Heart Of Darkness

by Maggie Shayne

  His shoulders relaxed, and he turned again. “Then I shall be honored, Your Grace.”

  Steadying her hand, she extended it toward him. “Lady Tameri, Mr. Erskine. As my friends call me.”

  His grasp was warm and dry and firm, his fingers surprisingly calloused for a gentleman scholar. “Lady Tameri,” he said, holding her hand far longer than was proper.

  A shock of familiarity passed through her. She had held this hand before, in just this way. Before the darkness. Before…

  She broke free before she could utterly humiliate herself and rushed away to find her carriage.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LIAR.

  Leo stood in the drawing room beside Lady John Pickering, listening with only half an ear to the woman’s pleasant conversation.

  He had known the moment he had offered to aid the dowager duchess that he had made a mistake. He had made a promise he could not possibly keep, based upon an impossible premise.

  Convince me. He had set Lady Tameri a challenge that she had not been able to resist. A challenge given under false pretenses.

  For he knew she would never be able to convince him. No detail of her supposed “past life” could shake his conviction that she was in the grip of a powerful delusion, no plea for understanding could move his resolution.

  She was in need of a different sort of help. As his father, the Earl of Elston, had once needed help he had not received. No one outside the family had known of his profound belief that he was the modern incarnation of Leonardo da Vinci. He’d had the sense to hide his particular form of madness, as Tameri did not.

  But he had paid for it, nevertheless. Leo had been home from school when the earl had taken his own life, despondent over his inability to convince even those closest to him that he was the great artist and inventor reborn.

  Leo’s elder brother Harry had succeeded to the title, but Leo had carried the guilt of their father’s death long after he had left England on his first sojourn to North Africa.

  He had failed the earl. Now he had the opportunity to see that such a tragedy never happened again.

  But he must move with extreme caution lest he drive Tameri still deeper into her fantasies.

  Leo was distracted from his troubling thoughts by the remarkable room. He had attended a few of the dowager’s social events in the past, but on each occasion they had been held in larger, far grander rooms or in the unusually extensive gardens at the rear of the house.

  This room, though much smaller, was scarcely less impressive than the ones he had seen before. Statues of archaic Egyptian gods gazed with varying degrees of gravity and benevolence at the mere humans among them. The walls were painted with bright murals depicting daily Egyptian life, and the mantelpiece was virtually covered in dense rows of hieroglyphs. Leo excused himself to Lady John and approached the fireplace. The hieroglyphs were not random scratches inscribed for purely ornamental purposes, but words he might have translated had he been given more time.

  An expert advised her, he thought. An expert who was fluent in the old Egyptian writing. Leo knew each and every such specialist in England. Had the dowager’s wealth tempted one of them? Had she employed a linguist from another country?

  “Quite extraordinary, are they not?”

  Leo straightened in surprise. “Boyd?”

  The lean, dark-haired man bowed and smiled. “Erskine. It has been a long time.”

  An understatement of monumental proportions. “A very long time,” Leo said. “I had no idea that you had returned to London.”

  “I have not chosen to advertise the fact.”

  Indeed. And why should he? Lost in the bloody aftermath of the siege of Khartoum, Alastair Boyd had emerged from the desert three years later a broken man, muttering in a language no one understood. He had not spoken of his experiences, and after a few months in civilization he had vanished again, apparently unable to endure a world no longer his own.

  That broken man was no longer in evidence. Boyd was vibrantly healthy, confident, smiling. Except for his tan and the almost burnt-red look to his hair, he was once again the perfect English gentleman.

  And he was a guest in Lady Tameri’s house. An “intimate” guest.

  “I am glad to see you returned,” Leo said, aware that the silence had gone on too long.

  “I see the questions in your eyes,” Boyd said with a wry smile. “I have aspirations to write a book about my experiences. You shall have to wait until it is complete to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Boyd waved the apology away. “It’s only natural.”

  His careless demeanor seemed somewhat less than convincing to Leo. “Have you known the dowager long?” he asked.

  “Our families were acquainted before my recent sojourn in Egypt and the Sudan.”

  In which case he must have known Lady Tameri before she had become duchess, when she was still little more than a girl. She had been much younger than the duke, and had not been seen frequently in Society after their marriage. When she had appeared at the duke’s side during formal functions, she had dressed like any other woman, and had occasioned no gossip of any kind. It was only after the duke’s death, and the inheritance of the title by the duke’s younger brother, that she had appeared in her Egyptian garb and begun to remodel Maye House.

  Do you know what changed her? Leo wanted to ask. But it wasn’t the time or the place. “You are fortunate,” he said.

  “Indeed. We have become very…good friends since my return.”

  Leo felt himself bristling at the smug tone of Boyd’s voice. “The friendship of an intelligent, independent and wealthy woman committed to remaining a widow must be a valuable commodity.”

  Boyd’s lip curled. “You surprise me, Erskine. You were never known for such scurrilous innuendo before I left England.”

  The innuendo had been Boyd’s, but Leo knew he had changed. He hardly knew what devil had taken hold of him.

  “I am not good company tonight,” he said.

  “Then you ought to excuse yourself rather than ruin the lady’s entertainment.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “I would advise it.” Boyd leaned closer. “As much as I value the dowager’s friendship, I am under no illusion as to her state of mind. She is quite mad.”

  Leo started. “And you call yourself her friend?”

  “Is it not what everyone believes, even yourself?” Boyd favored Leo with a condescending smile. “Such eccentricity is not without its own merits.” He sighed. “Let me be frank, Erskine, for your own sake. I fear that you have too keen a regard for the lovely lady. Enjoy her company, if it suits you, but do not become involved.”

  Momentarily speechless, Leo clenched his fist and gave serious thought to the prospect of felling Boyd where he stood. But he mastered his irrational impulses and walked away before he could change his mind.

  Become involved. He was certainly not involved in the way Boyd suggested. But what of Boyd? He was charming, handsome, sophisticated in manner and dress. Was he taking advantage of Tameri, relying upon her “madness” to ease his way into her confidence…and her bed?

  Such unworthy thoughts were entirely baseless, at least as they pertained to Tameri herself. Leo scarcely knew either Boyd or the lady in question. He had jumped to ridiculous conclusions for inexplicable reasons.

  He had no further time to consider the source of his wild speculation. The call to dinner came, and he was compelled to offer his arm to the elderly Mrs. Poole and proceed into the dining room.

  The dinner was pleasant enough. The dowager’s servants were graceful and efficient, each one dressed in spotless white linen. Conversation was light, presided over by Lady Tameri in her usual Egyptian-style gown. Her inlaid collar glittered in the candlelight, and her black hair glistened.

  Whatever uncertainty she might have displayed during their meeting at the British Museum, it was nowhere in evidence now. She was not merely a princess but a qu
een, secure and unassailable in her majesty. She showed no particular attention to Boyd, who sat several seats away. Once or twice her gaze found Leo, but there was nothing “intimate” about it. He had been granted the favor of attending upon her, and that was sufficient honor.

  No one protested when Tameri failed to follow the usual custom of leading the ladies from the dining room, leaving the men to their cigars and brandy. She continued to preside over the table, drank with her guests, including the women, and only after a leisurely period rose to usher everyone into the Gold drawing room.

  To Leo’s surprise, Boyd disappeared before the guests had gathered again. Lost in his own thoughts, Leo wandered out of the room and along the landing. Deeply preoccupied, he had paused before a closed door when Lady Tameri found him.

  “Mr. Erskine?”

  He turned quickly. “Lady Tameri. I apologize—”

  She lifted an elegant hand. “My guests are departing. Perhaps you would enjoy a tour of the house?”

  Leo parsed her question for sarcasm and found none. He almost asked if Boyd had left with the others, but thought better of it.

  “It is late,” he said. “I ought to return another time.”

  “I seldom retire before three. Early morning was always my favorite time in the palace, when the heat of one day was over and the new had yet to begin.”

  “What palace might that have been, Lady Tameri?”

  Her smile was an enigma. “There will be time for such discussions, Mr. Erskine. Shall we proceed?” She swept ahead of him, her long golden sash trailing behind her. Effectively silenced, Leo followed, breathing in the delicate scent of her unfamiliar perfume.

  There was much to see. Her home was a virtual museum, and every chamber she showed him on the first and second floors was as lavishly decorated as the drawing and dining rooms, featuring magnificent reproductions of Egyptian sculptures from the Middle and New Kingdoms, beautifully rendered murals and fine, intricately carved wooden furniture. The walls of the ballroom bore a stylized depiction of the Nile, complete with hippopotami, crocodiles and fishing boats, and the floor was inlaid with the cartouches of great pharaohs.

  One small chamber was entirely devoted to perfect scale models of palaces and temples, complete with pillars, obelisks and columns adorned in brilliant blues, greens, reds and ochers.

  But it was the final room that outshone all the others. Tameri led him through a smaller drawing room and paused at a pair of locked doors, plain and unadorned. She produced a key and opened the doors.

  The antechamber was dark and silent. Tameri lit a small lamp beside the door, and the cabinets and figurines leaped into sharp relief.

  It was a collection of treasures such as Leo had never seen. Glass cases housed remarkable artifacts, clearly of ancient provenance. An elaborately ornamented sarcophagus of the late Middle Kingdom lay on a dais on the far side of the room. A remarkable basalt sphinx, man-headed, perched on a table beside it. An exquisite canopic jar with a lid in the shape of a woman’s head looked out from a niche in the wall behind. Above all else had been placed a faience sculpture of Isis and her son, Horus.

  Speechless, Leo made a slow circuit of the room. The first case held splendid examples of fine Egyptian jewelry: a golden collar adorned with rows of beads carved of lapis lazuli and carnelian; a simple diadem of solid gold; an openwork pectoral decorated with lotus flowers and griffins; a flawless scarab amulet of glass and wood. Each piece was an original, each preserved in all its antique glory. Beside it, great irregular blocks of stone with relief images of a victorious pharaoh and his humble captives had been fitted together to form part of a wall. Leo knelt to examine it. There was no doubt as to its authenticity.

  Leo rose to face her. “How did you come by these?” he demanded.

  “I have contacts in Egypt,” she said coolly.

  “You mean tomb-robbers,” he said. “Men who deal in stolen artifacts.”

  “And are your kind any better? You, who have no right, have desecrated tombs meant to shield the remains of their owners for all time, fouled the resting places of the mightiest pharaohs. At least I—” She broke off, breathed deeply, and regained her composure. “These were made for my family.”

  “Your family?”

  “My true family. These things belong to no one else.”

  Leo met her gaze, struggling against a strange tightness in his chest and the fierce pounding of his heart. “They belong in a museum, where everyone can enjoy them, not merely a privileged, spoiled woman who believes herself superior to every man, woman and child in England.”

  Her skin, already pale, grew whiter still. “If you are an example of such a man, then I have good reason to feel so. You were born a peasant, and yet Osiris—” Bewilderment crossed her face, and she reached for the case behind her. “Asar, my love, my king…”

  Leo caught her before she slid to the floor. She began to shake violently. The skin of her wrist was cold, her breathing shallow.

  All anger forgotten, he half carried her back into the drawing room and to the nearest chair.

  “Tameri!” he cried, gripping her shoulders.

  She stirred, catching her breath. Her green eyes opened, half-lidded, dreamy, seductive. Her lips parted.

  “Asar?”

  What happened then was completely beyond Leo’s control. He pulled her against his chest and kissed her. Her mouth opened, permitting his seeking tongue to tangle with hers. He could feel every contour of her figure, aware that she wore no stays and very few undergarments. She speared her fingers through his hair, moaning with an urgency that brought Leo’s body to painful attention.

  Leo had sought to be a gentleman all his life, but what roared inside him now was anything but honorable. More than the fire of lust. More than any emotion he had ever experienced.

  “Aset,” he murmured. “My love, my queen….”

  Her lips lost their pliancy. She pushed against him, her face flooding with hot color. She sprang up, brushing him aside, and resumed her icy dignity as if it were a royal cloak of jewels and spun gold. Without a word she strode to the bell pull and summoned one of her white-clad servants.

  “Shenti,” she said, “please summon Mr. Erskine’s carriage.”

  The footman glanced at Leo and bowed. “Sir, if you will…”

  Leo found his voice again, remembering what had happened just before his unforgivable indiscretion. “Your mistress is not well,” he said. “A doctor—”

  “I am very well, Mr. Erskine.” She looked again at Shenti, who made it clear that he would not leave until Leo did.

  She’s afraid. Afraid of him, but not because of the kiss. If she were as horrified by her behavior as he was by his, that was not what concerned her now.

  As he followed Shenti to the entrance hall, Leo considered the situation with as much detached rationality as he could muster. Tameri was plainly ill, perhaps dangerously so, not merely delusional. If he had not caught her, she might have fallen on the display case and injured herself. Such seizures seldom occurred in isolation.

  Twice he had seen her enter an altered state of consciousness, a disconnection from the real world. He was certain that she had not “performed” for him in an effort to convince him of her sincerity. She had truly lost control.

  Just as he had.

  It was obvious that she would not consult a doctor on her own, yet Leo couldn’t see how he might convince her. When had her physical illness started? Was it directly tied to her delusions?

  Someone must look after her. Certainly not “friends” like Boyd. It was clear that she had no particular regard for him, in spite of his insinuations, and Leo didn’t trust him, though he couldn’t have said precisely why. The so-called Widow’s Club, of which she was the most prominent member, must surely have some influence over her.

  Lady John Pickering would certainly be receptive to his concerns, as would Lady Selfridge. They knew he was not apt to consider women delicate flowers in need of constant male protecti
on. They need never know what had just transpired between him and the dowager.

  Every instinct urged him to protect Tameri. But how could he protect her from himself, when even he didn’t understand his own bizarre lapse? What had driven him to take advantage of her at her moment of greatest vulnerability? He was no rake, as Sinjin had been before his marriage. He could certainly master his desires.

  Until that reckless moment in the drawing room, he had not desired Tameri at all. Had he?

  Leo shook his head and climbed into his carriage. He would find answers, whether Tameri chose to cooperate or not. It was no longer simply a matter of helping her overcome her self-deception. Not when her very life might be at stake.

  Her life, and his sanity.

  Sinking into the seat, Leo closed his eyes and remembered the feel of her small hand in his. The dim interior of the carriage filled with hot, white light, and his own voice whispered words not his own.

  “Aset. My love. My queen.”

  “Sir?”

  He started awake. The coachman stood at the open carriage door, his face creased with worry.

  Leo nodded brusquely, descended and walked a little unsteadily to the door of his townhouse. The busts of Aristotle and Archimedes, Copernicus and Galileo greeted him in the entrance hall, their sightless stares disapproving. He went immediately to his library and selected the most tedious archaeological volume he could find.

  His efforts were to no avail. He roamed the house like an unquiet spirit until dawn, counting the hours until he could reasonably call on the ladies of the Widow’s Club.

  When he saw Tameri again, he, at least, would be in perfect control.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE for Tameri to avoid him.

  Wherever Tameri went—everywhere she looked—he was there. Though she gave no dinners or parties or musical entertainments during the first few days following their disturbing encounter, Leo appeared at each and every one of the half-dozen functions she attended, always hovering somewhere in the background. Watching. Waiting.