Brudge gave his aching hip a good rubdown, then set off on a zigzag route from trunk to trunk. A crescent moon lent hardly any light, yet the clear sky and stars were bright enough. The closer he drew to the house, the more chance he could be seen if anyone happened to look out the window. Unlikely, though. Not at this late hour. It had to be well past midnight by now. He advanced.
Then paused. Ahead, a shadowy figure exited a side door of the house. Thunderation!
Like a startled squirrel, Brudge darted back to the safety of the previous oak tree, then carefully peered around the side of it. Sure enough, a man clutched a small parcel in one arm and ... what was this? The fellow swiveled his head as he kept to the shadows—the very same move he employed when toeing about where he ought not be. Was one of the servants pinching the silver, then? Or—no! If that scoundrel was nipping off with his statue, he’d tackle the fiend and take what was rightfully his. After all, he’d spied that winged hunk of gold first!
Brudge squinted as the man followed the length of the house, picking his way toward the front drive. The canvas bundle in the crook of his arm didn’t appear to be overlarge or too heavy. Brudge eased out a low breath. Not his piece.
With a last look over his shoulder, the man disappeared around the corner. Brudge gave him a moment or two out of professional courtesy before sidestepping the tree trunk. It never paid to shoehorn one’s way too quickly into an active scene ofanother man’s labour. No doubt Scupper had some sort of annoyingly pithy words about just such a thing.
He’d nearly made it to the next oak when he stopped and listened with his whole body. Something had snagged his attention. Something small but ominous. The swing of a gate? Sure did sound like the squeak of hinges. To be on the safe side, he doubled back to the previous tree, then the baying of hounds cut through the air.
Blast!
He sprinted, bunion screaming as he tore back to the stone wall. A straight shot this time. No need for stealth. He could practically feel the hot breath of the dogs at his back.
He lunged, scrambling for purchase, just as teeth sank into his ankle.
Double blast!
With a howl of his own, he kicked the beast in the head, barely freeing his leg before another set of snappers flashed in the night.
“You there!” a deep voice bellowed. “Stop!”
Brudge threw his arm over the top of the wall, hefting his body upward, leaving behind the bared teeth and vicious growls. With a great burst of strength, he flung his good leg over. One more breath and he’d be over the side and running for his horse.
A shot rang out.
Searing pain ripped across his thigh.
14
A good journalist could make a pile of manure into a bag of diamonds. A bad one, turn a saint into a sinner. Edmund hadn’t decided which category he ought to file Mr. Kane under—good, bad, saint, or manure—but one thing he knew, he didn’t like the fellow, mostly because he stood far too close to Miss Dalton. Or could be that the man smelled like a sardine tin. Probably both. And judging by the sour turn of Gil’s lips, his business partner wasn’t enamored with the journalist either, which was a bit ironic since he was the one who’d invited Kane here in the first place.
Pencil poised, Mr. Kane licked his lips, a habit he’d already engaged in countless times since he arrived. Judging by the chapped skin ringing his mouth, it was more a nervous tic than anything. “Miss Dalton, this love affair of yours with Egypt, how exactly did it begin? Remember, no detail is too small.”
She offered him a tight smile as she set down the long-necked figurine she’d been showing him. “I appreciate your interest in my profession, Mr. Kane, but I hardly think Mr. Fletcher invited you here to take notes on me.”
“Indeed, sir,” Gil spoke before the man could respond. “While admittedly Miss Dalton is lovely to behold, just look at the greatcache of beauties around you, in particular, this griffin.” He swept his hand toward the golden statuette. “Did you know—”
“Yes, yes. We will get to that.” Kane didn’t so much as glance at the griffin, just sidled a step closer to Miss Dalton.
If he dared draw any nearer, Edmund would frog-march the man out to the drive.
“Tell me, Miss Dalton.” Kane’s tongue flicked out like a grass snake’s. “As a woman in a man’s world, what do you find most challenging?”
Edmund opened his mouth to redirect that line of questioning, then just as quickly pressed his lips tight. How would she answer such a query?
“That’s easy.” She tucked her ever-loosened hair behind one ear, not caring a whit that more oft than not, her appearance was that of an absent-minded professor. “My biggest trial is recognition. Even you questioned my title when Mr. Price first introduced us.”
“Mr. Price, that’s right. How could I have forgotten!” Kane’s dark button eyes fixed on him. “Rumours abound as to why you left the country all those years ago. Most involve a woman. A Miss Louisa Allen, if I have my facts straight. Do I?”
The mere mention of her name made his jaw clench. “With all due respect, Mr. Kane, you are here to discuss Egyptian artifacts, not my personal history.”
“Ha-ha! That’s right.” Gil guffawed. “Now, about this griffin here, have I got a tale for—”
“Personal insights are what make a story stand out in a reader’s mind.” The journalist flourished his pencil in the air. “Add in a dash of romance—such as an attractive female Egyptologist and one of the most sought-after bachelors in Oxford, housing together beneath the same roof—and voilà! A headline that’ll drive sales to the sky.”
If he clenched his jaw any tighter, his teeth would crack. This was exactly the sort of publicity he’d been hoping to avoid. “The only sale I am interested in is for this load of relics, which has nothing to do with either me or Miss Dalton.”
