Well. This day was off to a bad start. Ami shoved back a loose strand of hair, annoyed with the way it dangled in her eyes. Granted, her morning likely wasn’t as awful as Mr. Fletcher’s must be, for surely he suffered quite a skull banger today—from so much drink and a gash on his head. After such a nasty tumble down the stairs last evening, he was fortunate a few stitches had remedied the situation. It could have been much worse.
Her belly rumbled—loudly—and she pressed a hand to it. Thus far she’d missed breakfast, failed at yet another attempt to authenticate the griffin, and broken her thumbnail when prying open the next crate.
And now this.
She ran her finger through a pile of Roman coins, spreading them out on the tabletop. Were they tetradrachms? Denarii? Who knew? Certainly not her. Egyptians usually bartered small items or traded gold and copper rings—deben—as currency. Valuing this small cache of money would take someone familiar with numismatics.
Out in the great hall, the case clock bonged a low chime. Half past the hour—thirty minutes until Mr. Price’s business meeting. It warmed her heart he wished her to be present. Toobad she’d have to disappoint. She reached for the valuation she’d penned for him and rose. As awful as this day was going, she had no desire to face the skepticism of some sour-faced buyer who’d undoubtedly question her credentials. Besides, she had plenty to do here, and that’s what Mr. Price had hired her for in the first place.
On her way out, she paused in front of the jackal-headed statue she’d unwrapped yesterday. Bosh. Dusty already? Doubling back, she snatched a cloth off the table and swiped it over the figure’s shoulders, the action not moving the heavy sculpture a whit. It seemed right having this guardian stand sentinel near the door as it would have been stationed in an ancient tomb. With a light toss, she landed the cloth over the back of her chair and strode from the room.
She didn’t have far to go. The study was conveniently located close to the front entrance of Price House. The door stood open, but even so she gave a cursory rap on the frame. No one answered, which was perfect. She’d nip in and out before anyone noticed.
Once inside, though, she veered away from the big desk at center, drawn irresistibly to the massive bookshelves lining an entire wall. The scent of leather-bound books and polished wood—beeswax, not lemon, thank heaven—filled her lungs. Gently, she ran a finger along the spines, angling her head to read the titles.Great Expectations. Middlemarch. Moby Dick.Her brows rose. Mr. Price—man of commerce and business—had a soft spot for fiction? Even better, the shelf below bore a selection of Indian artifacts. Though she’d rather see these items in a museum, at least he had the good sense to keep them away from the sunlight and stationed at eye level to admire while seated behind his desk. There were many things she respected about the man. His love and care for antiquities added to the tally.
A tally that was rising day by day.
Across from the shelves, cozy armchairs sat in front of the hearth. She didn’t need to close her eyes to imagine Edmund Price relaxing there, book in one hand, maybe a pipe filled withcherry tobacco in the other. His long legs would be stretched out, crossed at the ankle, his fine, broad shoulders nestled against the highbacked cushion. His dimple would crease as he concentrated. Ah, but he was a handsome fellow, one she didn’t care to admit had visited her in her dreams of late. What would it feel like to wake up to those striking blue eyes of his every morning, focused on her, cherishing her?
She stiffened. Bosh! What in all of England was she thinking?
Pivoting, she slapped down her estimate on his desk a little too forcefully, the swift movement knocking a small notepad to the rug. She swiped it up, catching a glance of the masculine handwriting. Many lines were crossed off with angryX’s. These were not the numbers a businessman ought to be calculating.
Curious, she peered closer, holding the paper up to the sunshine streaming through the mullioned window.
Wut soft lite doth brake be-ond,
A donning, a yonning, a yell-oh . . .
Oh my.Thiswas Mr. Price’s poetry? No wonder he’d labeled it abysmal. The sentiment was fine enough, but the spelling was atrocious. Almost as if a schoolboy first learning his letters had penned the words. How did he manage his business with such poor writing skills?
The low drone of men’s voices traveled down the corridor. Whirling, she set the notepad back on the desk, but apparently not quite well enough. Once again it thwacked to the floor.
“You’re here early, Miss Dalton.” Mr. Price’s rich tone entered the room.
Her heart banged against her ribs. If she bent to retrieve his poetry, he’d suspect she’d been poking about the papers on his desk. Which she hadn’t been—mostly.
“I, em...” Stalling, she punted the notepad with a smooth kick, hiding the action with the hem of her skirt. Hopefully the incriminating evidence had sailed beneath his desk. Guilt tastedlike ashes in her mouth, but she’d choke on even more shame if she admitted she’d read his verse without his permission.
Grabbing her estimate, she held it out. “Here is the valuation you requested. Now then, I am afraid I cannot stay. I really ought to be assessing more artifacts. You understand, I’m sure.”
“Actually, I was about to suggest we convene this meeting in your work area.” He tucked the paper into his pocket. “That way Mr. Harrison here can take a peek at some of the relics you’ve already uncovered and get a feel for how many more are in the load. And with that, may I introduce Mr. Harrison.” He turned to the stout man next to him.
Ami stifled a sigh. As expected, the fellow was dour-faced and paunch-bellied, arrogance clinging to him as tightly as his suit coat. He needn’t say anything for one to deduce he was a pound snatcher, breathing money, speaking it, rolling in it if he had the chance. Should she step closer, no doubt she’d inhale the metallic scent of old coins.
“Mr. Harrison,” Mr. Price continued, “this is Miss Dalton, Egyptologist.”
Both the title and the gleam in Mr. Price’s eyes wrapped around her like a warm embrace. For the space of a breath, she relished the feeling.
Then steeled herself for the inevitableYou’re a what?from Mr. Harrison.
However, the portly fellow merely dipped his head, jowls blending in with his collar. “Miss Dalton, pleased to meet you.”
Well, well, perhaps her bad day was turning a corner.
“Pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Harrison.” She smiled at the fellow, then faced Mr. Price. “If you’ll give me just a minute, I’ll tidy up the display table. It’s not in a fit viewing state at the moment.”
“As you wish.” Turning to his potential buyer, Mr. Price indicated the leather chairs. “How about we catch up on that recent hunting excursion of yours?”
