by Kate Bateman
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Uncomfortable.”
Her brother grinned. “Well, it wasn’t meant for live people, you know.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You only have to be in there a short while. And it’s better than that beer barrel. At least you get to lie down flat. And you’ll be transported a lot more respectfully.”
“The beer barrel didn’t once belong to a dead person,” she said. “And it smelled considerably more pleasant.”
“I’ve made you plenty of air holes. Try it.”
Emmy gave a resigned sigh and folded her hands across her chest. Luc, with Sally’s help, slid the heavy lid across her field of vision. It made a horrid grating noise. As the light was cut off, she forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose. It smelled musty, like being entombed inside a hollow tree trunk, and she was glad she’d compensated by giving herself a few additional dabs of perfume to mask the smell.
When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she realized that numerous small round holes pierced the lid; she was speckled all over with a smattering of tiny light spots. She moved, trying to see how much space she had. Her elbow bumped painfully on the side.
Luc’s muffled voice filtered through the thick wooden lid. “See? It’s a good thing you’re so small, Em. I’d never have been able to fit in there. Now push the lid off. You have to be able to move it on your own.”
Emmy wriggled and cursed, pushing sideways and upward with her palms on the underside of the lid. It was a struggle, but she managed to shift it enough to get her fingers through a gap at the side. She pushed the lid off completely and sat up. Sally gave her a round of applause, and Luc nodded approvingly.
“Perfect.”
Camille entered the kitchen and smiled at seeing Emmy sitting inside the ancient sarcophagus on top of the table. The fact that this wasn’t the strangest thing Emmy had ever been cajoled into doing was indicative of just how odd her family truly was.
“It’s time,” Camille said. “The cart is waiting in the mews. Sally, you look wonderful!”
Sally gave a sarcastic curtsey. She’d made an effort to look even more ravishing than usual, since she was meeting Henry Franks, the museum curator, for a post-work tipple in a tavern across the square from the museum. Her hair had been left partly down, and one stray lock curled enticingly over her rounded shoulder. Her milky-white bosom was shown to devastating effect in a pale blue cambric dress. A more perfect distraction would be hard to find.
Luc narrowed his eyes. “Franks had better not try anything untoward,” he growled.
Sally gave him a wide, confident grin. “I can ’andle ’im, don’t you worry.”
“The thought of you ‘handling’ him is precisely what concerns me, madam,” Luc muttered.
Sally chuckled. She stroked a light caress across his jaw and bent to press a playful kiss on his cheek. “You have nothing to worry about, my lovely.”
For a brief moment they stared at each other, and Emmy held her breath, hoping they would finally give in to their obvious mutual attraction and kiss properly, but Sally pulled back with a flustered laugh and the moment was broken.
Luc turned back to Emmy, all business. “Right. Let’s go. You should arrive just before closing time. Franks won’t have time to look at you, much as he would like to. He won’t want to be late to meet Sally.”
He winced and Emmy bit her lip to stop a smile. The thought of sending Sally out to flirt with another man while looking so delectable was clearly torture for him.
Sally had worked her magic on him too. Instead of an attractive thirty-year-old, she’d made him look much older, with greying hair, a bushy fake mustache, and grizzled sideburns. A wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead disguised the top part of his face, and a lumpy greatcoat hid his athletic form.
“You’ll be placed in the store room or the dust room,” Luc said. “It’s closest to the back door. As soon as you’re sure Franks has locked up, push off the lid and get to work. The keys to the cabinet will be hanging on a hook in his office.”
Camille tucked a small brown paper-wrapped package down near her feet. “Don’t forget Brutus.” She leaned forward and gave Emmy a hug. “Bonne chance, ma chère. I have every faith in your skill, of course, but a little extra luck never hurt anyone. Now off you go.”
A flat-backed delivery cart was waiting outside, a raggedy urchin holding the horse’s bridle. Emmy and Sally placed the sarcophagus inside the wooden packing crate they’d prepared, and Emmy climbed back in, leaving the top half-off so she could breathe. Sally packed the rest of the crate with straw, then threw a woolen blanket over the whole thing to disguise it. The springs rocked as Luc climbed onto the front seat and took the reins.
“Let’s go.”
Emmy braced herself as the cart lumbered out into the street and rattled over the cobbles. It was only a ten-minute ride from Waverton Street to Bloomsbury, but she felt every bruising jolt and teeth-rattling bump. She was going to be a mass of bruises by tomorrow.
It was uncomfortably warm beneath the blanket, and dark. The sounds of London were muffled, almost dreamlike, and her mind began to wander. What kind of life was this? Other women were getting ready for a walk in Hyde Park, or preparing for an evening of entertainment. They were out there enjoying themselves, flirting, trying to find a partner. How on earth was she ever going to meet someone when all she did was sneak around mostly abandoned buildings? The only single men she was likely to encounter in her near future were police constables and jailors.
Or Bow Street Runners.
She banished the thought.
Frustration bubbled within her. She wasn’t just trapped in this stupid crate, she was trapped in this stupid life—bound by her father’s legacy and by Danton’s greedy demands. The only way out of it was to see the blasted thing through to the end. This sarcophagus could serve as a fitting metaphor for her life; the painted facade on the outside bore no resemblance to the person beneath, just as the image she presented to the ton was nothing like reality.
Was it too much to wish for a normal, relatively uneventful life? A life with a home and a husband and, God willing, children? She couldn’t see it happening. Marriages should be based on trust. She would rather die an old maid than enter into a lifelong union with untruths between herself and her husband. How could she marry a man if he knew only the lies she’d told him? And what man would marry her if he knew the truth? Her dream to find a man who knew every one of her flaws, all her past misdemeanors, and who loved her anyway, was impossible.
A corner away from Russell Street Luc pulled the carriage to a halt, turned in his seat, and flicked aside the blanket. Emmy blinked in the sudden onslaught of daylight.
“Time to put the lid on,” he said cheerfully.
He slid the sarcophagus closed, and Emmy heard him push the top of the wooden crate into place overhead. She tried to regulate her breathing as he pulled up at the back entrance to the museum and went to summon the curator.
Her heart sounded unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. She forced herself to think of wide, open spaces, long fields of wheat rippling to the horizon.
“I was not expecting any sort of delivery.” Franks’s confusion was evident in his brusque tone. “Where did you say this had come from?”
Luc, who could emulate Sally’s East End accent perfectly, pulled out a sheaf of crumpled papers from his greatcoat; Emmy heard them rustle. “I told yer, guvn’r. Blackwall docks. Ship called the Zenobia just come from Alexandria. Captain ordered me to bring this ’ere box straight to a Mister Franks at the British Museum.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of a bequest from a lord—who did you say it was?”
“Lord Burlington, sir. Least, that’s wot this ’ere paper says. Been working with a chap called Belzoni out there in Egypt, diggin’ up all kinds o’ moldy stuff.”
“How odd. Do you know what it is?”
Luc sniffed. “A
’gyptian sarco—scarc-uh—a coffin, sir.”
Emmy could practically hear Franks’s curiosity get the better of him. Luc’s casual mention of the infamous archaeologist Giovanni Belzoni was a stroke of genius. Franks would be intrigued.
She gave a mental shake of the head at his gullibility. Honestly, hadn’t the man ever read about the Trojan horse? The classics were full of pithy warnings like “beware of messengers bearing gifts.” Luc’s Lord Burlington was entirely fictitious; a glance at Debrett’s last night had confirmed the title had died out with the last earl ten years ago.
But people were always impressed with aristocratic titles. Emmy wrinkled her nose. Just look at Harland, he was a prime example. He might be the Earl of Melton, but a fancy title didn’t change his core nature—that of irritatingly handsome cynic.
Franks, however, clearly subscribed to the maxim: Never look a gift horse in the mouth. “A sarcophagus, you say. How marvelous. Well, you’d better bring it in, then.”
“Can’t ’elp you there, guv’,” Luc said with cheerful regret. “Me back’s gone, see? Can’t lift anyfink ’eavier than a tankard o’ beer. That’s why I drives a cart, see?”
Franks sighed. “Oh, very well. You there, lad.” He was obviously calling to one of the many urchins loitering in the street. “Give me a hand with this crate.”
Emmy braced herself as she was slid off the back of the cart. She prayed whoever was helping Franks wouldn’t drop her—not only would that be extremely painful, but the game would most certainly be up if she spilled out of the sarcophagus. She swayed and bobbed, then her feet tilted upwards as she was carried up some steps, and then she was righted with a bump as the crate was, presumably, deposited on a table inside the museum.
The darkness lifted as Luc or Franks removed the outer lid of the crate. Pinpoints of light freckled her face.
“My goodness, that is extraordinary,” she heard Franks breathe. “I do believe it’s Middle Kingdom. Just look at that painted decoration!”
Emmy held her breath as something touched the lid of the sarcophagus, but Luc stepped in to avert disaster.
“If that’s all, sir, I’ll be goin’. Got myself an appointment wiv’ a laydee, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, no, of course,” Franks said distractedly. He bustled away from the case. “Here’s for your trouble. And my goodness, what time is it? I, too, am meeting a lady.”
“Ten to five, sir,” Luc said. “Sounds like we’d both best be off. Don’t do to keep a woman waitin’.”
“No, no, you’re quite right.” Franks gave one more longing sigh. “I suppose this can wait until morning.”
“That’s the spirit. Ain’t no dead ’gyptian more interesting than a handful o’ live muslin, now is there? Whatever poor bugger’s in there, he’ll still be dead tomorrow.” Luc cackled at his own joke, then turned it into an impressive fit of coughing. Emmy silently congratulated him on his performance. He really did sound as though he were a frail sixty-year-old cab driver with bad lungs.
With a wash of relief, she heard the scuffles and footfalls of the men fade away. A door clicked. She waited an extra few minutes, just to be sure she was alone, then pushed aside the lid and took a grateful gulp of cool, fresh air.
She was in.
Chapter 10.
After a brief glance around, Emmy deduced her location—the mysteriously named “dusting room,” beneath the northeast stairwell. It seemed to be a storeroom. A bizarre array of items in various stages of restoration sat on wooden benches and shelves. A glassy-eyed taxidermy zebra head gave her a reproachful glare as she stretched her arms above her head to relieve her cramps. She stuck her tongue out at it. At least she wasn’t stuffed and mounted on a shield.
Not yet, at least.
She climbed out of the box, glad that she was wearing her usual thieving attire of shirt, breeches, and stockings. She envied the men of this world; breeches were far more practical than acres of billowing skirts and petticoats.
Camille had designed the outfit. Emmy might be a thief, so practicality was tantamount, but there was no reason she could not also be stylish. According to Camille, black, while slimming, was “not at all the thing,” despite being a great favorite with highwaymen. Brown was not to be considered; “Not with your complexion, darling.”
So Emmy wore midnight blue for her nocturnal adventures. Dark enough to disappear into the shadows, flattering to dark hair and grey eyes. Father had approved, as had Luc, so Emmy had bitten back the sarcastic retort that nobody would care what she was wearing when they clapped her in irons and put a rope around her neck.
The one piece of Father’s advice Emmy had failed to follow was his moratorium on soap. He’d warned her to bathe only in hot water and to eschew powder and scent before a job, but Camille had disagreed. She said a woman was “as good as naked” if she left the house without perfume.
Emmy smiled in fond memory. For her sixteenth birthday, Camille had taken her to Floris, her favorite parfumier in St. James’s. She’d helped Emmy choose her own customized scent, a combination of peony, rose, neroli, and orchid. Emmy had felt so grown-up. She’d worn the same perfume ever since; each spray was an extra layer of invincibility, of feminine armor.
It was time to get to work.
A door led into Franks’s office and Emmy smiled in triumph as she spied the perfectly labelled row of cabinet keys mounted on the wall. She pocketed cabinet 4A—Rocks and Minerals.
Thieving was an odd profession, rather like being a soldier, she imagined. It consisted of long periods of boredom interspersed with brief moments of terrifying activity. She waited an extra ten minutes, just to be certain that Franks had really gone to meet Sally, and then untied the brown paper packet Camille had given her. She cracked open the door that led into the main wing of the museum and whistled.
“Brutus! Here, boy!”
The rhythmic click of canine claws scrabbling on polished wooden floor ensued, and Emmy kept her body behind the door, using it as a shield. Thus far, her acquaintance with Brutus had been conducted with the confidence-inducing iron bars of the museum’s garden railings between them.
A low growl made her insides curdle as the huge dog skidded around the corner. He was fearsome, some kind of hound, a Doberman perhaps? Black and tan, with pointy ears and a full complement of extremely sharp teeth. He looked like the jackal-headed deity painted on her sarcophagus.
Emmy wasn’t a fan of any dog larger than a dachshund. A dachshund she could outrun or escape by climbing on a chair. Brutus was a good seven stone of pure muscle. She doubted the door could stop him.
The beast stopped a few paces away and regarded her suspiciously.
“Hello, Brutus, my lovely,” she cooed. “It’s only me. Your friend Emmy. The one who brings you tasty presents.” She produced a strip of steak from her package and threw it toward the dog’s front paws. “Look what I’ve brought for you today.”
Brutus bent his head and sniffed the steak.
“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” Emmy coaxed. “Of course you are. Men are always hungry.” At least, Luc always was.
Brutus finally recognized her. His entire demeanor changed, and Emmy sagged in relief. With a bark of welcome, he gulped down the steak and trotted forward, his tail wagging expectantly. She opened the door and gave him another steak, careful to keep her fingers well away from his snapping jaws.
“Good boy!” She breathed shakily. If only all large, intimidating males of her acquaintance could be subdued in such a manner. She set off down the corridor toward the main staircase with Brutus, either hopeful of more steak or having appointed himself her temporary guardian, trotting at her heels.
The blue diamond was in exactly the same place as it had been earlier, and Emmy reached inside her pocket and produced the Nightjar’s signature black feather.
The small handwritten card she’d also brought was doubtless a mistake. She could hear her father’s voice in her mind: Just steal the jewel—only
the jewel—and get out. This note would break the rules. It would bring all sorts of complications. But some wicked imp compelled her. She simply couldn’t resist.
Emmy unlocked the cabinet, lifted the hinged lid, slipped the blue diamond into her shirt pocket, and replaced it with the feather. Then she studied the rest of the rocks, searching for the perfect one with which to tease Alexander Harland.
Obsidian, volcanic glass? She bent to read the description. An igneous rock. Derived from the Latin ignis, meaning fire, formed by the solidification of lava. Alex Harland certainly raised her temperature by a few hundred degrees, but that wouldn’t do. The comparison was far too flattering.
She glanced at the next lump. Granite? A hard stone. His eyes were certainly hard—glittering and accusatory. His heart, at least where women were concerned, was doubtless just as petrified. His thighs, and the muscles of his chest—Stop that. No, he was not granite. Granite was common, and there was nothing common about Harland.
What about amber? The name came from the Greek word elektron, because it held a static charge. Father had shown her the trick of rubbing an amber bead against her hair and then using the charged stone to pick up a torn-off scrap of tissue paper, as if by magic. Alex Harland exerted the same invisible pull on her. She felt that static shock, that quick snap of awareness when their eyes met, when his body brushed hers. She shivered.
At the next rock she paused, read the description, and quelled the desire to giggle like a lunatic. Oh, that was perfect! She withdrew the official museum card and replaced it with her own. What she wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when Harland saw what she’d done.
Luc would be furious at her for taunting their nemesis in such a manner, but if one couldn’t have a bit of fun in life, what was the point?
Brutus followed her as she relocked the cabinet, slipped back down the stairs, replaced the key in Franks’s office, and straightened the lid of the sarcophagus.
It was always far simpler to leave a building than to enter one. With one last pat for Brutus, Emmy used a statue of Cupid and Psyche embracing to reach the clasp of a window and pulled herself up and through, dropping the few feet into the back alley that led to Montagu Place.