She pulled out a cat as black as a moonless sky, one who was every bit as terrified as the young maid had been.
“Shh.” She cradled the ball of fur while wiping the blood from her finger onto her apron. “All is well.” She turned about to face three pairs of wide eyes all focused on her.
The butler’s brows lifted clear to the rafters. “How did that get in here?”
“Odd place to keep a pet, old man.” The stranger next to Mr. Price elbowed him in the arm.
Mr. Price was the only one to fix his gaze on her injured finger. In a trice, he whipped out a handkerchief from his pocket. “You’re hurt. Barnaby, take that cat out to Phineas. No doubt he’ll welcome a mole hunter in the rose bed.”
“Take care, Barnaby,” she told the butler as he reached for the feline. “She’s a bit skittish, poor thing.” Carefully, she nestled the cat into the crook of his arm.
Biting one corner of the cloth, Edmund tore a thin strip of fabric. He drew close, gathering her hand and winding the makeshift bandage around her finger. “This will do until you can see the cook for some salve, and the sooner the better.”
She inhaled sharply, for his touch—while infinitely gentle—sent a strange wave of heat up her arm. Bosh, but she could get used to this man holding her hand, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with that craving, for she’d never experienced such a weakness before. Stranger still, the longer they stood this close,the more her knees threatened to give way. La! She didn’t usually feel this giddy around anything but a mummy fresh from a sarcophagus. Perhaps that cat bite really was affecting her.
The man at Mr. Price’s side snorted. “Such hubbub over a stray feline.”
“I cannot say I am surprised.” Mr. Price tied off the cloth and stepped back, taking his pleasant scent of curry along with him. “The village girls are given to superstition, and black cats are a bad omen.”
“Ridiculous,” Ami huffed. “The Egyptians believed just the opposite, thinking them to be a symbol of divine protection, not evil intent. It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“I didn’t say I believed such poppycock.” Mr. Price studied her. “But I must say your insight is quite astute.”
Though she couldn’t be sure, it looked as if admiration flickered in his eyes—which flared warmth into her chest.
“I will have my housekeeper speak with the maid. For now, allow me to introduce you to my business partner, Mr. Gilbert Fletcher.” He swept his hand toward the stranger. “Gil, this is Miss Dalton.”
“Charmed to meet you.” Collecting her uninjured hand, the man bowed over the top of it and pressed his lips to her skin. An old-fashioned gesture, one that smacked of chivalry. And yet he was no knight of old. He looked more like one of the gin bibbers hanging about the Folly Bridge.
She pulled away, her stomach oddly queasy. “Mr. Fletcher.”
Mr. Price tipped his head toward her. “Gil would like to see some of the artifacts.”
“Well, I’ve not gotten any further than the griffin from last night, but over here are the vases and a mirror from the first crate I emptied.” She led them to a long trestle table at the far end of the room. Soon that tabletop would be filled with treasures of the past, which carved a melancholy hole in her heart. She wouldn’t have an infinite amount of time to persuade Mr. Price to sell—or better yet, donate—the lot to a museum in Cairo, and if she failed, all these historical pieces would be lockedup in some wealthy man’s curio cabinets. Someday—someday soon, God willing—she’d go on a dig of her own and bypass this whole ghastly process. Unearth her own treasures and put them where they belonged—on display in their homeland.
“Very nice.” Mr. Fletcher moved from one item to the next. “How much are they worth?” He snapped a hawkish eye toward Mr. Price.
Ami clenched her jaw. Just because Mr. Price wore trousers did not make him more of an authority than her. “Ihave valued the vases at twenty pounds apiece, and this mirror”—she circled her hand in front of the ornate bronze looking glass—“is ceremonial instead of functional, which ought to fetch at least fifty.”
Mr. Fletcher let out a low whistle, his head swiveling to take in the many crates filling the room. “And there’s more where that came from, eh?”
Mr. Price nodded. “There’s no telling what other riches may be uncovered. Just last evening Miss Dalton showed me this unique piece down here.” He strode the length of the long table, stopping at the head, where the golden griffin sat.
“Do you mind?” Mr. Fletcher nudged him out of the way and reached out to run a finger over the griffin’s wings.
Before he made contact, Ami batted away his hand. “Mr. Price may not mind, but I do. Your touch will mar the finish, and I have already buffed the gold.”
“Gold.” His teeth flashed in a wide grin. “How much is this beauty?”
Mr. Price shook his head. “It’s not for sale.”
Not yet, anyway. Not if she could impress upon him how important this particular relic was.
“Whyever not?” Mr. Fletcher jabbed his finger toward the griffin. “If that’s solid gold, we could both retire here and now.”
“I should like to keep it.” Mr. Price arched a brow at her. “Curse or not.”
“Curse? On this little gem?” Mr. Fletcher chuckled. “I suppose that explains the black cat, eh?”
