by Lara Temple
‘You are very handy with numbers.’ He laughed.
‘I would hope so, since I am responsible for Whitworth’s accounts. And your friend is a profligate fool.’
‘I never said he was my friend,’ he replied meekly. ‘Merely someone I knew in Vienna. He had a room for them, too.’
‘A room for snuffboxes? A whole room only for snuffboxes?’
‘A whole room. Cabinets all along the walls, crimson-velvet-lined shelves and a footman whose only role in life was to lovingly polish each snuffbox in turn. It was like walking into a jewel box. I could hardly see for the glare of gold.’
‘That is just...just obscene! Why, at one guinea per box that would be enough to feed and house and clothe a family for years and years. All for snuffboxes! And if he was not a friend of yours, what were you doing in his room admiring his snuffboxes, Mr Sinclair?’
He looked a little less amused at her contempt.
‘If you must know, he wasn’t there at the time and I wasn’t interested in his snuffboxes, but what was in the room hidden behind those purposely distracting shelves. I have no more use for snuffboxes than you. And they were probably worth far more than a guinea a box, so you can heap more scorn on our profligate heads while you are all afire with missionary zeal.’
Ellie’s anger fizzled at the sting of hurt in his voice and also with curiosity.
‘I didn’t mean you are profligate, Mr Sinclair, and it was wrong of me to snap at you. I was merely imagining everything I could do with fifteen hundred guineas. And what was in that hidden room? And what were you doing there while he was away?’
‘Nothing and nothing.’ He shrugged and stacked the papers he had been reading, putting them to one side.
The room sank into silence and Ellie searched for something to say.
‘What does al-Jinn mean?’
He turned to her but his gaze was as suspicious as before.
‘Why?’
‘Your cousin writes Awal called you al-Jinn Chase. Is that how you say mister in Arabic?’
‘No. It means...spirit or demon...it’s just a nickname. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Oh.’ She wanted to ask more, but he spoke first.
‘Out of curiosity, what would you do with all those guineas if you had them, Ellie?’
He smiled suddenly, as if embarrassed at his ill temper, and she couldn’t help smiling back. She was so tempted to tell him everything and perhaps he would think of a way to save them... She shoved the thought away. She was not his problem.
She knew what she would do with such a sum. But what would she dream of doing?
‘I would sail to Egypt and discover a great temple filled with gold and riches and publish an account of my adventures which would be outshine even the Desert Boy books.’
‘A commendable plan. May I offer myself as a humble guide on your journey? I can be quite useful in a pinch, you know.’
‘So I can see from your cousin’s notebooks. You may come as my trusty squire. There, you may add that to your list of One Thousand and One Absurd Ways of Travelling to Egypt. Number four hundred and sixteen.’
The image she was weaving was so appealing she could almost see it roll out ahead of her as another path in life—one in which she walked side by side with this unaccountable, irreverent, sinfully seductive and often heartrendingly perceptive man. She looked down at her clasped hands, fighting the burn of tears.
It was almost over; the best week of her life.
Her sensible side tried to refute that foolish sentiment. How could the best week of her life exist while her family’s future was collapsing? Only an infatuated fool could believe that.
And yet it was.
Which meant that was probably precisely what she was.
She returned her attention to the notebook, turning the pages and seeing nothing at all.
Chapter Six
Chase watched her sink back into the notebook.
There it was, that dissonance he noted time and again from the first day in the Folly. The conviction that something in her words, something in her, was false. It flickered in him like a candle too near a draught and not even his increasingly disobedient libido could distract him from it.
He didn’t like dissonance. It bothered him.
In fact, far too much about her bothered him.
Just now it was the return of the melancholy that sometimes crossed her face like a falling star—sudden, sharp, and gone. If he wasn’t watching her so closely, he would miss it. And the awful thing was that he was watching.
Far too closely and far too often.
He didn’t even know why he was staring. She wasn’t beautiful... Well, at least that was what he had thought. It was peculiar, but her face seemed to have changed since their first meeting, because her eyes were undoubtedly beautiful. Not just that clear direct honey with the dark-brown rims and gold and jade flecks around the pupils, but the way they shifted with her expressions, tilting at the corners when she smiled.
Then there was the hint of two wary dimples that teased when she did. He would very much like to see if those dimples bloomed into fullness if she let loose the laughter she held firmly at bay.
And her mouth...
He rubbed his chest, feeling as if he’d swallowed a cup of molten honey. Her mouth was not an intelligent focus for his attention.
The only intelligent focus for his attention would be to admit he was no closer to understanding Huxley’s message. To admit he’d failed.
It happened—he just wished it hadn’t happened on this particular quest.
He took out Huxley’s letter from the drawer again, smoothing it out as he re-read it, but it made no more sense to him today than it did the day he received it. Perhaps as everyone here said, Huxley’s mind had become feeble towards the end, caught in old memories and fantasies.
It was time to face his other responsibilities as well. Time to take Sam to Egypt and put this strange interlude at the Manor behind him. A couple of months exploring old haunts and old friends up the Nile and he would likely forget all about the peculiar Miss Walsh.
His chest tightened, an ache spiralling out towards his shoulders, and he arched them back to relieve the sudden tension and make room for air. But there was no relief, only a savage sense of dislocation, of being locked out of choices he took for granted. He sat there, palms flat on the desk on either side of the papers he was not reading, waiting for the world to settle again.
Except it didn’t.
‘Is something wrong, Mr Sinclair?’
Chase’s mind jerked back into reality.
‘What?’
‘You probably didn’t realise, but you were staring. I do that sometimes when I am deep in thought, but it is a little disconcerting.’
‘I apologise. I was merely...deep in thought.’ Chase was ashamed to feel a faint burn of heat on his cheeks.
‘I don’t mean to pry, but is it about that letter? You take it out several times a day and look quite troubled... Is there anything I can do to help?’
Before he could stop himself he shoved the letter across the desk.
‘Read it. Aloud.’
She placed her hand on it, but her eyes were on him, worried.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
She turned the letter over.
‘I shan’t read it if you are not certain, but perhaps if you explained it to me. Sometimes it helps to talk things through and suddenly the solution appears. That is what I do with Susan, my sister, when I am stumped by something.’
‘Not with Henry?’
He hadn’t meant to sound quite so harsh and she flushed and began pushing the letter back towards him. He placed his hand on hers, stopping her.
Another mistake. The urge to curve his fingers into the war
mth of her palm, pull her towards him... He detached his hand and sat back.
‘Just...read it. Please. It is a letter Huxley sent me just a few weeks before his death. Unfortunately, I was not in England at the time and received it too late. I have been hoping something in this room or in the Folly would explain it, but thus far I have found nothing conclusive. I am beginning to think there is nothing to be found, that it is merely the wanderings of an enfeebled mind. I can hardly stay here indefinitely, but still... Perhaps hearing someone else reading it will make a difference. Would you?’
She nodded slowly. She’d returned her hands to her lap when he let her go, but now unclasped them and took the letter, her long lashes veiling her eyes. He turned to look out the window so he would not watch her as she read.
Her voice was different from when she’d read aloud from Huxley’s notebooks—deeper, more hesitant—and yet so true he could almost feel Huxley standing beside her, whispering the words to her.
My dear boy,
When you receive this letter, please come to Huxley. There is something I have but recently uncovered that I must discuss with you. I do not wish to put it in writing in case it is read by another, for it is not my tale to tell, and indeed I think it will be best you not share this revelation with anyone except perhaps with Lucas, as it can do more harm than good—I am unclear on that.
I have it all here and will take you through it when you return from whatever problem Oswald has dispatched you to solve. I do hope you are taking care? I know it is not my place to worry, but I feel Tessa’s hand upon my arm as I write these words, so forgive me.
In any case, it is important that you come see me before you travel to Egypt, as Oswald assures me you and Lucas and Sam are planning to do. Not just to discuss my discovery—I have one last, but very important, quest for you, Chase. I am failing, but I know you won’t fail me. You never have.
Your loving cousin, George
‘I have failed you now,’ Chase muttered in response and Miss Walsh looked up from the letter, but did not speak.
He turned away from her gaze. What the devil was wrong with him to be sharing this with her? She was not even a relation. Just his cousin’s betrothed. Henry’s betrothed. This woman would marry Henry and live her with him and have a family with him...
He shoved to his feet and went to the window, pushing apart the curtains and resisting the childish urge to tug the thick blue fabric down from its fastenings.
‘I am honoured you trusted me with this, Mr Sinclair. You needn’t worry I shall speak of it to anyone.’
He didn’t turn.
‘I’m not worried about that.’
‘Good. How much time do we have?’
‘What?’ He glanced over his shoulder.
‘How much longer do you have before you are dispatched to solve one of this Oswald’s problems? When one has a task it helps to know how long one can commit to it.’
He turned.
She sat with her brows drawn together and her hands clasped before her, looking even more like a schoolmistress than usual. Not that it stopped his treacherous mind from noticing the way her arms pressed her breasts together. It was a sore pity she was condemned to wear such plain, shapeless dresses. If he were Henry, he would delight in taking this woman to one of London’s finest modistes who would know just how to showcase her modest but elegant body. She would look best in long flowing lines and vivid colours...and without anything at all...
‘I think it best we separate this conundrum into its components,’ she continued, ignoring his silence, and he called himself to order. ‘No doubt you have already done so, but it would help me to think through it. I shall need pen and paper, of course.’
‘Of course, Miss Walsh.’
‘And the tea has gone cold. We really should have a kettle on the hob here. I always have one in my study. It is much more sensible than sending for a footman every time one wishes for tea.’
‘Much more sensible, Miss Walsh.’
Her dimples flashed and a weight levitated off his shoulders.
‘And if you persist in calling me Miss Walsh in quite that way, I shall begin calling you The Right Honourable Charles Sinclair in my best imitation of Lady Ermintrude.’
‘Horrifying. If I must not call you Miss Walsh, I shall call you Cousin Eleanor when we are not in company.’
She wrinkled her nose.
‘Only Aunt Florence calls me Eleanor, or Henry when he is worried or excited.’
A shaft of hot resentment speared him and he quelled it. He should be grateful for the reminder. Not that it would matter one iota even if she weren’t betrothed to his cousin. Lust-based fantasies were all well and good, but that was all they were. He had no wish to become entangled with any responsibilities beyond those he already shouldered. Therefore, it was time to pull the reins hard on these nonsensical thoughts. This young woman would soon be his cousin-in-law and he should treat her as such.
‘What do your siblings call you?’
‘When they aren’t calling me horrid names? Ellie, but...’
‘Then Cousin Ellie it is.’
‘I did not mean...oh, very well. Cousin Ellie is respectable enough.’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. So, how were you thinking of cracking this conundrum? I am wholly in your hands.’
* * *
I am wholly in your hands...
Ellie’s hands tensed and tingled and so she pulled the inkwell and blotting pad towards her and placed a sheet of paper on it. A problem to solve that had nothing at all to do with her family’s impending doom was precisely what she needed to distract her.
She dipped her pen in the ink and began.
‘Point number one. Lord Huxley mentions this is something he recently uncovered. Which means it likely happened since he fell ill and was confined to the Manor. So whatever he uncovered is here in some form unless it has been taken away by someone, which would rather take us down another path, yes?’
She glanced over at him, which was a mistake because he smiled.
‘Yes. Point number two?’
‘Point number two...point number two... Oh, yes—he says, “I have it all here.” Which implies it is not one thing, but some plural. That rather rules out a single object. It is something, or rather some things, he possesses and which he intends to show you when you arrive. However, these things led to a revelation which can be expressed in written form, which leads us to point three.’
‘Naturally. Which is?’
‘Which is that this revelation would affect someone he cares about. I find it curious that he is ambivalent whether it would harm or help. It appears he thinks it might do both. This implies the revelation is not in itself good or bad, but its effects could be either. Does that seem sensible to you?’
She was in her stride now. She hardly even noticed his smile.
‘Eminently. Point four?’
‘I notice he says you and your brother should know, but does not mention your sister. Is that merely because he considers her inferior to you and your brother in intellect?’
‘Good God, no. She’s as sharp as a whip and Huxley would be the first to admit it. He had endless admiration for her intelligence and talent. If anything, he was closest to her and to my mother since they continued to live with him when Lucas and Edge and I joined Wellington in Portugal. However...he might feel protective towards her since he knew what she has been through all too well.’
‘Being widowed?’
‘You will have to excuse my bluntness, but being widowed is the best part of my sister’s marriage. She should never have married Ricardo. But that is unlikely to be relevant to Huxley’s message.’
‘Perhaps. So for some reason he excludes her from this discussion. That may or may not be interesting. Shall I proce
ed?’
‘I hope you will. This is most edifying. And very orderly.’
‘Thank you. On to point five. He says “this is not my tale to tell”, implying it is someone else’s tale. He does not use the word secret, which might or might not mean something. Why are you smiling?’
‘It occurred to me you really must meet my sister-in-law. She appreciates method.’
‘Well, I wish you would appreciate it. I am trying to be helpful here.’
‘I do appreciate it...’
‘But you have considered all these points previously.’
He hesitated.
‘Not that point about Sam.’
‘I imagine that is because you are accustomed to shielding her.’
‘Only in recent years, but, yes.’
Ellie nodded and looked around the room.
‘I have it all here,’ she murmured. ‘He would have written this letter in this very room, no doubt.’
‘Probably.’
‘And if you have found nothing...perhaps that is because it is right there and you are not seeing it, or perhaps because something is missing, like the notebooks.’
‘What do you mean, like the notebooks?’
She straightened at the snap in his voice and rubbed her hands on her skirt. The alertness she’d sensed hiding behind the easygoing rogue was back at the surface again, giving her a glimpse of that other man, a stranger.
‘I...there are gaps. You can see in the list you asked me to compile. I meant to point it out, but I was not quite certain. The notebooks are very similar, but you can see they come in batches of slightly different coloured leather which makes cataloguing them easier. I presume they came in dozens because I have not found more than a dozen in one particular colour.’
‘When did you notice this?’
‘I...yesterday. The notebook I was reading ended on a mention of a planned visit to a bazaar, I think it must have been with your mother, because they were in search of something to send you and your brother in Portugal. But it ended just as it began and though I searched through all the stacks, I could not find the next one, nor see any more of that particular colour. I have been meaning to ask you if they could be in the Folly.’