The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (56 page)

“You work too much, that’s what. Jillian thinks I’m keeping you chained up here in the museum, but I told her I can hardly get you out of the place.” Bellows looked around for a place to sit and, finding none, perched his hip on the corner of the desk before Max could offer him his chair. “You’re a celebrity now, but you’re acting like a hermit.”

With a chuckle, Max shook his head. “I’m not a celebrity. I’m an archaeologist.”

“An archaeologist who discovered an intact royal tomb in the Valley of the Queens and consequently won the Bellows Prize of a cool million dollars. An archaeologist who is much in demand for lectures and appearances, and who will, in the space of just a few weeks, put on display the treasures of Princess Meryat-Kai in the glittering and fabulous new Bellows Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” Bellows’s fruity voice resonated with satisfaction. “You can have your pick of young socialites, all batting their eyes and flapping their fans, dying to get close to the dashing adventurer with the golden touch.”

Max scrubbed his palms down his cheeks, feeling the rasp of a day’s growth of whiskers. “The only woman I’m interested in at present is Meryat-Kai. Fortunately for me, she already has a fortune, and she doesn’t talk my ear off about inane subjects like the aforementioned young socialites are prone to do.”

Bellows laughed, the room too small to hold the sound. He clapped Max on the shoulder with a mighty whack. “You just haven’t met the right girl yet. Come, show me what you’ve accomplished in my absence this week.” He hefted his bulk off the desk and headed out the doorway.

Max scooped a roll of paper from his desktop and followed, stiff from sitting so long. He missed the physical work of clearing a tomb. This desk work was going to make him old before his time.

The museum had been closed for hours, and their footsteps rang in the high-ceilinged galleries. As they passed through the Grecian gallery, Max smiled, remembering the pert young woman he’d collided with. She had eyes as wide and dark as an Egyptian princess….

“Evening, Mr. Bellows, Professor.” A security guard emerged from a side gallery, his bulls-eye lantern swinging at his side.

“Good evening, Henry. We’re going through to the Egyptian rooms for a while.” Max held up his roll of paper.

“Very well, sir.” Henry strolled away, his keys jingling on his belt and his boots squeaking.

“This place is like a tomb after hours.” Bellows stuck his hands in his pockets.

Max smiled. “Actually, it’s bigger, cooler, and has more windows.” He pointed to the skylights. “I wouldn’t have minded a few skylights in the princess’s tomb.”

Bellows laughed again as Max unlocked the temporary wooden door blocking off the new wing of the museum.

“Let me get the lights on.” Max pushed the button on the wall switch and a faint glow gradually warmed to brightness. “This gallery will be a marvel, what with all the electric lights you’ve put in.”

“Got to keep up with the times, my boy. And it’s a nice touch, don’t you think, juxtaposing the modern lighting with the antiquities?” Bellows rocked on his toes. A cat full of canaries couldn’t look more content. “Show me what you’ve done.”

“I’ll show you what the administrators have let me do.” Max couldn’t keep the aggravation out of his voice. “Yoakum will be the death of me, I fear. Everything I propose, he rejects, reminding me that he is a trained curator. I’m just the digger who unearthed the treasures.”

“Jealousy, my boy. He’s neither artist nor archaeologist. He’s a businessman and a critic.”

Max eyed the open space before him, envisioning the display cases, the signage, the lighting as they would be when he was finished with them. He stepped over a drop cloth, inhaling the scents of fresh plaster and paint. “He’s got the rest of the museum to fuss over. I wish he’d leave this wing alone. He might know how to hang paintings, but he knows nothing about Egyptian antiquities. He wanted to put the Book of the Dead Papyrus in the East Gallery, for pity’s sake.”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s the longest room. You’d have plenty of space to unroll the entire document.” Bellows leaned close to a glass case full of
ushabtiu
in faience and alabaster. “Beautiful, every one of them.”

“Yoakum is worried about traffic flow and access. I’m worried about preserving the antiquities. The East Gallery has an entire wall of glass. The sunlight belting in there every morning would be disastrous for the papyrus.” Max unrolled his plan on the ushabti case and pointed. “I propose to put the Book of the Dead here, along this wall in gallery 120. No electric lighting overhead, just gaslight sconces in the corners and the walls painted black. If I use an opaque glass table to mount the papyrus on, then backlight it with small electric lights and cover the papyrus with another sheet of glass, the writing and artwork will show up beautifully and yet be preserved against damage, either from sunlight or from sticky fingers.”

“Brilliant. I’ll talk to Yoakum. The man knows his stuff when it comes to publicity and marketing, and he’s got a good eye for design, but I’ve been assured by the rest of the directors that you and I are in charge of the new Egyptian wing and that the preservation of the antiquities is paramount.” The force in his voice reminded Max that Augustus Bellows was the head of one of the largest shipping companies in the world, and when he wanted something, he usually got it.

“You fought hard enough to get the antiquities released in the first place, sir. We have to take all care to preserve them in excellent condition. If anything comes to any grief, Loret won’t allow as much as a scarab ring to leave Egypt ever again. I still can’t believe he allowed the entire collection to travel to New York.”

“It took some fancy negotiations, I’ll give you that, and half the stuff is only on loan for the year. It will have to go back. But we still made out all right, didn’t we? You won the prize and gained fame and a lot of my money.” Bellows used his thumb to smooth first one side of his walrus mustache and then the other. “And I got my new museum wing filled with treasures the likes of which have never been seen before.”

“If I ever get them all unpacked and cataloged and in the right cases.”

“You’ll get it done. I’ve never seen anyone work harder. Jillian’s right. You need to get out more, enjoy some of the New York sights and meet some people.”

“I’m getting out in a few days to speak at Jillian’s alma mater.” Something he’d agreed to in a rash moment and now regretted mightily. These speaking engagements were eating into his work time.

“That should be fun. Dozens of young females, all hanging on your every word.” He elbowed Max in a good-old-boys gesture. “Speaking of young ladies, have I mentioned that I have a goddaughter of marriageable age?”

“Several times.” Max rolled up his gallery blueprint.

“She’s a corker, I tell you. And pretty. Takes after her mother, my second cousin.”

“I’ve told you, sir, I’m not in the market for a wife. I’m an Egyptologist.”

“And that means you can’t get married?” Bellows’s bushy eyebrows darted down over his piercing eyes.

“That means if I ever do get married, it will have to be someone who either won’t mind me being gone for months at a time, or won’t mind sleeping in a tent or a tomb in the desert and eating tinned food for every meal. She’d have to cope with snakes, scorpions, sand, and no sanitation. What kind of woman would be willing to put up with all that just to be married to the likes of me?” He spread his hands, trying to make a joke of it.

“The right woman, that’s who. One who loves you. Are you saying there are no married Egyptologists?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying there are precious few
happily
married Egyptologists. If I did take a wife, she’d have to be someone like Hilda Petrie. She isn’t afraid to descend into burial pits, is smart enough to keep even Petrie’s precious potsherds organized, and runs their camp like a field marshal. She’s a helpmeet, a true member of Flinders’s expedition. An asset. Perhaps her greatest contribution is her artistic ability. Her paintings of tomb reliefs are clear and concise, better than photographs.” His mind was drawn back to the little spitfire he’d collided with that afternoon. Her artwork had been excellent, a faithful copy of Yoakum’s mislabeled displays.

The girl had some spunk, too, firing back when he’d been so abrupt with her. His lips twitched. Yes, any woman who would marry an Egyptologist would have to have grit. Too bad he wasn’t in the market for a wife. If he were, he might choose someone like her.

Chapter 2

A
lly checked her supplies and snapped the lid shut on her pastel and chalk case. So far, so good. If she could get out of the house unseen, she could slip away to the museum and avoid the tedium of going on calls with Mother. At least with Mother attending the opera last night, she would be likely to sleep in this morning until well after the time the museum opened.

Her light coat waited. She’d designed the garment herself of buff-colored cotton with long sleeves and large pockets, light enough to be worn indoors at the museum to cover her dress and protect it from paint, charcoal, and chalk. Her mother despaired of her fashion sense when she caught Alicia wearing it, but Alicia loved it. It was almost like assuming a secret identity, covering the socialite with the artist. Or maybe it was less a covering than a revealing of her true self.

She slipped down the stairs, portfolio in hand, listening on the landing for the chambermaids. Nothing. Tense, quiet as possible, she reached the bottom of the staircase… and found herself face-to-face with Mrs. Gannon, the housekeeper. Her heart sank.

“Good morning, Miss Alicia.” Mrs. Gannon nodded, her back stiff as a stair rod. Her sourpuss face expressed her displeasure with life, and her eyes slid over Alicia’s attire and belongings as if she suspected her of trying to abscond with the family silver. “Back to the museum, is it?” The housekeeper kept her finger on the pulse of every bit of gossip about the house, and she delighted in relaying it all to Mother. Though she had no authority to forbid Alicia to leave, Mother would be informed within the half hour that her daughter had left the house.

“Yes, Mrs. Gannon.” Ally stepped to the side to go around the housekeeper, but the older woman sidled with her.

“You do know the reputation that is getting around about young women loitering in the museum? It’s becoming a rather unsavory practice, from what I hear. I do hope you’re taking care.”

“I’m not ‘loitering’ in the museum. I go there to work and to appreciate all the beautiful things.”

“Does Mrs. Davidson know you’re going out today? I understood you would be making afternoon calls with her. She’s ordered the carriage brought round at two. I can tell her you will be back before then?” Censure lay heavily on her words. Though she’d framed it as a question, she was really requiring Alicia to live up to expectations.

“Please tell Mother that I would be delighted to join her for afternoon calls.” Alicia almost choked on the words. “I’ll be back for luncheon.”

“Very good, miss.”

So much for an entire day at the museum. At this rate, she’d never get any quality work done. She hurried out the front door before anyone else could stop her. Traffic moved heavily up Fifth Avenue, and pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Drivers shouted, horses neighed, and newsboys called out headlines. The buildings seemed to press in overhead and around her. She kept her chin up, walking briskly, threading her way through slower walkers until she was across the street from the museum.

Looking up at the columns, she studied the facade with an artist’s eye. Everything was balanced and perfect. Except for one aspect that always struck her as wrong. Atop each of the four main pairs of pillars at the entrance, a stack of cut stone blocks perched. Originally, these piles were to be carved into figures representing Sculpture, Painting, Architecture, and Music, but the stock market crash a few years before had meant funds for the museum had suffered a setback. The statues had never been completed, and the pyramids of stone remained in their raw form capping each of the columns.

She crossed the street, mounted the stairs, and entered the cavernous building. Soft light drifted through windows and skylights, bathing and warming the marble interior. She waved to the woman at the ticket counter, tapping her member’s badge clipped to her lapel.

As she made her way to the small gallery housing Egyptian art, she embraced the familiar feeling of peace that came over her. Her foot was on her native heath when she walked these halls.

Soon she had lost herself in her sketching. Humming softly, she added pastel color to her drawing of a section of tomb relief, bringing to life the lotus leaves and the maidens drawing water from the Nile.

She glanced up when footsteps approached. A handful of laborers filed by carrying lumber and tools. They entered a doorway to her left, leaving it propped open. From beyond, sounds of hammering and sawing and men talking began. They had to be working on the new wing that had been the talk of the museum all winter. A grand, new Egyptian exhibit would be opening in a few weeks. The door to the work area stood tantalizingly open.

Alicia frowned and set her pastel stick in her tray and flipped her sketchbook closed. Tucking her chalk case into her pocket, she peeked through the doorway. If they were going to be hammering away in here all day, she’d have to move to another part of the museum to work.

Beyond the doorway, a high, airy gallery opened. Sunlight streamed through a wall of windows two stories high, falling in graceful squares on the pale marble floor. Along the right-hand side, men scaled scaffolding nearly to the ceiling.

And in the center of the room, stood the young man who had occupied her thoughts almost constantly since the previous afternoon.

“I want the bottom of the banner to hang six feet from the floor.” He stood back, arms crossed, looking up, his voice echoing in the open space. “And it must be straight.” His hair hung over his forehead, and he shoved his glasses up on his nose with the side of his index finger.

Alicia slipped her small drawing pad from the capacious pocket of her art coat and took her pencil from behind her ear. With quick strokes she captured his profile, the strong column of his throat, the open neck of his shirt, the way the sunshine hit his hair.