by Hall, Karen
Brandon swore in three archaic languages before asking, “Then where am I going to get funds? Cheswick has been underwriting the dig for the past six years!”
Albert spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “I haven’t a clue. Are you
sure your brother won’t help you?”
“Quite.” Brandon bit off the word. “And I’m close, Albert. So close to a major discovery.”
“I’m sorry,” Albert said. “But don’t despair yet. It’s almost Christmas. What do you say I invite some of the Museum’s contributors to a little dinner and say if we can shake some funds loose?”
“Whatever works,” Brandon said wearily. “I’m obliged to you.”
“Not at all.” Albert waved his hand again. “Now, before you go, let me show you the new Egyptian history exhibit. We’ve used some of the artifacts you discovered along with the ones you sent from the Cairo museum.”
He stood and Brandon followed him from the room, to the hall and then into the vast gallery that housed the Museum’s Egyptian Antiquities collection. Well- dressed people filled the area, stopping to talk with friends or gaze at the artifacts of Egyptian daily life. Brandon recognized the very large mummy case of a merchant he had personally found. “Everything looks splendid.” he said.
“Thanks to you,” Graham replied. “Well, bless my soul. There’s a piece of good luck.”
“What?”
Albert gestured at two women who stood looking at series of photographs of the Sphinx. “If you want a new funding source, you should try them.”
Brandon stared at the subjects of their discussion. The taller woman had glossy black hair and a serene expression. Her companion was younger and even from across the room Brandon could not miss the twin copper red curls framing her face. Her dress’s simple elegance was all the proof he needed of her wealth.
As if she had read his mind, she turned and looked in his direction. Their gazes met and color brightened her face. Then she smiled, and its warmth hit Brandon with the force of a blow. “Who are they?” he asked.
“Mrs. Robert Barnwell and her niece Cassandra Barnwell.,”
“Barnwell?” A sweet taste flooded Brandon’s mouth. “Of Barnwell’s Chocolates and Confections?”
“The very ones,” Albert said. “They are often of a philanthropic nature. Mr. Barnwell fancies Greek artifacts more than Egyptian ones, but perhaps we could convince them otherwise. Shall I invite them to the dinner?”
And before Brandon could fashion a reply, Albert beckoned the women to join them. The older one nodded and they moved through the crowd with an eye-pleasing grace. They stopped and Mrs. Barnwell said. “Mr. Graham, how very nice to see you again. You remember my niece Miss Cassandra Barnwell, of course?”
Albert smiled and said, “Of course. A pleasure to see you again, Miss Barnwell. Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Brandon Russell, fresh off the boat from Egypt. He found many of the objects you see around you. Brandon, this is Mrs. Robert Barnwell and her niece Miss Cassandra Barnwell.”
“Welcome home, Mr. Russell.” Miss Barnwell held out her small-gloved hand and he took it. Her soft husky voice sent a ripple of pleasure over Brandon’s skin. So did her touch.
He bowed to them. “Ladies, I’m delighted. I’m sorry to say that Barnwell’s Chocolates and Confections are not easily found in Egypt and I have sorely missed them.”
Mrs. Barnwell favored him with a smile. “Aren’t they? Perhaps we should make you our Egyptian agent. Then we could keep you well supplied.”
“We should open a factory there, Aunt Laura,” Miss Barnwell suggested. “Otherwise the chocolates would melt on the way.”
The men laughed. “An excellent point, Miss Barnwell.” Albert conceded.
“I’m a peppermint man, myself, “Brandon added. “Less danger of melting, don’t you think?”
“Ah, then you must try our chocolate covered peppermints,” Miss Barnwell countered. Her eyes, dark as the chocolates she boasted of, twinkled as she added, “They are not to be missed. We can have a box sent to you as a welcome home present if you like.”
“I should like that,” Brandon said and her smile warmed his skin again. She wasn’t exactly a beauty but she had a certain appealing presence. And who had told her to cover up those freckles with face powder?
“Lord Brandon! Lord Brandon!” A strident feminine voice broke into their conversation and its owner, purple plumes waving from her oversized hat sailed forward. Miss Barnwell’s eyes widened, and she stepped back before being mowed over by the very large woman in an equally purple dress.
“Lady Stanhope.” Brandon forced a smile. Of all the people to see his first hour home in London why must it be Lucille Stanhope? Her daughter Millicent had not so subtly pursued him the last time he was home. Judging from Lady Stanhope’s enthusiasm, Millicent must still in the market for a husband.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Lady Stanhope gushed. “How does your brother? I hope His Grace and his Duchess are well?”
“I’ve only just arrived home,” Brandon reluctantly admitted. He could lie and say he’d been home a week, but sooner or later she’d learn he was being less than truthful. Her ability to ferret things out made Sherlock Holmes look like a rank amateur. “I hope to find my brother and his family in good health.”
The woman’s pebble gray eyes glittered in speculation. “You have no doubt returned for your sister’s wedding?”
“No doubt,” Brandon agreed. “Lady Lucille Stanhope, allow me to introduce Mrs.--”
“Do say you’ll come to dinner while you’re in town, Lord Brandon,” Lady Stanhope cut him off without so much as a glance at the other women. Plucking a card from her handbag, she said. “I receive every afternoon between two and four. Millicent will be delighted to see you again. She’s become quite the Egyptian scholar. I’ll expect to hear from you.”
With a deep curtsy, she turned and swept from the gallery like a man o’ war, plumes still waving. After a moment’s silence, Mrs. Barnes asked, “Where would you like us to send the peppermints, Lord Brandon?”
Brandon shoved the card into a trouser pocket. “The Albany.”
“The Albany it is, then. Come, Cassandra.”
“A pleasure to have met, you Lord Brandon,” Miss Barnwell said. The twinkle in her eyes sparkled back at him with a nearly blinding light, while a smile hovered about the corners of her primly held mouth, suggesting she was on the edge of bursting into laughter.
“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Barnwell.” Brandon bowed again.
“Come Cassandra,” Mrs. Barnes said. “If I don’t have you back in time for tea, your Great Aunt Tilda will make both our lives miserable. Especially since she’s invited Lady DeMerle and her son.”
Sighing, Miss Barnwell bowed her head as if waiting the deathblow. “You aren’t going to leave me alone with them, are you, Aunt Laura?”
“Of course not, my dear. You won’t have to face the matrimonial wolves alone. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
Linking her arm with her niece, Mrs. Barnwell led them away, vanishing into the increasing crowd.
“Well, there’s the answer to your problems, Brandon,” Albert said with a laugh once the women were out of earshot. “You can marry Lady Millicent Stanhope. As an earl’s son-in-law, you’d have more than enough money to bankroll your expeditions for years.”
“I’d rather sleep with a pit viper,” Brandon growled.
“Then perhaps you could marry Miss Barnwell,” Albert suggested, still grinning. “No title, but lots and lots of money. Of course, you’ll have lots of competition. Her fortune’s said to run to six figures and Christmas weddings are currently all the rage.”
“Since when did you start playing matchmaker?” Brandon asked. “Now, you’ll excuse me. If I don’t put in an appearance at Hal
stead House, the duke will have my head displayed from the Tower by morning. Good to see you again, Albert. Let me know about the dinner. “
And sighing inwardly, Brandon headed for the door.
***
“Poor Lord Brandon,” Aunt Laura said as they traveled back to Grosvenor Square. “He’ll have no rest if Lucille Stanhope has designs on him for her Millicent. That should please his brother the Duke of Halstead.”
Cassandra peered at her from the other seat. “What are you talking about, Aunt Laura?”
“You should pay more attention to Society gossip my dear, especially since they patronize Barnwell’s so much,” Aunt Laura teased. “It’s a known fact the Duke of Halstead would prefer his half-brother and heir to stay in London instead of running around the globe and putting himself and the Halstead line in danger of dying out. Because of that, he refuses to finance Lord Brandon’s work.”
The image of the tall archeologist flooded Cassandra’s memory and for some strange reason, her cheeks heated. His blonde, collar- touching hair proved a barber was not available on his journey home, but his neatly pressed suit-from his shoulder hugging jacket and well fitting trousers falling from a slim waist down very long legs- suggested a valet’s presence aboard ship. She cleared her throat and asked, “Really? Who does finance his work?”
“Until last week, it was Reginald Cheswick. Remember we’ve had a standing order for five pounds of chocolates a month from him for the past year. Last week Mr. Cheswick married the recipient of those chocolates and now the former Miss Ruthie Mays, one of the Variety Theater’s Razzle-Dazzle Girls, has convinced him to stop wasting his money on a man who spends his life-” Aunt Laura’s alto voice rose to a falsetto- “‘playing in the world’s biggest sandbox’. But the order for the chocolates still stands.”
“I’m surprised a Razzle-Dazzle Girl has the wit to call the Egyptian desert a sandbox,” Cassandra said as the carriage turned down their street. “Poor Lord Brandon!. Who will pay for his work now?”
Aunt Laura shook her head. “I’ve no idea. But the Duchess is advancing in her latest pregnancy and has already taken to her bed. The clubs are betting she’s carrying twins. Perhaps this time there will be an heir and a spare and the Duke so overcome with happiness, he’ll help Lord Brandon.”
A giggle crossed Cassandra’s lips. “Or Lord Brandon could marry Millicent Stanhope.”
“He could,” Aunt Laura laughed. “Oh goodness. Look.” She pointed at the window as the carriage rolled to a stop.
Cassandra’s heart sank. Aunt Tilda’s must have discovered her tisane was drugged because her revenge was apparent in the not one, not two, but three carriages, doors emblazoned with family crests, standing before the house. Bachelors. Fortune hunting bachelors.
“Oh, Aunt Tilda,” Cassandra moaned” What have you done ? “
***
“If perhaps you’d discovered something monumental, I might consider endowing you,” Trevor Russell, Duke of Halstead said dryly. “But your disregard for your own safety and the possible ending of the Halstead line only doubles the reason I cannot endow you.”
You make me sound like I’m nothing more than a breeding stallion. It’s a damn shame medical science isn’t advanced enough to determine the gender of a child before he or she is born, then you’d know if your next child will be the heir you desire so much. He pushed aside the glass of port on the table. “The archeological community has no doubts as to my discoveries’ worth.”
Trevor shrugged. “If you say so. I’ve never understood your passion for science, Brandon. Don’t you care about your family history and reputation?”
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes-a gesture he knew Trevor despised-Brandon said, “Of course I do. Father certainly imbued us both with it. But a man has to have something to occupy his time. I had no desire for the army or the church, so why not science?”
“There are more gentlemanly pursuits than living out of a suitcase. Can’t one of your friends find you an advisory position at a museum?”
“You just can’t countenance the idea of me working for my living,” Brandon pointed out. “Why shouldn’t I be paid for it?”
“A duke’s heir doesn’t--”
“Yes, I know.” Brandon sighed. “A duke’s heir doesn’t work for a living. This is an old argument Trevor, and neither of us are likely to change our minds.
“Well, then.” Trevor flicked a microscope piece of dust from his dinner jacket. “As long as you make yourself available for Gwendolyn’s engagement celebrations. Don’t let me keep you from your evening, Brandon.”
Glad for the dismissal, Brandon rose and left the dining room. Outside Halstead House, he walked the short distance to the corner and a cabstand. A blanketing fog shrouded the streetlights and he shivered. Even after years of nights in the desert, he always forgot how very bone chilling the November evenings in London could be.
He gave the driver the address for the Four-in Hand Club and climbed inside the cab. Brandon didn’t race, but the Russells had been among the club’s founding members during the early days of the Regency, and a sure place to hear useful information. Information his late mother would have laughingly called gossip.
As to be expected during the approaching holiday season, the club was full of gentlemen who had stopped by before going to other engagements. His appearance brought a burst of applause from the assembly in the Blue Room. The number of bottles on the tables showed they were already deep in their cups.
“Speak of the Devil and there he is!” shouted one above the din of voices.
“I’ll put in ten more quid if he can pull it off,” another called. “London’s most eligible bachelor and most unlikely to marry will wed by New Year’s.”
“He’ll have to marry after his sister’s wedding, Freddie,” corrected the first one. But I’ll gladly take your money for there will be ice-skating in hell before you’ll see Lord Brandon Russell at the altar.”
Brandon scowled at the pair. He remembered both Freddie Vandergild and Bertie St. John from university, and the following years had not endowed them with any greater wisdom. Not that they had any to start. “Since when are my matrimonial prospects of such interest?”
“Oh, we’re just making bets with the most impossible odds we can think of.” Bertie held up a brandy filled snifter. “I need a new pair of trotters and the old man won’t free up my next six month’s allowance. Said after my recent bad luck at the tables, I don’t deserve it. Your getting engaged is the most outlandish thing we could think of. I just need to find someone to bet against me, for it would be a sure victory for me. “
“Oh I say, and I know just the candidate for him.” Freddie gave Brandon a glassy-eyed grin. “Who’s that little freckle-faced thing who’s rolling in money and just said ‘no’ to Edward Ramsfield?”
“Cassandra Barnwell!” shouted Bertie. “By Jove, that’s the ticket. Ramsfield must be desperate if he’d offer for her. Who’ll bet against me? Twenty pounds says that no matter how she tries, Cassandra Barnwell’s money won’t snare Brandon Russell!.”
“It’s a good thing she’s got money, because that’s all she has to offer,” a third man said morosely. “Tried for her meself and she turned me down flat.”
“You’re father’s only a baronet, Roger,” Bertie called. “Got to be a little higher in the instep for the Barnwell girl. Who’s in?”
A general chorus of betting broke out and Freddie plucked a pencil and paper from his pocket. “Place your bets, gents. One at a time, no reason to rush.”
Brandon elbowed his way through the group, took the pencil from Freddie and broke it. “No one bets on the Russells,” he said. “Not unless you want the dinner invitations from my brother to your family to stop.”
“Oh, be a sport, Russell,” Bertie sneered. “No reason to act like your brother.
I’ll tell you what. Winner divides the spoils with you. After all, the Duke isn’t about to free up any of his own coin to help you out, is he? Consider it a Christmas present from your old friends. Not unless you surprise us all and do marry. Then we get to keep it. What do you say? Place your bets, gentlemen, place your bets. The night is hurrying on.”
Any attempt to answer was drowned by the men’s shouts and thoroughly weary, Brandon left for the Albany. This was turning out to be a hell of a Christmas Season.
***
You’ve lost your mind, girl. He’ll be calling the authorities to drag you off to Bedlam where they’ll lock you up and throw away the key. Cassandra stopped at the top of the Museum stairs and stared down the long corridor leading to the Egyptian exhibit. Why on earth did she think Lord Brandon would even be here? If he only arrived home yesterday, he was surely visiting family or friends.
But had to speak to him. After Aunt Tilda’s coup yesterday, desperate action was called for, and she had lain awake half the night, thinking over her plan. She only prayed would see the logic of it, the benefit of it. It would quit simply, save them both. How could he possibly refuse such an offer?
Cassandra moved forward and through the again crowded gallery. Egypt was wildly popular just now. She personally found the pantheon of Egyptian gods and goddesses far more interesting than the Greeks or Romans. Their sinister nature appealed to her in a strange way. A quick glance showed a hallway off the main hall and gathering her courage Cassandra slowly walked its length to stop before an open door with the word ‘workroom’ printed on it. She peeked inside and an inaudible sigh of appreciation escaped her.
Lord Brandon stood behind a large wooden table, his shirtsleeves rolled up and well past his elbows displaying a pair of tightly muscled arms. A thoughtful expression covered his handsome features as he reached into a large box and pulled out a wrapped object. After carefully removing the paper, he held it up, and after a moment’s scrutiny, put it aside and made note on a pad of paper. No wonder Lady Stanhope was eager to snare him for her daughter. He was quite simply, breathtaking. She sighed again.