She blinked at him in confusion. “I do not know, I had not heard that. His Egyptian collection is really quite extensive. Unlike…” She flipped another sheet, her finger stabbing at the paper. “Sir Horatio Woodcock. He is a hobbyist, really, just looking for someplace to spend his wife’s money. He has a set of jars found in a priestess’ tomb, but I do not recall their full origin.”
Kenneth’s heart was thudding against his ribcage, and it had nothing to do with her proximity.
Horatio Woodcock had been in the papers last month when one of his daughters supposedly ran off with her dancing tutor. Och, the family put it out that she’d just retired to their country estate, but that hadn’t stopped the gossip from swirling around them—and she had never returned to Society. Last Kenneth had heard, Woodcock hadn’t shown his face in public yet.
His mind whirled.
What were the odds?
What were the odds that every single collector on Barbara’s list had been the object of scandal in the last year?
She flipped a page. “Reginald Fondlet—I have never met him, but I remembered Mr. Sinter once told me of the man’s exquisite Middle Kingdom canopic jars of Pharaoh’s wetnurse.”
“Fondlet was involved in a duel in March over rumors of his wife’s affair,” Kenneth murmured dully. Shocked.Another coincidence?
“Really? Did he survive? I suppose if he did not someone else will own the jars now.” She clucked her tongue, then flipped thepage. “The only other collection I can remember with a set of canopic jars belonging to a woman is?—”
“The Duke of Reardon?” Kenneth guessed, wracking his brain for those recently featured in the scandal sheets. “Lord Stiffy? Sir William Gropington?” A sudden, horrible thought hit him:The Rake Review! “Dear God, not the new Earl of Merevale?”
Barbara’s lips were parted, her eyes wide in surprise. Unable to help himself, Kenneth scooped up her hands and squeezed them, not caring that the pencil was in danger of snapping.
“Barbie!Tellme it’s no’ Merevale?”
She blinked. “It is not Merevale.”
“Thank fook,” he sighed. “Wait! Did ye tell me that just because I demanded ye tell me that?”
“Well, yes.” Barbara winked, her boldness tightening his loins. “But it is still true. If the Earl of Merevale has any interest in Egyptian antiquities, I don’t know of it.”
“Oh, thank fook,” he repeated as he exhaled.
She squeezed his hands. “Language, Kenneth.”
From across the room, Annabelle called, “Speak up, I am taking notes. How isfookspelled, do you think?”
Barbara didn’t drop her gaze when she raised her voice. “Ithinkyou are supposed to be ignoring our conversation.” Leaning closer to Kenneth, she offered him a soft smile. “Now, tell me, how did you guess the last collector on my list is William Gropington? His collection is small and he is new to the art, but he has been to many of the same salons I attend, and I know he was interested in canopic jars. Mr. Nutt told me in the autumn Gropington had acquired a lovely set.”
Gropington.
Fondlet.
Woodcock.
Bottomley.
Nutt.
Standish.
All men whose names had been tarnished in the gossip columns in the last nine months. All men who were known for their Egyptian antiquities collection. All men who owned rare sets of canopic jars.
And two of those sets, at least, were forgeries.
Kenneth’s eyes narrowed as his mind jumped from one possibility to the next, his gaze locked on Barbara, but not really seeing her.
“Kenneth?” she prompted in a low tone. “Should I be concerned?”
“How certain are ye that Standish and Nutt’s jar setswerereal? The last time ye saw them? Afore last time, I mean.”
