Peake chuckled. “Unless you count the one in the basement. Come, come! I gather you will be particularly interested in my Egyptian acquisitions and they are still down there.” He urged them toward the stairs.
Despite mention of a corpse, Ariana was keen, but she would happily shed Kynaston’s disdainful company. “Do you wish to remain here, my lord?”
“You might escape into fashionable dissipation, Lady Ariana. So, no.”
She shrugged and went with their host, noting that the Earl of Kynaston had not improved with keeping, as the saying went. He’d lost all his smiling charm and become arrogantly rude. At least that was wearing away at any lingering enchantment.
As they returned to the hall, the knocker sounded again. Mr. Peake went to answer it and was soon greeting new guests—a couple with two sons in their teens.
They chattered away, and then Peake remembered them. “My dear Lady Ariana, Lord Kynaston, my apologies! My lord, would you be so kind as to take Lady Ariana and her companion down to the cellars? I’m sure you know the way. I must take these fine young fellows up to meet Inkman.” With that, he returned to his new guests.
Ariana looked an apology to Kynaston, for Peake’s request had been beyond anything. No wonder he looked at the edge of his patience. “There’s no need,” she said.
“You wish to see his Egyptian artifacts. Come.” He didn’t wait, but walked away toward the back of the house.
“Why would he know the way?” Ethel muttered as they followed.
“He must have visited here in the past.”
“Visited the cellars?”
Ariana shrugged and hurried to catch up.
She’d never considered a man’s back before, but remembering the way her mother and Lady Cawle had assessed the gentlemen, she indulged herself. Though awake to all Kynaston’s faults, she couldn’t help but be aware that his back view was fine. Broad shoulders, slim hips, strong legs that moved him forward in a very smooth, athletic way. No matter what debauchery he’d sunk into over eight years, he was still in good physical shape.
He halted and opened a plain door to reveal a narrow staircase. “Take care on these stairs. They were built for people with small feet.”
Ariana froze.
The monster!
From behind her, Ethel whispered, “He’s having trouble, too.”
He was. Ahead of them, Kynaston was having to put his booted feet sideways on the narrow treads. Ariana still might have retreated if Ethel hadn’t given her a shove. She went down, big feet sideways on the inadequate stairs, hating him, her feet, and the cruelty of being a tall lady. He had to duck at one point to go under a dip in the ceiling, which at least warned her to do the same.
Then she arrived in a basement area lit by two small windows high in the walls, and wonder wiped all grievance from her mind.
A part of one long wall was covered by Egyptianfigures, portrayed in that distinctive style, with the faces shown in profile but shoulders square to the viewer. Brown skin, black straight-cut hair, and mostly white clothing that left the men’s legs bare. Hieroglyphic writing presumably described the scene, but no one knew exactly what those images and shapes meant. It looked as if a harvest was being gathered and presented to a pharaoh or a god. She knew that at times the pharaohs themselves had been considered gods.
Ariana wanted to move closer, but the floor was almost entirely covered by wooden crates, bundles, and shrouded objects. There were only a few narrow passages, none going toward the mural.
The light suddenly increased and she turned to see Kynaston replacing the glass on a hanging oil lamp. A tinderbox sat nearby.
“Thank you, my lord.” Ariana turned back to the wall painting, which had become brighter and more alive. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Impressive,” he agreed, moving closer. Given the lack of space, that meant very close.
“It’s not real,” she said, heart suddenly beating faster. “I mean... it’s a reproduction.”
“You can detect that?”
I can detect your smell. Subtle and clean, but something else. Something I didn’t know I remembered from a hot, perfumed dance.
“My friend told me,” she said quickly. “Lady Faringay, Mr. Peake’s great-niece. She wrote to me about it.”
“Stand aside,” he said, which was barely possible. He squeezed past her, their bodies pressing together for a shocking moment. “My lord!” she protested, but by then he was in front of her, blocking her view.
The oaf!
