Still, she was happy for Maria. It seemed she and Mr. Chesterton were quite devoted. True, her own happy ending was far from assured, but she should in no way begrudge Maria. Despite the cow eyes and mooning, Penelope smiled along with them.
“But what of all the artifacts?” Professor Oldham asked, drawing her attention back to the more pressing matters. “Certainly they can be returned now to their rightful owners?”
The magistrate frowned. “Can anyone verify who that would be, sir? These gentlemen are claiming the items for themselves.” He pointed to Lord Harry’s Egyptian friends who were carefully examining the few pieces still left in the room and remarking softly to one another in their own language.
“But of course these items belong to them!” Professor Oldham exclaimed. “Can there be any doubt of it? I have all the documentation in my records you need to identify each and every one of these pieces and determine that they should never have been brought to England in the first place. They were stolen, pure and simple.”
“And Lord Harry was merely trying to steal them back, that’s all,” Penelope added for Anthony’s benefit, then wondered if perhaps she might have done better to keep her mouth shut. The magistrate gave her a rather curious look that said he was interested in more information regarding Lord Harry’s efforts at stealing things.
“Lord Harry is our friend,” one of the Egyptians said, thankfully. “Anything he did was with our complete agreement, and the Egyptian people owe him a debt of gratitude. It seemed we would never see any of these again, and yet here they are.”
“I tried to keep Nedley’s bumbling thugs from breaking anything as we packed them up,” Professor Oldham said. “Instead of boarding a ship for France, we should be able to simply send them on with you, back where they belong. Unless you think you need to unpack everything to get a look at it first.”
The Egyptians mumbled to themselves again, then the second one spoke. “We trust you, Professor. We are content that our items have been treated with care. Well, all of them, perhaps, but this one.”
He plucked the phallus up off the floor and examined it. For dents, probably. He glanced at Penelope with raised eyebrows then looked over at Lord Harry. Penelope’s face went warm.
“You should be very nice to her, my friend,” the Egyptian said as he broke into a knowing smile.
Penelope’s face began to sizzle.
“I intend to,” Lord Harry replied.
Ah, but what an excellent reply it was, too. She wanted to run to him with assurances that she was only too eager to be nice in return, but Anthony kept her pinned to his side. And drat, but now Mr. Markland crowded in, slapping Lord Harry on the back and putting just one more huge body between her and the man she loved.
“For a moment there I thought perhaps you really were fat-skulled enough to put a bloody bullet in your brain,” he said.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Lord Harry responded, clearly still bristling at his estranged brother.
“You’re a sad excuse for a gentleman, dragging our father and Miss Rastmoor into this, Harris,” Mr. Markland said. “But I have to admit I’m not eager to see you dead.”
“Perhaps I’ll live long enough to atone for my many transgressions, then,” Lord Harry said.
“Let us hope so,” his brother replied.
The men didn’t exactly fall into one another’s arms, but Penelope could tell this was a major step forward for them. Clearly they still begrudged each other for whatever lay in their past, but just for now the two brothers were not feuding. Penelope was not prepared to hold her breath for warm reconciliation, but it was good to see them in some measure of agreement.
“Come,” Anthony said, reminding her that he was still at her side and still in charge of her person. “We should be going now.”
Sadly, she had no reason to argue. They really should be going now. She’d already told the magistrate all she knew about things when she first arrived home in the rag-and-bone cart. The rest of things he’d seen for himself. If there were more questions to be answered, surely the magistrate could call on them at home tomorrow. There was no reason to keep Mamma waiting—and worrying—any longer.
“Very well,” she said, allowing Anthony to guide her from the room.
“Wait!” Lord Harry called behind them.
She turned. He was watching them; watching her. She wasn’t sure what to make of his expression. Worried, perhaps? What could he possibly be worried about now, though? His father was safe, they’d made things right with their Egyptian friends, and even Mr. Markland was at peace with him. Had something been missed? Was there still some grave matter left untended?
“I meant what I said, Penelope,” he said softly, meeting her questioning gaze directly.
For only a heartbeat she was confused by his meaning. Then she understood.
“I do love you,” he went on.
Oh! The dear, darling man. Indeed, she did love him in return, and he needed to know that. Without any doubt or impossible-to-comprehend code words. She broke from Anthony and shoved through the other bystanders, virtually throwing herself into Lord Harry’s arms. He was ready to receive her.
“I love you, too!” she said, burying her face against his warm chest and holding him so tightly that it would take Anthony and both the Egyptians to pry them apart.
None of them bothered to try, though. Lord Harry held her tightly and pressed kisses into her hair. Anthony merely cleared his throat. Loudly.
Considering that was the only sound audible in the room just now, Penelope realized everyone must be staring. She peeked up to see that, sure enough, they were. Maria looked slightly uncomfortable around such a display, but her pursed lips were indeed hinting at a smile.
“Rastmoor, I suppose I might as well let you know,” Lord Harry said after clearing his own throat. “I never truly intended to marry your sister.”
“Oh?”
“I lied to you. Repeatedly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And I need to inform you that my pedigree is not entirely in order.”
“That’s startling news, of course.”
“And it’s quite likely that I am, in fact, the very worst fiancé to be had in all of London.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“But if Penelope is willing to have me, I must beg you to give us your blessing.”
She watched Anthony’s face. What would he say? Lord Harry had not done a very pretty job of pleading his case. She might have to produce tears in a moment or two to soften her brother’s heart. Not that tears would be difficult to come by if, indeed, he tried to give a rejection.
“You’ve put my whole family through quite a lot, Chesterton,” Anthony said. “A sensible man would keep his sister as far away from you as possible after all this.”
“I understand your concern,” Lord Harry said. “I would likely do the same, had I a sister.”
“But you don’t, and now you are asking for mine.”
“Begging, I believe, was the word I used,” Lord Harry corrected.
“Yes, so it was. And you think you can look after her? Love her and cherish her and all that?”
“I can, sir, and I will. All my life.”
“Which, judging by how you’ve lived it thus far, might prove to be remarkably short,” Anthony noted. “Are you quite certain all this rubbish with kidnappings and robberies and international intrigue is over?”
“I’m hoping that it is, yes.”
“As am I. Well, I suppose I might consider you for her.”
Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. Anthony was willing to consider! They might have his blessing after all! True, she had no intention of not ending up married to Lord Harry at this point, but she did rather hope they wouldn’t have to run away and live forever estranged from her family to do it.
“But, you understand, I have one condition,” Anthony added.
“What? Anything!” Lord Harry said.
Sh
e believed he meant it, too. She could feel his heart inside his chest, pounding as frantically as hers.
“Will you, for God’s sake, take this woman to Egypt so she’ll leave me bloody in peace about it?”
Epilogue
The air was hot; it was a heat she’d come to love. The sun burned down with a golden intensity she knew words could never describe. The sounds of foreign voices and exotic animals were nearly commonplace to her now. The scent of the marshy Nile was almost unnoticeable anymore. Indeed, she’d come to feel perfectly at home here among the sand and the pyramids that had once existed only on the pages of books for her.
“Are you bored with it yet?”
Lord Harry stood at her side, his coat long since discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up and the white linen clinging to his glistening body. Good heavens, was the man serious? Was she bored?
“No,” she assured him. “Not even close.”
“Even though it’s been nearly a week since we’ve dug up anything of any interest?” he asked, reaching out to finger the warmed scarab—her scarab—that hung at her neck. His Egyptian friends had returned it to her in gratitude for her help in retrieving their stolen artifacts.
“Perhaps it’s been a week since you’ve dug up anything of interest,” she said, smiling up at him and letting her eyes convey more than just her innocent words. “I find hidden treasure in my very own tent every night.”
He chuckled, and squeezed her tight. For nearly two months they’d been here, living blissfully like nomads, some days in Cairo, meeting with scholars and cataloguing their finds, other days returning to sleep in their tent at the foot of the most magnificent constructions on earth. She was hard-pressed to say what inspired her most, the sight of the pyramids rising over the endless dunes, or the bronzed form of the remarkable man beside her.
She moved to lean into him, to press her lips to his salty skin.
“This has been far more exciting than I could have possibly ever imagined. No one could have convinced me I would ever end up with such a honeymoon, or such a husband.”
“You do not regret it yet?”
“Never! Do I need to worry that perhaps you’ve begun to?”
“Not in a century, my dear. I only hope I can keep you this happy once we’ve returned home.”
“It’s hard to believe our time has gone already.”
“I know. But it will be the wet season here soon, and I’ve word that my brother needs me.”
She did not like the serious tone in his voice. “Mr. Markland?”
“No, my other brother. The marquis. Ferrel writes that he’s not responding to the new treatment the physician recommended.”
“Oh dear! You had such hopes for that.”
“He’s not at death’s door, but I wanted to do more for him than my uncle has done.”
“You’ve done well as his trustee,” she assured him. “You’ve done well with all your new responsibilities.”
“I’ve been absent. At least my cousin is doing a fine job of overseeing things.”
She rested her face against his chest. “That was kind of you to arrange for that.”
“Well, with my uncle in prison and a good bit of his fortune forfeit, Ferrel needed some way to provide for his new wife. Still, it is my responsibility to look after my brother and I have not been there.”
“Of course you feel that way; he’s your brother and you want to be with him. It’s time for us to go back home.”
“You truly aren’t disappointed? You won’t find life with me in England to be deadly dull and tedious?”
“Dull and tedious? With you? Oh, but I’m certain you’ll find a way to make genteel domestication very entertaining.”
“I will certainly try to find something to do with you to while away the hours.”
“Oh?” she said, looking up into his tanned face and matching the suggestive tone in his voice. “Can you think of an engaging activity to pass the chilly nights back in our homeland?”
“The nights?” he asked and brushed a teasing kiss across her lips. “I was thinking mostly of the days.”
“My, but you are a bit naughty, sir.”
“Thankfully, so are you, my love. I’m only worried for how best to explain things to my father.”
“Er, I’m quite certain he already has some idea what goes on between us at this point…”
He laughed at her. “I’m afraid there are times anyone within half a mile of our tent might have some idea what goes on between us, my dear.”
She felt herself blushing, but he continued.
“Actually, I’m referring to a project of a more scholarly nature that my father wishes to undertake.”
“Oh?” Indeed, this sounded quite interesting, too.
“My father has been corresponding with a gentleman in London and is most impressed with the young man’s ability for concise description and vivid imagery. His hope is that we can secure the man to collaborate with us on a book covering the subject of our most recent discoveries.”
“How wonderful. I’m sure the book will be a huge success.”
“Trouble is, I’m not quite sure how to inform my father that working with his esteemed correspondent might be a bit of a distraction for me,” he said, giving her a sizzling smile. “After all, I’ve been sharing my bed with this person for over two months now and am woefully under-rested.”
She wrinkled her brow, confused for a moment, then suddenly it became clear. Heavens! Somehow he knew about P. Anthonys! Gracious, but he’d found out her last remaining secret!
“You didn’t think I knew about that, did you?” he asked, still smiling as if he were very proud of himself.
“But how could you possibly find out?”
“Your handwriting,” he explained. “I’ve known since the day you signed the marriage register.”
“Yet you said nothing?”
“If you’ll recall, we’ve been rather preoccupied with other, er, topics.”
Drat, but he was bringing her to blushes again. Indeed, they had been preoccupied. Still, she should have told him that she’d been misrepresenting herself. Professor Oldham might be very offended now to discover the truth.
“What will your father think of me?” she asked.
“He thinks you are a brilliant young woman, of course.” He chuckled and pushed her slightly away from him as if to study her. “Once I explain the situation, he will realize you are a brilliant young man, as well.”
“So I am brilliant, am I?” she questioned, smiling up at him and quite pleased with this estimation.
“Well, perhaps not as brilliant as you could be. After all, you did choose a very unsuitable fiancé.”
She made a pretense of slapping his arm. “An unsuitable fiancé, indeed! Several, in fact. However, in the end I’ve been quite a genius at choosing a husband, and there has only been one of those.”
He snuggled her up against him again. “Quite true. I will never argue against your wisdom, my dear.”
“Then that makes you a bit of a genius, too, sir.”
The man was so very clever, in fact, that he knew enough to cease this silly conversation and drag her back into their tent for some far less intellectual discourse. Indeed, he’d been a dreadful fiancé. As for his performance as husband, however, Lord Harry had turned out to be entirely perfect.
TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW
OF A NEW HISTORICAL ROMANCE
BY KATE NOBLE
IF I FALL
COMING APRIL 2012 FROM
BERKLEY SENSATION!
APRIL 1823
It was over.
Everything was all right again.
Sarah closed the door to her bedroom, sinking back against it with an audible sigh of relief. Finally, the horrendous night had ended, and she was safe again.
It wasn’t meant to be a particularly taxing evening. After all, it had only been a card party, with supper and some light amusements thereafter, Bridget on the pianoforte. Just close frien
ds, her mother had said. No one there would dare mention…
The Event.
And to their credit, no one did. No one would think to do so in the Forresters’ own home. But that didn’t stop them from staring. And whispering.
Sarah pushed herself off of the door, giving herself the smallest of shakes. “Close friends.” What a laughable conceit. When your father is consumed by antiquities, and your mother has one daughter entering her third Season and another daughter her first, the term “close friend” becomes muddied. What Lady Forrester considered a close friend was, apparently, the wife of the man whose personal collection of Roman statuary Lord Forrester was trying to acquire. And said Lady’s sons— who happened to have been among the men who danced with Sarah more than once last Season.
Although, that had been before.
She pulled her weary body over to her silly little scrolled dressing table, and sat on the small velvet stool that had always reminded Sarah of nothing so much as a tuffet. Which, of course, was why Sarah had picked it out when she was twelve.
No one should be held accountable for his or her adolescent tastes.
The dressing table was fluffy, if a wooden object could be described as such. There were cherubs, and clouds, and other white-painted rococo touches that made the twenty-one-year-old Sarah certain she had been a slightly ridiculous child.
She took off the pearl drop earrings, the pearl pendant at her throat, placed them aside.
She glanced at her left hand. Now naked. She quickly looked up, moved her gaze back to the fat woodwork of the silly dressing table.
Somehow, today, the silliness was a comfort. Because she could recognize it. It reminded her of herself…before. Though as she turned her face to the dressing table’s mirror, she could not recognize the face that stared back at her.
It was not twelve.
It was not one-and-twenty.
It was ancient.
The face did not smile. The eyes were hollows of exposure in the moonlight. If she went so far as to light a candle in the dark room, she would see herself, true. She would see the pearl pins in her golden hair; she would see the light green eyes that bespoke her Anglo-Saxon ancestry, and her pale unlined skin that attested to her youth. But the old woman with hollow eyes would still be underneath. Because…
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