Beyond Compare

by Candace Camp

  “What is the matter, John?”

  “There is a man here, a foreign man.”

  Kyria’s interest was instantly aroused. She noticed that the footman had not called their visitor a “gentleman.” She glanced over at Rafe and saw that his attention, too, had been caught by the word foreign.

  “He is in the blue parlor,” John went on. “He wanted to see His Grace, but your father left strict instructions not to be disturbed.”

  Kyria could well imagine that her father, after the events of the past few days, had probably locked himself in his workshop and would not come out until supper, if then.

  “Her Grace said that you would deal with the matter when you came home. I told the visitor that it would be some time before you returned, but he insisted on waiting for you. So I placed him in the blue parlor.”

  His placement was another indication of the footman’s evaluation of their visitor; he had put the visitor in the smallest, least-formal parlor. Something about the footman’s tone told Kyria that the footman had doubtless kept a careful eye on the room ever since and would also subject the visitor to a thorough scrutiny as he left.

  “Very well, I will see him. Thank you, John.” She started down the hall, unsurprised to find that Rafe accompanied her.

  The man she found sitting on the green-velvet love seat waiting for her was short and olive-skinned, with large doe eyes set in a round face. His black hair was slicked back from his face, somewhat offsetting the babyish effect of his large eyes and full cheeks. The air was filled with the musky scent of his cologne.

  He rose as Kyria and Rafe entered the room and beamed at them. Kyria noticed that his practiced smile did not reach his eyes, which remained shrewd and assessing. He was well dressed in a brown, European-style suit, and beside the sofa on which he had been sitting stood a black, gold-topped cane. Gold rings sparkled on three of his fingers, one of them centered by a blood-red ruby. It matched the ruby that twinkled in the midst of his golden brown silk ascot.

  “Ah, Lady Moreland, please forgive my intrusion,” he said in good, if rather heavily accented English and bowed toward her. “I am Youssef Habib.”

  “How do you do?” Kyria responded politely.

  He cast a curious glance at Rafe, who, in his American way, stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

  “I beg your pardon for not writing for an appointment,” Habib went on. “But I had urgent business with your father.”

  “I am sorry, but the duke is not seeing anyone today,” Kyria replied. “So I am afraid that you have wasted your time.”

  “It is a matter of the utmost importance,” the man told her earnestly.

  “Perhaps you would like to explain the matter to me,” Kyria said. “I will see that my father receives your message.”

  “I am a dealer in precious objects, my lady,” Habib told her. “Ornaments and vases, pottery of all sorts, statues, boxes—all of great antiquity. Word has reached me of an object in your father’s possession, an ivory box, inscribed with scenes.”

  One of Kyria’s eyebrows shot up. “Word has reached you? How, may I ask?”

  “When one has been a dealer for as long as I have, my lady, one hears things,” he said, making a vague gesture. “It is said that not long ago, a box such as this turned up in a shop in an Istanbul bazaar. Later, this box disappeared from the shop—at the same time the owner of the shop was murdered.”

  Kyria stiffened and the freezing look she turned on the antiquities dealer would have done her great-aunt Lady Rochester proud. “You are suggesting that my family has something to do with theft and murder?”

  “No, no, my lady,” the man hastened to assure her. “Of course, your father would have had no notion, I am sure, of what happened. But there are others who are not so scrupulous. Certain dealers in antiquities do not question where an item comes from.”

  “And what does this have to do with my father? Or with you, Mr. Habib?”

  “As I mentioned, my lady,” the man continued in an obsequious manner guaranteed to raise Kyria’s hackles, “I learned that your esteemed father now has this box. I would be very interested in acquiring it from him. You see, I have a client who collects such things, and he has expressed a desire for this box. So you see, if I could just speak with your father and look at—”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Habib, but I am afraid that you have wasted your time,” Kyria said. “My father has no interest in selling any of his possessions.”

  “If I could just speak to the duke…” Habib tried again, but Kyria cut him off quickly.

  “The duke is not receiving visitors,” Kyria said flatly, standing up and going over to ring for the footman.

  “My client would be willing to pay top price for the item, I assure you,” the man continued, following Kyria.

  Rafe stepped in front of Mr. Habib. “The lady said no.”

  “Ah, John,” Kyria said as the footman entered the room. “Mr. Habib’s business is finished here. If you will see him to the door…”

  “Certainly, my lady.” John stepped forward, looking happy to comply with her order.

  “Of course, my lady. Thank you for your time,” Mr. Habib said, with another smile that did not quite ring true. “But please, in case your father might change his mind…” He whipped a card out of his pocket and scribbled something on the back of it. “Here is my card, and on it, I have taken the liberty of writing my address while I am in London. I shall be here a few more weeks, and I would very much like to hear from your father.”

  Kyria took the card, and Habib left the room, followed by John. Kyria turned to Rafe, her brows lifting. “That was interesting.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Rafe agreed. “What does his card say?”

  “‘Y. Habib, Beirut and Istanbul,” Kyria read, then handed it to Rafe. “At least I can read this one—it’s in French. He wrote the name of an inn in London on the back.”

  “Wonder how he knew so quickly where that box is,” Rafe commented, glancing at the card and giving it back to her.

  “I would say the easiest way would be if he was the man who killed Mr. Kousoulous.” A shiver ran down Kyria’s spine as she expressed the thought. Had she been conversing with a killer?

  “Could be. Of course, I guess he could have followed Kousoulous—or the man who killed him—and the path led here.”

  “One thing I know is that Theo would never have had anything to do with a stolen artifact,” Kyria said firmly.

  “I wonder how much Habib really knows about the box,” Rafe mused. “He didn’t give a terribly detailed description of it.”

  “Yes, and he assumed it was sent to Papa, not me. Nor did he mention Theo or the man who brought it here.”

  “I suppose it’s possible that he was fishing for information, maybe even hoping to get a look at the thing.”

  “Well,” Kyria said, her eyes determined, “it makes me even more eager to talk to this expert of Papa’s.”

  * * *

  Kyria and Rafe started out for Dr. Jennings’s home two days later. Her father had sent a messenger to his colleague, asking him to see them on Wednesday, and Jennings had scribbled back a very brief reply on the same notepaper the duke had used, saying that they could come.

  The night before they left, Kyria had had trouble sleeping. She had tossed and turned, and it had seemed that the more she ordered herself to go to sleep, the wider awake she grew.

  Finally, she had climbed out of bed and put on a dressing gown and slippers and gone down to the library to find a book. On the way, she passed her father’s study, and as she did so, she paused, then changed her mind and went into the study. What she really wanted, she knew, was to look at the ivory box again.

  Since the late Mr. Kousoulous had brought the reliquary to her, she had gone every day to her father’s collections room to look at the ivory box. There was something so compelling about its beauty that she kept coming back to it. She had found herself sitting with it for several minutes at a time,
just staring at it. She felt, frankly, a little foolish, and she wondered if this was the way her father felt about his acquisitions.

  She went to the top drawer of her father desk and pulled out the small key that lay inside, hidden beneath a sheaf of writing paper. Though her father kept the collections room locked against the unlikely possibility of a burglary, he did not mind anyone in the family going in to look at his artifacts, and his wife and children were all well aware of where he kept the keys. She picked up the small key and unlocked the middle drawer, then took out the ring of keys inside it.

  She walked down the hall to the collections room, unlocked the door and went inside, turning on the gas lamp on the wall. She made her way around the various statues and over to the far wall, where her father had locked away the ivory box.

  Kyria unlocked the door of the display case and opened it, taking out the artifact. The ivory felt cool in her hands, and she rubbed her hand over it caressingly, her fingertips seeking out the engravings.

  She sat down in a chair and put the box on the table, leaned her chin on her hand, elbow braced on the table, and studied the box. What lay inside it? She could not help but imagine some sort of treasure kept hidden from the world inside the beautiful container. She wondered if the years had destroyed what had lain within or if thieves had removed it or if it lay there still, waiting for someone to open the box and reveal it.

  She bent down close to the box, examining the black diamond. It was dark and fathomless, astounding in its sheer size, yet it was not the size of it alone that evoked wonder. Even crudely cut as it was, it held the lure of diamonds, the power and beauty that had attracted humans for centuries.

  Kyria traced the diamond with her fingertips, laying her head down on her arm on the table. She blinked, her eyelids drooping as she watched the reflection of the gas lamp behind her dance in the gem.

  * * *

  Light flickered in the dark stone, alive and twisting, reflecting from the small fire in the brazier. Smoke twisted in a thin plume upward. It was dim and cool, the thick walls warding off the blazing heat.

  She knelt, waiting. Dusk was falling and the time would soon be upon her. She could hear the chanting outside as the crowds grew in number and strength.

  The light of the torches played over the walls, casting eerie shadows. Her heart thudded, part fear and part anticipation. It would be soon now. Soon…

  * * *

  Kyria jerked awake. She sat up abruptly, looking around in confusion. Her heart was racing, and her breath came fast. It took her a moment to realize that she was sitting in her father’s collections room. The ivory box sat on the table in front of her.

  She drew in a shaky breath. What a strange dream! She had no idea where she had been in the dream or what had been happening. There had been such an eerie quality to it that it left her feeling frightened. Even as she tried to recall it, the details were already slipping away from her.

  Kyria pushed back from the table and picked up the reliquary. She stood looking down at it for a moment, rubbing her thumb thoughtfully over the black diamond. Then she shook her head, pulling her wandering thoughts back together and returned the box to the case, locking it behind her.

  * * *

  It was not far to Jennings’s home, a ride of no more than two or three hours. Normally, Kyria would have taken the family carriage, but Rafe preferred to ride, saying that he wanted to be outside where he could see an enemy approaching, not caught in a box on wheels, slow and blind. It was a trifle unusual, Kyria knew, to call on someone wearing her riding habit, but then, given that this man was a scholar like Papa, he probably would not even notice.

  The pleasant October weather held, the sun shining palely upon them as they rode. Kyria felt a trifle awkward around Rafe at first. She could not help but think about the kiss they had shared the other day. This was the first time they had been alone since that time, and they were in much the same situation. She glanced at Rafe, her heart beating a little more rapidly in her chest, and wondered if he, too, was thinking of their kiss. He looked over, as if he could feel her gaze on him, and their eyes locked. The very air between them seemed to thrum with tension.

  Then Rafe glanced away and the moment was broken. They rode in silence. Kyria kept her eyes turned away from him, too, letting her heart calm to its normal rate and her cheeks lose their flush. It was some minutes before she looked at him again.

  She noticed that Rafe’s eyes were constantly scanning their surroundings. It had been the same the other morning when they had ridden out. His watchfulness kept her mindful of the small bag that hung from her saddle. Inside, wrapped in velvet, was the reliquary, just as the stranger had brought it to her. Was it really so valuable that someone had killed Kousoulous for it? she wondered. And was the murder the work of the man who had visited two days ago? She imagined him waiting, hanging about the area, even watching the house, waiting for them to leave…

  Kyria gave herself a firm mental shake. She was working herself up into fear for no reason. Even if the dealer who had tried to buy the box from her was the man who had killed Kousoulous or had ordered his death, it was unlikely that he was still lurking around the estate, watching them.

  Gradually her nerves quieted down, and Kyria was able to enjoy the ride. The initial awkwardness between Rafe and her eased, and they rode along in easy silence for the most part, now and then chatting about Rafe’s visit to England and Ireland or about Stephen and Olivia and the peculiar events that had brought them together.

  It seemed a surprisingly short time before they reached the village of Upper Lapham, where Dr. Jennings resided. They left their horses at the inn’s stable and asked directions to Jennings’s place.

  A narrow, two-story cottage, Jennings’s home was almost completely covered in ivy, so that the brown brick was visible in only a few places. A tiny, neglected yard separated it from the street.

  Rafe stepped to the door and rapped the knocker. The sound met with silence from within. Rafe knocked again, louder this time. They waited, but again there was no answer. Rafe looked over at Kyria, then reached up and banged once again on the door.

  Above them on the second floor, a window was flung up, and a man’s voice shouted, “Stop that! Go away!”

  Startled, Rafe and Kyria looked up to see a man sticking his head out of the window just to the right of the door. He had a head of bushy black hair, into which a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles had been shoved back, and the lower part of his face was hidden by a beard equally bushy and black. He scowled down at them.

  “Dr. Jennings?” Rafe began pleasantly.

  “Go away!” the man repeated, then pulled his head back inside the window and slammed it shut.

  Kyria and Rafe looked at each other.

  “Well,” Rafe said, “not exactly a friendly soul, is he?”

  “Papa said Dr. Jennings replied to his note. He should be expecting us,” Kyria said, then added, “Papa did say he was a trifle odd.”

  “If by odd, he means disagreeable, then I’d say this is our fellow.”

  Rafe turned back to the door and reapplied himself to the brass knocker. After a few moments, the window above them crashed open again.

  “Stop that infernal racket! I’m trying to work!” The same man appeared above them, leaning out the window. “I told you to go away.”

  “But you are expecting us!” Rafe said quickly, before the man drew back into the room again.

  “Dr. Jennings? My father sent you a letter,” Kyria explained. “The Duke of Broughton. I am Lady Kyria Moreland.”

  “Broughton!” The man glowered at them. “Impossible. He said you were coming on the twenty-sixth.” He started to pull back in.

  “Today is the twenty-sixth,” Kyria said.

  “Nonsense!” Dr. Jennings looked at her darkly. “Today is the twenty-fifth. It says right here on my calendar…” He pulled back into the room. A moment later, his head reappeared. “Are you saying that today is Tuesday?”

&n
bsp; “Yes, sir,” Kyria responded.

  “Damn!” Jennings grimaced, then said, “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

  “Then you will see us?” Kyria asked, giving him the sort of smile that she knew few men could resist.

  Dr. Jennings seemed immune to the force of her smile, for he continued to frown. Finally, he sighed and said, “All right. All right. For Broughton’s sake. Good chap, excellent scholar,” he went on, apparently giving his highest encomium, adding dampeningly, “even if he is a duke.”

  He disappeared again, closing the window, and after a few moments they heard the lock turning in the door, and Dr. Jennings opened it. Although it was afternoon, he was wearing what was clearly a nightgown with a dressing gown belted over it and velvet house slippers on his feet. His hair, on closer inspection, contained not only a pair of spectacles shoved up from his nose, but also a pencil, which was thrust into the bushy mass over one ear.

  “Come in, come in,” he said gruffly. “You’re letting in the cold.” He led them back through the small house, passing two rooms, both with books and papers piled high on every surface. There was no fire lit in either of the rooms, and the house was chilly.

  He led them into his study, and here was the warmth that the remainder of the cottage was missing, for a fire burned merrily in the grate. The scholar picked up a pile of books from two chairs and moved them closer to his desk.

  “Here. Here. Sit down. Tea? Damned housekeeper took off. Beg your pardon, my lady. But I could see about getting us a pot of tea.” He glanced about vaguely, as if a teapot might appear somewhere in the room.

  “No, thank you, we’re fine,” Kyria assured him. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time than we have to.”

  “Right in the middle of research,” Jennings said by way of agreement, nodding. “What was it Broughton said? Now where is that letter?” He began to paw through the papers on his desk. “A Byzantine reliquary, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Kyria opened the drawstring bag and reached inside, pulling out the ivory box and unwrapping it. “Or at least, that is what Papa thinks it is. He was hoping that you could tell us more about it.”