Laughing, she played along. Light gleamed on her golden-bronze finger waves and bounced off her glasses.
“Then you’re bound to me for eternity—or at least for one dance!” The band struck up the King Tut fox trot, and the mood in the room swung from ominous to hilarious. But when Archer attempted to pull Elsa onto the dance floor, her smile dropped.
“Be a sport, doll,” Archer whispered through his wrappings.
“I can’t.” Panic flared in Elsa’s voice. “Not in front of everyone.”
With mounting urgency, Archer persisted, and Elsa shook her head. He might not understand her rejection, but Lauren did. She could practically feel the anxiety radiating from her cousin. Everyone was watching them now. The band replayed the same opening measures, waiting for the couple to take the floor and open it to the rest of the group. Ivy might think the gesture romantic and hope that Elsa would change her mind despite her limp, but Lauren knew better.
Elsa refused to move.
The awkward moment teetered on the brink of something sharp and painful. Lauren couldn’t let that happen. Never would she have imagined that she, an assistant curator of Egyptian art for the Met, would King-Tut with a stranger swaddled in strips of bedsheets to a song that mocked a civilization she respected.
With a deep breath, Lauren swallowed her pride. “Come on, Tut. Let’s boogie.” Laughing at the shock and delight on her roommates’ faces, she whisked Archer—and the attention that came with him—away.
CHAPTER
5
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1925
At last, on the third Saturday that Lauren spent inspecting Newell St. John’s antiquities, she found what she was looking for. An ointment jar made of Egyptian alabaster was fake. But there was no triumph in her voice when she pronounced it.
Lawrence’s head jerked up. “You found a forgery?”
She confirmed she had. “What’s the provenance for this object?”
Flipping through a folder of documents, Lawrence stopped when he came to the corresponding record. “Here it is. ‘Spherical jar inscribed with Hatshepsut’s titles as queen, 12.3 centimeters high, with a diameter of 12.8 centimeters.’ Dated to circa 1492–1473 BC. The inscription reads: ‘King’s Daughter, King’s Sister, God’s Wife, King’s Great Wife (principal queen), Hatshepsut, may she live and endure like Re forever.’ This jar was purchased in Luxor with other objects presumed to be from tomb 1, wadi D in the Wadi Gabbanat el-Qurud, 1917.”
“Did St. John make the purchase himself?” Lauren asked.
“We’ll have to ask him. But first, tell me why you doubt the object’s authenticity.”
She pointed to the hieroglyphs etched into one side, contained within a rectangular border. “The inscription gives it away with a few basic errors. One hieroglyph is incomplete, two are incorrectly formed. It’s as if this has been copied from a photograph ofan original work where some of the inscription was unclear in the image.” She could see how it would happen. The thin white lines were delicate, barely contrasting with the creamy, almost translucent alabaster. “There is no way anything genuine with Hatshepsut’s name on it would have a misspelling.”
Lawrence squinted, then pulled out a magnifying glass to see it closer. He murmured his agreement.
Footsteps echoed across the gallery, and Lauren looked up to see Newell St. John approaching as if he’d stepped right off the cover ofTown & Country. Apparently fresh from the stables, he still wore his riding breeches and jacket with English boots, and smelled of leather and horseflesh. His rusty blond hair had mellowed to parchment yellow with age.
“I see I’ve come at an interesting time. What have you found?” He addressed Lawrence.
“Dr. Westlake made the discovery, Newell. She’ll explain it better than I could.” Lawrence nodded for Lauren to do so.
She did, careful not to make Mr. St. John feel foolish for having been duped by what she considered elementary mistakes. “Not many collectors are fluent in hieroglyphs,” she said, “so the fault isn’t yours. I’m sorry this beautiful jar isn’t genuine.”
The man’s shoulders squared. “Young lady, I have invited you into my home as a favor to your father. If I’d known you would cast suspicion on my collection, I’d have thought better of it.”
She licked dry lips. “I don’t blame you for not liking the news, sir. No one wants to be deceived.”
“You misunderstand. It isn’t that I don’t like what you’ve told me so much as I don’t believe it. At this point, all I have is your word.”
Heat infused her face.
“Come now, Newell,” Lawrence said. “You forget you’re speaking to a doctor of Egyptology, a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“Assistant curator,” St. John corrected. “The main curator is in the field, doing the real work of discovery.”
“And he trusts me to catalog and inspect every item that comes through our doors at the Met.” She lowered her voice, hoping to soothe. “No one is going to run to the press about this. We only want to protect you—and others—from forgeries that would not only waste your money but also discredit the many wonderful, authentic pieces you do have. It’s an impressive collection by any standard.”
