Authors: Candace Camp
This was, in fact, what they did, though not before they had had to wade through a great deal of social niceties. Lady Esterby received Kyria looking somewhat surprised, but her expression quickly changed to delight when Kyria introduced her to Rafe, adding that he was the American partner of Lord St. Leger. Lady Esterby was then sure that Kyria must be eager to see
her eldest daughters and sent the butler to bring them down to the drawing room.
After the giggling girls entered, looking somewhat sleepy-eyed and puzzled, Kyria sent Rafe a significant look, from which he assumed that it was his job to entertain the girls. It did not take much to set them talking, only a compliment or two and a question about their latest party. With them taken care of, Kyria and their mother settled in for a gossip fest. It took several minutes of general rumors and scandals before Kyria managed to direct the other woman’s conversation toward the late Lord Walford.
“Didn’t his son come back to take over the estate?” Kyria asked at this point.
“Oh, yes.” Lady Esterby nodded her head. “Such a handsome man. And quite eligible.”
Kyria nodded encouragingly. She had been sure that if the man was unmarried or only recently so, Lady Esterby would know everything about him.
“Esterby’s nephew assures me that he is a bang-up fellow, as he calls it. I have tried to get George to bring Lord Walford to dine with us, but of course, he won’t make the slightest push to help my girls, even though he is Esterby’s heir. You know how young men are.”
Kyria knew how George Esterby was, at least. When Lady Esterby’s nephew had first come to town, he had spent a few weeks dangling after her so persistently, taking none of her hints or snubs and annoying everyone in her family with his frequent calls, that finally Reed had taken him aside and told him to stop making a cake of himself or Reed would have to chuck him into the Thames.
“I had not realized Walford was your nephew’s age,” was Kyria’s only comment.
“Oh, he’s not. George has rather a case of hero worship, I imagine,” Lady Esterby said in a rare moment of acuity. “Lord Walford must be several years older than you. That’s why you wouldn’t have met him. He left England some years before your coming-out.”
“Yes, I thought he had been abroad.”
“I believe there was something of a scandal, but I cannot remember what it was,” Lady Esterby went on regretfully. “That was when my daughters were quite little, you know, and I was not so much in the thick of things, you might say. Of course, he is quite respectable now. Young men so often fall into wild ways, don’t they, and then come about later? I believe he was in the Levant—or was it Egypt? I get all those places confused,” Lady Esterby admitted with a giggle. “I’m afraid I never had the head for studies that you and your sisters do. But I believe he was quite involved in all those ancient things, the way his father was—and, of course, the duke.”
“I see. Perhaps that is why I have not seen him at parties.”
“No, he is not very sociable,” Lady Esterby concurred with a sigh. “I think George knows him more from some club or other. He will doubtless be at Editha Tarkey’s rout tonight, though—they are some sort of cousins, I believe.” She cast a frowning look over at her daughters, sitting like three dolls in a row on the sofa and tittering at some comment Rafe had made. “I do hope Sally doesn’t have a cold. She sneezed twice at dinner last night. It would be simply ghastly if she showed up tonight at the Tarkeys’ with a red nose. There are so few parties this time of year.”
Having obtained the information she was seeking, Kyria let Lady Esterby ramble on for a few more
minutes about her daughters and their various possibilities of beaux, then deftly brought her call to an end.
“I hope you got what you needed,” Rafe grumbled as their carriage turned once again toward Broughton House. “My eardrums will never be the same.”
“It’s your own fault for making them giggle so,” Kyria responded unsympathetically. “But, yes, I did find out where Lord Walford is likely to be tonight. It’s no wonder I have never met him if he only shows up for Lady Tarkey’s parties. They are always such crushes one can scarcely move about. It is her goal to have as many guests as she possibly can, so that she can toss names about later—which is largely the same reason that people come to them.”
“Then there will be no problem with your being invited.”
“Oh, no. I am sure there is an invitation to it on the receiving table. I shall just have to look.”
“Will there be dancing?” Rafe gave her a lazy smile. “You know, I never did get a second waltz with you.”
Kyria could not keep from smiling playfully back. “I will promise you a waltz—provided, of course, that there is any room to dance.”
They returned to Broughton House, and after a light luncheon, set out again in the carriage, this time with Con and Alex in the seat across from them. When they arrived at the inn, the name of which Habib had written across the back of his calling card, they found Tom Quick loitering in the courtyard, arms crossed and leaning back against a brick wall, his blond hair gleaming in the sunlight, as he watched the passage of people in and out of the yard.
At the sight of the Moreland carriage, he grinned and sprang forward to open the door as soon as it rolled to a stop. He swept a bow to Kyria. “Welcome, my lady. Mr. McIntyre. Looks like this is my lucky day. I was that bored sittin’ there in the office this morning.” He leaned in, grinning at the twins, and went on, “Well, and what bit of bribery did you two use to get taken along on this caper?”
“We never did!” Con retorted indignantly.
“We did our schoolwork,” Alex offered. “And we have no tutor.”
“Chased off another one, eh?”
“I am afraid I had a hand in this one,” Kyria admitted. “The tutor and I had a disagreement concerning his methods of teaching, among other things.”
Quick’s grin grew broader as his gaze shifted to Kyria. “Well, if it comes to a disagreement, my lady, my money’d be on you.”
“You’re right about that,” Rafe said.
Tom reached down and lowered the steps, then offered a hand to Kyria. Rafe followed her. The twins would have followed, but Kyria stopped them.
“You are staying with the carriage.”
“Aw, but, Kyria…why can’t we just go with Tom?” Con asked. “We ought to get a look at Mr. Habib, too, don’t you think? What if we see him again somewhere? We should know what he looks like.”
Kyria sighed and cast a glance at Tom.
“I’ll look after ’em, don’t you worry,” he told her. “We’ll just walk along real quiet like and get a look at this chappie when you meet him. Then we’ll come back out here, and I’ll keep an eye on them.”
Somewhat reassured, Kyria went with Rafe into the inn, careful not to glance back to see what Tom and
the boys were doing. The inn was a clean and respectable place with a large public room, gleaming with polished mahogany and brass. The host, seeing them, hurried to meet them and inquire of their needs. When Rafe mentioned Mr. Habib’s name, a measuring look came into the innkeeper’s eyes, but he merely bowed and offered to show them to the private room where Habib was just finishing up his lunch.
With a knock on the door, the innkeeper opened it and ushered Kyria and Rafe inside. Habib was standing at the window looking out into the back garden, the remains of his lunch on the table in the middle of the room. He turned at their entrance, and his eyes widened with surprise.
“Lady Moreland, I am so pleased to see you,” he began in his heavily accented voice. He started forward, bowing, his hands clasped together at his chest. “And Mr….”
“McIntyre,” Rafe told him.
Habib gestured at the innkeeper impatiently. “Please go.” He followed the man to the door and closed it behind him, then turned, offering Kyria a wide smile. “You have thought over my offer, yes? You will sell me the Byzantine box?”
“No, I’m not here to sell you the box, Mr. Habib,” Kyria told him firmly.
“We are here to ask you what you know about the men who broke into the Morelands’ house,” Rafe said bluntly.
“Broke into? I don’t understand.”
“They came to steal a box—the box you wanted. I find that rather odd,” Rafe continued.
“But I would buy it! Why should I steal it?” Habib
shrugged, looking innocently from Kyria to Rafe and back.
“Perhaps because I refused to sell it to you,” Kyria suggested. “And perhaps you aren’t particular about how you get your hands on it.”
“My lady, you hurt me,” Habib said with a wounded expression, placing his hand to his heart. “I am a famous dealer. I have a reputation.”
“And just what is that reputation?” Rafe asked, his voice as steely as his gaze. “Are you well-known for your ability to get what your clients want, no questions asked?”
“I don’t understand,” Habib repeated. “What are you saying?”
Kyria glanced toward the window and saw Con’s face appear on the other side, peering in. He turned away, gesturing excitedly. Kyria’s eyes widened, and she quickly looked over at Habib. Fortunately, Habib was staring at Rafe and did not see the boy.
“We caught the men who tried to steal the box,” Rafe said. “They are sitting in jail right now. And they were pretty quick to implicate you.”
“Me!” Habib stared at Rafe, his mouth falling open. “They say I have something to do with this? They lie!”
Kyria sneaked a look back at the window, where Alex was now beside Con, both of them peering into the window, cupping their hands around their eyes to see better. Behind them Tom was also gazing interestedly into the room. Kyria scowled at them. Con gave her a cheerful wave. Kyria glared and jerked her head at them to leave, then whipped back around to see if Habib was watching.
He was still looking at Rafe, but Kyria had lost the thread of the conversation. Rafe was saying, “…about
the man they met at the Blue Bull in Cheapside. Do you know this tavern?”
“No! I have never been there!” Drops of sweat had broken out on the man’s brow.
“They described the payment they were promised,” Rafe continued, lying freely.
“They lie! I do not…I have not—”
“Who are you buying this box for? Who is your client?” Rafe pressed, looming over the man.
“I cannot tell you!” Habib backed away nervously and cast an imploring look at Kyria. “Please, my lady, I swear to you. I sent no one. I had nothing to do with this.”
Kyria slid over closer to Rafe so that Habib, looking at her, could not see the window out of the corner of his eye. “I find that hard to believe,” she told the dealer. “Who else knew about the box? You knew where it was—that is very damning, Mr. Habib. How did you know unless you had Kousoulous followed and murdered? How did the ruffians who broke into our house know unless you told them?”
“Others know!” Habib protested, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I did nothing. I swear to you.”
“How do they know?” Rafe pressed.
Habib shrugged, making vague sweeping gestures with his hands. “Everyone knows.”
He swung away toward the window, and Kyria let out a noise of protest, quickly muffled. Her brothers and Tom were no longer framed in the window, and she sighed with relief.
“Who is everyone?” Rafe continued.
“Istanbul,” Habib answered. “Many people in Istanbul know. It is common gossip. Rumor. You see?
Everyone whispers that Kousoulous has it and he takes it to England. To the Morelands.”
“Let me tell you something, Habib,” Rafe said, moving again toward Habib in that slow, deliberate, dangerous way he had. His voice was low and hard as he stared down into the other man’s face. “I don’t take kindly to threats. In fact, they make me real mad. Almost as mad as people trying to steal from me or mine. It happens again, I’m going to come after who did it. Am I making myself clear?”
Habib bobbed his head rapidly. “Yes, clear, very clear. But I do not…I have not—”
“Then you better keep on
not,”
Rafe countered. He gave the man one last, long look, then spun on his heel. “Kyria? You got anything to add?”
“No,” Kyria said. “I think you covered everything.”
Rafe crossed to the door and opened it for her, then followed her out of the room.
“Now,” he said, taking Kyria’s arm as they strode out of the inn, “if we are lucky, our friend back there will go scurrying off to his client or partner or whoever with news of our visit. Do you know if Tom got a look at him?”
Kyria grinned. “Yes. I believe he did.”
L
ady Tarkey’s rout was the crush that Kyria had predicted. They had to first wait in their carriage as the line of vehicles inched forward, and then at last when they were able to disembark, there was another line snaking up the steps and into the house. At least, Kyria thought, if she had to endure the wait, it was some consolation that she was doing it with Rafe. Aside from being the most handsome man in the crowd, he also enlivened their time with sotto voce questions and comments about their surroundings, from the explosion of plasterwork cherubs and nymphs on the ceiling to the small man sporting orange-colored mustaches so waxed and intricately curled that whenever he moved his head, he seemed in imminent danger of putting out his female companion’s eye.
Kyria smiled and nodded at various acquaintances, noticing that her arrival with a handsome stranger caused a ripple effect of heads turning all up the staircase.
After she and Rafe greeted their hostess and her daughter at the top of the stairs, they strolled into the
main ballroom, barely making it past the doorway because of the crush of people.
“Lady Kyria!” They turned to see an eager young man making his way through the crowd toward them. As he was large and somewhat clumsy, his progress was not easy and left more than a few people glaring in his wake. “Excuse me. Beg your pardon. Lady Kyria! I’m so dreadfully sorry. Was that your toe? My sincerest apologies. Excuse me…”
He arrived at last at Kyria’s side and bowed extravagantly over her hand. As he bumped into the man behind him, his greeting was less the elegant gesture he had envisioned than a bit of buffoonery.
“My dearest lady, you are more beautiful than ever,” he told Kyria, beaming down at her. “It seems a year since I have seen you.”
“It is something more like a month.”
“London is dreadfully dull without you.” His gaze slid to Rafe, standing at Kyria’s side, and he frowned.
“Oh, Lord Crandon,” Kyria said, following his gaze, “please allow me to introduce Mr. McIntyre. He is visiting us from America.”
“How do you do?” the young man replied politely, but Rafe could see the jealousy in his eyes.
As they made a rather limping attempt at small talk, another gentleman joined them, this one older and suaver, but as patently suspicious of Rafe. Within five minutes, they were surrounded by no fewer than six bachelors, all of them jockeying for Kyria’s attention.
“You must give me your first waltz,” said one who was dressed in a resplendent uniform and regarded the world with a face permanently frozen into an aristocratic sneer.
“Must I?” Kyria replied coolly. “I am afraid, Cap
tain, that I have promised the first waltz to Mr. McIntyre.” She slipped her hand through Rafe’s arm.
“Yes,” Rafe confirmed, closing his other hand possessively over Kyria’s where it lay on his arm, his gaze remaining on the captain’s for a long, challenging moment. Then he turned toward Kyria, smiling. “And I believe I hear them striking up now. If you will excuse us, gentlemen…”
He bowed toward the others and Kyria gave them a smile as she allowed Rafe to lead her toward the dance floor.
“We will be lucky if we can make it through this crowd before the dance is over,” Kyria commented as they wound in and out through the throng.
Rafe grinned. “As long as we get away from your platoon of admirers, it’s all right.”
“They are just bored. The season is over, and a great many people are gone.”
He cocked a brow at her. “Do you expect me to believe that those men flock to you only when the other belles are gone?”
Kyria chuckled. “No, I am not that humble.”
They reached the dance floor at last, and Rafe smoothly pulled her into his arms and out into the flow of dancers. For the moment, Kyria abandoned all thought of the purpose of their evening and just enjoyed whirling about the room, secure in Rafe’s arms.
All too soon, however, the waltz ended, and Kyria returned to reality with a little sigh. She glanced around, finally spotting two of London’s premier hostesses. If anyone could introduce her to Lord Walford tonight, she was sure that one of these two women could.
As she and Rafe made their way toward them, the
women’s faces brightened, their eyes sliding curiously over Rafe. One of them opened her fan and brought it up to her face in a coquettish gesture at odds with her age.
“Lady Kyria,” the other, older one greeted her. “Surprised to see you here tonight.”
“Yes, I have returned to London unexpectedly,” Kyria told her, smiling, and continued, “Lady Colcaughten. Mrs. Marbury. Pray allow me to introduce you to Lord St. Leger’s American partner, Mr. McIntyre.”
“Mr. McIntyre, how delightful,” Lady Colcaughten twittered, laying her hand on his arm and subtly turning him a little away from the group. “I have heard so much about you.”
“You have?”
“Oh, my, yes. Why, the St. Leger wedding was quite the talk of London—so small, so quiet, so fast, one might say.”
“Might one,” Rafe replied enigmatically.
“Everyone who was privileged to attend was full of news about it, which is only to be expected.” She edged away, tugging a little at his arm. “Please let me introduce you around.”
Rafe cast a glance back at Kyria, who nodded encouragingly. With a resigned look, he turned and allowed himself to be steered away.
Mrs. Marbury appeared chagrined at being cut out by her companion and started to go after them, but Kyria stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Mrs. Marbury, you are just the person I was hoping to see.”
“Really, dear?” The woman perked up at Kyria’s compliment. It certainly never hurt one’s standing in
society to win Kyria Moreland’s approval. “I’m so glad.”
“There is someone here tonight that I have been hoping to meet,” Kyria went on.
Mrs. Marbury’s eyes lit up at the prospect of learning a bit of gossip. “Really? Who?”
“Lord Walford. His father, you know, was a great friend of my father’s.”
“Yes, the dear duke. How is he?”
“Quite well.” Kyria knew that “the dear duke,” if asked, would not have the slightest idea who Mrs. Marbury was. “The thing is, my father is interested in corresponding with Lord Walford, as he did with his father. Lord Walford is, I understand, also interested in antiquities. But I, alas, have never been introduced to Lord Walford. I was hoping that you might know him…”
“Oh, my, yes, I met him at the Featherstone ball in April. Such a lavish affair—I am sure you remember.”
“Of course,” Kyria lied without compunction.
“An elegant gentleman. Quite distinguished—and handsome!” She laid a hand on her breast, closing her eyes in a sort of mock swoon. “If I were not a married woman…” She let out a merry little laugh. “Well, I would be happy to introduce you, if you’d like. I hadn’t realized he was here this evening.”
The woman quickly began to scan the room for their quarry. “I don’t see him around here. Let’s try looking this way.”
She started off through the crowd, and Kyria followed her. It was clear that Mrs. Marbury was an expert at hunting the elusive party goer, for it took her little time to tour the ballroom and hallway beyond, glancing into the various nooks and corners where someone
might be conversing. At last spotting their quarry near the stairs chatting apparently desultorily, with another couple of men, she straightened and swept toward the group like a battleship under full sail.
“Ah, Lord Walford,” she caroled gaily. “And here I was telling Lady Kyria that you were not at this rout.”
One of the gentlemen turned to look at her, then bowed slightly and offered up a faint smile. “Mrs. Marbury, how nice to see you again.” His voice, while polite, conveyed a distinct lack of enthusiasm. His eyes went past her, however, to Kyria, and his face brightened a little.
He took Mrs. Marbury’s hand and kissed it in an old-fashioned, courtly way that brought out a little giggle from Mrs. Marbury. “I knew you would be pleased to see me,” she teased, wagging her fan flirtatiously at the man. “I’ve come to introduce you to Lady Kyria Moreland.”
Lord Walford turned to Kyria, giving her a polite nod. “My lady. I believe our fathers were great friends. “Tis a pity that we have never met before.” He looked at Mrs. Marbury. “I must thank you for correcting that unfortunate situation.”
Kyria studied Lord Walford as Mrs. Marbury continued to gush at him. He was a tall, lean man with thick, black hair, marked by matching waves of silver at each temple. His skin, like Rafe’s, had obviously been tanned by years in the hot sun, and his eyes were an odd color somewhere between green and hazel. Razor-thin cheekbones pushed against the skin of his face, giving him an almost fierce demeanor.
It took some more minutes of polite conversation with Mrs. Marbury before the woman spotted someone
who offered better grist for gossip and left Kyria alone with Lord Walford.
“I am sorry to interrupt your conversation,” Kyria told him, nodding toward the two men with whom Walford had been talking.
He smiled. “You needn’t worry. I was merely putting in my time until I could politely leave. I am not one who enjoys parties overmuch, I am afraid.” He paused, then went on, “Now, is there something I can help you with?”
Kyria glanced at him, a little startled, and blushed. “I am sorry. I must seem most ill-bred to you, forcing an introduction on you this way.”
“One can scarcely consider it forced when one is introduced to a young woman as beautiful and charming as yourself. However, it is also obvious that you have no need of male companionship. I feel sure that you are accustomed to being surrounded by a flock of eager suitors. Therefore, I must think that there is some reason you wished to make my acquaintance.”
“There is,” Kyria admitted. “I want to talk to Mr. Ashcombe. Mr. Nelson Ashcombe.”
“My father’s archaeologist?” Walford asked, his eyebrows going up in surprise. “I must say, I never would have guessed that that was your request.”
“Does he not work for you, as well?” Kyria asked.
Walford gave an elegant shrug. “I am not sure if anyone can really claim that Nelson Ashcombe works
for
him. I think it is more that he works for himself and allows someone else to pay the bills for it.”
Kyria smiled. “That hardly seems like a good proposition for you.”
“Ah, but he also allows you to hang around his dig and poke about among the things he unearths. And I
am afraid that I inherited my father’s fervor for such things. I got into a spot of trouble when I was young…” He gave her a wry smile. “I was a little wild, you see, and my father shipped me off to one of his digs to keep me out of trouble. I was supposed to learn the error of my ways, I think, but in reality, what I learned was that I loved the dig just as much as he did. I loved the area, too—Turkey, Persia, Mesopotamia—the ‘cradle of civilization.’ There’s no place else quite like it. Once I had been there a few months, I never wanted to leave it. Of course, when my father died, I had to come home—one’s duty and all that, but I miss it sorely.”
“And do you, like Mr. Ashcombe, believe in a reliquary containing Constantine’s banner?” Kyria asked curiously.
“The Holy Standard?” Walford gave her a quizzical smile. “I have to admit that I think that it is probably just a legend. Ashcombe is a little mad on the subject. It has rather hurt his reputation, you know, which is too bad. He is a tremendous scholar, a giant in his field. I have supported him, of course—I mean, I could scarcely not do so, after the years he worked with my father.” He paused, then asked, “What about you? Do you believe in the reliquary?”
“I am rather beginning to,” Kyria replied cautiously. “I went to Mr. Ashcombe’s this morning to talk to him about it, but he refused to see me.”
“Really?” Walford looked surprised. “Ashcombe is usually quite happy to discourse on it. You must have caught him on a bad day. Or perhaps he thought you were there to ridicule him in some way. Ashcombe is a proud man. I will send him a note tomorrow morning and request that he speak to you. How is that?”
“That would be wonderful,” Kyria said, smiling. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you.”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you.” He gave her a small, deprecating smile. “The least I could do for Theo’s sister.”
“Theo?” Kyria glanced up at him, surprised. “Do you know Theo?”
He nodded. “We are well acquainted. We got to know each other when we were in Turkey at the same time. Fellow Englishmen in a foreign land, that sort of thing. But it turned out that we had more than that in common. We had many a conversation regarding the propriety of taking historical objects out of their native countries. Looting, the way Theo and I saw it.”
“Yes, I have heard him express his views on the subject.”
“Is he in England again?” Walford asked. “I would quite like to see him.”
“No, I’m afraid he isn’t. It has been a while since we’ve heard from him. I’m not sure exactly where he is.”
Walford smiled, shaking his head in an admiring way. “He is one of a kind.”
Kyria wondered just how well Walford knew Theo. Was it possible that he knew anything about Kousoulous or the box that lay at home in their safe?
Surely, she thought, if he knew about it, he would have mentioned it when she inquired about Ashcombe and his search for the reliquary. Or perhaps Theo would not have mentioned it to him if he was planning to ship the object out of the country; it sounded as if Lord Walford was very much opposed to such things. All in all, she thought, it would be better for her not to say anything to the man about it.