Ami left behind the men’s chatter of fox and hounds, conflicted at the suggestion she’d made. She ought not care aboutan appealing presentation of the goods, and in fact, should leave it a mess to dissuade a purchase. Who knew where Mr. Harrison would store the valuable items if he got his hands on them? It would be in her best interest—make that the relics’ best interest—if the lot didn’t sell to a private buyer ... though that could be detrimental to Mr. Price.
And he’d been nothing but kind to her.
The debate raged in her mind all the way to the workroom—where it promptly flew from her head. Near the pile of Roman coins stood a man with a bandage wrapped around his head, back toward her, hand in his pocket.
“Mr. Fletcher?” Alarmed, she strode toward him. “Can I help you with something? You shouldn’t be up and about so soon.”
He faced her, half a smile lifting one side of his moustache. Other than the swath of white cloth on his brow, he appeared to be hale. “Don’t fret about me, Miss Dalton. You’d be surprised at how fast I bounce back from an injury. I am no stranger to being knocked about. Ha-ha!” He shoved his other hand into his pocket, grin fading. A sheepish look tucked his chin. “Actually, I came to apologize. There is no excuse for speaking so crudely as I did last night. I hope you will forgive me.”
He was right. He had been crude, but he’d also been intoxicated. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard worse from the scoundrels with whom she brokered deals in dark alleys. “Yes, of course, Mr. Fletcher. We all make mistakes.”
“You are a saint, dear lady. So then let us put the past behind us, eh?” He yanked out his pocket watch and, after a glance, snapped the lid shut and tucked it away. “While I’d love to stay and chat, I’m afraid I must cut this short, for I have a meeting with Mr. Price and Mr. Harrison. Until later, Miss Dalton.”
He strode past her.
“But they will soon be...” She closed her mouth. There was no sense finishing the sentence. Mr. Fletcher was already out the door.
Reaching for the nearest pile of papers, she tapped themagainst the tabletop, straightening them into a neat stack. She capped the ink bottle, relocated a pile of polishing rags to a nearby basket, and grabbed the pouch to stow the scattered Roman coins. After scooping them in, she pulled the drawstring and ... wait a minute. She dumped them back onto the table and fingered through the gold tokens, mouth pinching. Either she’d miscounted the first time she’d unpacked them...
Or some were missing.
“Right this way, Mr. Harrison.” Edmund led the man out to the corridor, thankful to leave behind the Pandora’s box he’d unwittingly opened. Harrison had regaled him with detailed descriptions of his many hunts, right down to the various dogs he’d used over the years and what food he fed them. Not being overly fond of hunting, Edmund found the tales tedious at best.
“I’m sure you’ll—” Edmund narrowed his eyes as they entered the great hall. “Gil?”
Striding toward them with a bandaged head and a smirk on his mouth, Fletcher closed the distance between them. “Sorry I skipped breakfast, old man. Bit of a sluggish morning for me, but I’m up to speed now. And you must be Mr. Harrison, I assume?” He shook the man’s hand. “I’m Gilbert Fletcher, Mr. Price’s business partner. I hope I haven’t missed the entire deal, but if so, allow me to be the first to congratulate you on acquiring such a unique collection.”
“You’ve missed nothing, Mr. Fletcher, for I’ve acquired nothing yet. We are just on our way to view the artifacts now.” Mr. Harrison’s gaze fixed on Gil’s brow. “Looks like you were in quite a tussle.”
“Just a quarrel with a staircase, but never fear, I came out the victor.”
Edmund stifled a snort. Gil had gained such a victory by Providence alone, for had he climbed any more than the three steps he’d taken, that tumble could have very well broken his neck.
“The workroom is this way, Mr. Harrison.” Edmund set off toward the refashioned banquet room, unaccountably perturbed by Gil’s presence. The man really ought to be in bed.
“Fine home you’ve got, Price.” Mr. Harrison puffed along beside him. For a fellow so given to hunting, he surely was unfit for physical activity. “I wonder you don’t keep your recent purchase for yourself?”
“I am rarely in residence here and in fact soon hope to move to London once renovations are finished on my town house.” If God showed him favor, that was ...andif Lord Bastion did as well. He’d not heard from the viscount since that telegram on the train. But that was another matter for another time. For now, he smiled at Mr. Harrison. “Displaying such a treasure in this house would be wasteful as there would be none other than the servants to admire it.”
“Treasure, yes!” Gil clapped his hands. “I daresay you’ll want to jump on this lot, Harrison, before other buyers get wind of it. Will it be a problem for you to acquire the funds within the week?”
Edmund clenched his jaw. Gilbert Fletcher never used to be this high-pressured or ill-mannered. “That won’t be necessary. As I’ve explained to Mr. Harrison, we are very early in the process, and not everything has yet been unpacked. Much as I’d love to sell the lot right now, it wouldn’t be prudent to do so.”
“Prudence is a nag to be goaded into motion. Ha-ha!” Gil’s voice bounced from wall to wall as they entered the corridor.
Mr. Harrison didn’t look amused. Neither was Edmund.
His irritation faded, though, as they entered the workroom, his gaze immediately drawn to Miss Dalton, who was handing a basket of rags to the housekeeper. Mrs. Buckner dipped her head at him as she passed by, but Edmund barely noticed. It was too hard to pull his eyes off Miss Dalton, for she was a veritable Cleopatra amongst these ancient relics. Sunlight illuminated her delicate features, her skin glowing as brilliantly as the alabaster vases. She was the true gem in the room, a timeless beauty evenin an apron with her hair pinned haphazardly. The keen mind behind those sharp eyes only added to the allure.
He cleared his throat. “Are you ready for us to view the artifacts?”
“Yes. Why don’t you gentlemen join me over here?” She turned toward the vases. “These urns”—she swept her hand over three slender pieces—“are from the New Kingdom, dating from the sixteenth century BC to—”
“Harrison doesn’t care about such trivialities, Miss Dalton.” Gil tapped the table. “Tell him what they are worth.”
Her brow furrowed as she shot her gaze to Gil, clearly annoyed, and yet when she spoke, her voice hid any hint of agitation. “Twenty pounds apiece.”
“And a bargain they are at that, eh, Harrison?” Gil nudged the man with his elbow. “I should think you’d want to buy the goods here and now.”
