by Kitty Curran
You peer at the mysterious inscriptions. “What does it say?”
“Well, my dear, it seems that what we have here are directions.” Lady Evangeline turns to you, her sky-blue eyes shining. “It speaks of a temple in the middle of the desert. One lost to the rages of Hathor when she was transformed into Sekhmet, goddess of war, after witnessing the weakness of humankind and their love.”
“The lost Temple of Hathor!” you cry.
“Precisely. I have mapped out where this scroll says the site is. Though I must warn you, the journey is arduous. There may be sandstorms, bandits, and several varieties of poisonous snakes along the way.”
“Oh,” you say. You silently curse both your insatiable thirst for adventure and your burning loins.
With a roguish smile Lady Evangeline looks up from her papers. “We will need to leave right away. And pack quickly. And change our clothes into something more suitable.”
Suitable for facing down would-be murderesses? You frown.
“No need to worry. You may borrow mine.” She leads you to her room and throws a few garments made of sturdy material toward you before stalking behind the screen to change.
You inspect what she has given you and frown again, confused.
“But…my lady…these look like…”
“Breeches?” says Lady Evangeline, emerging from behind the screen clad in a scandalously tight pair of pants that cling to her every curve and a billowing man’s shirt. “Quite right. The most practical thing one can wear under the circumstances.”
“But surely these will cause a scandal wherever we go!” you cry.
Lady Evangeline stalks over to you and caresses your face. “Not where we are going, my dear. There, we shall fit right in.”
Go to this page.
“My lady,” you whisper urgently, “I think I need your assistance.”
Laughter dances in the blue depths of Lady Evangeline’s eyes. “Anything for you, my dear, for you have me entirely intrigued!”
“Good,” you say, “because I believe if I am to get to the bottom of this little, ah, escapade, I will need to investigate.”
“I see…,” says Lady Evangeline thoughtfully. “And how may I help you in this endeavor?”
“You seem to know something of this Mrs. Caddington’s associates. I was wondering if you knew any personally?”
Lady Evangeline raises an elegant eyebrow. “Well, I must confess that I do. However, as much as I admire your freewheeling, suspicion-following spirit, I’m not entirely sure that visiting the person—or their place of residence—is a good idea for a sheltered young woman.”
“Oh, out with it!” you cry, cheered by the company and the good brandy. “I may be a reasonably respectable woman, but I have lived long enough to know something of the world!” Admittedly, much of this bravado is the brandy.
If she notices, Lady Evangeline does not let on. Instead, she throws her head back and laughs. “Ah, my dear, you truly are a treasure. And I certainly admire your tenacity and determination.”
“So you will assist me?” you say. Lady Evangeline smiles warmly.
“Of course I will. If you wish to remain in England, I will always endeavor to assist you. Especially if it can help poor cousin Benny.”
“Oh, thank you!” you exclaim, hugging her in slightly tipsy delight. As Lady Evangeline embraces you warmly, however, a thought occurs to you.
“What do you mean, if I wish to remain in England?” you ask.
“Ah. Well. You see, my dear, I plan on taking a trip to Egypt. I am somewhat of a keen Egyptologist, and I have several dear friends in the country whom I made when my late husband was stationed there during the war. It is a long journey, and possibly an arduous one. I was looking for a companion for the expedition, one with a sense of adventure and initiative, who might be able to handle the rigors of journeying to a strange land.”
You stare at her, astonished at what you think she is implying.
“So, my dear, what do you say? Would you like me to assist you in your adventures in London, or would you like to assist me in my adventures in Egypt?”
Do you continue on your sleuthing journey to London? There is intrigue afoot and you must get to the bottom of it. Especially if it assists a man you feel somewhat sorry for, though you obviously don’t really care for him. Ahem. If so, turn to this page.
Abandon your sleuthing journey for some adventures in the land of the pharaohs with Lady Evangeline? Hell, yes. Turn to this page.
Your encounters with the villagers so far have been limited to a brief but memorable ride with Teddy Braithwaite, the handsome postman, a dinner with the folk at the inn, and occasional visits with the handsome vicar, the Reverend Simon Loveday.
You don’t know what you believe about the recent unbelievable events surrounding Lord Craven, but you do know that where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. And you hope that some more distant observers than the people you share a home with have a better idea how that fire started.
You cover much moorland with brisk, long strides and soon find yourself in the village of Ravenscar. Your face bears a healthy flush of good, honest exertion. Could it be that even spending time out of Hopesend has worked you some wonders?
“It’s really thee, i’n’t it, miss?” A sweet, low, gorgeous Yorkshire voice breaks your concentration, and you could not be happier. You turn and see, haloed by the late-day sun, none other than Teddy. “I’ve been wondering if tha were well, miss.”
You smile at him, but you are on a mission. “I am well as one can be, in my position,” you say firmly.
“I would think tha would be well in any position,” Teddy responds. And though you are sure his intentions are innocent, you find it very hard to ignore the thought of what positions you would like to try with him. “I’d hope I might see more of thee again.”
You demur—for the time being—and continue on. You arrive at the vicarage, and just as you raise a fist to rap upon the door, it swings open to reveal the handsome vicar, his fair hair positively glowing white in the setting sun.
“Let’s be naughty, shall we?” he says by way of greeting, offering up a plate of cold chicken. “It’s leftovers from the charity picnic. If anyone asks, I didn’t steal it. If God asks, let him know I already gave plenty to the poor, and his faithful servant mustn’t starve. Nor must his friends in Hopesend.” With a breezy laugh, he ushers you into his sweet and simple home.
Once you are settled with a picnic plate, he explains that he saw you coming down the hill some time ago. “Please forgive my little act of spying, my lady, but try as I might to be a loving shepherd to my faithful flock, there are times when a blue tit in flight proves more intriguing than the umpteenth damnation of Mr. Wilkie’s bunions. ‘If God exists, why must my bunions?’ This is Mr. Wilkie’s eternal prayer. He is quite fervent with it, and though I do not speak for God, I can only assume he is impressed. Oh, I am sorry. I only meant to say that your descent from Hopesend gave me much-needed interest and pleasure during my lovely church picnic. I did not have the slightest intention of putting you off your plate of stolen food with talk of bunions and blasphemy. Do forgive me, I am but a helpless wretch in the company of lovely young women who have done quite a bit of walking to see me.”
All you can do in response to this delightfully loquacious tirade is to laugh heartily and eat a bit of chicken.
“Good. Laughter is a positive sign. Laughter is prayer. And you, now here, are an answer to my prayer,” the vicar says, growing serious.
“And here I thought I would just journey down to steal some kitchen scraps,” you say in jest, but you grow curious at the sudden shift in his tone.
“My lady, I…I do not want to speak out of turn.” Unease worries the fine features of his face. “But I have been very concerned for you staying at Hopesend Manor. There has been much town gossip surrounding the death of Lady Blanche and H
elena. And though I put as much stock in it as Mr. Wilkie does his bunion-meting God, some of it has me worried.”
“Well, Reverend—”
“Simon, please.”
“Reverend,” you continue, and he smiles warmly at your impishness. “I journeyed here to speak with you on just that matter. I am concerned as well.”
“I have much to tell you,” he says, looking around furtively and setting down his plate of chicken. He leans close, so close you can smell his almost vivid cleanliness. His scent is that of crisp white bedsheets baked dry in the sun, in a field of freesia, touched with the barest bit of musk to make it all go heady. You almost swoon, but hold it together long enough to make out his final request.
“I can’t talk here, and I can’t talk now, but meet me tonight. In the eldritch garden. There is something I need to show you. It is something that you should see.”
For a moment his lips are so close to your ear, without actually touching it, that you can feel each nerve sparkle and flame.
Good God, indeed.
Do you decide to meet him, for mystery and alluring vicars are afoot? If so, turn to this page.
Or have you had enough of this gothic nonsense and wish to take up Teddy Braithwaite on his offer? If so, turn to this page.
Evangeline’s kisses are charged with a soft ferocity. All the adventure that has led to this moment seems at once vitally important and entirely inconsequential. Your life has been building to this instant and nothing else.
“Is all well, my darling?” Lady Evangeline pulls away, her mouth trembling and luscious, her hair tumbling and free.
“I am more well than I have ever been,” you respond, kissing her of your own accord. It feels like riding a horse for the first time, or like taking that fiery first-ever sip of wine. Like learning a language. Like something new and strange that you want forever. It feels like blissful freedom. You dare to reach out for a lock of her perfect, silken, golden curls and twine it around your wrist.
“I am tied to you,” you whisper, bringing the tendril to your nostril and breathing deeply the scent. “You smell like adventure.”
Lady Evangeline pulls you in for another kiss. “You speak in verse,” she laughs. “You are lucky I am as much a scholar of poetry as I am of ancient Egypt.”
“I am lucky,” you say. You take her hands in yours before tracing them down your sides. “You are also a scholar of love. I am inexperienced in many ways of this world. I need someone to teach me…everything.” Pressing her hands under yours, you slowly inch your ragged and desert-torn skirts up and over your shapely legs. Lady Evangeline shivers at the sight of your flesh. Bare skin on bare skin tingles.
“You are already a poor pupil. The least clever student would know it is pure scandal for man or woman alike to see even a lady’s bare ankles in public.” Lady Evangeline’s voice is low and husky with desire.
“How would you teach a wayward student intent on showing her bare thighs?” Now it is you shuddering in delight as you lift your skirts and watch as Lady Evangeline dips her lovely head to meet your spread legs with an ardent, educated, and fluent tongue.
“I have wanted this for so long,” she whispers after what could be minutes or hours of silken, shivering stimulation.
“I did not know how long I have wanted this,” you whisper back as you arch your back and release yourself from the lips of love. “Let me show you now, my lady, all I have learned—so far.”
You ease Lady Evangeline back, over a stack of camping supplies, and burn with desert heat with her every cry of pleasure.
Afterward, as you lie breathless in each other’s arms, you hear a distant rumble.
Venturing out into the bright sunshine, you are astonished to see a great tower rising from the sand, laden with exquisite carvings from every angle. The lost Temple of Hathor!
You gaze in triumph. Your love’s true happiness has managed to raise a mythic temple into this, the modern age! Leaning your head on Lady Evangeline’s shoulder, you sigh with happiness.
“Where to next, my darling?” she asks, a playful smile dancing about those full pink lips. Remembering where those lips were but a minute before, you cannot help but blush. “We do have a whole temple to excavate.”
The magnificent structure stands proudly in the desert, beautiful and powerful as Hathor herself.
“Kamal will be happy.”
Lady Evangeline kisses you gently, and the very gesture nearly makes you swoon. “He will be,” she agrees. “On the other hand, Damilola did suggest that we follow her merry band on a few more adventures before we study the lost—now found—Temple of Hathor. She thinks we may turn out to be useful. And I must confess, it does sound like fun.”
What will it be?
Do you decide to live a life of daredevilry with the fiercest of battle maidens—and the woman you love? Then turn to this page.
Or do you take a break from life-threatening situations in favor of a less perilous—but no less exciting—existence? Do you prefer to uncover ancient treasures in the temple, and beyond, with the love of your life? If so, turn to this page.
You race back to the castle. It is late, and the orphans are all tucked in bed in the Great Hall. However, Mrs. Ferguson, Jane, and Gertie should still be awake. You call out for them but are answered by eerie silence.
“Something is not right,” Ollie says, and he pulls out his pistol again. He motions to you and Mac, and you fall in behind them. Silently, you creep into the kitchen and find Mrs. Ferguson and Jane slumped facedown on the table. A couple glasses filled with blood-red wine stand next to them.
Ollie sniffs the contents and nods to you and Mac. “Drugged.” In the darkness, Mac takes your hand and squeezes it reassuringly. The gesture calms you somewhat, but a chill goes down your spine. Where is Gertie? And what has Abercrombie done with her?
As you venture upstairs, a single light shines from Abercrombie’s study. Ollie readies his pistol and Mac pulls out a vicious-looking dirk from the waistband of his kilt. You grab a poker from an abandoned fireplace nearby, and the three of you rush in…
…and stop dead in your tracks. You clutch Mac. There, slumped in his chair, is Abercrombie. His eyes stare glassily at the ceiling. His throat has been slit.
“But…how?” Ollie asks. Mac envelops you in a comforting embrace and shakes his head.
“I dinnae ken…,” he whispers, tears welling in his eyes.
You hear a whimper behind you. Startled, you spin around, poker at the ready, only to see little Timmy huddled in the corner with the ever-loyal Dodger.
“Oh, miss!” he sobs, hugging Dodger close.
“Timmy!” you cry, dropping the poker and rushing to comfort the child. He throws his arms around you, sobbing hot tears into your shoulder and clinging to you tightly.
“I-I couldn’t sleep, miss! So me and Dodger, we went hunting for the lost treasure!”
“Oh, Timmy,” you say as you hug the boy. “Did you see…Did you see what happened?”
“I-it was Gertie, miss!” Timmy manages to say between sobs. “She went into the room with Colonel Abercrombie, and they was arguing for a long time!”
You hug him even tighter. “Did you hear what they were arguing about, Timmy?”
“Only th-that sh-she thought she was being followed,” Timmy says, gasping through his tears. “She wanted to stage an accident, for you and Mr. Mac, and Colonel Abercrombie said no, to leave you two alone, and then…and then everything went quiet. But…”
“Oh, my darling,” you whisper, “what is it?”
He looks up at you with huge, frightened eyes.
“Colonel Abercrombie called her a strange name, miss.”
Your heart catches in your throat, for you already know what the child is going to say.
“He called her Constantina!”
Time to get a-movin’! Hasten to this page.
> “Give us a moment to settle some things before we set out, Hugo,” Lady Evangeline calls out to the carriage driver as you two climb in, lit with an air of giddy discovery. “I dare say this is quite the dramatic turn of events,” she says to you and laughs somewhat nervously.
“Indeed,” you agree, “and we didn’t even have to stick around for the matinee.” You laugh as well, but the sound jangles your nerves. You attempt to soothe them with a nip from the flask of brandy that Lady Evangeline has brought along for the trip.
Lady Evangeline follows suit and shoots you an imploring look. “Honestly, my dear, I do not know how to proceed,” she says. “What do you think?”
“Well, we have discovered that Benedict’s birthright is safe, his father’s first wife could be considered quite the cruel harpy or the clever girl, and I can’t wait to see the look on his face when we tell him!”
“You won’t have to wait long, you wretch!” You manage to drop the brandy flask with a gasp, for the insult hurled at you came from none other than Benedict, who has somehow tracked you down from London and thrown wide the door of your carriage. His handsome features are colored in anger, and, you note with amusement, he has forgotten to properly arrange his cravat in his haste to trail you.
“Your cravat is mismanaged, Sir Benedict,” you say and then deftly retrieve the flask from the carriage floor.
“My cravat is as managed as a cravat need be moments before it is used to strangle an interfering fool such as you!” Benedict spouts. The slight flush of anger really brings out the animal desire in his eyes.
“Perhaps, Lady Evangeline, you could give your cousin and me a moment alone?” you say, the picture of calm composure. You offer Benedict a sip from the flask. He shakes his head, incredulous, and slaps the flask from your hand.