Ordinarily his height was a hindrance to his job, as he was always having to squeeze himself into the tiniest of places. But in this regard, Fielding wagered he could make it across. He leaned over the edge, holding the torch low to see what fate he would meet if he were to fail. The sand at the bottom of the chamber was littered with bones and wooden spikes that shot up from the ground.
He took a steadying breath and, holding the torch in his teeth, made a leap to the other side. The distance was wider than he’d anticipated, and although he managed to get his upper body across the divide, his legs dangled down toward the yawning gap below. The bag around his waist shifted, changing his balance, and he began to slide. Using his hands and feet, he scrambled for a hold on the slick walls of the chamber and managed to stop his descent.
Hot ashes from the torch fell to his face, burning his eyes. He’d been in difficult situations before, he reminded himself. And he’d always survived.
With that thought he climbed back up to the ledge of the chamber, pushed himself up to his waist, and crawled back onto the stone floor of the tunnel. A moment later he found himself in an enormous room, this one with shelves built of stone. Scrolls and tablets covered every surface.
At long last, he’d found it. The lost Library of Alexandria.
He started with the shelf to his immediate right, careful to handle the fragile pieces with care. There was a fortune in this room. His client might have hired him to find a group of specific texts, but everything else he’d be able to sell to the highest bidder.
It took him the better part of an hour to sift through several shelves before he came across something with Socrates’ name on it. He bundled the scrolls into his bag and turned to go. Tomorrow he’d come back with a team to retrieve the rest of the materials.
Getting back across the tunnel was much easier now that he knew to gauge the distance of the trap chamber, and soon he found himself standing below the rope his assistants had used to lower the torch.
“Tighten the rope,” he called. “I’m coming up.”
Fielding secured the bag to his waist, then began the climb up. He made it to the top and held out his hand.
Firm fingers grabbed his forearm and allowed him enough support to pull himself back into the antechamber.
He swiped at the dust on his pants, then stood straight. “Who the devil are you?” Fielding asked the man before him. He looked around the room but found no sight of the two men who’d climbed into the temple with him. “And what did you do with my men?”
“Your men were paid and sent home.” The man held out his card. “I am a friend.”
What kind of pompous idiot carried a card into an excavation site? Fielding grabbed the card and read it: Jonathon Kessler, Solomon’s. Well, of course, a pompous member of Solomon’s. And here he’d thought the scorpion was bad. Fielding flipped it back to the man. “Solomon’s is no friend of mine.” He did nothing to hide the coldness in his voice.
Kessler smiled and pocketed the card. “The men of our club wish to discuss a business proposition with you,” he said. The man, several years Fielding’s senior, had somehow managed to climb into the ancient tomb without getting even a speck of dust on his crisply pressed suit. Fielding fought the childish urge to kick sand onto the man’s shiny black boots.
Instead he picked up the rope and wound it around his elbow and hand until it was in a manageable form, then he tossed it into his pack. “A business proposition. And they sent you all the way to Egypt to find me.”
Kessler’s mouth twitched with a slight grin. “Of course not,” he said with disdain. “I was already in Alexandria. And now that you have found what you came for” —the man nodded to the bag tied at Fielding’s waist— “you’ll be returning to London. They wish to speak with you upon your arrival.”
He had a lengthy list of things to do once he returned to London: a long, hot bath; a good glass of brandy, perhaps several; and about a week in the bed of a willing woman. A visit to Solomon’s was nowhere on that list.
“I have no interest in Solomon’s,” Fielding said.
“Ordinarily the feeling would be mutual, I can assure you, Mr. Grey. But under the circumstances, I do believe a brief alliance would behoove both parties. Perhaps you will reconsider.” The man withdrew a folded piece of parchment and handed it to Fielding. “This is an offer you simply cannot refuse.”
CHAPTER 1
London, Mid-June 1887
One Friday night on a sleepy side of London, Esme Worthington yawned a most unladylike yawn, then sniffled her nose before looking back at the text on her lap.
It was long past a reasonable time for bed, yet here she sat. Sometime after midnight she’d abandoned the hard chairs of her study for the more comfortable sofa in the parlor next door. But the plush floral cushions assisted only by lulling her to sleep rather than encouraging her to continue her research. She readjusted herself and blinked several times, trying to focus on the book before her.
She read the last sentence once again, trying to absorb the words. Some of these so-called scholars simply had no notion what they were suggesting. Precisely how was an artifact from ancient Greece supposed to have ended up in the jungles of South America? Preposterous. There was no possible way that Pandora’s box had ended up on a Spanish explorer’s ship.
Another yawn.
Her great black tom lifted his sleepy head from where he lay curled warmly over her thighs. His gold eyes were nothing more than slits as he yawned. “Horace, I do believe I shall retire for the evening. I don’t seem to be getting any work done at all.” She scratched him behind his ears, and he rewarded her with a rhythmic purr. Placing the heavy book on the table next to her, she stood. “You guard the books, and tomorrow morning I shall pour you some warm milk.”
Esme doused the lamp, then stepped into the hallway. Horace followed her, and she scooped him into her arms. “Want to warm my feet tonight, do you?”
She stopped. Something had scraped against the wood floor in the very next room. It was far too late for Aunt Thea to be awake. Perhaps it was one of the servants, though they were normally early to bed as well. She padded over to the room and nudged the door open.
Two men, dressed head-to-toe in black, stopped what they were doing and faced her as the door swung open.
