“We’ve lost ’em,” Waters cried.
Thatcher let out a string of curses that had Esme’s ears burning. “We’ll catch him. We know all his hiding places.”
Then the men turned and rode back in the direction from which they’d come.
Esme released a breath and sagged against her rescuer. “That was close.”
They waited a handful of minutes longer before continuing on their way to the carriage house.
Nearly an hour later, Esme pulled the overcoat tighter around her. She didn’t think she’d ever been so cold or filthy. But
the warmth of her savior’s coat was certainly helping. Not to mention the enclosed carriage as opposed to the frigid air she’d
been exposed to on the horse ride. He’d hired a driver and currently sat opposite her inside the rig.
So much had happened in the last day. The kidnapping and subsequent rescue by this handsome stranger. And Pandora’s box had
been found. She wished it had been under different circumstances so she could have fully enjoyed it. And she wished her father
were still alive to share the discovery with; he would have enjoyed the adventure of it. Well, with the exception of his daughter
being abducted.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“London.”
She sighed heavily. He wasn’t a man of many words. And he seemed a bit of a contradiction. While he dressed and moved as a gentleman would, he did not keep gentlemanly company,
as he’d known her captors. Granted, it seemed as if they had an antagonistic relationship.
With no thought to the propriety of the matter, she openly examined him. He was a handsome man, that she could not deny. With
his dark eyes and equally dark eyebrows slashing shrewdly above, he looked rather intelligent. His full lips, though, gave
him a sensual look. Yes, this stranger who had saved her was particularly dashing.
Perhaps this was how he earned his living. Tracking down thieves and stealing from them whatever artifact they’d managed to
find. No doubt he then donated it to a museum or someplace else secure. She’d heard of such men, employed by museums. She
smiled. He was an honorable man, and she was safe.
“Who were those men?” she asked.
“First tell me your name,” he said flatly.
Honorable, albeit rude. “Esme Worthington,” she said.
“And to whom do you belong?”
“I beg your pardon; I don’t
belong
to anyone.”
He took a silent breath and closed his eyes. “Who are your parents?”
“My parents are deceased.” Crossing her arms across her chest, she nodded once. “I am my own woman.”
His eyes narrowed. “You live in London?” He stretched his long legs out in front of him, coming close to brushing her own
in the process. “Alone?”
She waved a hand in front of her. “Not completely alone. I live with my aunt, and we keep a small household staff.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “How is it that you know so much about Pandora’s box?”
“I am a scholar. What I know I’ve learned from much study and research.” She thought she detected a slight smile before he
turned to look out the darkened window. Many people—many men—held women such as herself in disdain. However, she did not care
if he thought her refusal to suppress her intelligence made her unwomanly.
“Did you lie to our friends back at the ruins? All your warnings about the dangers of the box?” he asked.
Her shoulders rose in a light shrug. “There are many stories about Pandora’s box and what it might contain. Personally, I’ve
never subscribed to any of the theories that it holds plagues and all other sorts of nastiness. I was simply attempting to
save my neck and warn those two oafs in the process.”
“It’s unlikely they would have heeded any of your warnings no matter how grave.” He paused, then continued, “I wouldn’t have.”
The stranger smiled at her and her breath caught. He looked much younger when he wasn’t scowling. She glanced at the ratty
bag sitting next to him on the seat. Her heart stopped and she held her breath. “Might I see it?” She had waited long enough.
He eyed her for a moment, then reached into the bag and withdrew the box. “Don’t break it.”
“That is a priceless relic. I’d no sooner break it than I’d smash the Rosetta stone.”
“I need it unscathed when I deliver it,” he said.
“To whom?” she asked, smoothing her hands across the wooden sides.
“None of your concern.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “At least tell me your name and who those men were.”
“Fielding Grey. And those men work for a man known as the Raven.”
Ordinarily she would have pressed him for more information, but right now she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the box.
She couldn’t see much of it in detail since the interior of the carriage wasn’t well lit. But she could see the recessed shadows
of carvings and felt the smooth etched metal beneath her fingertips. Now that she held it close, she could see that it was
made of solid gold.
Anticipation skittered her nerve endings. Here it was, in her hands, her life’s ambition.
And she wasn’t supposed to open it.
She’d read many of the legends; she knew almost all of them told of the inquisitiveness that led to Pandora’s demise. She
knew of the warnings and dangers that went along with lifting the lid of a seemingly simple box. Even knowing all the potential
hazards the box represented, her desire was strong for one… tiny… peek.
The carriage jolted and Esme sat upright. She pulled back the tightly gathered curtain and saw that daylight had arrived,
although it proved to be a dreary, rain-filled day. The flat coastland had given way to gentle hills. Pushing the curtain
back in place, she examined the man across from her.
He still slept, and his features had softened in his slumber. His brown hair was cropped short, leaving his face open for
her perusal. At least two days’ worth of beard lined his jaw and would have given him a hardened look, were it not for the
seductive curl of his lips. She caught herself before she sighed, then rolled her eyes.
Honestly, he was merely a man. A handsome one, she’d grant him that, but a man nonetheless. She was eyeing him this way only
because he’d saved her life. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she longed for male companionship, a relationship
like all her friends and her sister had found. This happened in every adventure novel—the damsel always harbored romantic
notions about her hero. It was a purely natural reaction. But it needn’t mean anything.
Without his intense brown gaze upon her, she reached for the tattered bag sitting on the carriage seat next to him. The carriage
jostled again, and she paused to see if Mr. Grey would awaken. But he did not. Evidently he was a sound sleeper, which boded
well for her, at least in the current moment.
She reached into the bag and felt a thin chain loop around her finger, her pendant. She’d feared Thatcher still had it, but
apparently he’d stashed it in the same bag in which he’d stowed the box. She pocketed the trinket, then pulled out the box.
It didn’t look as dingy as it had the night before. The gold shimmered in the morning light. She could see the etchings more
closely and admired the handiwork.
On each side was a miniature carved mural of gods and goddesses. Zeus was, of course, prominently displayed on the top, with
other deities carved into the sides. She quickly looked at each in turn until she found what she was looking for. There! Eros
and Aphrodite, each a symbol of love and passion. Satisfaction surged through her. Her theory was right. It had to be. Within
this box lay Pandora’s charms, the very key to being irresistible to men.
Some women, like her sister, were simply born with such charms. Esme knew she and Elena were different, not simply in age
and appearance but in demeanor as well. Elena always had suitors lined up waiting for a chance to spin her around the dance
floor, while Esme had been resigned to the seats lining the ballroom—the chairs reserved for elderly women and the girls no
one would dance with.
It wasn’t only her sister, though. It seemed most women had at least a modest ability to seduce men, to walk into a room and
command attention, as all the girls she knew had managed to snag a husband. But Esme, well, she’d never so much as caught
a rogue glance in her direction. Then again, she’d been the only one to correct the Duke of Devonshire in a roomful of people.
She shouldn’t have, probably wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t have been spouting off incorrect history.
Thus had ended her short-lived time in the marriage market and any hope of landing a good match. So here she was, seven and
twenty and as undesirable as ever.
What other woman in all of England could manage to get herself abducted by a pair of nasty villains and come out of the experience
with her virtue completely unscathed?
Of course she didn’t
want
to be ravished. Well, not by the first two men, at least. But Mr. Grey… She mentally chided herself for the thought. A thought
made all the worse by her realization that she was staring at the man, studying the fullness of his lips, the growth of beard
shadowing his cheeks.
She shook her head to rid herself of such useless thoughts. There would be no ravishing from anyone. And there was little
point in feeling disappointed by that.
But she could lay claim to those female charms now. All she needed to do was open the box.
Which, of course, she couldn’t do. She placed her hand on the lid of the box to make certain she didn’t open it. At least
not intentionally. But if by sheer will she could force the lid open and not have to take responsibility for her actions should
any evils come pouring out, that would be another matter. She stared intently. Nothing happened.
Then she saw it, what looked to be an ornately swirled infinity sign. A carving that perfectly matched her necklace’s uniquely
shaped pendant. Undoubtedly this was how she could open the box, which she wouldn’t do.
But what if she merely took a tiny peek? What if this was her destiny? Why else would she be the one to have this pendant?
The key that opened the mystical box. Perhaps she was meant to open the box. Surely that meant no harm would come to her.
She’d barely had time to put her hand in her pocket to reach for the necklace when the carriage pulled to a stop.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Fielding grumbled.
Her thundering heart seemed to stop beating. She met his gaze before it focused on the box in her lap. “I was merely admiring
the box. It’s quite the treasure, as you can imagine.”
“Indeed.” He took it back from her and tucked it into the bag. “We’re here.”
The carriage door opened and a footman extended his hand. “Miss,” he said.
She poked her head out. “We’re where?”
“My family’s home. It’s about halfway between Portsmouth and London. I thought we could rest and wash up.” When she still didn’t move he nudged her. “Get out of the carriage, Miss Worthington.”
The estate sat beyond the circular drive, classic in architecture. Several stories high, it peaked with at least six chimneys
and two picturesque wings flanking each side of the home. They were nearly cathedral-like in structure.
“Come along,” he said, but he did not bother waiting for her to follow.
Esme had always wondered what it would be like to have a bevy of servants bathe and dress her, and today she’d found out.
One washed her hair, one kept the water temperature just so, and one scrubbed her back. Then two more had helped her dress
and attended her toilet.
The dress they’d put her in was a couple of decades out of style with its butter-yellow full skirt, velvet sash, and squared
bodice, but it was clean and warm. Miraculously, they’d found a pair of boots that came close to fitting her. The leather
had hardened with age, clearly conforming to the previous owner’s feet. On Esme they were tight across the arch, but loose
in the heel and longer than necessary. She tugged at the ill-fitting dress, which clung too tightly to her hips.
She would have liked nothing more than to toss herself upon the luxurious-looking bed taking up the center of the room, but
Mr. Grey had not said how long they’d be here and she had some exploring to do. Namely, she wanted to find Pandora’s box and
have another look.
Walnut paneling covered the lower three-quarters of the hallway walls and positively gleamed with lemon oil. The fresh scent
invigorated her as she proceeded down the large marble staircase. Mr. Grey had said this was his family estate, yet the servants
had been most surprised to see him when he’d stepped out of the carriage. Or perhaps it had been the mud-covered, scantily
clad woman he’d brought with him. But somehow their dismay had seemed clearly aimed at him.
As if they hadn’t seen him in years and had never expected his visit.
Fielding Grey was a most curious man, Esme decided. She would rather enjoy learning more about him, but for the time being,
she’d have to settle for investigating his home. Where would he put the box while he rested and bathed? Starting at the door
closest to the back of the house, she worked her way through the myriad halls. The home was spotless and the rooms fairly
standard: a couple of parlors and a library, a room she’d longed to further explore as the books beckoned her like new friends,
but she forced herself to keep moving. She then came upon a conservatory, a billiards room, and a study.
She had nearly closed the door on the study when she spied Thatcher’s tattered bag sitting on the massive mahogany desk. Slipping
inside the room, she assured herself that no one was watching, then closed the door behind her. After a cursory glance to
make certain she was alone, she quietly made her way to the desk. And before she knew it, she was seated in the large leather
chair.
The stiff chair was exceedingly uncomfortable and so large that her feet dangled several inches above the floor. She ignored
the fact that she felt more like a girl than a woman. Gently, she retrieved the box and set it in her lap.
Pandora’s box!
Esme stifled a giggle, again feeling very much the young girl with a new toy. Every time she looked upon it, the carvings
became more and more beautiful. She ran her fingers across the gold, reveling in the feel of it. Then she heard it—a whispering.
Just the faintest of sounds, like a voice being carried on a wind. She whipped around to look behind her but found no one
there. Straining to listen to the voice, she was unable to decipher any of the words.