An Improper Aristocrat

Long minutes passed as her inner storm raged, battering her with emotion. She cried for her grandfather, her brother, for her parents who had died long ago. She cried for the two children upstairs who were orphans now, just as she had been. She cried for herself. But gradually the howling wind of grief abated, leaving her spent.

Unflinching acceptance, warm approval, boundless love—these were the things her grandfather had given her, what she would never feel from him again. The thought loosed another painful, racking sob. He had taken her from chaos and given her security, happiness, a family.

Chione had been born in Egypt, to the Egyptian wife of Mervyn Latimer’s son. But her parents had died when Richard was an infant, and Chione a child of only eight. She had recollections of them, of her mother’s soothing hands and Edward Latimer’s booming laugh. But she had other memories too, harsh and ugly memories that she had locked away, hidden from the world and even from herself.

She had no wish to bring them to light again. And for a long time there had been no need to, thanks to Mervyn Latimer. He had come to Egypt, carried both Richard and her to England, taken them in, and raised them with love.

Now he was gone and their roles were reversed. It was Chione who was left alone, with two children who had no one else to turn to. Chione was the protector now, and though the weight of yet another role might be heavy, it was one she would embrace. Not just because she already loved those children as if they were her own, but also because it was fitting somehow. Here was her chance to give back some of what she had herself been given. Acceptance. Family. Love. And if it came with a price, well, then, she was happy to pay it.

The thought had her rising, going back to her desk. She pulled out the well-worn letter from Philadelphia and spread it with gentle fingers. America, a land where people focused forwards instead of back, where new ideas were welcomed instead of shunned. She thought she might have flourished there, been of use, accomplished something truly worthwhile. A tear dropped on to the vellum, blurring the ink. Carefully, she folded it and put it away. Her dreams might need to be smaller now, but they would be no less important.

The untouched dinner tray still sat on the edge of her big desk. Chione saw that Mrs. Ferguson had placed today’s post on it as well. Wearily she glanced at the notice from the butcher, a cordially worded reminder, which none the less explained why she had sent Will to fish for their supper today. She put it aside and picked up the next, and then she stilled. It was a letter from Mrs Stockton.

The woman was grandmother to Will and Olivia, though a cold and self-involved one at best. Chione read the note quickly and with distaste. Yet another hint for an invitation to visit. The horrid old woman had shown no inclination to become involved with the children after their mother, her daughter, had passed on. She had even refused to see Olivia, the infant her daughter had died giving birth to. Her renewed interest in them had not come until after Mervyn Latimer had been gone long enough to cause concern—and when the possibility of his fortune passing to her young grandson occurred to her. Well, she would have a long wait before she received what she was hinting for; Chione had enough trouble without inviting it into her home.

Her home, yes. Her children, her responsibility, and not just now, but for ever. Chione straightened her spine and looked to her empty paper with new determination. She doubted the trustees would believe the scarab to be as definitive a sign as she did. Which meant no money coming in and no further hope of rescue, either. It could be years before they decided to release Mervyn’s funds. Her writing had made the family a little more comfortable in the past few months. It would have to do more in the future. Dashing the last tear from her eye, she took up her pen and bent to work.

Nikolas had at last scrambled free of the collapsing tomb when she heard the noise. She dropped her pen and lifted her head, straining to hear.

Chione might not be a mother, but she had the instincts of one. She knew all the noises the old house gave forth as it settled during the night. She knew the far-off buzzing that was Mrs. Ferguson’s snore. She hunched her shoulders each night against the gritty sound of Will grinding his teeth in his sleep, and she recognised the occasional thump that was Olivia falling out of bed. This sound was none of those.

Her candle had burned low, its pool of light spreading no further than the paper she had been writing on. Heart thudding, she left it and rose to slip into the hall.

The noise had come from upstairs. Chione paused long enough to cross to the wall where a collection of antique knives was hung. She slipped one from its mount, an ancient flint blade with an ivory handle. At the foot of the stairs she removed her sturdy boots, then silently padded up in stocking feet, instinctively avoiding the creaking spots.

Halfway up, she froze.

A muffled sound had come from below, from the direction of the kitchens. Someone was in the house. One person moving about, or two? It did not matter; she had to check the children first.

Chione eased on to the landing and trod as silently as she could into the hall. There was another, smaller noise that still sounded loud in the inky darkness. Her room, she thought gratefully, not Will’s and not Olivia’s.

But Will’s room was nearest and the door was slightly ajar. She put her back against the wall right next to the door and listened. Nothing. Peeking in, she saw only Will, sprawled out fast asleep. But where was Morty? Her customary position at the foot of the bed was empty.

Chione found the dog a little way down the hall, bristling silently directly outside the closed door to her own room. Sending out a silent prayer, she crouched next to the dog and placed one hand on the knob. The ivory knife handle in her other hand had grown warm. She gripped it tightly, breathed deeply, then gave the knob a quick turn and thrust the door open.

Morty was through in an instant, emanating a dangerous rumble as she went. A bark, a crash, a thump. Cautiously, Chione followed the dog in. Her window was open. Bright moonlight spilled through it, illuminating the shambles her room was in, framing the figure crouched in the window frame, and blinking wickedly off the long blade he held over Morty’s head.

Chione didn’t stop to think. She hefted the well-balanced blade and threw with all her might. The black figure grunted, then turned and went out the window.

‘A very nice throw,’ a deep voice said right behind her.

Chione gasped, and her heart plummeted to her feet. She spun around and fell back. Two large and capable hands reached out to steady her and she looked up, directly into the brilliant blue eyes of the Earl of Treyford.

Chapter Four

Trey waited until the girl had steadied herself before he released her.

‘There are more below,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Fetch the boy, I’ll get the girl. Where is she?’

He had to give credit where it was due. Miss Latimer did not bluster, swoon, or ask idiotic questions as he had half-expected her to do. ‘Across the hall,’ she whispered, and, taking the dog, turned back towards Will’s room.

Trey crossed the hall and stealthily opened the little girl’s door. He sent up a silent request to whichever deity might be listening, hoping that the babe would not squall when awakened. He need not have worried. Nerves of steel must pass with the Latimer blood, along with those incredible eyelashes. Hers lay thick against her round, little cheeks, until he hefted her into his arms. Their one brief meeting must have made an impact, for she peered up at him, then tucked her head against his shoulder and promptly went back to sleep. He heaved a sigh of thanks and crossed back to the hall.

Miss Latimer was already there, along with a wide-eyed, young Will.

‘We must move quickly and silently,’ Trey whispered. He shook his head when Miss Latimer would have taken the little girl from him. ‘No, I’ll hold on to her, unless we run into one of them. Then you take her and run for the stables.’

‘Mrs Ferguson?’ she asked.

‘Is already there, with my man and your groom. They should have a vehicle ready when we get there.’ Trey nodded and set out for the stairwell. ‘Quietly, now.’

She reached out a restraining hand. ‘No, Lord Treyford. This way.’ She took a step backwards, and gestured farther along the hallway.

He might have argued, but Will grasped his forearm and hissed, ‘Listen!’

Everyone froze. From the direction of the stairwell came a soft, ominous creaking sound.

Trey promptly turned about. ‘Lead on,’ he whispered. ‘As fast as you can.’

They did move quickly, passing several more bedchambers before taking a connecting passage to the left. Almost at a run, they reached the end of that hallway in a matter of moments. Trey cursed under his breath. There was nothing here except a shallow, curved alcove holding a pedestal and a marble bust. Not even a window to offer a means of escape.

There was no time for recriminations. Trey’s mind was racing. Could these be the same bandits who had murdered Richard? Was it possible they had followed him all the way from Egypt? If it were true, then they were desperate indeed, and he had to keep these innocents out of their hands. ‘Back to one of the rooms. Are there any trees close to this end of the house?’

‘No, wait a moment.’ Miss Latimer was part way into the alcove. It was hard to discern in the near darkness, but he thought she was probing the wainscoting. ‘Ah, here we are,’ she whispered.

He waited. The dog gave a soft whine. There was a grunting sound from Miss Latimer’s direction. ‘Give it a push, Will,’ she urged. ‘No, there. Go on, hurry!’

The boy disappeared into the alcove, followed closely by the dog. Trey moved closer and could only just make out the outline of an opening in the curve of the back wall.

‘In you go,’ said Miss Latimer calmly. ‘I will come behind you and close it.’

‘Archimedes, is it not?’ Trey said with a nod towards the bust. ‘Someone has a fine sense of irony,’ he whispered as he squeezed past her in the tight space.

He, in the meantime, had a fine sense of all the most interesting parts of Miss Latimer’s anatomy pressing into his side as he passed. No, she was not the dried-up spinster he had expected, but apparently neither was he the jaded bachelor he had believed. One full-length press—in the midst of a crisis, all clothes on—and his baser nature was standing up and taking notice. Ignoring it, he moved past.

He had to stoop to enter the hidden doorway, and found himself on a tiny landing. Ahead he could barely discern a narrow set of stairs. Then the door slid home and the blackness swallowed them.

He reached out a hand. The other wall was mere inches away. If he had stood erect and unbowed, his shoulders might have brushed both sides of the passage. Suddenly she was there, close against him again, her mouth right at his ear. ‘Archimedes fought and died. We shall run and live.’

Her words were in earnest. The situation was serious. And still a shiver ran through him as her breath, hot and moist, caressed his skin.

Trey muffled a heartfelt curse. His head was still bent in the low-ceilinged corridor, an awkward position made more so by the child resting against his shoulder. Danger lay behind and the unknown ahead, and he must face it saddled with a woman and two children. This was hardly the first scrape he’d found himself in, but it ranked right up there with the worst of the lot. And despite all this, still his body reacted to the nearness of hers. To the scent of her hair. To the sound of her breathing in the darkness. For some reason he did not fully comprehend, all of this infuriated him.

‘Go,’ he said in a low, harsh whisper. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

She moved on silent feet down the narrow stairs. Trey followed, one arm cradling the child close, the other feeling the way ahead. At the bottom, the passage continued in a bewildering set of sharp turns. Several times Trey’s trailing fingers found the empty air of a connecting branch, but Miss Latimer passed them by, moving forward at a good pace and with an air of confidence that he hoped was well founded.

Presumably the upkeep of the secret corridors was not high on the housekeeper’s duty list. Cobwebs clung to his hair, stuck to his face, and soon coated his seeking hand. Dust, disturbed by their passage, hung in the air and tickled his nose. Desperate, he turned his face into his shoulder, trying not to sneeze. The occupant of his other shoulder had no such compunction.

How did such an immense noise come from such a small person?

The adults both froze, listening, hardly daring to breathe. Not far away, on the other side of the passage wall, sounded a triumphant shout.

Once more he felt the press of that lithe body, soft against his. ‘We’re near the upper servants’ quarters,’ Miss Latimer whispered. ‘They will waste time searching them. There is another set of stairs just ahead.’

For just that moment, her scent, light and fresh, engulfed him nearly as completely as the darkness. But as she moved away and they began to descend the second stairwell, the air grew dank and the walls moist. They were moving underground.

‘Where?’ Trey growled quietly.

‘The bake house,’ she replied.

It was not far. In a matter of a few minutes they were climbing out of the clammy darkness, emerging into a small, stone building, still redolent with the rich, yeasty smell of fresh bread. Will stood on a box, just next to one of the high windows.

‘There was a man at the kitchen door, but he went into the house a moment ago,’ he whispered.

Trey turned on the girl. ‘Who are they?’

‘You don’t know?’ Her startled look was authentic, Trey judged. ‘I have no idea!’

Perhaps not. He decided to leave the rest of that conversation for later. ‘How far to the stables?’ he asked, handing the child over.

‘Not far,’ said Will.

‘Past the gardens and the laundry, beyond that grove of trees,’ Miss Latimer answered. ‘Perhaps a quarter of a mile.’

Trey suppressed a groan. It might as well be a league, with this ragtag group.

‘We will stay off of the path,’ he ordered in dictatorial fashion, ‘and under the trees as much as possible. If you see anyone, drop to the ground as quick as you can, as silently as you can. We’ll go now, before the sentry comes back to the kitchen door.’

Moonlight was streaming in the high windows; he could see the worry in Chione Latimer’s eyes, though she had displayed no other sign of it. ‘I’ll go first,’ he said. ‘To the back of that garden shed.’

He paused, and caught her gaze with intent. ‘If something happens, go back into the passages and find another way out. Don’t stay there, they will find their way in, eventually.’

Her expression grew grimmer still, but she only nodded.

Trey went to the door and opened it a fraction. He stood watching for a short time, but saw nothing, heard nothing except the usual nighttime chorus. The noise, in and of itself, was reassuring. Taking a deep breath, he plunged out of the door and sprinted to the shelter of the tiny garden shed.

Nothing—no shouts of alarm, no explosion of gunfire, no whistle of a knife hurtling through the air. He looked back at the seemingly empty bake house and motioned for his little group to follow.

They came, silent and swift. When they had reached him and stood, gasping in fright and fatigue against the old wooden wall, he felt something alien surging in his chest. Pride?

He pushed it away. Emotion, never a safe prospect, could be deadly in a situation like this, and besides, his stalwart band still had a long way to go. He took the child back again and nodded towards the nearby grove of trees.

What followed had to be the longest fifteen minutes in the history of recorded time, let alone in Chione’s lifetime. Like mice, they scurried from one place of concealment to the next, always stopping to listen, to test for danger. They saw no one. Eventually they reached the stables. In the moonlight Chione could see that the great door stood open a foot or so. Morty, who had been sticking close to Will’s side, suddenly surged ahead, tail wagging, and slipped in the building.

Chione sighed and hefted Olivia a little higher on her shoulder. She’d endured a maelstrom of emotions today, and now it seemed they were all coalesced into a heavy weight upon her soul. The scarab, she thought. It had to be that damned scarab.

She had barely set one foot in the door before she found herself enveloped in Mrs Ferguson’s arms, the housekeeper’s heavy rolling pin poking her in the side. For one, long, blessed moment, she leaned into the embrace. All she wanted was to just collapse, sobbing, into the older woman’s arms, and not only because of the handle digging into her ribs.

‘What did you mean to do—make the man a pie?’ Lord Treyford asked the housekeeper with a nod at her weapon of choice.

‘Wouldna be the first heathen I beat the fear of God into with this,’ Mrs Ferguson answered, releasing Chione to brandish her rolling pin high.

‘Speaking of heathens, that is my man, Aswan,’ Lord Treyford said, waving a hand at the man standing watch near the door.

He bowed, and Chione’s skin prickled. She handed the still-sleeping child to the housekeeper. It had been a long time since she had seen an Egyptian face. ‘With you be peace and God’s blessing,’ she said in Arabic.

He bowed low, but did not answer. He looked to the earl. ‘Effendi, we should go now.’

They had everything ready for a quick escape. Will’s sturdy Charlemagne had already been hitched to the pony cart. He was the last left; the other horses had been sold to finance Richard’s trip to Egypt. Her heart heavy, Chione tried to ignore the empty stables, the stale atmosphere.

Would the house look as forlorn, when those men did not find the treasure they had come for? Would they destroy the place in revenge? Steal away Grandfather’s collections as a substitute? Or, God forbid, set the house ablaze in their anger?

She stiffened her spine and raised her chin. Let them. All of her valuables were right here. And tonight, they were under one man’s protection. She looked for the earl and found him watching her. Inexplicably, she felt her spirits lift.

‘Can you drive the cart?’ he asked her. ‘Aswan and I will ride.’

She nodded. He put his hands on her waist to lift her up to the seat, and Chione felt her hard-fought-for composure slip. She waited for him to release her, but his large grip lingered. One heartbeat. Two. Three. A swirling flood of warmth and unfamiliar pleasure flowed from his hands. It filled her, weighed her down, slowed her reactions, and very nearly stopped her mental processes altogether.

With difficulty she broke the contact, moving away from his touch, berating herself as she settled on the seat and took up the reins. Could nothing—not grief, danger or exhaustion—temper her inappropriate reactions to the man?

She turned to watch as old Eli helped Will and Mrs. Ferguson into the back of the cart and found that, yes—something could. Shock, in fact, proved most effective. ‘Who is that?’ she gasped. An injured man lay in the front of the cart, curled on to a makeshift pallet.

‘Watchman,’ Lord Treyford said tersely. ‘His fellow came to alert us when they spotted the intruders lurking about. We found him out cold. Eli has seen to him.’

She stared as he took the lead of the village hack Aswan led forward. ‘A watchman? Then you were expecting trouble?’ The accusation hung unspoken in the air.

‘No, not exactly,’ he bit out, swinging up and into the saddle. He spoke again and the timbre of his voice crept even lower than his usual rumble. ‘I promised Richard that I would bring you the scarab. When he begged me to, I promised to protect you. But truly, I thought it to be a dying man’s fancy. Not for a moment did I believe that any danger connected with the thing wouldn’t be left behind in Egypt. I never imagined the sort of trouble we’ve seen tonight.’

He made a grand sweep of his arm, indicating the stable, the wounded man, the cart packed full of her dishevelled family. ‘I expected to come here and find Richard’s spinster sister facing a civilised problem: a neglectful landlord, investments in want of managing, a house in need of shoring up. Not a girl barely out of the schoolroom, grubby children, flirtatious dogs and village gossip. Definitely not a hysterical tirade, secret passages and a narrow escape from armed intruders in the night!’

His mount, sensing his ire, began a restless dance. Seemingly without effort, he controlled it, bending it to his will even as he continued his tirade. ‘The answer to your question is “No”. Thanks in part to everyone leaving me in the dark—no, I was not expecting trouble. In fact, you have only Aswan, who had the foresight to suggest a lookout, to thank for our presence here tonight.’ He glared at her from the back of his horse and finished with a grumble. ‘Not that we were much use, in any case.’

Chione should have been insulted. She stared at his flashing blue eyes, his big frame emanating pride, anger and chagrin, and she was once more reminded of the exaggerated characters in her novels. The Earl of Treyford was prickly, harsh and bossy. He was also clearly angry with himself for not anticipating tonight’s events and honest enough to admit that it was his servant’s precaution that had saved the day—or night.

Though he might be the last to admit it, Lord Treyford was a man of honour. And she was not so easily subjugated as a restless mount.

Clearing her throat, she met his defiant gaze squarely. ‘Then I extend my most heartfelt thanks to Aswan, my lord,’ she said with all sincerity, ‘for I am very glad that you are here.’

Her conciliatory tone mollified Trey, but only for a moment. In the next instant, he grew suspicious. In his experience women used that tone when they wanted something. Her wants did not concern him, only his own needs.

Unfortunately, he became less sure just what they were with every passing moment. Guilt and frustration gnawed at him, and he resented the hell out of it. He had years of experience behind him, decades of avoiding people and the tangled messes they made of their lives. And look what one day in the Latimer chit’s presence had brought him to.

‘Let’s move,’ he said as Aswan opened the door wide enough to get the cart out. ‘Will says the track through the wood will bring us out on to the coast road. From there we’ll go straight to the inn.’

Cautiously, they set out. The forest lay in silence; the few noises of their passage were the only discernible sounds. The coastal path was deserted as well, leaving Trey no distraction from the uncomfortable weight of his own thoughts.

There was no escaping the truth. He hadn’t taken the situation seriously, had not considered that something like this might happen. The thought of that girl, those children and what might have been was unbearable.

Damn it—he was tired of being kept in the dark! What did everyone but him know about that wretched scarab? What was it about the cursed thing that could possibly have stirred these bandits to follow it halfway around the world? He didn’t know, but he was damned sure going to find out.

To that end, and to the hopeful thought that the sooner he dealt with these sneak thieves, the sooner he could shake the Devonshire dust from his boots, Trey left his ragtag group in the care of the disconcerted innkeeper and turned his horse’s head back the way they had just come. Fortunately, the first watchman had not been idle. He had a half-dozen men gathered, and though they were armed only with cudgels and pitchforks and one battered French cavalry pistol, they were eager enough. Trey gave them a terse set of instructions and they set out again for Oakwood Court.