Though he scowled, to Cornelia’s relief, the man did as she asked, descending slowly to his knees, keeping his hands visible all the while.
Wasn’t there some Sherlock Holmes tale in which the detective had subdued the villain and then looped rope from wrists to ankles to keep him from escaping? There was string also in her apron pocket. Might it be strong enough? Cornelia felt doubtful but there was nothing else to hand and she could hardly leave him as he was. Her only hope was to restrain the scoundrel—and before he realized that her ‘gun’ was no more than a sliver of wood.
As soon as he was prone, Cornelia inched closer. “Hands behind your back, and remember, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
Giving her a last, black look, the intruder did as she bade but, as Cornelia bent forward with her length of twine, there was a flash of movement.
The man’s arm whipped forward and there was a sharp jerk upon Cornelia’s ankle. With a scream, she fell backward, landing with a thump on her backside. Her ‘gun’ skidded across the polished floor.
The next moment, his arms were braced on either side of her, his body pressed the length of hers. His eyes, jet black, sparked with fury.
Cornelia whimpered, all too aware of her helplessness. “If you murder me, you won’t get away with it! There are guards all through the building.”
“Murder you? Dammit, woman. You threaten to shoot me, and now I’m the one bent on killing? I had you figured for a crook, come messing with what’s not yours, but I guess you’d have come prepared with more than a measuring stick if you were.” Leaning back, he surveyed her face. “You ain’t one of those Bedlamites on the loose, are you?”
Cornelia grimaced. “Certainly not. I'm neither deranged nor criminally minded.” Though her recumbent position made asserting herself difficult, she summoned her most imperious voice. “I happen to work here, and I was acting as anyone would, to protect the valuable artefacts in this room. You, sir, with motives I can only begin to guess at, should be ashamed of yourself!”
Speaking the bold words, Cornelia struggled to keep her lip from trembling. The rogue had straddled her with his legs, and his hands remained firm, pinning her down.
It was entirely unseemly.
Improper. Indecorous. Indecent.
No gentleman would ever treat a lady in such manner, but he was clearly no gentleman, and she was at the rogue’s mercy.
If her heart was beating thunderously, it had nothing to do with the unyielding weight of his body, radiating heat, nor the contours of his upper arms, pressed against the linen of his rumpled shirt.
She glanced down.
His upper buttons were undone, revealing a chest sprinkled with dark hair and tanned as deeply as his arms. The man had been labouring without clothing upon his back. His uncouthness was further confirmed by his hair, curling onto his open collar and, though his face had been shaven at some recent time, his jaw bore the stubble of at least a few days.
Everything about him spoke of uncompromising masculinity.
Had some private collector sent the scoundrel to steal some of the smaller pieces, or was the man’s presence here more malicious? Goodness only knew what he’d been doing when she'd interrupted him.
He was scrutinizing her again, scanning her features with perturbing concentration, as if searching for something within her countenance. Cornelia blinked several times. Whatever happened, she would not allow a tear to fall, nor would she be cowed. To the last, she would be stalwart.
Nevertheless, as the ruffian removed his grip upon her shoulders, she let out a small squeak and closed her eyes. Was this to be her end? Would he strangle her? She ought to scream, at least, or struggle—but she knew it would be hopeless. No one was near to save her.
It appeared, however, that this was not to be the moment of her death, for the weight above her lifted and two large, warm hands clasped hers, pulling her upright.
For a moment, she swayed, then opened her eyes again, only to find her nose pressed almost to her assailant’s torso. He smelt vaguely of perspiration, of wood and leather; also, of soap. She took a slightly deeper breath. A hint of lemon, definitely, and something else, harsher. Glue?
When he spoke again, it was in a far gentler tone; not that of a gentleman—at least not an English gentleman, but there was something gentlemanly in it.
“I don’t rightly know what to make of you, but I reckon you’re telling the truth and I likely owe you an apology—what with sending you sprawling like that. Whatever you think I am, I can assure you ma’am, you’ll come to no harm from me. If you were acting as you say, looking out for the safekeeping of what’s here in this room, I ought to be thanking you rather than wrestling you to the floor.”
One large hand returned to her shoulder, but softly this time. “I hope that behind of yours ain’t too covered in bruises.”
Cornelia felt herself blushing. If he were a thief, he was certainly a clever one. Whatever tactic this was, it had her off guard, distracting her from the matter of the fellow explaining himself. She knew some women were terribly good flirts, but there were men of that ilk as well—the sort who said whatever was necessary to acquire what they wanted.
She cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, I must ask again, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
Cornelia raised her chin, letting her gaze travel upward—past the stranger’s open collar and tanned neck, past his jaw, until she settled on the curve of his mouth. There, her inspection stopped. There was something about his lips, neatly bowed and hitching to the side, which commanded her to look.
As if knowing they were under inspection, the lips twitched. “It may be a mite arrogant of me, but I was under the impression most folks were familiar with my profile.” With that, he took a small step back and adopted a dashing pose—as if looking into the distance, one foot forward, one hand upon his hip.
Cornelia frowned. Though his shirt was smeared with something grey and his hair was gypsy-wild, he was tall and lean and darkly handsome. Something about the set of his jaw spoke of a determined spirit.
Turning his chin back toward her, he raised an eyebrow and she caught again a flash of merriment—not just in the quirk of his mouth but within his eyes, glinting wickedly.
Had they met before? Impossible, surely. And yet, something in his appearance was so very familiar.
Cornelia clamped her hand to her mouth.
It couldn’t be!
The photograph most commonly accompanying stories of his exploits, in which he posed alongside guides and porters, before Palekmul’s Temple of the Jaguars, showed him standing a head taller than all the rest. It had failed to convey the impressiveness of his physique; and the sketches in The Times hadn’t captured the intensity of his eyes.
“I… I’ve made a terrible mistake. You’re…you’re not a thief. You’re…”
“Ethan Burnell.” He tipped an imaginary hat.
Ethan Burnell!
Cornelia suddenly felt rather ill. “I hardly know what to say. I might have… I was going to…”
“Shoot me with that bit of wood, then tie me up with that measly twine?” His lips curled upward. “As to being a thief, there are some who’d say I was the worst sort.”
He inclined his head to where he’d been crouching. “You might think it was stone, thanks to the layers of colour we’ve stippled over the plaster, but the real thing is where it should be. I don’t believe in taking more than’s necessary.”
“Plaster?” Cornelia squinted at the columns. “But it looks so real. Is it truly?”
“See for yourself. The final layer’s mostly dry. We created the moulds in situ and the plaster casts afterwards, following Charnay’s technique—the same as Maudslay did with the Yaxchilan lintels. Mighty proud of the way it’s turned out, I don’t mind saying.”
At his nod, she approached and touched the surface with her fingertips. The smell filling the room wasn’t glue or preservative, but paint. “That’s what you were doing. I thought
…”
“You believed I was up to no good, and you did what you thought you had to. I can hardly feel sore about it, and you being so brave. After all, if I were a varmint sneaking in here to vandalize or pilfer, I’d likely be armed.”
“I hadn’t considered that.” Cornelia rubbed at her temple. “It appears I’m more foolish than brave, and I’m the one who must apologize.”
She glanced back to where he stood. His head cocked on one side, he was surveying her in that disturbing way again—as if she were hiding something and he might ferret it out if he looked hard enough.
Not that she was in the habit of telling falsehoods, but she hadn’t been altogether truthful. After all, she didn’t exactly ‘work’ for the museum, her time being given voluntarily, and she certainly didn’t have permission to be inside this gallery.
All in all, she’d be wise to beat a retreat and hope Mr. Burnell didn’t report her transgression. Her position was fragile at best and Mr. Pettigrew would readily use the infraction against her. She could hear him already, telling the Board of Trustees that she was unsuited to continuing in the post her father had procured for her; that they’d indulged her long enough, and it was time she devoted herself to more feminine pursuits.
Despite his dishevelment and rather plain way of speaking, Mr. Burnell was undeniably handsome; and that deep, rich voice of his, which wrapped around one like a caress. It really was rather a shame that she needed to make her exit—but she’d better leave while the going was good.
“Now that we’ve established you’re entitled to be here, and aren’t in need of tying up, or maiming of any sort, I’ll be on my way, Mr. Burnell.” Striding past him, she summoned her most cheerful smile. “A pleasure to meet and no harm done.”
Reaching the far end of the room, she swivelled for one final look back. He was frowning and, for a moment, she feared he would follow her. She held up her hand in protest. “No need to see me out. Please do carry on. Everyone is so looking forward to seeing the treasures when your gallery is ready, Mr. Burnell. Don’t let me detain you.” Without further ado, she made a dash for the basement stairs.
Only once she was out on Great Russell Street and climbing into a Hansom cab did she allow herself to breathe freely again. Throughout the entire fiasco, she had avoided revealing to Mr. Burnell her full identity—and thank Heavens for that small mercy!
But something else nagged at her.
Ethan...
None of her acquaintances bore that name and yet her tongue remembered it. The shape of it was already in her mouth.
The sun was high and the sky was blue and the sea was far off, leaving a great stretch of sand. The boy running ahead turned a cartwheel and gave a whoop and her little legs ran hard to keep up. She was calling his name and laughing.
Was it real? Or something she’d dreamt?
She gave herself a shake. All that mattered was keeping her head down. While Mr. Burnell was at the museum, she’d simply have to remain out of his way. Under no circumstances could there be a second meeting.
Chapter 2
Portman Square, London
Later that evening
Cornelia was certain that a bruise was coming on the upper half of her bottom.
Easing into her usual seat in the drawing room, she took care not to spill from her teacup, and vaguely wondered if they’d any arnica cream in the house.
The long-haired Jack Russell at her feet leapt onto the sofa, placing her head in Cornelia’s lap. The dog looked up with beseeching eyes.
“Alright, Minnie. As long as you don’t wriggle.” Cornelia gave the terrier’s ears a rub. Minnie rolled promptly onto her back, presenting her tummy for more luxurious caresses.
Aunt Eustacia lowered her copy of Madame Potins’ Nouvelles de la Société and cleared her throat. “My dears! The most delightful scandal! Cousin Cynthia has outdone herself!”
Cornelia paused in stroking Minnie’s soft ivory fur. “Really, Aunt, I do wish you wouldn’t persist in taking that horrible scandal sheet. Most of it is complete invention and the remainder none of our business. I know Cynthia likes to make herself the centre of attention but I’m sure she’s done nothing to warrant public censure.”
The old lady’s eyes glinted mischievously. “I rather wonder if Cynthia isn’t a deal more cunning that we gave her credit for. Apparently, she laid herself out on her husband's library desk, completely nude but for the family jewels. Not just the rubies but all of them at once, including the emerald tiara! And three footmen in attendance, serving her champagne when Lord Sturgeon walked in.”
Aunt Blanche spluttered on her whisky. “How uncouth! You’d think Cynthia would know better than to wear mixed gems, even for an informal occasion. Still, I’m hardly surprised. Cynthia’s taste has always been questionable.”
“One can hardly fault her taste in footmen though.” Eustacia gave a playful smirk. “She was promenading them quite shamefully at last month’s whist gathering.”
“Why, yes! And the tightness of their breeches! The poor fellows must have been dreadfully uncomfortable, especially as she kept finding excuses to make them bend over.”
“You are both dreadful and should be very much ashamed!” Cornelia gave each of her aunts a disapproving glare. “Besides such comments regarding the male anatomy being crudely objectifying, you are treating the matter without the least portion of empathy. Cynthia must be beside herself with worry—and she’s been very kind to me; to all of us! I’ve no idea why she would behave in such an outrageous manner, but we must rally to her side.”
“Calm yourself, Cornelia.” Eustacia folded the paper in her lap. “I tend to forget that, despite your marriage to that awful man, you lack experience. Lord Sturgeon has been far too neglectful of his wife. Cynthia was merely reasserting herself to gain his attention. Jealousy is an emotion easily manipulated. Admittedly, when our dear cousin hinted at her intention, I had no idea she planned to be so inventive, but it appears her daring has paid off. Lord Sturgeon made a dreadful fuss at first but the two have since left for Paris—to patch things up.”
Cornelia felt her cheeks flushing. The passing of time had done little to dim the painful memory of her own appearance in Madame Potins’ pages. How anyone could seek to make a spectacle of themselves, encouraging lurid gossip, she couldn’t fathom. The more salacious the tidbit, the faster rumours travelled, and household staff could rarely be relied upon to be discreet.
“Well, as long as Lady Sturgeon isn’t in distress, it’s hardly my place to pass judgement.” Cornelia pursed her lips. “It’s commendable that she and Lord Sturgeon are making a go of things. I wish them well.”
“I say brava. Although rather thoughtless of her to break up our Whist Four at short notice.” Blanche gave a sly smile. “Perhaps we should enquire about the footmen. In light of what’s happened, they might be seeking employment elsewhere. I’m sure we could find something for them to do.”
“All three?” Eustacia sat up a little straighter and Blanche gave a throaty laugh.
“I love you both, but you are willfully wicked.” Cornelia sighed.
“We are suitably chastened, but I fear it won’t stop Eustacia reading Madame Potins’ gossip. One reaches a certain age where much of life must be lived vicariously.”
“Speak for yourself, Blanche.” Eustacia returned to her pages. “There’s an advertisement on page eleven with a rather exciting proposition—a clandestine soirée of some sort. Guests of ‘an adventurous disposition’ are invited. It sounds most intriguing. I shall put ink to paper in the morning and attempt to find out more.”
“How thrilling!” Finishing her glass, Blanche sidled over to add another inch. “I suppose you’re right. One is never too old to try something new.”
Cornelia placed her cup on the table. “I know you’re only saying such things to jest with me, so I shall pretend not to have heard a word!”
Blanche kissed Cornelia’s forehead then wandered over to the cigar box. “Much t
he best thing, although it does to maintain one’s sense of humour, dearest.” She struck a match then inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring across the room. “Far too many aspects of life are predictable, or depressingly banal. A little innocent fun is often the best tonic.”
“I don’t think you know the meaning of the word ‘innocent’, and I do wish you’d give up that horrible habit.” Cornelia wrinkled her nose.
“For once, I’m in accord.” Eustacia retreated further behind Madam Potins’ pages. “It’s a vice too far, darling.”
Cornelia nodded. “If you must puff, at least open the window and blow that hideous smell outside.”
"Very well.” Inclining her head, Blanche clucked her tongue. “Come on Minnie. You can help.”
The terrier immediately pricked her ears and hopped up to perch on the rear of the sofa. In one great leap, she landed on the padded bench beneath the bay window and, balancing on her back legs, reached her paw to the handle.
“Clever dog!” As the window swung open, Blanche directed her next exhalation of cigar smoke into the night air. The terrier, meanwhile, poked its head out to survey the passing of a carriage down on the square.
Cornelia jumped up in alarm. “Minnie, down at once!”
With a rueful final glance at the outside world, the terrier returned to the floor and skulked off to hide behind Eustacia’s armchair.
“Don’t tell me Minnie learnt that on her own. You’ve been teaching her tricks again, haven’t you?” Cornelia glowered at Blanche. “This really must stop. First showing her how to take up the poker and prod the fire; now encouraging her to open windows. She might fall to her death or set the place on fire, or any number of awful things!” A wave of frustration and irritation and despair suddenly rushed up, breaking over Cornelia’s head. For a moment, she thought she might scream but, seeing the startled look upon Blanche’s face, she simply buried her own in her hands.
Extinguishing her cigar, Blanche hurried over, putting her arms around her niece. “There, there darling. You’re overwrought, and have been ever since you came through the door. I don’t know what’s going on at that stuffy old place but I don’t believe the museum is making you happy, and there are so many more amusing things you might be doing. As to teaching Minnie a few party pieces, it’s only harmless fun. The weather was quite awful today; the time does go so slowly, and Minnie was bored, too, waiting for you to come home. You’re neglecting her, just like Lord Sturgeon with cousin Cynthia.”
The Lady's Guide to Scandal Page 2