by Lenora Bell
“I actually hadn’t noticed the lack of ink from the lithographic processing,” said Malcolm. “Again, I’m very impressed.”
Wonderful, just bloody wonderful. What was Malcolm doing with all this flattery? Attempting to recruit Indy, as he’d recruited Raven?
Over his dead body.
“I’ll find the workers and interrog—interview them,” he said.
“Already attempted. Unsurprisingly, they’ve all disappeared,” said Malcolm. “It was an operation of considerable forethought, skillfully and professionally executed. We’ve tracked a likely crate to Paris, but then the trail goes cold.”
“So it was the French,” said Raven.
“We don’t know that for certain,” said Malcolm.
Raven knew precisely who’d stolen the stone: Le Triton.
He’d spent years infiltrating the French criminal underworld and stalking the man who ruled its shadowy reaches. Le Triton wasn’t his real name, but it was appropriate since he had only three fingers left on one hand—resembling Triton’s trident in the Greek myth. His influence and control encompassed gambling, stolen antiquities, prostitution, arms, and nearly every other nefarious dealing.
Le Triton’s calling card, the mark he left, was a clever forgery in place of the antiquities he stole.
Once an ancient treasure disappeared into his heavily fortified estate on the outskirts of Paris, it was never seen again. The private collectors who purchased his stolen antiquities were sworn to secrecy on threat of death.
Raven knew, because he’d found one of them who had been less than discreet. The fellow had been dead as a doornail.
“Why would the French do this?” asked Indy, her brow wrinkling.
“I can think of several reasons,” said Raven. “The stone is one of our most famous archaeological treasures and only on loan to the antiquarian society for further study. It would be hugely embarrassing to the antiquaries, and to England, if news of its theft were made public.”
“And all of the secrets of Egyptian hieroglyphics have not yet been unlocked. Whoever has the stone holds the key,” said Indy.
“Precisely,” said Malcolm. “It could have been stolen by the French because they are on the hunt for a new archaeological treasure. Or, perhaps they’ve found the missing pieces of the stone and want to make a whole.”
“Wouldn’t that be incredible?” Indy’s spectacles practically fogged over with academic fervor. “To see the stone made whole. To read the final lines of the texts.”
Raven nodded tersely. “I’ll leave for Paris immediately.” This would take precedence over finding the traitor, for the moment.
“There’s another possibility,” said Indy, her moustache wobbling precariously as she spoke. “The stone could have been stolen by Russia and made to look as though France was the culprit. It would be to Russia’s benefit to sow discord. The truce between England and France seems tentative at best.”
“An interesting supposition.” Malcolm met Raven’s gaze above her head, as if to say, isn’t she a clever one?
Yes, yes, she was too clever by a long sight. Raven wished she’d stop displaying her extreme cleverness to Britain’s top spymaster.
While he admired Malcolm and respected him, he also knew the man placed his duty to crown and country above all else. He wouldn’t be above using Indy for his own purposes.
“Lady India doesn’t want the thieves to be French because she’s so friendly with that pompous Beauchamp fellow at the Louvre Museum in Paris,” Raven explained to Malcolm.
“You’re just jealous,” Indy retorted. “Monsieur Beauchamp has accomplished more for the field of antiquities study in the last year alone than you’ll achieve in your self-indulgent lifetime.”
The Frenchman may have been one of the first to crack the secrets of hieroglyphics, but that didn’t make him a worthy partner for Indy. The thought of her with another man made Raven want to slam his fist into a slab of basalt, but how could he begrudge her any happiness that might come her way?
She deserved love, happiness—all of the things he could never give her.
Just not with Beauchamp.
Raven realized he was still holding the lamp and set it down. “His antiquities studies make Beauchamp a perfect suspect.”
“Why would he steal the stone?” asked Indy. “He’d never be able to display it in the Louvre’s new department of Egyptian antiquities without causing an international scandal.”
“Indeed. Wars have been waged for lesser insults,” said Malcolm. “For the moment, no one knows the stone is missing except the thieves and we three. We can’t risk anyone else finding out. The stone was to be moved to the British Museum in a fortnight’s time for permanent display.”
“I’ll retrieve the stone within the fortnight,” Raven assured him.
Indy rounded on him. “You didn’t even know it wasn’t the real stone. How are you supposed to tell the real one from another replica?”
“She has a point,” agreed Malcolm. “I can’t go with you. I have to stay here and make sure no one else discovers it’s missing.”
“I’m the only one who can find the true stone,” declared Indy. “Send me, Sir Malcolm. You won’t regret it.”
“Out of the question,” said Raven. “Nip that idea in the bud. It would be a dangerous and highly sensitive mission.”
He could barely see her eyes behind the spectacles, but he was sure they had narrowed.
“What are you saying, Ravenwood, that I’m not capable? That I’m not discreet?” Indy asked.
He must tread carefully. Don’t raise her hackles. “I’m saying that stolen antiquities are my sordid area of expertise, not yours, my lady.”
“And hieroglyphics are my area of expertise, not yours.”
“I’ll go to Paris,” said Raven. “Alone.”
“You can’t keep me in London,” Indy retorted. “I’ve as much right as you to search for the stone.”
“And I’m telling you it’s too dangerous.” He rose to his full height, glowering down at her. “I forbid you to search for the stone.”
She had the gall to laugh in his face. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
Fool. You know better than that. Tell Indy to do something and she did the exact opposite.
She threw her shoulders back and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m going to Paris. Don’t try to stop me.” She smiled at Sir Malcolm. “A secret mission on behalf of the Crown—how thrilling!”
“Don’t be silly,” Raven said, beginning to panic a little now. The foolhardy woman would get herself murdered. “It’s not a lark. There will be real danger involved.”
“Then you’d best hire extra guards to protect you.” She lifted the front of her coat to reveal the dagger she always carried at her side. “I’ve nothing to fear.”
She tapped the heels of her boots together. “Sir Malcolm, I leave you now. I’ll breathe not a word of this to anyone. You have my word that I’ll recover the stone within the fortnight.”
Nothing stopped Indy when she set her mind on something. She must be the most stubborn, fearless female the world had ever known.
She marched away.
“Pomeroy,” Raven called.
She halted and turned around. “Yes, what is it?” she asked impatiently.
“You might need this.” He held out his palm. Her moustache had lost the battle and fallen to the floor during their conversation.
She walked back, plucked the wispy moustache from his hand, and stuck it above her lip. “Thank you,” she said with great dignity.
Her exit was half swagger, half flounce, and all Indy.
Their meetings never ended well, and this one had ended even worse than usual.
“I like that lady,” said Malcolm with a chuckle. “Is she always so biddable?”
“This mission is too perilous for Lady India. You know as well as I do that Le Triton is the most likely culprit.”
“You’ll just have to find the sto
ne before she does, eh?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that it was missing?” he asked Malcolm.
Malcolm’s gaze moved to the counterfeit stone. “I was going to tell you.”
Something was wrong. Malcolm never avoided his eyes. Understanding began to dawn.
“You weren’t going to tell me,” Raven said. “You were having me evaluate the men at the meeting for potential involvement in the disappearance of the stone. You were going to take the intelligence I gathered and send someone else to Paris.”
Sir Malcolm sighed. “You’re right. And we already know who was behind the attack in Athens. It was Le Triton.”
Raven let that absorb. “Jones was about to tell me something about the Rosetta Stone when we were attacked. So that makes Jones the traitor. Le Triton killed him to silence him before he confessed to me.” He’d been feeding information to a double agent.
“It’s the most likely scenario. Though Jones might not be the only informant in Le Triton’s pocket.”
“I can’t believe you were withholding this information.”
“I’ve been worried about you.”
“Athens was an aberration. I’m fully recovered and sharper than ever.” Raven should have been able to defend himself against the attack. He’d defeated twice as many men before.
He’d been sluggish. He hadn’t been sleeping well.
“You look fatigued.” Malcolm laid a hand lightly on Raven’s shoulder. “No shame in it. You suffered a grave injury.”
Raven shrugged his hand away. “Don’t do this, Malcolm. I’m fit and ready for duty.”
Malcolm met his gaze for several moments. Raven didn’t dare blink.
“Come by Sutton Hall tomorrow morning,” said Malcolm. “If you pass your field examination, I’ll grant you the mission.”
Raven relaxed his tense shoulders. “I’ll pass with flying colors.”
“I’ll have your passport readied in anticipation of such a result.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Sir Malcolm smiled. “You sound like Lady India. You know . . .” He looked thoughtful. “We could use a dose of confidence and determination. We’re one man down with Jones terminated. I’ve never recruited a female. She seems quite formidable.”
Raven’s mind recoiled at the idea. All he could see was Indy facedown on a street, blood pooling in the cracks of the cobblestones.
He would never let any harm befall her.
“Out of the question,” Raven said coldly. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Why? Do you have an attachment to her still?” The way Malcolm said the words put Raven on high alert. Malcolm had witnessed the friendship between Raven and Indy that terrible day when he’d delivered the devastating news of his father’s death.
Malcolm was testing him now.
An agent must never let personal connections interfere with his duty.
“There’s no attachment. No feelings.” Raven kept his voice steady. “I’m a brick wall. Brick walls don’t have feelings.”
“When I entered the room I sensed sparks between you.”
More like a raging fire. “There’s nothing between us. She hates me.” And he’d do whatever it took to keep it that way.
“Really? Because I did some research at one point and discovered that your marriage contract with Lady India is extant. I’d call that an attachment, wouldn’t you?”
Damn. There was no fooling a spymaster. “Her father never legally terminated our betrothal before his sordid demise. He must have been waiting to find out whether my father was exonerated.”
“I thought she jilted you. That’s what you told me. That’s what the broadsheets reported.”
“She did. She told me she wouldn’t marry me if I were the last rogue on earth. In the eyes of the world, she jilted me.”
“But on paper you’re still betrothed and neither of you are free to marry another.”
“It’s only a technicality. I’ll never marry, you know that.”
“But what of Lady India? She’s had other suitors. What if she finally decides to marry?”
The suggestion made his hands ball into fists. “Then I’ll be happy to sign any papers her lawyer sends me,” he said.
And that was a cursed lie. He wouldn’t be happy about it because . . . no one would ever be good enough for Indy.
She could have had anyone. And practically everyone had courted her once they believed that he had been removed from the picture.
He’d kept count of her suitors, listing their shortcomings and unsuitability in great detail in his journal. She was simply too much woman for the lazy lords of London.
She intimidated the poor sods with her opinions, her intelligence, her ambition, and her beauty. She lived outside of society, pursuing her own dreams instead of becoming someone’s wife. She was unpredictable and powerful and she was . . . standing in the way of his mission.
He must convince her not to go to Paris. Too much was at stake. His future with the Foreign Office and the chance to finally bring Le Triton to justice.
“Lady India’s not cut out for our work, Malcolm. She’s far too dramatic. There’s nothing she loves better than creating a spectacle of herself. She’s about as secretive as a hurricane. I don’t want her careening through Paris making inquiries and whipping up trouble.”
“Then you’ll have to find a way to stop her.”
“I’ll find a way to keep her in London,” Raven vowed grimly. “I’ll have her kidnapped and trussed up in a cellar if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.”
Malcolm chuckled. “Or she’ll have you tied up and stuffed away somewhere. She doesn’t seem the sort to back down from a challenge.”
“She stays, I go,” said Raven vehemently.
He’d vowed to shield her from any association with his dangerous life. He’d find a way to protect her from harm.
Protect her from him.
Chapter 4
Indy paced the length of her brother’s library the next morning. “You should have heard him, Edgar. ‘I forbid you,’ he barked, as if that would stop me somehow.”
“As if anyone could stop you,” said Edgar, exchanging an amused glance with his wife, Mari.
Indy performed a smart about-face and began pacing in the opposite direction. “I can assure you that his arrogant directives only added fuel to the fire of my resolve.”
“Naturally,” said Mari, with a shake of her auburn ringlets.
“I will go to Paris and I will find the sto . . . stolen artifact before he does,” Indy proclaimed. “Or die trying.”
Mari smiled. “That’s rather dramatic, don’t you think? Surely a treasure hunt across Paris between sworn rivals will be more thrilling than dangerous.”
“He seems to think there could be peril involved.” Indy’s hand moved to the hilt of the dagger in a holster by her side. “I’ve never shied away from difficulty.”
“You can’t tell us what’s missing?” asked Edgar.
Indy shook her head. “I was sworn to secrecy.”
A line formed between Edgar’s brows. “But you’ve been planning this expedition to Egypt for months now. Your ship is ready to depart. You’ve hired archaeological assistants and guards . . . everything’s in place.”
“The journey must be delayed. Would you mind terribly contacting the ship’s crew and arranging for paid vacation until my return? I don’t anticipate it will take more than a fortnight.”
The search for Cleopatra’s tomb without the Rosetta Stone’s clues would be pointless.
She’d arrived at her theory in a roundabout way that most antiquities experts might call naïve. She’d tried to put herself in Cleopatra’s slippers.
She must have read Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra dozens of times. There was a line about Cleopatra garbing herself in the habiliments of the Egyptian goddess Isis.
And the Greek biographer Plutarch wrote that Cleopatra wished to be known as “the New Isis.” Indy hypoth
esized that Cleopatra had thought of herself as the reincarnation of Isis, and Antony as the reincarnation of Osiris.
If her theory was correct, Cleopatra, believing herself to be a goddess, would have insisted on being buried beneath a temple, instead of inside a pyramid.
Indy had amassed a compendium of texts as well as steles, cartouches, and papyri, always searching for the names Cleopatra, Isis, and Osiris. And that’s when she’d found the map tucked between the pages of a lesser-known work by a Roman historian.
The person who had drawn the map had thought they’d discovered Cleopatra’s burial site. And the location and name of the temple fit with Indy’s theory—at least she was nearly certain they did.
She couldn’t risk asking anyone to help her verify her translation of the name of the temple. She needed to keep her suppositions secret for now. She must examine the hieroglyphs on the Rosetta Stone in person.
“Must be an important artifact if you’re giving up Egypt,” said Edgar.
“Perhaps it’s not about the prize, Edgar dear,” said Mari. “It could be about besting Ravenwood.”
Edgar stroked his wife’s hand. “Isn’t there a proverb about that, my love? Pride goeth before a fall, I do believe.”
“While I admit beating him to the prize will be satisfying,” said Indy, “it’s not the primary reason. I require the . . . artifact . . . for my research. If a private collector purchases it, it could be lost forever. I’ll never let that happen.”
She resumed her pacing, her mind unspooling the possibilities.
Whoever had taken the stone was highly organized and efficient. They must have a vast network of trusted hirelings at their command. They’d either stolen it for profit or for political gain.
She didn’t care a straw whether the stone ended up being displayed at the British Museum, at the Louvre, or back in Egypt. Some might say that was a nearly treasonous thought. While she was a loyal British subject, she was on the side of history above all else.
When monarchs and military commanders and madmen altered the course of history, when they stole relics and moved them willy-nilly, with no regard for provenance or future study for the benefit of all mankind, it was so wrong. The present translations of the stone were incomplete. The world needed the stone to unlock the remaining mysteries of Egyptian hieroglyphics.