by Kitty Curran
Kamal’s jaw drops.
“How can you be so sure?” he asks, but Evangeline is now pacing the room, barely paying attention to either of you.
“Oh, this is so like her! Of course she would do this. Of course!”
“Who is Delphine St. Croix?” you inquire, unable to disguise your curiosity.
Evangeline swings around, her eyes flashing azure fire. Her finely made bosom heaves before she regains her composure. “Delphine was once a…friend of mine.” Behind you, Kamal coughs discreetly, and Evangeline continues. “We bonded many years ago when my late husband was stationed in Egypt. Life was somewhat constrained and lonely for us women, with the war on. What is more, she and I were the only two ladies in our circle who had the same love for, ah, ancient artifacts.”
Kamal coughs again, somewhat less discreetly.
“At the time, I fancied I cared for her more than anyone. But then, well, let’s just say she betrayed my confidence in a manner that I will never forgive her for. We parted on the harshest of terms, and last I heard she was making a living raiding tombs, selling the objects to the highest bidder with no thought to their significance, nor where they are destined to go. And now she has drawn your museum into her schemes, Kamal. I am truly, truly sorry.”
Something in the way Evangeline speaks of the mysterious Delphine piques your curiosity…and your jealousy. You ignore the emotions roiling around your heart and manage to keep your voice steady.
“But why would she take the turquoise canister and nothing else, especially in a room filled with much worthier treasures?”
Evangeline locks her lustrous eyes with yours, and again you feel the heat rising to your face.
“Because this was no simple robbery, my dear. This was a message.”
“W-w-what do you mean?” you stammer. Lady Evangeline smiles at you, not unkindly.
“The canister was made of turquoise, you see, the sacred stone of Hathor, ancient Egyptian goddess of love. Delphine and I…well, we had this foolish notion that one day we would find her temple. It was lost to the sands of time many years ago, but legend has it that the temple can be raised again should two lovers enjoy love’s purest joy within its grounds.”
A strange look crosses Lady Evangeline’s face as she tells you these words. You find yourself suddenly out of breath.
“A silly idea conjured up by two bored young women, to be sure,” she says, crisply brushing off the strange moment. “Still, I must confess myself curious to know what was on the scroll in that canister. No doubt Delphine is using it to locate some other priceless treasure that she will hawk to shady sorts, and to make sure I know she is thumbing her nose at me all the while.”
“I think I can help, my lady,” interjects Kamal. “You see, I make a sketch of everything that comes through these doors, including the canister and its contents.” He hands you and Evangeline a finely rendered illustration of the artifact and several pages of neatly copied hieroglyphs.
“Oh, Kamal, you are a national treasure!” Lady Evangeline exclaims. “Do you know what this means?”
You and Kamal exchange curious glances and shake your heads. Lady Evangeline turns and grabs you by the shoulders.
“It means I shall be able to translate what is written here and get to the bottom of what exactly Delphine is up to!”
“You can read hieroglyphs?!” you say, stunned.
“It is a very new practice, but yes.” Evangeline nods. “I assisted Mr. Young and Mssr. Champollion when they were working on their studies of the Rosetta Stone. When they were still speaking to each other, at least.” At this, she rolls her eyes.
“Lady Evangeline is too modest,” says Kamal reverently. “She has published the eminent paper on translating hieroglyphs, albeit anonymously.”
Evangeline throws back her head and laughs. “Ah, Kamal, you are too kind about my little treatise. And that is why you are my favorite Egyptologist,” she says, causing Kamal to blush.
She then turns her luminous gaze back to you. “My dear, translating this scroll may take a while. If you wish to use this time to explore Cairo, then by all means be my guest. I’m sure Kamal will be more than happy to provide an escort. I certainly think he could use a respite from this morning’s unpleasantness.”
Kamal nods in agreement. “It would be a pleasure, miss. I will bring my strongest guard to make sure we remain quite safe.”
Lady Evangeline turns her head to the side, her hair shining in the sun as richly gold as the priceless treasures of the pharaohs she so loves.
“What do you say, my dear? Would you prefer an afternoon stuck in a stuffy room with me translating hieroglyphs or out in the sunshine in one of the most beautiful cities in the world?”
Do you take the chance to explore Cairo with the sweetly bookish Kamal? Lady Evangeline may be fascinating, but translating ancient languages you don’t speak sounds dull, dull, dull. Turn to this page.
Or do you ignore the beauty of Egypt’s historic capital to spend every moment you can with Lady Evangeline? Turn to this page.
You and Craven make extremely passionate, extremely angry love. You even manage to knock one of those damn portraits of Blanche off the wall with your acrobatics. Your lovemaking is fast and furious—but not too fast or too furious.
Sharing a moment’s tenderness after many moments’ roughness, you stroke the red marks you have left on his massive shoulders and trace the imprint of your teeth on his skin with your tender tongue. His body trembles.
“Even spent, I shiver with desire for you,” he rasps.
“We want each other as much as we love each other,” you say, simple as breath. “It makes all pleasure sweeter.” You nestle into the crook of his arm, hoping for another moment’s rest before starting again, but his body stiffens, and not in a pleasurable way.
“Love each other?” he asks. “You think this is love?”
Your body stiffens, and not in a pleasurable way.
“I do not think it,” you laugh joylessly. “I know it.”
“You know nothing!” He flings you from him, his body visibly rioting in your presence, even though your presence now wants to slap him upside the head.
“You are behaving monstrously!” you cry. Crying aloud is so thrilling and dramatic. You wonder why people don’t do it more often.
“You do not know the half of it! You do not know the half of me!” he roars, throwing back his head. Even the man’s throat is sensual. Damn. Then he sizes you up with insatiable lust. “This can never happen again!”
He stalks out, presumably to roam the moors.
All right. You know what? All his games are not working for you. Do you finally admit defeat, call the nineteenth-century equivalent of Child Services, and get the hell out of there? If so, turn to this page.
Oh no. All his games are totally working for you, especially considering what he can do with his tongue. Plus, you love Master Alexander. Of course you stay, because you are fully invested now and must know the truth! Turn to this page.
“If I say yes, do you promise to stop being so…vexingly attractive?” you ask. Benedict’s face breaks into a wide, hopeless grin.
“Absolutely not.”
“All right then,” you say, smiling. “Yes, anyway.”
“SHE SAID YES, ANYWAY!” he cries, elated. The portion of the ton who aren’t whispering in scandalized tones cheer mightily.
The Dragon spits fire. “I shall contest it! No paper will print the banns. I know people, you chit! I will block this union, I swear it, I—”
“You will do nothing of the sort, you nasty old bat,” Benedict says. He laughs and dips you into a kiss so brazen that it makes your sex drip sunlight and causes poor Nigel Frickley to mutter a stream of frantic “Oh my”s.
“Come, my love,” Benedict whispers into your ear. “We are eloping to Gretna Green!”
And so you do. You live a long and happy li
fe together and never invite the Dragon for Christmas.
You do, however, always make sure to send her a ham every year, complete with a card which you faithfully sign:
With warmest regards from your favorite chit.
The End
“Lady Evangeline, you are too kind. But there is intrigue afoot, and I must get to the bottom of it,” you say. “After all, I do worry for Sir Granville—Benedict, that is.”
Lady Evangeline raises an elegant brow again.
“Not that I like the man, of course!” you say, a little too heatedly. “I just feel sorry for him.”
She smiles warmly.
“Of course, my dear. And I must admit, I myself am curious what is going on. I suggest that we make a journey to London tomorrow to interview one of the late Mrs. Caddington’s associates. I further suggest we make it an early night, in order to start on our journey tomorrow as soon as possible.”
And with that, the two of you laugh, link arms, and make a quick exit. On your way, you see that the dowager is dozing upon a settee, her head tilted back, snoring full blast.
The next day, you rise with the dawn. Lady Evangeline plans to leave a note for the dowager claiming that she is borrowing you for an urgent haberdashery mission, but you are a little concerned that you might not have a job to return to at the end of all this. Yet, if your investigations yield good news for the Dragon’s darling Benny, perhaps she can be swayed. In any case, you are willing to risk her wrath.
Urgently thrusting your scant belongings into your threadbare valise, you wonder what exactly does one wear to a location not suitable for respectable young ladies? Everything you own seems depressingly, well, respectable.
Creeping out of the room, your heart simultaneously leaps and falls when you realize you have run into him again.
“Sir Benedict,” you say, as politely as you can muster. You expect to see the customary curt nod you have grown used to…and perhaps somewhat fond of. Instead, Benedict’s formerly haughty eyes are shadowed and haunted. He shakes his head ruefully.
“I believe my name is now Mr. Granville. Or perhaps De Lacey, my mother’s name.”
“Surely you don’t believe—”
“Does it matter what I believe? What matters is what everyone else believes. What matters is that there is proof. And what matters most of all is that now Henrietta has prospects, has a future that has been denied to her all this time simply due to her birth.”
“You are a good brother,” you say, unable to conceal your surprise. He smiles at you wryly, causing your heart to skitter like a debutante’s after too much champagne.
“She’s the only decent one among us, and she deserves better from her family, myself included. The one thing I’m thankful for in this sorry situation is that she has been given a chance at happiness.”
“I rather think she has lost her chance of happiness,” you counter.
“What the devil do you mean by that?” As he glares at you, you square your shoulders and raise your chin.
“I mean that she loves someone who is now beneath her in station. A young farmer. One who has been torn away from her by the recent revelations.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“It’s true! She told me herself. And I think that she is only going on with this sham of Cad’s because she is frightened. Perhaps he threatened her—”
Benedict grabs your shoulders and leans so close you can see the silver that edges those steel-gray eyes.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave this alone?” he growls. “Haven’t you listened to a damned word I’ve said?!”
Your heart may be racing, your flesh may be burning with desire at his touch, but you will not be intimidated. Instead you narrow your eyes and hold your gaze.
“She doesn’t want to be a fine lady married off to some stuffy aristocrat! She wants to be with the man she loves!”
“Love only serves to ruin lives, in my experience. Look at my father. He loved Mrs. Caddington, and it broke my mother’s heart when he returned to her. And now we must live with the consequences, the misery that has come about for his children as a result of his failure to regulate his emotions and his behavior.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” you bite back. “My parents loved each other! They were perfectly happy and true until the end of their days!”
“And then they died, leaving their daughter penniless and without a friend in the world!” he thunders.
You gasp in outrage at his cruel words. The nerve of the man! The very nerve!
If this will not stand, and you want to have it out with him right now, turn to this page.
If you have had enough and are now done with him, turn to this page.
“He is not my husband!” you say so loudly that the innkeeper jumps a little.
“Not even slightly?” the innkeeper asks, cruel delight in his voice.
“No!” you and Mac cry in desperate unison. The innkeeper shakes his head and gives you both a look of slight puzzlement and more-than-slight disappointment.
“Fine, then. Sleep well.”
As you retire guiltily to your room, and Mac to his stable, you cannot stop thinking about how badly you wish that you were sharing a room with him, and that he was pouring the same energy he pours into his virtuous work into the cup of your virtue.
You undress and are struck mad with desire for your cup to run over, with Mac’s true mouth working your bosom free from the bindings of your gown—and your honor. As you loosen your bodice to further aid your fantasy, the strange piece of paper that Dodger brought out of the burning building back in London falls to the ground. You pick it up and read the name again.
Constantina.
Try as you might, you cannot puzzle out Captain MacTaggart. On the one hand, he is all gruff honesty and goodness in his manner. On the other hand, he seems somewhat haunted. But by what? Oh, how you wish to smooth that furrowed brow with your delicate touch and run your fingers through the messy ruff of ginger hair.
Steady on, messy ruff of ginger hair? You of course meant the truth! You wish to run your hands through the truth…and all other clumsy metaphors you can apply to Mac’s broken, breaking, bedeviling beauty.
You collect yourself. Handsome Scotsmen aside, you must admit something unusual is going on—there was the sudden blaze, the mysterious parchment, and something else that you cannot quite put your finger on that has piqued your curiosity and your suspicion.
You look out to the dark stables, which shimmer in the moonlight and freezing cold downpour. You ought at least to bring Mac a hot drink, and maybe feel out the truth, which is the only thing you are hoping to feel out. Nothing else.
You throw on a shawl, procure a cup of cocoa from the irritatingly bemused innkeeper, and tromp out toward the stables in search of the hard, wet truth.
Of course, your firm resolve crumbles like an oatcake when a shirtless Mac greets you at the door. You stare dumbly, clutching the mug of cocoa like a shield between you and total, animal desire. He looks startled.
“Och, lass, I thought ye were the landlord! What are you doing here?”
You proffer the mug like an acolyte presenting an offering to the God of Beauty.
“I’msorryIthoughtyoumightbecoldherehavesomecocoa,” you splutter. He takes the mug from you, his hands lingering on yours.
“That’s kind of ye, lass.” He lifts the drink to his lips without breaking eye contact.
You gulp. You have so much to ask. About the parchment. About Constantina. About Scotland. About why those moss-and-wood-colored eyes of his always look so lost when he thinks no one is looking.
And you probably would have asked, had you not been so distracted by the glorious muscles currently within licking distance. Mac drains the last of the cocoa, wipes his mouth with an easy, manly gesture, and hands the mug back to you. You open and close your mo
uth helplessly, like an extremely aroused fish.
Yet try as you might, you cannot bring yourself to mention Constantina…nor contain your animal desire. You toss the mug aside and grab Mac. He grabs you back, stoking a desire that burns down inhibitions as wholly as the fire consumed the orphanage.
“Och, lass.” Mac’s mouth closes over yours in an exhilarating, punishing kiss. You kiss back with equal fervor, your hands digging into messy ginger hair and not, alas, the truth. Mac throws you both down in the hay and trails a series of blazing hot kisses down your throat and onto your still very exposed bosom. You wail and thrash in ecstasy, arching your back to meet his wicked mouth. “Oh, Mac!” you cry.
“MAC!!”
At the sound of a loud whinny, you look up, horrified to see that you have quite literally scared the horses. What are you doing here with this man you barely know, with his rough, massive hands? A man who by all odds you shouldn’t trust? Too many questions remain unanswered, and you will not get them answered rolling in the hay with the man that is provoking most of them.
“Are ye all right, lass?” Mac asks, his eyes filled with concern. How could you distrust this man? At the same time, how can you trust him?
“I—I have to go!” you gasp finally. “This—this is wrong. This is all wrong!”
And with that you scamper through the pouring rain back to your room, unfulfilled desire throbbing uncomfortably within you. You toss and turn for the rest of the night, your fevered dreams filled with rippling muscles, neighing horses, and bagpipes.
Think about what you’ve done. Turn to this page.
You follow the low keening sound to the orangery. There, whimpering like a much-abused kitten, you find Henrietta.
“Miss Caddington?” you say, but then quickly correct yourself. “I mean Granville! Forgive me.”
The sound of her new name throws Henrietta into a flood of fresh sobs.
Sitting down beside her, you place a sisterly arm around her shoulders. If what Cad says is true, she is a lady now and occupies a station above your own. Still, you cannot help but feel a sense of responsibility toward her. Be it her youth, her general air of bruised innocence, or the fact that she is in danger of flooding the orangery with her tears, you can’t help considering her a delicate and neglected flower. Such a creature needs gentle and skilled encouragement and care, but in this moment there is only you.