Picking up her spoon, she forced a polite smile. “I am afraid I cannot join you after dinner. I have a few notes in the workroom I need to finish before I retire.”
“Pity.” A feline smile curved her lips. “Well, perhaps tomorrow evening, then.”
“Tomorrow?” Mr. Price angled his head. “I thought you and your father would be taking the morning train.”
“Heavens no. I packed enough gowns for at least a week.”
Lord Bastion laid his wadded serviette on the table. “That’s right, Price. Your platform must be nailed tight, remember?”
Whether he remembered or not was hard to say. Actually, it was hard to read any of Mr. Price’s thoughts as he schooled his face.
Mr. Fletcher leaned close to Ami, the sour reek of wine on his breath. “Would you like some help with gathering those notes, Miss Dalton?”
“I am sure I can manage on my own, Mr. Fletcher.” She dug into her sorbet, hoping he’d not press the issue.
“No doubt you can. I don’t have a mind for such historical gibberish. What I meant was I wish to help you tidy up the room. Mr. Kane from theOxford Journalis set to arrive in the morning. We must show him the collection in the best possible light in order to stir up interest, must we not?”
“We already have a potential buyer.” Though Mr. Fletcher seemed oblivious, Ami didn’t miss the tightness in Mr. Price’s tone. “And I thought I made it clear I was not interested in press coverage at the moment.”
“Indeed, you did.”
“Then why invite the man?”
“Because as your partner, Iaminterested.”
Lord Bastion tapped his finger on the table. “Journalist, you say? Now, that’s something we can use to our advantage. Imagine the publicity for your campaign, Price, if you were seen as a man not only of wealth and stature but of culture, one who takes keen interest in preserving ancient artifacts. It could sway the hearts and minds of the voting public.”
Leave it to the viscount to exploit cultural valuables for the sake of politics. Ami pushed back her chair before she dove headfirst into waters that were sure to be murky. “And on that note, gentlemen, Miss Woolsey, I bid you all a good evening.”
The men rose, wishing her the same. Violet merely gave a nod as if she were the Queen herself bestowing her dismissal—and more than happy to have Mr. Price to herself for the rest of the night.
Ami strode away, conflicted thoughts crowding her mind. The dynamics between Mr. Price and Violet puzzled her. It surely seemed a strange tension tethered them together, making it difficult to decipher their true relationship. Clearly Violet believed Mr. Price belonged to her in some way. Yet Mr. Price’sdemeanor—while courteous—lacked the ardor one would expect from a devoted lover.
Bosh. What did she know? The realm of emotions and romantic entanglements had always baffled her, which in a sense, made it all the more desirable to escape into the tangible world of artifacts, where the age and value of an object could be precisely determined.
She swept into the workroom, then immediately wheeled about, facing the very statue she’d just passed. The enormous carving of Anubis now stood with its jackal snout to the wall. This wasnotto be borne! That figure was far too valuable to be used as a pawn for such antics.
Spinning about, she grabbed her notes off the table and shook the handful of papers in the air, shouting at whoever might be lurking in the shadows. “If you’re trying to frighten me, it isn’t working. Do you hear me? You’re wasting your time, so stop it. The curse of Amentuk isn’t real!”
She scanned the room from corner to corner, alert for movement of any sort ... but there was none. Bah. What was she thinking? Whoever had moved the relic had clearly done the deed and departed. She’d have to hunt down Barnaby and question him once more, let him know this wasn’t a laughing matter, especially if that statue were to topple and break. Heaving a sigh, she turned to leave, but as she did so, the hair at the nape of her neck prickled like sharp wires. No one was in the room. She was sure of it.
But that didn’t account for the whisper of a sinister laugh at her back.
13
Ekonahmic. No, that couldn’t be correct. Slashing a line through the word, Edmund redipped his pen and tried again.Ecenamik. He picked up the page and studied the letters—which looked as if a schoolboy had written them. Crushing the paper into a tight ball, he tossed it onto the ever-growing pile at the base of his desk, then glanced at the clock, thoroughly defeated. Nearly midnight and he had yet to compose a suitable outline to present to Lord Bastion tomorrow, one that promoted economic reform instead of imperialism.
Sighing, he planted his elbows on the desktop and scrubbed his face. Usually, he could count on Gil for drafting documents he required, but despite Gil’s assurance he’d lay off the libations, the man had still managed to partake overmuch of the after-dinner sherry. He’d have to speak to Barnaby about locking up the spirits. No doubt Gil was even now gape-mouthed snoring in his bed from such excess. Despite his friend’s tale of lovelorn woe, if he kept up his uncouth behaviour, Edmund would have no choice but to dissolve their business relationship for he couldn’t socially afford such a connection. And yet ... he toyed with the pen, uneasy about ending his long relationship with Gil. The man had been his right arm the entire time he’dbeen abroad, a more than astute businessman, and he did owe Gil for saving him from financial ruin all those years ago. Had the matter with that woman—Charlotte, was it?—so mangled the man’s personality?
He dropped his hands. He knew too well the changes a duplicitous woman could wreak.
Shooting to his feet, he paced, frustrated with Gil, annoyed with his own limitations, and still a little bit irked at the way Violet had treated Miss Dalton during dinner. Catty woman. But irritated or not, he smiled as he recalled that dinner. The pert little Egyptologist had been far too proud to ask for help with eating her lobster, yet she’d followed his every lead, relied on him. Trusted him. A silent testament to the unspoken understanding that seemed to be growing between them—and there was no doubt in his mind therewassomething growing, a bond, one that filled him with an inordinate amount of pleasure. Throughout the entire meal his parents’ distant exchanges had echoed in his mind. Were their cool looks truly the pinnacle of marital connection, or was there a depth that had been missing in their relationship he had yet to grasp?
He stole another glance at the mantel clock, feeling the pressure of getting the outline finished. Though he hated to admit it, he needed help. Jameson would be fast asleep by now. Barnaby couldn’t write two words without speaking twenty between. Hmm. Would Miss Dalton be in the workroom at this hour? She’d said she had paperwork to finish tonight. Might she be willing to help him with his outline? A pretty big if, but better than coming up with another abysmal spelling ofeconomic... though he would have to be crafty in how he worded his plea for assistance.
Doubling back to the desk, he grabbed the notepad and strode from the room. At this time of night, only dim light glowed from the wall sconces. Some might consider it romantic. Others ghostly. Either would work for a poem, but a political summary was far removed from rhymes and meters.The thought caused his step to hitch. Was politics truly the path he ought to be following?
He crossed the great hall at a good clip, pushing away the question. This wasn’t about him. It was about Sanjay and the others he could help by influencing economic policy.
