Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2)

by A. W. Exley

  By lunch time, some semblance of order was restored. They returned furniture to the correct way up. Two piles grew on the lawn; one with objects beyond repair, the other, items to be sent away and fixed. The remains of the enormous chandelier in the entranceway was lowered and deemed possible to salvage; only three of the massive arms shot off. The myriad of crystals could be replaced and the arms welded back to the main structure. One of the hangar crew hung temporary front doors, and tradesmen started arriving with new mattresses, small furnishings, and glass for broken windows. The house was tidier, but emptier.

  That left Cara to contemplate a far bigger mess, and one with no easy fix. Nate sat in the Tower, awaiting the queen’s leisure. The captain had dismissed her as Nate’s doxie and she reluctantly admitted her position was a tenuous one. She was invisible to society as his mistress, not that social position ever concerned her. She had no need for their approval and was happy to thumb her nose at convention and the ton. However, Nate was going to need assistance she wasn’t sure she could procure. A lump inside her corset reminded her things didn’t have to be that way. She had another role she could play, one which would ensure the people she needed to talk to would sit up and listen.

  “Double crap,” she cried, throwing up her hands. “I’ve been stalked, trapped, sold, and painted into a corner.”

  The next morning, the mess didn’t look any better. Cara took the carriage to the City and Threadneedle Street, alighting at the offices of Hamish McToon, just along the road from the mighty Bank of England. Her hands played with the fabric of the dress, smoothing the taffeta down over her hips unable to sit quietly in her lap. She fidgeted with either the dress or her hat, or anything to keep herself occupied while she waited in the calm and serene sitting room. There was something about waiting for a solicitor that made her skin crawl as though she was in trouble, or about to be. Past experience had proven that, and this time was no different.

  The door opened and the quiet secretary ushered Cara into a plush office. Hamish McToon was younger than she expected, but with a bald palette it was hard to pin an exact age on him. His face appeared to be trying to compensate for the absence of hair up top; he possessed the most extraordinary black sable eyebrows she had ever seen. He was as well schooled as she expected, betraying no hint of surprise at seeing her. He merely indicated a chair for her and waited until she was seated. Only then did he take his place, tent his fingers, and waited with the patience of Job for her to begin.

  She wasn’t sure where to start, so hedged around the topic. “You know why I’m here?”

  “I believe it concerns Viscount Lyons.” The words carried the faint trace of a Scottish burr as though he had spent many years from his original home. His voice made her think of whisky and heather and increased his appeal. A sexy voice will get you every time.

  She let out a long held breath. “He’s been arrested for treason and taken to the Tower. He said to seek you out, and to listen to your advice.”

  “I am aware of his arrest, that news was conveyed to me yesterday. I already have people constructing the defence, should he ever come to trial. Although it would help if we knew the actual detail of the charges.”

  Cara blinked, she should have guessed that sort of news would spread like wild fire. The ton would no doubt be gossiping over their little breakfast sausages about Nate’s imprisonment. Miguel reported that Sara Collins was disinterested in the return of her engagement ring and more concerned about Nate’s activities, and fired numerous questions at him. “What do we do?”

  The tented fingers slipped down to the desk, and caressed the dark green leather inlay. “Firstly, you need to obtain an interview with Viscount Lyons to see what light he can shed on his current predicament. To do that, you will need to get past the Constable of the Tower. Once we have more information, or a direction of inquiry, we can strategize.”

  “All right then.” A plan, something her mind could grasp and cling to. Cara made to rise, assuming the interview were over.

  McToon coughed politely into his hand. “However…” He left the word hanging.

  Cara rolled her eyes and dropped back into the seat. Here comes the bit I don’t want to hear.

  “You are unlikely to be admitted to the Tower as Miss Cara Devon, companion of Viscount Lyons.” He arched his eyebrows and then went back to patiently regarding her. Cara wondered if this was what a praying mantis’ dinner felt like; the wide eyed, unblinking stare waiting for her to try and make a dash for freedom. She turned his words over. The encounter with the captain of the guard still fresh in her mind, as was the impact of his back handed strike. She bore a swollen and cut lip, although her ability to heal quickly would see it gone in another day.

  They won’t admit Nate’s doxie. As his lover I’m invisible to society.

  Cara tried to swallow, her dry throat impeding the action. Cornered, with no other option, she knew what she had to do. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and wouldn’t allow the words out that she needed to articulate. “What reception would Nate’s viscountess receive?”

  The corners of his mouth pulled back in a grin. “Should the viscount have a wife, then she could not be refused access to either the constable, or her husband. The Lady Lyons would also be in a position to take the viscount’s case direct to the queen, should it prove necessary.”

  Her hand shook as she fussed with the satchel and extracted the marriage certificate. She gave the solicitor an apologetic glance when he raised his eyebrows at the scrunched up piece of paper. The two rings fell free of their cage and rested on the desk. The smaller ring nestled within the protecting embrace of the larger.

  “And so the chains grow ever tighter,” she murmured under her breath as her fingers smoothed the paper, trying to remove the creases. “What do I need to do?” she said with another rasping swallow of her dry throat. A glass of water appeared at her elbow and she took a thankful draught to restore moisture. “How do I make it official?”

  The solicitor picked up a pen and handed it to Cara. “You have only to sign.”

  She licked her lips. “That’s all? Just my signature?”

  He nodded. “Three years ago, an entry was made in the marriage register at the Courts of Justice. It contains the pertinent information, except the name of the bride. Should you sign, I will ensure the entry is made complete. The late addition will be indistinguishable from the rest of the notation, and to the world, you have been the Viscountess Lyons for the past three years.”

  The fiercely independent part of her brain huddled in a corner, keening no, no, no. Cara grasped the pen and signed her name before bravery fled or common sense returned.

  Only as he dusted the name with a sprinkle of sand to set the ink, did she realise she would never again be Cara Devon. Even if she divorced Nate, society would demand she retain his name.

  Ownership by a man stamped forever on my soul.

  The solicitor pushed the smaller ring toward her. She closed her eyes, took a large breath of air, and then savoured her last single lungful.

  If he’s pulled this stunt just to get me to wear his ring, I’ll kill him myself.

  Exhaling, she picked up the ring and slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. “So he owes me three years’ worth of anniversary presents?”

  McToon’s face rearranged itself into a smile. “As the viscount’s wife, obviously his line of credit is now at your full disposal.”

  “And how extensive is his line of credit?”

  The smile broadened, and his eyes crinkled, showing he laughed often, an unexpected side to the dry solicitor. “More extensive than you can imagine.”

  Cara gave him a mischievous grin, warming up a fermenting idea. “Oh, don’t be too sure about that. I have a very vivid imagination.”

  “Perhaps I may be of some further assistance.” He drew a small business card from the plain silver holder on his desk, and wrote a name on the back. He held the slip out to Cara.

  She ga
ve it a suspicious look, hesitant to touch the heavy paper. These things get me in way too much trouble.

  “It’s the name of a very exclusive, and discreet, modiste. She will be able to see you today. I’m sure she would relish the opportunity to assist you in trying to dent Lord Lyons’ line of credit.”

  Cara took the card and stuffed it into her satchel. “Thank you, but I intend to do more than attempt to dent it.”

  His eyes crinkled with laughter as he took another card and wrote on it with a bold flourish before pushing it across the desk at Cara. “Another friend of mine, a jeweller. His speciality is guilt-induced late anniversary presents of the diamond variety.” He gave Cara a conspiratorial wink.

  “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. She liked the solicitor’s sense of humour.

  “The viscount is a powerful man, Lady Lyons.” The smile faded from his face as he rose to escort her to the door. “As such, he has powerful enemies. But working together we will free him.”

  “He’s run afoul of Victoria; does it get much worse, Mr. McToon?” Cara wasn’t a religious person, but she uttered a quick prayer that the situation couldn’t get any worse. Could it?

  The mechanical horses drew the carriage to a halt outside a middle class, red brick terrace house. Cara lifted her skirts to ascend the stairs and the front door was thrown wide open before she reached the top. Much to her surprise, the modiste expected her. She didn’t know whose network of scurrying minions was the more impressive: Nate’s or the quietly efficient Mr. McToon’s.

  Madame Levett led Cara into a chic parlour with a wall of mirrors. An oriental privacy screen, depicting wading cranes, occupied one corner. Several dress making dummies lined the room, displaying day gowns, ball gowns, and diaphanous night attire. The cream of the room was emphasised by gold detailing on double doors, currently flung open to the work room beyond. Cara lingered at the Aladdin’s cave that beckoned to be explored. Glittering fabrics in jewel tones covered every available space. Delicate, embroidered silks were tossed with hardier, earthy tweeds.

  With effort, she turned back to the seamstress, tearing her gaze from the treasure trove. “I require a new wardrobe, madam.”

  The little French woman’s eyes sparkled at her request. Madame Levett clasped her hands together in delight. “You require an entire trousseau, Lady Lyons?”

  The denial was on the tip of Cara’s tongue, but she thought better of it.

  Screw him, he got me into this mess, and it’s going to cost him for every minute I’m mired in it.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “A rather extensive one. Complete with undergarments and stockings. My husband has rather exacting taste in undergarments.” She fluttered her eyelashes down, but the other woman gave a raucous laugh.

  “Do not worry. He will not quibble about a single penny. I will see to that. It will be a joy to drape your form in the latest fashions.” She drew shapes and patterns in the air with expressive artist’s hands around her newest client.

  Cara couldn’t help the look of horror that crossed her face, and she wrinkled her nose at the thought of the enormous and stifling gowns favoured by others of her new rank.

  The seamstress placed a hand on Cara’s arm. “But you do not like the latest fashions?”

  “No offence, but I do not like to be restricted. No crinolines, please. I much prefer fluidity and movement.”

  The seamstress removed her hand to clutch her chest, and for one horrid moment Cara thought she was going to topple over with a heart attack. Then, the hugest smile spread across her face.

  “I have dreamed of a client such as you,” she whispered in a reverent tone. The hand moved to make far different gestures around her. “We shall drape your body like a Greek goddess, fabric that conceals, yet reveals, with every movement you make.”

  “You’re onto it,” Cara commented dryly. “Do you have something I could wear today? I have an important appointment and I’m afraid my current gown is neither chic nor warm enough.”

  The little seamstress clapped her hands and with her assistants, disappeared into their work room and returned with arm loads of fabric and fur. She worked like a fairy godmother and transformed Cara like Cinderella from the Grimm brothers’ tale.

  They dressed her in a deep blue velvet gown, edged in silver ermine. The jacket had trimmed cuffs, a small upright collar, and a plunging décolleté blurred by the expensive fur. The skirt was split down the middle and divided into two parts that swept back in a natural train behind her. The ermine ran around the edge of the skirt and up the split middle. A pale silver taffeta was revealed underneath as she walked. The outfit was warm and would keep out the encroaching chill of the autumn air, and the dreary dampness of the Tower. Atop her head perched a pillbox hat of shaved ermine with a draping black veil.

  Cara stared at her reflection in the wall of mirrors. The woman staring back was the epitome of chic in a style more fluid and revealing than any member of the ton would dare wear, although the demi-monde would heartily approve. It was also the single most expensive outfit she had ever owned. As she walked back to the carriage with measured steps, she saw Jackson’s jaw drop open.

  Rendered speechless, his cigarette hung limply from his bottom lip.

  “No smart comment?” she teased as she waited for him to remember to open the carriage door and drop down the steps.

  “Give me a moment, doll.” He tapped the side of his head. “Blurdy clock upstairs has stopped ticking.”

  ara stood on the pavement and stared at the brooding mass of the Tower of London, the city base of Her Majesty’s Royal Aeronautical Service. With stone blackened by centuries of London grime, the entire structure exuded a dark and dangerous air, even without the attached millennia of bloody history. Military airships were tethered to the larger structures of Legge’s Mount and Brass Mount. Bowlines and cables secured them to the ancient fortress, running back and forth like giant streamers. The silver mesh protecting the air bladders caught the sunlight, turning the ships into gigantic Christmas ornaments at strange odds with the lump of coal anchoring them.

  A raven peered down at Cara from its perch high on the Casemates. The bird gave a single caw and flapped ebony wings, and she couldn’t help the shudder that ran through her body. She passed under the Middle Tower and walked up the broad cobbled road to the gate. Numerous curious eyes, both human and raven, watched her progress. She halted at the barred and guarded gate of Byward Tower to confront the guards with their brilliant red uniforms and shaved fur hats.

  “I need to see the Constable of the Tower.” Her gaze flicked over the armed men guarding the perimeter.

  One of the guards separated from the others and moved forward. “And you are?” He issued his enquiry from under the soft black fringe of his hat. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, as he stood in front of her.

  Cara held her spine straight, remembering the role she must play to earn her freedom. “Lady Lyons. My husband is currently residing within at Her Majesty’s leisure.”

  He gave her a flat look and turned to speak to the guard standing behind him. The second cast a curious look her way before striding to the small room inset beside the heavy iron portcullis. Cara could see him through the little window. He picked up the end of a long, black tube with a silver end, rather like a bath tub plug. He talked into the plug, his gaze flitting to her and back to the tube. A quick nod and he replaced the speaking hose on a hook and exited the small guardhouse.

  “The constable will see you, milady. If you would follow me?”

  Another guard unlocked the door inside the portcullis, and swung it open for Cara to step within the ancient fortress. With slow steps, they made their way through the dark alleyway and then turned left, walking the outer ward in the shadow of the looming casements. Her guide led her under an arch in Beauchamp Tower and out into the sunshine and peace of the Tower green. It would be a picturesque spot if not for its bloody history. Cara averted her eyes from the scaffolding. Thanks to the Victori
an age of enlightenment, traitors were no longer separated from their heads. Executioners used the more humane method of hanging enemies to Victoria’s Empire, and it prolonged the entertainment for the crowds, taking bets on whether the drop killed the unfortunate criminal or asphyxiation.

  She picked at the ermine edge of her skirt as she walked, needing a distraction to stop her eyes from fixating on the gallows, standing in the centre of the lush stretch of lawn and imagining Nate taking each stair with a heavy tread.

  With each step around the Tower, the echo within her chest retreated to an almost imperceptible hitch. For a mere moment, she allowed her attention to fix on their mutual bond. She sensed Nate’s brooding, his frustration, and a burst of relief to realise she was near. She tried not to dwell on her multitude of problems as they passed the enormous Waterloo Barracks, large enough to house a thousand soldiers. The size of the barracks containing the elite airmen was one of the reasons HMRAS established their base of operations at the Tower. The outer towers were perfect for the airships, and the queen loved to have her favourite soldiers close to hand.

  There was talk Victoria was building a royal airship to enable her to travel to new territories, and its bulk would soon adorn the London skyline, anchored above the White Tower. Cara cast her gaze upward to the flat roof of the square structure. She could see a stairway being constructed, a finger pointing toward the heavens.

  With a pounding heart, Cara stepped into the headquarters of HMRAS contained within the central tower. They walked past an Ops Room, buzzing with activity, ticking aethergrams, and voices. They continued through an outer office where two dour secretaries laboured at identical desks. Her silent escort pushed open the door to the inner domain of the constable, Sir John Fox Burgoyne.

  Sir John rose from his desk at the interruption. Standing in the middle of his lush office, he looked Cara up and down as though deciding his opinion of her. She gave a silent pray of thanks to Hamish McToon and his seamstress acquaintance. Her lavish gown cost more than most families earned in a full year. She may only be playing a role, but she couldn’t have asked for a finer costume to tread this stage.