She shook her head, loosening a strand of brown hair. “No shame involved. What you described is a shabti doll, sometimes referred to as a ushabti. It’s a small figurine usually made of clay and frequently carries a hoe or a basket on its back. Along with scarabs, shabtis are the most numerous of all ancient antiquities to survive. In fact, I am about to sell one to the Ashmolean once I verify the price.”
His brows rose. “Impressive. How much do you hope to gain?”
“Ten pounds.” Folding her arms, she leaned back in the seat. “Go on, and be sure to make the next one a challenge, if you don’t mind.”
You better believe he would, for it was a downed gauntlet now to stump such an eccentric little beauty. This time he ignored the text and instead squinted at the footnotes in small print. A slow smile eased across his lips as he closed the book and thunked it onto the only clean corner of the desk. “What is a sister-um, Miss Dalton?”
Musical laughter bubbled out of her. “A—what did you say?”
Heat flared up his neck. She’d heard him all right, which could only mean one thing ... he’d read it wrong. “Did I mispronounce it?”
She grinned, but she didn’t poke fun. “A sistrum is a member of the percussion family, a U-shaped musical instrument made of bronze or brass, generally from the ancient Egyptian era. When shaken, small rings or loops—”
He held up his hand. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?” She rose from her seat and folded her hands primly in front of her as if ready for a recital. “I can do this all day if you like.”
No doubt she could. He chuckled, for once savoring a battle he hadn’t won. “I’ll expect you at Price House two days hence. It’s a large project, one that will take upward of two to four weeks’ worth of work. Being that the manor is outside of Oxford’s city limits, bring along a chaperone as you’ll be expected to stay until you are finished.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are there no other women on the premises?”
“Of course there are. Price House prides itself on a full household staff.”
“Then tell me, sir.” Miss Dalton planted her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “If my father had been in this office today and you hired him, would you also have required him to bring along a chaperone?”
“That’s a preposterous question.”
“And yet it stands.”
He blinked. What a headstrong young woman, and yet instead of being annoyed by her brash manner, oddly enough it amused him. “No, Miss Dalton, your father would not need an attendant.”
“Then neither do I.” She lifted her chin. “I expect complete professional courtesy, no matter my gender and with all the same benefits.”
He eyed her, uncertain if he truly ought to take on such a firebrand.
“Very well,” he said at length. “Nine o’clock Saturday morning. Don’t be late.”
“I shan’t be.” She grinned. “And thank you.”
“I hope I am not making a mistake, so by all means, prove me wrong.”
“I’d like nothing more.”
He reset his hat as he headed toward the door. “Good day, then, Miss Dalton.” Before he crossed the threshold, a new thought hit him, and he doubled back. Reaching into his pocket, he planted several bills on the desk.
Her brow wrinkled. “Is that some sort of retainer fee?”
He straightened, enjoying the confusion on her face far too much. “No, it’s for a new pair of shoes—ones that match. I shall see you in two days.”
He strolled out the door, wondering if he’d done the right thing by hiring a woman. When she discovered who he really was, would she turn into a lovelorn schoolgirl? He’d hate to terminate her, but he would in an instant if need be.
Strangely, though, deep down he hoped he wouldn’t have to.
4
Ami stood in front of Price House with a bag in her hand and a scowl on her face. Father often scolded her for being too swift to form an opinion, but even without entering this house she knew exactly what she’d find inside. Arrogance. Strict protocol. And worse, a mawkish cloud of lemon beeswax permeating the air to a sickly degree.
Oh, but she couldnotabide lemons.
