So did Miss Dalton.
Gil put his arm around Mr. Harrison’s shoulder, propellinghim into motion. “How about we continue this conversation over a glass of sherry in Price’s office?”
Blast! How could the man even think of drinking with a skull that surely had to be aching from his injury and overindulgence of the night before? Frowning, Edmund tipped his head at Miss Dalton. “Thank you. I shall leave you to your work.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, a word before you leave?”
He glanced at the door where Gil and Mr. Harrison had already disappeared. If he didn’t keep that decanter out of Gil’s reach, there was no telling what he might say to Mr. Harrison. “Yes, but it will have to be brief.”
She plucked a small leather bag from farther down the table. With one hasty movement, she loosened the drawstring and small golden coins plinked onto the tabletop. “It’s about this Roman currency.”
“Roman?” He rubbed the back of his neck, thoroughly confused. “What are these doing tangled up with Egyptian artifacts?”
“Could be several reasons, actually.” She held up one of the coins between them. “There was a Roman period in Egypt from 30 BC to AD 641, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility for these to have been found in a tomb. Or perhaps they were stashed away elsewhere as Egypt was part of the ancient trading routes. Or—and this is what I’m leaning toward—it could be a collector or dealer of coins added a pouch to this mix of artifacts, someone hoping to sell a variety of relics together.”
He plucked the coin from her fingers, studying it himself while she continued.
“Whatever the reason, here they are, and to be honest with you, I have no idea how to price them. You’ll need a Roman antiquarian for that.”
“Good thing I’m a problem solver, then.”
She arched a brow. “What do you mean?”
He set the coin back with the others. “I happen to know just the fellow who can help us with this. An old friend of mine at Cambridge. I’ll dash him off a note today. Thank youfor bringing this to my attention, and for having the courage to admit the limits of your knowledge. Many a man wouldn’t have been so bold.”
For a few breaths she said nothing, but the pinking on her cheeks revealed his compliment had hit home. Most women would have tittered under his praise. She merely lifted her chin. “There is one more thing you should know.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“There were twenty-five coins here this morning when I dumped them onto the table.” With a few flicks of her fingers, she spread the golden circles so that none overlapped. “After I returned from your office, only eighteen remained.”
The air whooshed from his lungs. Never once had his staff stolen anything. Why, Barnaby didn’t feel he even needed to lock up the silver at night, such was his confidence in who he hired and the camaraderie he worked to instill in them. Though Edmund hated to doubt Miss Dalton, he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you certain?”
“I wasn’t at first, but I checked my tally sheet to confirm it.” She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket, verifying her words.
Disappointment bowed his shoulders. Naturally, theft happened in other great houses, he’d just prided himself that it had never happened here. “I shall have Barnaby speak with the staff at once.”
“You might first wish to ask Mr. Fletcher about it.”
He wheeled about. “Why?”
“Because—though I cannot prove it—I saw Mr. Fletcher in here alone, standing near the coins, tucking his hand into his pocket.”
10
There was a certain honesty in a game of billiards. Truth slid out easier with the clacking of balls, as if the sound of the game drowned out the fear of judgment. Closing one eye, Edmund sighted down his cue stick, then took his shot. The red ball banked off two sides, entirely missing the other two balls. A loss, but a respectable failure he could amend next turn ... and that’s what he loved about the game. Men could be vulnerable without feeling weak. And he especially hoped that sentiment proved true with the hornet’s nest of a conversation he intended to open with Gil.
But better to ease into such a dialogue with a lighter topic. He faced Gil. “You have yet to tell me of your good news.”
Across from him, Gil chalked the end of his stick. The man had indulged in a long lie-down earlier that afternoon and, while still sporting a pallid complexion and a bandage, appeared to be in good health. “What good news were you hoping to hear, old man?”
“Whatever it was you mentioned in your last letter.”
“My—? Oh. Ha-ha! Nearly forgot. You should be happy to know I tidied up my office.”
Gil was the most fastidious of men, so that didn’t ring true in the least. Edmund fiddled with his stick, casting it back and forth between his hands, a twang in his gut. “While I am happy to hear all is in shipshape order, I am surprised to learn it was disheveled to begin with.”
And even more surprised that such an event would count as good news—because it wouldn’t. Clearly the man was hiding something.
