surprise. At one time, I shared his and my mother’s enthusiasm for the past, for history, for lost civilizations. But my father was an English earl, you must remember. That meant we had responsibilities. A man in my position served the Empire, and that was that. Luckily I did have a knack for horse-soldiering. So I spent years away from home, returning on holiday, meeting them in Egypt a few times. But I lost that edge I’d known when I was younger, living here at Carlyle. So if my father ever found his secret tunnel, I know nothing about it. But if he had found one, I’m sure he would have written to me about it.”

His eyes narrowed, as he studied the fire. Camille thought for a moment that he had forgotten all about her, he seemed so deep in thought. She was afraid to move, afraid to distract him, afraid to create a greater contact herself. She was amazed by the overwhelming desire not to escape, but to draw even closer. The words he had said earlier haunted her, for she suddenly felt nearly naked, as if they were flesh against flesh. Again, she tried desperately to remind herself that this man might not be sane, that his temper could flare as hotly as the flames before them. But the logic of such facts failed her as she breathed his scent, felt his powerful length beneath her.

“He would have written to me,” he murmured. Then he stared at Camille again. “And that’s just it. There should
have been…well, there should have been a half-written letter somewhere. My mother kept her journals. My father wrote letters. He would send one and then begin another. But when he died, there was nothing.”

She swallowed, trying to dredge her mind from sensation, and reply with reason and intelligence. “They had just made the discovery, right? Opened the tomb? It had been just a matter of days. Perhaps your father simply hadn’t had time to write,” she suggested.

“Perhaps. But he was obsessive.”

“Imagine,” she murmured softly.

“Miss Montgomery!”

She looked at him and saw that he was smiling beneath the mask.

“I rather believe that, were you in my position, you’d be no less determined. After all, you are here, burdened by hospitality in order to save a wretched thief from his just rewards.”

She started to stiffen again, furious, but then realized that he had said the words to rile her, but with no malice.

“Thief—”

“Yes, thief! But the point is, you could do no less. You would not be able to live with yourself. So surely you understand my position?”

He was inclined toward her now, intense, yet ever so slightly teasing. She was aware again of the tripping of her heart, the windswept stagger of her breath, the vitality of the man. She longed to reach up and touch the cheeks beneath the mask, to feel his flesh. He was so close…and his lips were surely going to form over hers any second. She was aware of his touch. It was like a form of enchantment or intoxication. She wanted, yearned…

He drew back, hard again, distant, and rose in a single
strong, swift movement, setting her upon her feet. Yet he steadied her; she would have stumbled had he not.

“I’ve now kept you up half the night. I’ll get you back to your room.”

He walked to his own door, seeming stiffer, more severe than ever, restrained to total dignity, yet molten beneath the exterior of civility.

He brought her back to her door. “Camille, I do mean every word. Don’t, under any circumstance, go wandering in the halls again. I pray God, I’ve made it clear that it could be quite dangerous.”

She nodded. “I…enjoyed having Ajax.”

“Yes, well, he’s on duty. Out on the grounds.”

“Ah.”

“Camille…”

Her name had never sounded so like a warm whisper on the seductive air of night. There might even have been a touch of tenderness. And beneath that, something she had felt herself, deep and searing in her soul.

Again, he was so close, his head bowed down to hers. And she, who had sworn that such things could not exist, longed for more….

“Sleep well,” he murmured, and stepped back. “Tomorrow will be another long day for you.”

He turned and started out.

“Wait!” she heard herself cry, finding life, moving forward.

He paused at her door.

“What if I hear something in the night?” she asked.

He smiled. “Scream like bloody hell.”

“And you’ll hear me?”

His smile deepened. “Indeed, I will.”

“You are so close, then?”

“The portrait there, of Nefertiti…”

“Yes?”

“It’s a door. To my room. You need only pull the painting by the left side of the frame. Good night, Miss Montgomery,” he said. And he was gone.

C
AMILLE HAD BARELY LEFT
the house when Brian was startled from his morning coffee by a visitor.

Tristan, shaved, neat and clean, and admittedly, appearing quite the gentleman, strode in upon him. He came in with strong, sure steps, his head high, fingers knotting and unknotting into fists at his side. Then he stopped. His chin went a shade higher. “Good morning, Lord Stirling.”

“Good morning,” he returned, not rising, just waiting. The fellow certainly looked to be in the best of health.

“I’ll not make either of us out to be fools,” Tristan said after a moment.

Brian lowered his head slightly, aware of the courage this was taking the man. “Aye, that’s a good thing,” he said.

Tristan squared his shoulders and continued. “I came here, thinking you’d not notice a little piece gone that might have paid the rent a good many day.”

“Aye.”

“But me lass is worth ten of me,” Tristan said, and a tender humility came into his voice. “I’d not have her paying any price for me. So…”

“You know the underworld a bit, eh?” Brian queried.

“Well, it’s not as if I frequent the truly degraded alehouses and brothels of the city!” he said indignantly. Then he frowned. “But, aye,” he admitted with a weary sigh. “I
do know a place or two where those of unsavory character are known to be found.”

Brian leaned back, surveying the man. He was lean and spry, and he well imagined that at one time, he’d been a fine soldier, and had thus acquired his knighthood.

“Sit, Mr. Montgomery. There is coffee and food, if you’ve not breakfasted as yet.”

Tristan’s brow knitted into a wary frown. “Ye’d have me at your table?”

“Please.”

Now more wary than ever, Tristan poured coffee with hands that suddenly shook so badly, Brian took over the task for him.

“Thank you,” Tristan murmured, taking the cup, and then the seat Brian indicated. Once seated, he tried to state his case again. “She’s everything to me, you see,” he said softly.

Brian smiled, again lowering his head. “I intend her no harm.”

“What may be no harm to one is like a lifetime of shame to another,” he said.

“Ah, I see.”

“She’s not…she’s not to be taken lightly, My Lord.”

Brian leaned forward, his eyes straight and level with the older man’s. “Sir Tristan, I assure you, no man would take your ward lightly.”

“Well, frankly, sir, I’m disturbed. And there’s no help for it!”

“She works for the museum—in Egyptology.”

Tristan nodded, still frowning. “And mostly self-taught, she is.”

“I’m escorting her to a ball, a fund-raiser.”

“Aye, so I’ve heard.”

“She indeed has her talents.”

“Sir!”

“In Egyptology, Sir Tristan. Just as I believe you have yours.”

Again, wariness and fear seeped into Tristan’s eyes. He met Brian’s gaze. “Apparently, me talents aren’t quite what they once were. You caught me, you did.”

Brian laughed softly.

“What do you intend to do, Lord Stirling? Scared as I am, I’ll not hide behind me ward’s skirts any longer.”

“I intend to offer a business proposition.”

“Sir!”

“Having nothing to do with your ward,” Brian assured him.

“Then…”

“I intend to give you a piece to sell.”

“What?”

“I need you to get out into the streets for me.”

Tristan sipped his coffee, at a loss. “I came to steal a piece of ancient art, but now you intend to give me one to sell?”

“Precisely.”

“Ah, Lord Stirling! If ye’re meaning to teach me a lesson—have the coppers after me once I’m gone—ye needn’t bother. I’ve admitted my guilt.”

Brian shook his head. “Tristan, you’re not listening to me. I’m offering you a position. I need you out on the streets. I need you to get into many a place I don’t know, and find out if there are a number of pieces being sold off on the black market.”

The man straightened. A light came into his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“I’d be working for you?”

“I’m assuming you and your man, Ralph, are known at a few of these places?”

“I know my way around the city, aye. And I know something about Egyptian artifacts, of course. I raised the lass, you know!”

“And taught her everything you know?”

Tristan frowned, not liking any suggestion that Camille was not a total paragon of virtue.

Brian was startled to feel a sudden tension himself. Could she really be all that she seemed, not just innocent of any conspiracy with her co-workers, but as impervious to such a hideous mask and reputation as she appeared? She knew his position and title—was that enough to make her blind? Yet she’d been eager that he know her own beginnings, so he would understand what a Pandora’s box he could be opening, subjecting her to a social scrutiny. He hadn’t given a damn where she had come from. But then, he had been doing nothing but using her. And now…

He rose, suddenly afraid that even his mask would not be enough to cloak the sudden agitation that had seized him. Last night he had felt alive again,
human
again, in a way he hadn’t since it all began. Since he had heard the terrible news, gone into battle, wielded his own fury and felt the steel rip into his flesh. Nothing had disturbed the steadfast cold that had fallen over his heart, no matter what his charade, where he had been, what he had done. Until last night.

He hadn’t realized what she could make him feel. It had happened slowly, and yet so suddenly. He hadn’t lived as a monk, but he hadn’t
felt
anything inwardly, either.

Last night there had been seconds of pure, unadulterated lust. And the temptation to touch and hold, to forget the world in a sea of carnal fire and energy had been almost overwhelming.

He let out a sound of irritation, suddenly angry with himself for letting his thoughts get away from him. He
turned and stared at Tristan. “Spend the day with your valet, Ralph. Think, talk and make plans of where you might go on a selling mission. Return to your bed by night, though. I’d have the world believe you were in sorry shape until tomorrow at least. After the fund-raiser, you can rise, at long last feeling somewhat healed. Word will be out that you’re looking forward to raising a few pints to your renewed good health.”

Tristan stood, reminding Brian of a fierce little terrier. “I’ll find out what you want to know, Lord Stirling,” he swore. “That I will.”

T
HE TRAFFIC GOING IN
to the museum that morning was wretched. A pony cart had overturned on Russell Square, its load of vegetables spewing here and there. Despite the efforts of the police, people were everywhere, some trying to help the injured driver and collect his belongings, others trying to take what they could. Great carriages, bicycles, hansoms and other cabs were twisted about and caught in a jam. Onlookers stopped in their tracks, while those anxious to reach their places of business on foot tried to veer around them.

At length, Camille tapped on the roof and stuck her head out the window, telling Shelby that she would walk the remaining distance. Before he could stop her, she slipped out of the carriage and into the crowd.

Arriving at the museum late, she saw that they had already opened for business. She hurried through the exhibits and saw that a great crowd was arrayed around the terrarium. Aubrey had fed the snake.

With a shiver, she hurried on up to her office. Sir John was at his desk, but offered her no rebuke for tardiness. He merely gave her a weak smile.

“It’s a mess out there, eh?” And he shook his head. “It’s
worse and worse all the time! Ah, traffic in the city!” Then he turned his attention back to the graphs and records on his desk.

Symbols swam before her and she found her mind wandering. Just a little more than a year ago, each of the men in the department had been on the expedition. At first it had appeared that it would end brilliantly with an incredible discovery. Then triumph had turned to tragedy.

She left her work, running out of the room. Sir John remained at his desk. He looked up at her.

“Yes?”

“Um…Sir John. What happened when the Stirlings died?” she asked.

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“You were all there, right?”

A clouded look crossed Sir John’s eyes. “Yes.”

“They were brought back to England for burial, but the discoveries had just been made. Certainly there was a lot to be done after their deaths.”

He looked at her, then shook his head. He stared back at his papers. “It wasn’t so immediate. We’d been in the tomb, cataloguing finds. Most important objects had been removed, and many were already prepared for shipping. A telegram was sent to Brian, who apparently learned about the deaths right before a skirmish. He was wounded, but still managed to arrive quickly to Cairo. The bodies had been preserved in ice. He saw that they were returned to England, anxious for autopsies to be done, though God knows why. The cause of death was very evident.”

“Did anyone ever find the snakes?”

“Pardon?”

“The asps. The creatures that killed them,” Camille said.

“I don’t believe so. I’m sure that a nest somehow got
into their rooms. Once they had killed, the snakes probably made their way out. Camille, many people die due to cobra bites. It is an inherent danger when living and working in the desert.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

He looked back at his work, dismissing her, but she walked over to his desk. “Was there an investigation?”

He looked up again. “Of course! Egyptian authorities and English authorities were all called in. Good God, child, George was the Earl of Carlyle!”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“I have work, Camille. And so do you.”

She nodded and returned to her little workroom. What usually fascinated her seemed dry today; her mind kept on spinning. For several lines, she translated more of the threat. Then she came to a stretch of symbols that excited her. She spoke aloud, slowly.

“‘Know that the Great Cobra, with its eyes of flame and light, formed by Hethre’s will and power, and by the creation of her own hands, will bring down the retribution of the greatest nobility.’”

She stared at the text, carefully looked over her every translation. Then she jumped up and ran back out to Sir John’s desk.

He was gone.

The newspaper clipping about the death of the Stirlings lay on top of his other papers. Something pinned it down. Camille walked around the table. A small pocketknife attached the paper to the wood, the point pierced through a face in the picture. That of Sir John.

D
ESPITE THE OUTCRY
that had arisen during the time of the so-called Jack the Ripper murders, the East End had changed very little.

Dirty, scrawny, wide-eyed children, already acquiring the look of street rats, sat on doorsteps and played in the streets. None came near Brian. They looked his way and scattered. Though in his Jim Arboc attire, he was still a man, bulkier with the workman’s coat he wore, and still a man with eyes that seemed to warn of danger.

The idea of becoming Jim Arboc had been born a good three months hence, when the position in the museum became available. He had been willing to sweep up the offices of the curators dealing with Asian works, certain he could bide his time and thus arrange a transfer without appearing suspicious. Had this occurred just a bit earlier, he might have known Camille Montgomery when he had seen her at the castle. But the closest he had come before meeting her at his estate had been those times he managed to slip into the storage rooms and begin a slow and methodical search. Blatant accusations would not work, especially when he wasn’t certain whom he should be accusing. Therefore, he had needed patience.

And as Arboc, he had learned to be a patient man.

Poor but honest seamstresses hurried down the roads, along with butchers, their aprons bloodied, and factory workers, hats pulled low over their eyes. Hawkers sold gin and meat pastries, most lacking meat but tempting hungry buyers with the smear of gravy. Legitimate businesses hired on immigrants for a few pence and long, tired faces were the norm. Prostitutes with rheumy eyes and broken teeth lolled by many a pub, and the stench in the area was enough to make one ill.

Shuffling along at his awkward but steady “Arboc” pace, Brian hurried after the figures ahead of him, keeping a distance. The two he followed came to an establishment with a sign that read McNally’s Public House—All Are Welcome. He let the two enter and then followed behind.

There was a large group at the bar, and gin was flowing freely. Aye, as well it must, for the working women plying their trade there were long past their days of glory or seduction. “Gin blossoms” rode many a cheek, and a few of the noses had most obviously been broken more than once. But there were dark alleys in abundance, places to close one’s eyes and seek only the gratification of the moment. That a few of the whores could entice the work-worn and world-weary fellows at the bar to pay for their gin made them attractive to the pub owner.

A few hardwood tables, broken at strange and odd levels, lined the area opposite the bar. He elbowed his way through the crowd, bought a gin and retreated to one of the tables. And watched.

Tristan Montgomery was obviously not a fool. He had changed his clothing before starting out on his trip, and now wore the jacket and cap of a dockworker. Ralph was likewise attired. And though he hadn’t Tristan’s jovial manner, he was a likely enough companion.

Tristan ordered his gin, complaining of the price, and flirted with the one prostitute who seemed to have all her teeth. Compared to the rest, she might have been considered in her prime. She was small, somewhat lithe and apparently glad of the gin he bought her, and ready to remain close.

“’Ave we business to discuss, gov’nur?” she asked him, playing with the collar of his jacket.

Tristan looked at the woman, a little brunette with dark eyes and a winsome smile. She had ferreted out the fact that Tristan, despite his attire and manner, was a cut above the majority of the clientele in the smoky gloom.