What the Dashing Duke Deserves
Lords of Happenstance
book three
by
Sandra Sookoo
Table of Contents
Title Page
What the Dashing Duke Deserves (Lords of Happenstance, #3)
Dedication
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-four
Other Regency-era stories by Sandra Sookoo
Author Bio
Stay in Touch
What the Stubborn Viscount Desires | (Lords of Happenstance #1)
What a Wayward Lord Needs | (Lords of Happenstance #2)
Captivated by an Adventurous Lady | (Thieves of the Ton, book one.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
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WHAT THE DASHING DUKE DESERVES © 2019 by Sandra Sookoo
Published by New Independence Books
ISBN-13: 9781386436997
Contact Information:
[email protected]
[email protected]
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com
Edited by: Victoria Miller
[email protected]
Book Cover Design by Victoria Miler
Man: Daniel | Period Images.com
Background: Egypt Luxor Colossi Memnon| Deposit Photos.com
Background: The desert landscape of Luxor| Deposit Photos.com
Decorative frame | Deposit Photos.com
Publishing History:
First Digital Edition, 2019
Dear Readers,
We’ve arrived at the third story of these brave and loyal lords. I’m sure, if you’re a fan of my Thieves of the Ton series, that you’ve heard of the Duke of Litton before. Perhaps you remember him as the pawn broker Miles and Emmaline befriended in Intrigued by an Ancient Pedigree. Now, Crispin is featured in his very own story with his first mission for the Crown, which is packed with a woman from his past, an engaging mystery, the hunt for a relic, and enough adventure and romance that’ll you be left with a smile on your face... and maybe a new book boyfriend.
In What the Dashing Duke Deserves, my story takes place in Cairo and then later in the Valley of the Kings, where ancient Egyptian royalty was buried. My characters are chasing the Staff of the Gods, which once belonged to Moses. They also stumble onto some rather interesting information regarding Moses, that, once put into circulation, might change the foundations of Christianity. In the course of my research, which was fascinating regarding the life of Moses while at the pharaoh’s court, I began to wonder just what would have happen had his life gone a different way. So, like all the other legends in my adventure romance books, I decided to tackle this with my own spin. Do remember that this is a work of fiction. So please, don’t count me as an authority on this subject or send me letters saying I’m all wrong or that I’m dogging on a religion.
I am merely a writer who knows how to spin a good tale. And if my story makes you wonder and think, then all the better.
Bon voyage!
Sandra,
xoxo
Dedication
To every reader who enjoys going on adventures and traveling the world with my characters. No jet lag and no passport required. Enjoy the duke!
Blurb
Nothing found in the sands of Egypt is as valuable as the treasure of the heart.
Crispin Herrick, the newly minted Duke of Litton is anxiously awaiting his first mission as a King’s agent. Until then, a dig in the King’s Valley he’s sponsoring occupies his time... until he chases down a criminal at the Antiquities Museum. Once he catches her, he’s shocked and delighted to discover she’s the same woman he flirted with in London a year ago, but now she’s as skilled in lying as she is in keeping secrets.
Miss Juliana Barrington lives under an assumed identity in Cairo, exiled there when her last mission for the Crown went catastrophically awry. All she wants is to redeem herself by finding a powerful relic before her enemies can, but when her path crosses that of the handsome ex-pawn broker, she can’t help but panic. No matter how her heart twinges, mixing desire with duty is a horrible idea.
Crispin and Juliana join forces to find the pieces of the Staff of the Gods, allegedly belonging to Moses himself. Danger dogs their footsteps while romance flickers to life as the days go by, and when the trail leads to a mysterious tomb in the Valley of the Kings, treasure hunting evolves into running for their lives. Staying ahead of disaster is critical; evildoers and death are powerful foes, but hard-fought victory might bring happy endings... if they can survive long enough.
Chapter One
October 24, 1822
Cairo, Egypt
Crispin Nicholas Herrick, the thirteenth Duke of Litton, alighted from his carriage to stand at the side of the street. With his hands propped on his hips, he inhaled the heated, dry air that smelled of sunbaked sand, animal manure, and the more redolent and subtle aromas of human occupation—spices, food from vendors, sweat, perfume, hashish, and cheroot smoke.
Now this is more like it.
Being amidst the heart of the sands that concealed secrets of rulers long dead, walking in the dust of powerful civilizations, and seeing the pageantry of life go by in seething color blew the cobwebs from his veins and gave him a renewed sense of hope. With each breath, he stood a little taller, squared his shoulders a bit more. He couldn’t explain it, even to himself, but somehow being in this land of so much history revitalized his own existence. He needed this holiday, as much to find his purpose again as to take a break from what his life had become back in London—a duke with all the responsibilities and lingering memories of fear and corruption the title had brought.
Here in this land of mystery and untapped discovery, he was merely Crispin Herrick once more, a man who had no cares in the world except to uncover the next big find. It was a good lot better than what he’d toiled with since that night nearly seven months previously when his life had been s
haken to the core by being named the only living male heir to the Litton title.
But he refused to think about that now. This was his holiday, damn it, and he intended to enjoy every bit of it.
After being contained on a ship for nearly five weeks, he was newly arrived in Cairo, and unofficially on his first solo mission for the Crown as a King’s agent, anticipation zipped along his spine. Already, there was a complex puzzle that needed solving, and it had landed in his lap, for though he’d come to this enigmatic country of both the shockingly poor peoples who inhabited it and the treasures of the pharaohs, he was funding a dig for the Earl of Archewyne—whom he’d met while in France for what amounted to a terrifying introduction into the world of the King’s agents—and while he wouldn’t have much to do with the day-to-day work of the dig itself, that didn’t mean he’d spend his time idle.
Oh, no. The earl was nothing if not resourceful, and since Crispin reported directly to the man, he’d volunteered for the assignment. It would help pass the time and show Archewyne that he was good enough. While the object wasn’t high on the list of priorities, it needed attention nonetheless, and as of yet, no one besides Archewyne and himself and the man who’d made the discovery knew of the existence of the scroll found secreted in an intact clay pot. It had been found six months back in a tomb near Luxor and was sent to London for further study. Once Lord Liverpool, the prime minister of England, had gotten his hands on it, he forwarded the scroll to Archewyne, who passed it down the chain, but it still needed authentication and translation from Hebrew, and an ancient dialect at that. Whatever knowledge that scroll contained must have flagged the interest of the King’s agent network; otherwise, none of them would care.
Which was what sent him to the bustling streets of Cairo this late afternoon.
The rude, angry shout of a cart driver as it passed his location roused Crispin from his musings. He was rather rubbish when it came to speaking the language, but he hoped to at least gain a rudimentary understanding of it and some of the colloquialisms during his time here. Readjusting the strap of the leather satchel slung across his chest, he moved along the crowded thoroughfare through the heart of what appeared to be the Cairo business district.
A few cafes lined the hard packed and dusty street, where even more dust and film was lifted into the air by the passing of so many sandaled feet and the drag and swirl of skirt hems, the flap of striped robes of the native men, as well as the passage of long black robes that the native women cloaked themselves in. Brownish-gray monkeys darted about the streets and climbed up the brickwork of some of the buildings. The animals stole whatever they could—food, unattended parcels, trash—and then sprang away, chattering and calling.
A tavern lay tucked amidst a bank and various other businesses that perhaps catered to the rich tourist types who flocked to Egypt during the late fall and winter months.
In the distance, through the air that shimmered with heat, spires and minarets and domes of mosques as well as a Christian church lay crammed against towering buildings that contained living quarters. Laundry lines were strung between a few windows, the daily washing not yet taken in. Anything of interest and with local color was located in the souks—narrow streets full of shopping from tents and market stalls—further into the heart of Old Cairo itself. That’s where Crispin truly wanted to poke around, but it would need to wait until he visited a contact in the Museum of Antiquities. Farther off still loomed the massive shapes of the Giza pyramids, and his soul strained to explore.
“Ah, here we are,” Crispin mumbled to himself as he happened to glance up at a nondescript building. An equally unassuming placard over the doorway read “Museum of Antiquities” in careful, if dusty, script. “Not exactly full of pomp and circumstance here, are they?” Long ago he’d fallen into the habit of talking out loud, for the life of a pawn broker didn’t lend itself to companionship. Worse yet, the life of a duke meant he was rarely left alone with his thoughts, so he’d taken to musing to his valet, who had elected to unpack at Archewyne’s Cairo estate—formerly a property belonging to the Earl of St. Ives, and the Countess of Archewyne’s now deceased father. Crispin missed the company on this errand.
Once he’d stepped into the interior of the museum—and that term was used loosely—he allowed a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the rather dim surroundings. Such a direct contrast the stark, sun-lit outside where everything was a drab dun color.
Only a few walls sconces were lit, which plunged the interior of the rooms into shadow, for the late afternoon sun didn’t hit the front windows. Exhibits were jumbled together and filled the long room in a hodgepodge assortment that would give Archewyne an apoplexy. “Hello?” As of yet, no one had come to greet him, which was odd. People of Cairo were usually prompt to provide services, especially to tourists whom they perceived had coin to tip well.
Finally, a short man in English-styled clothing stepped out from a side room. Tanned skin proclaimed him a resident of the area, but his speech was undeniably English. “Terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you come in, and it’s nearly the end of business hours besides.”
Crispin ignored the slight admonition. “I am here to see the director of this establishment, if you please. I have an appointment.” If anyone could read Hebrew or make sense of what was included on that scroll, the man in charge of the museum could. He claimed to read and speak more than a dozen ancient languages, which made him extremely valuable, especially in this area of the world.
“I’m afraid Director Najjar is unavailable at the moment. However, if I can be of service, let me know. My name is Douglas. I am one of the curators here.”
“Where is he? I did make an appointment as soon as I arrived in Cairo.” He didn’t trust the knowledge contained on the scroll to anyone else.
The man shifted his gaze to something over Crispin’s left shoulder. The part in his dark hair was extreme, the strands tamed with copious amounts of pomade that made his hair shine in the candlelight. “He is out. I do not know when he’ll return.”
“Today?”
He shrugged. “Who can say? Of late, Director Najjar has been quite furtive.”
“Very well.” Why didn’t the director leave word if he couldn’t make the appointment? Crispin tossed a glance about the room. “I realize you’ll close soon, but do you mind if I have a quick look?”
Douglas waved an arm toward the exhibit floor. “Of course. I’ll let the guard know you’re within. He’ll come find you when we absolutely need to lock up.”
“Thank you.” He moved through the long tables that were covered with everyday objects, tools, pots, chests, baskets, amulets, while others held to pectoral scarabs and other jewelry made of gold and faience beads. Still other tables held ushabtis, canopic jars and censers that held burning incense.
His wandering took him into an empty room that opened off the main gallery filled with a carriage, countless ornamental boxes, broken pieces of furniture, and anything else the curator could find, apparently. Or what he thought was an empty room, but upon closer inspection, a woman occupied the middle of the space, her back to him. A gown of deep purple silk clung to her lithe frame. A scarf of light purple hung loosely around her neck, no doubt to throw on when visiting places that required women cover their heads. In profile, she was attractive enough, even had a pert nose that turned up ever so slightly, but he wasn’t in this country to strike up a liaison, even if he’d wished it.
Which he didn’t. Women would complicate things further.
Crispin kept his attention on a portion of a brightly-colored relief mounted on the wall of a woman dressed in diaphanous robes being attended to by handmaidens. He had no idea who the woman was, for there wasn’t an identifying pharaoh in the portion of the relief, nor was there a plaque or carving bearing the name of a royal person. A small gold plate beneath the relief only said it had been found in a tomb in Thebes.
“Is it too hard to expect these so-called archeologists to catalogue things befo
re they steal them away?” he asked to no one in particular. “Of course, if they wished to do things the correct way, they wouldn’t need to steal in the first place.” Curious, he let his gaze jog from the relief back to the woman, hoping that she might have caught his aside and agreed.
Her black upswept hair gleamed in the light from the candle sconce on the wall, and while her face was turned away, she slipped one of the larger ushabtis into her reticule. Then she yanked at the ties and slowly walked through the gallery as if nothing had happened.
“Well, that’s a rather sticky situation.” No matter how attractive, stealing was wrong, and taking an artifact from an antiquities museum was insanity. As stealthily as he could, Crispin trailed after the woman. “Uh, pardon me, miss. You are not supposed to take the artifacts from this place. They’re not for sale or to steal.”
“They won’t miss this piece,” she said but she didn’t turn to look at him. The dulcet tones of her voice sounded vaguely familiar, but the hair color and furtive way she moved were not.
Undaunted, he continued after her. “Regardless, it’s wrong, and I must demand you put the ushabti back.”
“And I don’t think this affair is any of your business.” Her statement brooked no argument, and when she spun about to face him, Crispin’s world tilted.
His mind spun. How could it be?
The thief was the same woman he’d flirted with on and off the past few years in London and France, except she’d recently disappeared from circulation without a word. It had seemed they were always in the same cities on different errands, but her presence ignited his interest. She’d visited his pawn shop a few times, showed an unusual interest in Egyptian artifacts, liked shifting through the treasures that had come over his counter. There’d been no limit to the flirting and heat that had passed between them during those brief interactions, but she never answered the questions he’d posed to her about anything personal.
Then, right before she’d vanished from the social scene, he’d kissed her at a ball they’d both attended—on the fringes but for different reasons—but nothing had come of the fleeting interaction except lingering heat, and for that he’d regretted not attempting to track her down.
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