Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2)

by A. W. Exley

  While an ordinary man of senior years to look at, Cara learned from McToon that the constable earned the nickname the Silver Fox because of the sharp mind concealed behind his plain and simian looking face. He appeared to make up his mind and indicated for her to be seated on a leather sofa in front of the enormous stone fireplace.

  “They tell me you are claiming to be Lady Lyons.” He took up a position next to the fireplace, leaning on the stone surround where he could look down on her.

  She swept her skirts to one side as she sat. “I don’t claim to be anything. But I am Nathaniel’s wife.”

  His shaggy brows contracted like two furry caterpillars conferring. “No you’re not. The Viscount Lyons is unwed.”

  Cara sighed. We could play this game of who the fuck are you all day. I may as well lay out my trump card.

  “Yes I am. Since the facts are little known, I thought you might need convincing.” She pulled the marriage certificate from the small velvet reticule, dangling from her wrist. She handed the document to the constable, aware his gaze drifted to the plunging neckline of her gown as the fur parted with her movement. There could be another meaning for the Silver Fox nickname.

  He took the offered piece of paper and the caterpillars conferred once again. His rheumy gaze flicked from Cara to the certificate. “But this says you were married three years ago.”

  “That’s right.” She rested her left hand on top of her right, using her thumb to twirl the intricate band around.

  “That’s impossible.” The caterpillars were having a hard time digesting the information in front of them.

  “I’m sure you can check the entry at the Courts of Justice if you don’t believe me. But I would rather get to the bottom of my husband’s incarceration on these obviously false charges.”

  He dropped his frame into the chair opposite Cara, leaned back, and gave her a condescending look. “We have excellent intelligence that Lord Lyons has been selling vital British secrets to the Russians at a critical time in political negotiations.”

  “You have faith in the veracity of your information?” she asked. All of Europe was aware of the power struggle between Britain, Russia, and China. Each empire jockeyed for the upper hand over the other two in a constantly changing ménage a trois.

  He snorted. “British Intelligence is without equal.”

  Cara leaned on the arm of the sofa, letting the ermine fall away from her bust as she looked up at the constable. “Yet you didn’t know Nate married three years ago.”

  His mouth snapped shut. His cheeks flushed red and he snorted through his nose.

  Cara bit the inside of her mouth to stop from laughing aloud. Someone’s going to get it as soon as I leave. May as well spread the trouble around.

  “Tell me, Sir John, the gallantry of the British military is renowned overseas, so is it not a shame when they fail to observe chivalry with their own countrymen?” She took the certificate back and replaced it in her little satchel.

  The caterpillars snapped together, and Cara enjoyed watching their bizarre dance moves above his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  She gestured to her swollen and split lip. “Captain Hankin struck me yesterday because I stood in front of a valuable artwork he wanted destroyed.”

  The eyebrows were in hot water now; red heat of outrage flushed his face. “He what?”

  “And what exactly were his soldiers looking for in our house?” She lowered her tone to a conspiratorial level. “I’m rather dubious as to what they thought to find amongst my undergarments?”

  Embarrassment warred with outrage for dominance over his face now, the caterpillar eyebrows frozen in shock at the mental image of the soldiers pawing through her lingerie.

  “I’d like to see my husband now, thank you.” She gave her sweetest smile as she rose to her feet.

  He took her hand and bowed over her fingers. “Of course, Lady Lyons. And accept my most profound apology for the unpleasantness of yesterday. I will ensure the culprits are spoken to.”

  Outside his office, her personal guard waited and she was led from headquarters. Behind her, she heard Sir John bellow. “Bring me Hankin. Now!”

  She walked around the east side of the inner buildings and under another arch to reach Cradle Tower. She lifted the heavy skirts to mount the ancient stone stairs. Worn by the passage of thousands of feet, over hundreds of years the narrow stairway opened to a small antechamber occupied by two bored looking soldiers in the now familiar uniform. These guard weren’t Tower staff, but members of HMRAS. The red of their uniform relieved by a pale blue stripe down the leg to symbolise they protected the skies. Their rifles were propped against the wall, under a narrow window looking back out over the Tower’s internal courtyards while they played cards at a tiny table shoved in one corner. A large and ancient iron door stood alone in the middle of the wall opposite the stairs. A tiny grate allowed only the smallest glimpse of the prisoner within.

  “Lady Lyons to visit her husband,” her soldier escort said to the others. “She’s got half an hour.” Without waiting for a response, he trotted back down the stairs with a clatter of boots and bang of his ornamental sword.

  One guard dropped his hand of cards and rose. “Half an hour, then.” He repeated as he approached the door. Around his waist hung a small ironmonger’s shop of numerous keys of all shapes and sizes. No two looked the same. His fingers caressed them and pulled one along the chain, making sufficient space for it to reach the ancient lock.

  The key turned soundlessly, the lock well-oiled and well maintained. He swung the door open. “Visitor, milord. The Lady Lyons to see you,” he announced as though Cara stepped into a parlour, not a bone-jarring freezing cell with moss and lichen growing from the walls. She was surprised water didn’t trickle down the stone.

  “You have thirty minutes, milady,” he told Cara as he ushered her through and closed the door behind her. The depth of the clang told her how solid and formidable the door was constructed.

  Nate sat on a thin wooden bench under a narrow window and rose with feline grace on her approach. He stood motionless, taking in her new outfit and overall appearance.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed in a husky tone, his gaze never wavering from her face.

  Blindsided, his words stunned her, freezing her assault about how his stupidity dragged her deeper into the mud with him. She swallowed her attack, a frown briefly fluttering over her face, her defences momentarily overcome. “What?”

  “I married a stunning woman.” He crossed the floor to stand in front of her and reached out a hand to draw his knuckles down her face in a whispered caress. The pad of his thumb halted at the side of her split lip. Anger and concern flashed through his eyes at the mark on her face.

  She shut her eyes, letting the ember of his touch settle over her cool skin. “If events moved my way, I wouldn’t be talking to you, but this is a right mess.” She thrust a long navy over coat into his hands and struggled with her choice of words. Unable to come up with a witticism, she stuck to the obvious. “I brought you an extra coat.”

  There was no heating in the room; the cold used to loosen tongues. Prisoners soon became eager to trade information for an extra blanket or a brazier to warm their hands. It was an archaic, but effective form of interrogation.

  He shrugged the wool garment over his shoulders. “What have you learned?” They were short on time and had much to discuss.

  “That you have been selling British secrets to the Russians.”

  He remained silent, his face impassive.

  “Oh crap,” she muttered, her heart dropping. “Don’t tell me you have?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and muttered an oath under his breath. “No,” he said after a measured pause.

  Cara scanned his face. “I’m waiting for the but.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her stiff form against his chest. He brushed her ear with his lips and began speaking. His tone so low,
Cara had to concentrate to catch his words. She realised he didn’t want them to be overhead and they were being monitored. “I’ve been a player in the Great Game for a number of years, passing intelligence for Victoria.”

  “If you’re in Victoria’s employ, why is she publicly charging you with treason?” It didn’t make sense; the queen knew he was her agent, unless she believed him to be a double agent.

  His lips brushed the skin of her neck. “You need to speak to Victoria. I have an inkling what this is about, but need to be sure before we proceed.”

  She blinked and pulled back, trying to gauge if he were serious. “Victoria? You want me to wander up to Buckingham Palace and have a wee chat with the queen about your predicament?” Another thought occurred to her as she remembered the numerous sweeps of military airships over Lyons’ held property lately. “Does it have anything to do with the new airship flight plan over the hangar and the conscripted army the queen is building?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement, but he remained silent. He blew on the ermine covering the plunging neckline, and watched the soft fur part to reveal the curve of her breasts beneath. He sucked in a breath. “Hamish deserves a bonus for the seamstress he found for you.”

  She placed her palms on his chest and pushed him back several inches, which just gave him an even better view down her jacket to the dip between her breasts. The fur trim moved of its own volition with each breath she took.

  “Focus.” She drew his attention back to her face. “How do I arrange an appointment with Victoria?”

  “Send a message to her secretary, saying you need to see her urgently. Use the phrase Death has reared himself a throne in a strange city lying alone.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him, still not sure if he was jesting or deadly serious; he wore both emotions on his face in the same manner. “Poe?”

  He nodded and continued his hushed conversation. “The queen is sharp. Don’t let her appearance fool you. Don’t admit anything, but see what you can extract. There will be a price for my release.”

  She gave a snort. “I can’t admit anything. I know nothing. You don’t trust me.”

  He ran his hands up to her shoulders, locking his gaze with hers. “Don’t ever think that. I trust you with my life, but in return, you’ll have to trust me in this.”

  Cara pulled away from him and backed up against the cold wall, her eyes wide. “Trust you? God, Nate, I love, but I don’t even know you,” she cried. “I’ve been so foolish.” She waved an arm at the small tower room. “This isn’t even a surprise to you. What else are you hiding from me?”

  Silence stretched between them and she swallowed a sob of despair. She held up her left hand and pointed to the ornate wedding band. “This does not mean anything, except I’m not ready to die yet.”

  Pain flared behind his eyes before disappearing.

  She grabbed hold of her anger and wrapped steel resolve around her, needing the armour to continue. “If I do this for you, in return, you must do three things for me.”

  Interest sparked behind his eyes. “And what exactly are your demands?”

  She drew a deep breath. “When this is over, if I don’t want to be your viscountess, you are to give me a divorce.”

  “No.” His eyes darkened. “I’m not letting you go. That is not up for negotiation.”

  “Yes, you will. You have to let me free. You can’t trade me like oxen.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “You are bound to me by the artifact.”

  She heaved a sigh and dropped her gaze, unable to meet his eyes. “Even a diamond can be broken, Nate, if you put it under enough pressure.” And I’m close to shattering on the inside.

  “Next.” He moved her along, unwilling to discuss the prospect of losing her. Pain radiated through the bond, coming from both of them.

  “I want full disclosure of everything.”

  The mask dropped over his face and locked in place. Only the tightness in his jaw revealed just how much she asked of him. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll not be treated as a dumb chattel. I can make my own decisions. You either trust me implicitly, or you don’t.”

  He searched her face for a long moment. She suspected the magnitude of her request, but she had to know. He gave an almost imperceptible flick of agreement with his eyes. “And the third thing?”

  “I want the most romantic marriage proposal that a woman has ever turned down.”

  “You want me to propose, but you’re telling me upfront that you intend to refuse me?” His eyes narrowed.

  “Yes. My answer will be a big, fat no.”

  A lazy smile crossed his face. “Why would I bother to propose then? Plus we’re already married, so it would be pointless.”

  “You bought me. You never asked; you simply stole my choice.” She injected all the pain at his deceit into her words. “You owe me a proposal. Call it a lesson in futility.”

  His smile disappeared.

  A knock sounded on the solid door. “Five minutes,” the guard called from the other side.

  “All right. And I assume if it’s good enough to change your mind, I can negate your first demand?”

  She hadn’t entertained that idea, but she couldn’t see him changing her mind, the betrayal so deep and raw. “You can try.”

  “Have you quite finished now?” he asked with a lifted brow.

  “Not quite.” She reached into the small pouch and retrieved the mate to her ring, and held it out to him.

  Nate slid it onto his finger.

  She nodded, satisfied she had been heard. “Now I’ve finished, why?”

  “Because I want to kiss my wife.” He drew her back into his embrace, bent his head and then his lips slid over hers in a soft friction.

  She nipped at his bottom lip to remind him he was not yet forgiven, before his tongue enticed hers into a slow heated dance, momentarily pushing away thoughts of their disagreement.

  ara stared at the blank piece of paper and wondered for the umpteenth time what life in Australia would be like. As a course of action, running away held far more appeal than taking on the might of the British Empire. With a sigh, she took up the silver pen and dipped the tip in the bottle of ink. In the centre of the paper, she wrote in a flowing script:

  Lady Lyons requests an urgent audience with Her Majesty.

  Underneath she added the phrase Nate whispered in her ear.

  Death has reared himself a throne in a strange city lying alone.

  A shudder ran through her frame. With Nate in the Tower facing execution, his fate depended on their queen. There were echoes in the words that drilled through her core. Trying to shake off the chill of premonition, she folded the slip of paper and addressed it to the queen’s secretary. She held a stick of black wax to the flame of the small candle sitting on the corner of her desk. She watched the stick melt and drip on to the letter’s surface before pressing down the Lyons seal, a dragon with wings outstretched and claws extended.

  She had no idea if the missive would work, and added “spy for Victoria” to the growing list of things she didn’t know about Nate.

  I woke up yesterday single, and today I’m married to an agent in the Tower for treason.

  With a heavy sigh, she left the office and found Miguel pacing in the entranceway. He seized on the slim letter, eager to have something to do, even if it was only playing postman. Everyone in the house toiled under the weight of nothing to do, the men unused to inertia in the face of trouble.

  “Take the courier’s route into the palace. If Nate has any connection there, use it to get to the secretary.”

  He nodded, confirming Cara’s suspicion he knew how to slip in and out of the palace for his master. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he promised, as he dove down the passageway to the back of the house and the stables.

  “And I’ll wait,” Cara said to the empty entranceway. Time for a brandy and a bath.

  Full dark dropped fast with the onset
of autumn. Cara picked at dinner before abandoning her attempts to eat. The knot in her stomach refused to go away and left no room for food. Then she spent an hour staring at the same page in her book, sleep too elusive before Miguel burst into the parlour.

  “Well?” She rose on seeing him, discarding the book, anxious to hear if he was successful.

  He gave her a broad smile. “I couldn’t gain access to her secretary. But he eventually left his office for his dinner and I managed to corner him on his way to the lavatory.”

  Cara gave a quick laugh. A fast thinker, Miguel took advantage of an opening. He reached a hand into his jacket and pulled a small letter from the pocket close to his heart. He handed over the tiny envelope bearing the imperial seal in scarlet wax.

  Her gaze flicked from Miguel to the envelope before she tore it open.

  The scant message comprised only two words: Tomorrow. 11am.

  “I’m off to see the queen,” she whispered. “I should probably leave my pistols behind.”

  The skilled Madame Levett provided another stunning outfit for Cara, this one a deep green silk that offset her auburn hair and matched the flecks in her hazel eyes. At first glance, the jacket cut appeared modest enough for visiting the queen. Except the cut moulded her torso so exactly, it appeared to be painted over her flesh. With an asymmetrical military cut up the front, black frogging embellished the small upright collar and wide cuffs. The skirt hugged her hips before dropping to the ground in luxuriant folds to form a fan-shaped train behind. The black frogging marched around the wide hem of the skirt. A small green tricorn perched on her head to complete the look.

  Jackson lounged against the carriage, a slow grin spreading over his face on seeing her ensemble. “I’m liking these outfits. They don’t leave you anywhere handy to hide those pesky pistols.”