by Lara Temple
He lay down carefully and her mouth lost some of its tension as she tugged at his sleeve.
‘You needn’t live up to your name by clinging to the edge. This isn’t the cot on the Lark. There is plenty of room.’
He smiled in the dark, thanking the gods Sam didn’t know how to hold a grudge, no matter how justified. He moved closer to her warmth, still feeling peculiarly tentative despite the banked fire in his body. He laid a hand on her shoulder and realised with dismay that she was shaking.
‘Sam?’
‘Oh, no. I just realised!’
‘What is it? Sam, are you cry—? Are you laughing?’
‘Bunny!’
She was laughing.
‘My sweet, fluffy bunny,’ she cooed, her hand feathering down his chest, his nerves leaping in its wake.
‘Don’t call me that...’ Ending on a groan, it wasn’t quite the pre-emptory statement he’d wanted to make.
‘Bunny...’ she murmured again, pressing kisses to his throat, her laughing breath spreading over his skin like sun-warmed silk. ‘Warm. Cuddly. Bunny.’
How the devil did she make something so humiliating sound so erotic?
‘Stop it, Sam.’
He was filling with unbearable fire, any second now he would go up in flames like a paper lantern.
‘Should I, Edge? Should I stop?’ She dropped her hands to her sides, brushing them over the bed instead, the fabric hissing under her fingertips.
‘Damn it, call me whatever you want, just don’t stop.’
She laughed and turned back to him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled it upwards.
‘Anything you say, my adorable, fluffy bunny...’
* * *
‘Wake up! Goodness, you sleep like a log.’
Edge groaned, trying to cling to the image of Sam dancing in the middle of a lush garden, her scarves floating away one by one as she came closer... He reached for her. She could at least atone for interrupting such a promising beginning.
‘Wake up or I shall have Inky wake you!’
That shattered the marvellous dream.
‘Don’t you dare!’
She laughed, bouncing on the side of the bed. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. Her bouncing once annoyed him to no end. Right now he didn’t mind in the least if she would only bounce a little closer.
‘I’m awake. Now make it worth my while to remain awake.’
‘My uncle sent a note.’
He sat up so abruptly he cracked his skull on the headboard.
‘Blast. What does it say?’
‘It is addressed to you. I do not open other people’s correspondence,’ she said primly. He reached for the sealed paper she held, but then thought better of it. Trust.
‘Read it.’
Her bouncing stilled. After a moment she broke the seal and read aloud.
‘“You are in luck, Lord Edward. A man resembling the description of your brother, accompanied by a younger man, was spotted at the Ship and Kettle in Shoreditch, speaking with a Mr Geoffrey Pettifer two mornings ago.
“Not a reliable person, Pettifer owns Pettifer’s World of Wonders on Piccadilly, which is apparently a museum of curios with a strong emphasis on the Egyptian and the Oriental. Currently his most successful crowd-pleasers are Mummy Unwrappings—he acquired a shipment of mouldering mummies lately from Egypt, and the hoi polloi pay a princely sum to witness him unpeel them.
“At the time our viewer was not aware of our interest in your brother and only made note of the discussion because the trio struck him as out of place in the Ship and Kettle. Since then he has been told to be aware and report. I have also requested someone keep a watch on Mr Pettifer. Discreetly.
“I am hopeful other avenues will produce something rather more conclusive, but for the moment this is the most tangible trail”.’
She held out the note.
‘He never signs his notes, though one could never mistake his handwriting for anyone else’s. This is good news, isn’t it? In a way? At least you know he has recently been in London. Have you ever heard of this Pettifer?’
‘No. Nor do I particularly wish to. Damn Rafe! I beg your pardon.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Edge. I learned to curse before you did.’
‘Sometimes I think you were born cursing, Sam. At least you have moderated a little.’
‘So have you. A little. There is, perhaps, hope for you yet.’
She smiled. The sky was as clear a blue outside the window as the Egyptian sky in winter. Her eyes had that colour in them, caught between a darker blue rim and Atlantic grey. He wanted very much to trust that this current would take him somewhere safe. Or drown him. He had no idea any longer.
‘Shall we visit Mr Pettifer?’ She laid her hand palm up on the bed, more a question than a request, and he took it. He wanted to ask again if he was truly forgiven, but he still had enough sense to keep quiet.
‘Good. Now, what does one wear to visit a World of Wonders on Piccadilly?’
Chapter Thirteen
‘You must turn back Gabriel’s ship!’ Leila cried, but Khonsu shook his head.
‘It cannot be done. His dreams are tangled in the flow of Anuket’s river like a fishing net among the reeds.’
—Temple of the River God,
Desert Boy Book Two
Mr Pettifer was not quite what Sam had expected.
Or rather, not quite what the advertisement outside the halls of Mr Pettifer’s World of Wonders depicted. Unlike the impressive figure clasping a writhing dragon by the throat in one hand and a diamond the size of a small child in the other, Mr Pettifer stood only a couple of inches over five feet, with soft brown hair and even softer brown eyes filled with childlike wonder that enhanced rather than detracted from his impact.
He was speaking to a dour man who scuttled off as they approached, rather in the manner of a publican hurrying to hide his stores of smuggled brandy upon the entrance of an excise officer.
Mr Pettifer on the other hand assessed their clothes with a swift glance that showed both interest and caution, but when his gaze moved from Sam to Edge his eyes widened, giving his round face the look of a startled but still appealing sheep.
‘Goodness!’ he exclaimed.
‘You look discomfited, Mr Pettifer,’ Edge said and Mr Pettifer’s downy face reddened, but already Sam could see him recover his balance, a wide, welcoming, and wholly practised smile of invitation taking front and centre stage.
‘Not at all, not at all. I was merely momentarily struck by your resemblance to a man I once met, sir. You know what they say. Everyone has a twin somewhere and in my occupation I meet a great many people.’
‘Indeed. You find me curious, Mr Pettifer. Tell me about this twin of mine.’
But Pettifer was not to be pressed into a corner by so direct an approach.
‘Dear me, dear me, there is nothing to tell, sir. A mere acquaintance. A passing one at that. I’m afraid you have strayed a little—the theatre is down that corridor and the unwrapping does not begin for half an hour. You are more than welcome to visit the exhibits while you wait. I particularly recommend the Burmese Dragon and the Angel of Kathmandu—our most sought-after attractions and utterly unique.’
‘We are not interested in your attempts to defraud the gullible public, Pettifer. We are here for information.’
Pettifer held firm to his smile, his gaze slithering past them down the empty corridor. But then he gave a little sigh.
‘Naturally I shall be happy to assist you if at all possible, Mr...?’
Edge ignored the prompt.
‘Good, then you can begin by informing me where and under what circumstances you met this doppelgänger of mine?’
‘This...what?’
‘The man who looks like me.’
‘But, my very dear sir, there is nothing to tell. We merely chanced to share a table and a tankard of ale at a crowded public house, talked of the unseasonably cool weather and then each went about our business.’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Pettifer. You see, the man you speak of does not care for ale.’
Mr Pettifer appeared even more thrown by this statement than by Edge’s resemblance to his drinking companion.
‘He does not?’
‘No. When you choose to lie, try not to lie about matters of no consequence, they tend to undermine your credibility regarding more serious matters.’
Sam pressed her lips together. Sometimes Edge’s pedantry was useful. Mr Pettifer’s doe-like brown eyes darted about the room.
‘It was whisky, then.’
‘Thank you. Was it only the two of you?’
Edge sighed and raised his hand as Pettifer’s lips parted. ‘You are about to lie. Please do not. There was another person there as well.’
Pettifer cleared his throat.
‘Yes, there was a, ah, young man with him.’
‘Good. Now, what did you discuss? The truth, please. I do not wish to cause trouble, but I will be delighted to recommend excise officers have a closer look at the next shipments you receive.’
Mr Pettifer’s brows and hands danced up and down.
‘No need, no need for that. Not that there is anything at all of interest to the excise officers, I assure you, nothing at all. But still, the bother, you see. So tedious. There is nothing much to tell you, after all. Mr Grey—’
‘Mr Grey?’
‘That was the name he gave. As I said, he and the, ah, young man wanted news of Mr Osbourne, the fellow who arranged the shipment of my marvellous mummies. Unfortunately, the last I had heard of him was the note accompanying the mummies assuring me he was in the process of procuring a treasure that would secure his fortune. I’m afraid I did not set much store by his promise as Mr Osbourne was not always reliable. Why, once I did not hear from him for two whole years and then up he pops with the most fascinating specimen of a primordial dragon you could have hoped for. It is still one of my most popular displays. That is, until the mummies began arriving. I am unwrapping one in half an hour. Did you see the crowd gathering? At three shillings per person...and then there are the restoratives on sale for those who faint...’ His gaze sailed away into far pleasanter scenery of shillings and pounds and he sighed happily. ‘Do stay and watch. I am hoping at least for some scarab amulets wrapped into the linen. The ladies are particularly fond of them.’
Sam touched Edge’s sleeve at the audible creak as he ground his teeth and he breathed in and out very slowly.
‘Did he say how to contact him should you hear news of Mr Osbourne?’
‘He did, sir. In such an eventuality, I am to place an advertisement in The Times requesting Mr G. contact Mr P. and then watch the advertisements the following day for instructions. A very straightforward man, Mr Grey.’
‘And do you intend to comply with his request?’
‘Ah, were that it was merely a request. It was rather more in the nature of a royal decree. He is a big man, your Mr Grey. I would see he has an inch or so on you and you are a most formidable fellow yourself, sir. I am a peaceable man and prefer not to antagonise giants. Naturally should Mr Osbourne appear I will insert said advertisement.’
Edge nodded and took a strip of paper from the desk, scrawling a direction on it.
‘Should you hear of anything—Osbourne, Mr Grey...anything—send word to this solicitor’s office. And should you breathe a word of this to anyone I will tear this vulgar little circus down about your ears. Understood?’
Pettifer’s eyes widened, an appreciative look brightening his gaze, as if the dramatic image of Edge singlehandedly toppling his kingdom, rather like an enraged Samson, appealed to him.
‘My understanding is excellent, I assure you, sir.’
‘Good, we’re done here. For now.’
He strode towards the door, but Sam turned to Pettifer.
‘Why did you keep emphasising the words “young man”?’
Mr Pettifer smiled. ‘I see you are a lady of insight. You might think me a fraud, but I am merely a man who knows how to provide a good show and I know when I am watching one. That was no young man—she might have some experience acting as one, but she is past the age where she can do so credibly. And the resemblance, though not marked, is there. Unless I am very much mistaken your...ah... Mr Grey was in the company of Osbourne’s daughter. Now I must rush or the masses will become restive and that is not good for the accounts. Do stay. I shall even waive your cost of admission.’
With that Parthian shot he hurried off. Edge’s glare following him as he took Sam’s arm.
‘Little weasel. Come, let’s go.’
‘Not yet. I wish to see the unwrapping.’
‘Good God, you cannot be serious!’
‘I am most serious. I am curious about this man and I want to see him at his trade, as he put it. At the moment he is the only link to your brother and his peculiar activities. The most sensible thing is to examine him as minutely as if he were one of Poppy’s antiquarian finds or one of Huxley’s embalmed monstrosities.’
‘He might be a snake, but I have no wish to dissect him, nor do I want to spend the afternoon crushed between fainting matrons and gaping layabouts while someone’s body is desecrated for their base entertainment.’
‘Poppy has unwrapped mummies.’
‘To my knowledge he only did so twice and has long since desisted. I told him at the time I thought it thoroughly disrespectful of a culture we otherwise esteem. If someone went around the English countryside digging up graves and pulling out bodies...’
Sam had never seen that look on Edge’s face before. The hard, handsome carapace cracked for the briefest moment, vivid pain turning his eyes from ice to molten lead. It slashed through her and without thinking she pressed her palm to his cheeks, but he drew back just as swiftly.
‘Don’t. I don’t want your pity.’
‘It isn’t pity, Edge...’
‘I said don’t! If you wish to stay, stay. I’ll be in the carriage.’
Sam wanted to rush after him and hug him. Or rush after him and kick him. Well, she wouldn’t rush after him at all. As devastating as that glimpse of his pain was as he thought of his dead son, she was tired of having every gesture of affection or empathy that did not suit his particular mood flung back in her face.
If he wished to suffer alone, then let him suffer alone.
* * *
Not twenty minutes later Sam was regretting her stubbornness. Not that she would tell him so, but she really didn’t want to watch this.
The exhibition rooms were large and airy, painted in improbable pink and green and gold, and filled to the brim with exhibits that ranged from absurd to oddly impressive. But the theatre resembled paintings she had seen of a medical theatre, benches encircling a stage dominated by a long wooden table surrounded by smoking torches. A body lay on the table under a sheet, a landscape of white peaks and planes. It might have been deceased for hundreds of years, but there was something about this which was...wrong.
The crowd, however, evidently found the spectacle the peak of titillation. Mr Pettifer was, as he would be the first to admit, an expert at pacing his ‘Grand Reveal’. Despite her own distaste, Sam wished Edge was there after all because Pettifer’s presentation of Egyptian culture was so fantastical Sam found it hard not to laugh even as she squirmed at the thought of what was to come.
‘No wonder people swoon in here,’ a voice grumbled just beside her and Sam managed to just barely choke the small exclamation of relief at Edge’s appearance. It wouldn’t do to show him how grateful she was he’d relented.
Pettifer reached a pitch in his presentation, clasping the sheet shrouding the mu
mmy and with a practised flourish unveiled ‘The Horror’. The communal gasp was punctuated by a few highly satisfied shrieks, the benches creaking as people craned for a better view. Sam leaned back to allow a portly couple to shuffle down to gain a better view and Edge’s arm went about her waist, holding her against him.
‘Careful,’ he muttered, but he did not let her go and she remained there, her hip pressed against him, his hand on her waist. His voice was abrupt, but his hands were gentle, his hold as natural as if they did this every day, with just a quiver of tension as if he, too, was holding back from pulling her more firmly to him.
More likely it was just indignation about to boil over as Mr Pettifer launched into a reverberating speech about the dangers of the ‘Mummy’s Curse’ as he peeled away frayed strips of greyish-brown cloth. The crowd was quivering, too, though from a different kind of passion.
‘Look at them. It’s like feeding time in a barnyard,’ Edge grumbled, but his hand slipped further around her and she wondered if he was even aware of it. Probably not.
‘When was the last time you were in a barnyard? I think you’re just worried about the curse.’
‘If I believed in curses, I would wish it on the charlatan about to desecrate that poor mummy. I am more worried I will start cursing. Imagine anyone walking into your family’s crypt, taking out one of your ancestors and de-coffining him in front of a titillated audience. It’s obscene!’
The contrast between his words now and his reaction earlier in the corridor made her heart sink a little. He was determined to show her his emotional wall would not be breached again. Well, she could stick to form, too.
‘True. Though most Sinclairs were obscene even before they were buried. In fact, dying was probably their most valued contribution to the world.’
Another quiver ran through him, this time of suppressed laughter, and she relaxed a little, leaning more firmly against him. She wished Pettifer would get on with it—she was suddenly quite anxious to leave.
* * *
Edge felt the familiar mix of amusement and exasperation with Sam overtake his annoyance at the tittering crowd. Coupled with the feel of her body against him it made a potent brew—they gathered into a sensation almost of giddiness as warmth flowed upwards like the first signs of heatstroke. It was probably merely the smoke, the crowd, the shifting wood of the benches as people alternately craned and cowered. He didn’t like the thought that merely by pressing herself against him Sam could make him feel like the ground was quivering beneath his feet.