An Improper Aristocrat

But it was to no avail. The intruders were gone, leaving behind only a thoroughly searched house and a flattened juniper bush below the open window of Miss Latimer’s chamber.

The taste of frustration was not one Trey was overly familiar with. Now he found it had a sour flavour that he did not care for at all, especially when he’d spent the last four-and-twenty hours having it forced down his gullet. So he was in a foul mood as he took to the saddle for what—his third trip today?—back to the little village of Wembury. Aswan wisely kept his own counsel and without a murmur took possession of the horses as they dismounted once again in the inn’s courtyard.

The innkeeper, Mr Drake, had evidently been awaiting their arrival. Trey eyed the man with a bit of distaste; he found him rather dandified for a proprietor of a backwoods inn.

‘Lord Treyford, your…guests have all been accommodated. I must warn you, though, that the boy has been put on a cot in your room.’

‘Thank you,’ Trey answered. ‘Of course, you will apply all of their expenses to my account.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I had wondered…’

Trey was sure he had. In fact, he was sure that the whole village would be wondering by morning. But that was the least of his worries. Was he going to have to wait until morning to get some answers? ‘Are they all abed, then?’ he asked.

‘Aye, they are.’ The man leaned in close. ‘Had you any luck, sir?’

‘Only the ill sort.’

‘Bad news, that is, my lord.’ He shot Trey a wry look. ‘Today all the good citizens of Wembury will be a-twitter with the gossip. Tonight they’ll be wide-eyed in their beds, sure that they will be the ruffians’ next victims.’ Sighing, the innkeeper shook his head. ‘Every rusty blunderbuss in the county will be hauled out of storage, just like in those hungry, restless months after the war. Back then, old Jeremiah Martin shot his own brother in the arse, thinking he was a run-down Peninsular veteran come to steal his prized hog. We’ll be damned lucky if no one is killed.’

Drake heaved another sigh, then slapped a hand down on the counter, startling Trey. ‘Well, then, my lord, I’ve an extremely nice brandy laid out in the private parlour, should you like a nip before you retire.’

Trey hesitated only a moment. It was obvious that Mr Drake was not averse to a little soporific gossip. Suddenly, despite his usual scruples, Trey discovered he might not be averse, either. He needed answers, and he might finally begin to ask the right questions if he had a better understanding of the situation. And tired though he was, somehow retiring to a chamber with Will—and no doubt the dog—held little appeal.

The private parlour was more elegantly done up than one would expect, and the brandy was indeed very fine. Trey leaned back into the comfortably stuffed chair. ‘I would like to think that discretion is one of the services my money will buy, Mr Drake.’

‘Certainly.’ He returned Trey’s look with a sober one of his own. ‘In this case, however, my discretion is of no use to you. The men who rode with you tonight, they will talk.’

Drake held up the decanter and, at Trey’s nod, poured them each a second drink.

‘Gossip, superstition, unlikely tales of the supernatural, and the mysterious,’ Drake said as he settled back into his chair, ‘they are all an integral part of the atmosphere here. The locals thrive on it, repeat it and embellish it.’ With a lift of his chin he indicated the floors above. ‘Your friends, they are favourites, both in the locals’ hearts and in their whispered conversations.’

‘But what the hell is a wealthy shipping merchant like Mervyn Latimer doing setting up his family here?’ Trey nodded his head towards the ceiling. ‘Shouldn’t the lot of them be living in Plymouth, close to the shipping offices?’

Drake sighed and took a drink. ‘Mervyn is a man who likes his privacy. Not easy to come by when you are famous twice over. In addition…’ he leaned closer and lowered his voice ‘…there are rumours that the young lady has dealt with her share of snobbery.’

Trey raised a brow in question.

‘It’s her foreign blood, I suppose, although if you ask me it’s a damned shame. A lovelier girl you couldn’t ask to meet, in every way. But you know how dreadful people can be to an outsider. Here, in a smaller society, it is easier for her.’

‘Not to mention that here the people are more needful of her grandfather’s money?’

‘That too. In any case, we’ve our own deep-water quay, and in his sloop Mervyn could be at his main offices quickly enough.’

Trey took a drink and thought a moment. ‘It seems to me that the girl is a sight more needful of her grandfather’s money than anyone else.’

‘And so she is,’ sighed Drake. ‘But without proof of Mervyn’s death—no body or any known catastrophe such as a shipwreck—the company remains in the hands of its board. Without his influence that group squabbles more than the local Ladies’ Aid Society. So much so that the courts have ordered Mervyn’s shares frozen pending investigation into the matter.’

‘And who knows how long such an investigation will take?’

‘Who knows when they will even begin, is the question.’

‘So,’ Trey mused, ‘the girl is accepted here, but left near to destitution and still gossiped about?’

Drake flashed Trey a rueful smile. ‘But who among us could resist—especially when you throw in such a topic as the Pharaoh’s Lost Jewel?’

The jolt of excitement Trey felt had him sitting up a little straighter. Miss Latimer had mentioned a jewel, had she not, when he tried to give her the scarab?

‘I don’t know the legend,’ he said, striving for a casual tone. ‘What can you tell me of it?’

‘Perhaps I would be better suited to answer that,’ a sharp feminine voice said from the doorway.

It should have been impossible for a man of his age and experience, but Trey found himself blushing like a schoolgirl caught gossiping under the covers. Drake, however, seemed unperturbed, rising to greet the Latimer girl with his usual smoothness.

‘Miss Latimer, I had thought you abed. Ah, it is not surprising that you should have difficulty sleeping after such a dreadful experience. Shall I warm you some milk, to help you drift off?’

Arms crossed, she leaned against the doorjamb, all injured dignity and unrelenting disapproval. ‘No, thank you, Mr Drake.’

‘Well, then, since you are awake…’ he glanced at Trey with sympathy. ‘A message was left here for you earlier. I shall just fetch it.’

He eased his way past her, but her disdain appeared to be focused firmly on Trey. He pasted on his most obnoxious look of unconcern and waved her into the room. ‘Good, I am glad you are up. We have much to discuss.’

‘Yes, so much that you decided not to wait for me, I see.’

Trey shrugged. ‘Drake said you were abed. I merely meant to begin sorting out this mess.’

She glared, but held her peace as Drake returned, a sealed missive in hand. He handed it to her and shot Trey a mute look of apology.

Trey ignored him. A belated sense of uneasiness had him watching the girl instead. Who would be sending the chit a message here? A curious look passed over her face as she broke the seal and began to read.

‘Something is not right,’ he said. ‘Who, besides the people in this room, or asleep upstairs, would know you are here?’

She did not answer. Trey glanced over at her. Even in the candlelight she looked bloodless. Her face was blank, her gaze fixed to the sheet she still held with trembling fingers. Trey had to suppress a sigh of exasperation. Lord, not again.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Miss Latimer?’

Mutely, she handed him the paper.

It was too much; too many emotions for a person to process in a single day. Chione found that her trembling legs would not support her. She sank into Mr Drake’s abandoned chair and watched Lord Treyford read the note.

Le grand homme de la vague déferlante, he lives. He is in need of help. Find the coffer.

Alive. For a moment she was convinced that it was an illusion, a hallucination concocted out of her own grief and fear. But the proof was right there in Lord Treyford’s hand. Hungrily, she stared at it. Thank God, she had been wrong. Mervyn was alive.

‘What is this? A man from the…surf? What nonsense is this, Miss Latimer?’

‘Great man of the surf. Or something close to that. I think perhaps that part of it was originally in an island dialect.’

‘What was in—?’His voice, growing loud again with impatience, suddenly broke off, and the look he gave her softened into a sort of exasperated pity. ‘Miss Latimer, as much as it pains me, perhaps we should postpone this discussion. I fear the excitements of the day have been too much for you. Let Mr Drake show you back to your chamber.’

‘No, I am fine. Do not fear, Lord Treyford. I have not come unhinged.’ Chione’s weary brain had finally processed the rest of the message. Mervyn was alive, but he needed help. How could she help him? She hadn’t a clue as to where he was. And what was the coffer? All at once the fatigue that had swept over her was gone, lifted by her incredible relief, replaced by her anxiety, her need to be doing something, anything, to get to the bottom of all of this. She stood, then began to pace, from the fire to the window, and back again.

‘Miss Latimer,’ Lord Treyford began with a commanding rumble, ‘sit down. I am a man of very little patience, and you have already consumed what small amount I possess.’

Chione swore she could feel his words resonating in the pit of her belly, and for some reason the sensation sent her restlessness spiralling even higher. He wore a tremendous frown and his knuckles were white where he clutched the note she had given him.

Her fingers shook as she went to extricate it. For a moment she was close enough to feel the heat and the aura of masculinity that emanated from him. ‘I do apologise, but do you understand what this means? It means I was wrong. Mervyn is alive.’

He ran a hand along his jaw and up to his temple. When he spoke it was with the exaggerated patience one uses with a wayward child.

‘I think, Miss Latimer, that it is time for you to sit yourself down and start giving me some direct answers.’

She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a halting hand. ‘No, don’t talk. I am going to do the talking, you are going to answer only the questions I put to you. But before we begin, I am going to need another drink. Or two.’

He crossed over to a tray already set with a decanter and glasses. Chione sat in a chair in front of the empty fireplace and watched him toss one drink back immediately and pour himself another. When he returned, he held two glasses. He offered her one.

‘Oh, no. I don’t think…’

He held up his hand again. ‘No. No talking and no thinking. Either is bound to get me in trouble. Take the drink, and just answer.’

He took the chair across from her and sat, staring at her with that broody frown that set her insides to simmering. Chione had had enough. ‘Before I answer your questions, I have one of my own. Do you still have the scarab?’

He was startled enough to answer. ‘Of course.’

She sat back in her chair in relief. ‘I’m afraid I must apologise for my earlier outburst and tell you that I do indeed wish to have it.’

‘Tonight would illustrate that you are not alone in that desire.’

She started to speak, but he cut her off. ‘No, I do not want to hear protestations that it could have been something else that those thieves were after. We both know the truth. They wanted the damned scarab, and it’s only dumb luck that they don’t have it right now.’

Chione froze. Had his intentions shifted upon the discovery of the scarab’s value?

It seemed he read her mind. ‘I travelled here to bring the curst thing to you,’ he growled, ‘and so I shall. After you have given me what I need.’

Chione took a sip from her glass for courage. She managed—only just—not to cough and sputter as it went down. ‘And what is it that you need, my lord?’ Her saucy delivery might have had an impact if not for the brandy-induced wheeze at the end.

‘Information,’ he clipped. ‘I want you to tell me just what the hell that scarab really is. Why Richard was killed for it, why you damn near swooned at the sight of it, why someone followed me all the way from Egypt, damn it, to try to steal it from you tonight.’ The rumbling volume of his voice had raised a notch with each question.

Chione sat silent, considering. He might be curt, temperamental, cranky, even, but Richard had trusted this man. And he had proven himself worthy, keeping his word, abandoning his work, clearly against his own inclination. And tonight he had saved them all.

Chione was many things, but not a fool. She needed to find Mervyn and knew she would not get it done on her own. She needed help. And as much as it galled her to put her faith in yet another adventurer, she wanted his.

‘Tell me about the scarab,’ he said gruffly.

She took another drink of the brandy. ‘For as long as I can recall, it has belonged to Mervyn. He wore it always—in a pocket, or on a chain. When I saw it today in your hands, I believed that it meant that he was dead.’

‘Believed. Past tense.’ He glanced toward the note she still held in her hand.

‘Yes.’ She raised her chin in defiance. ‘ I know you will think that I am foolish, but there is good reason to trust in that note.’

He didn’t challenge her statement, or pursue her reasoning. ‘Did you know that Richard was searching for the scarab?’

‘Not really. He seemed genuinely thrilled to be going back to Egypt at last, and excited about his position with the Museum.’ She looked away. ‘I suspected that he was also searching for information about Mervyn’s disappearance, but he did not confide in me.’

‘Neither did he confide in me,’ Trey said flatly. ‘I do not know just where he found the thing. I do not know if the others who sought it in Egypt are the same ones who were here tonight. I still know nothing of importance, in fact. Yesterday you spoke of a jewel, but the jewels have long since been pried from the scarab. Tonight Drake talks of a Pharaoh’s jewel. Tell me now, just what is going on here?’

‘It is an old tale, an ancient legend.’ Her throat tightened until she thought she might choke on the words, but she forced herself to go on. ‘No one is sure just what the Jewel is. Some say it is a collar fashioned in the ancient style, made of gold and inlaid with hundreds of precious gems, others say that it is a huge diamond brought from the deepest Africa. I have also heard that it is an entire cache of jewels, stolen from a great king’s tomb long ago.’

‘Is the scarab part of the treasure, then?’

‘No, the scarab is reportedly the key.’

‘The key to what—the cache? Or is it a key such as you find on a map?’ She could heard the impatience in his voice.

‘Perhaps. I think someone once told Mervyn that the Jewel itself was a map, one that would lead to a lost land of many treasures.’

‘I see.’ The earl’s gaze wandered for a moment. She jumped when he snapped suddenly back to attention and barked out a question. ‘What did you grandfather believe?’

‘I don’t know!’ Her hands were clenched to the arms of the chair. ‘I was never truly interested in the legend, not in the way that the men in my family were. Did you know that my father was killed because of that cursed Jewel?’ She paused and swallowed, but now was not the time to reveal the truth of her family relationships. ‘He was murdered just because someone believed he knew something of it! When you showed up bearing that scarab, I knew that Richard had met the same fate and likely Mervyn as well. Now this note says that Mervyn is alive! His fate may hang in the balance and I just do not know!’

Panic reached down her throat and stole her breath away. What if it was true? She had despised the legend, hated the light in her grandfather’s eyes when he spoke of it, the excitement in her brother’s tone when he talked of leaving, of chasing after a myth. She had resented the way the story grew, interfering with their lives. When talk turned to the legend, she had turned away. And she had been right. Her father had been murdered because of it; most likely her brother had been killed seeking it. But what if her ignorance also doomed Mervyn?

‘Calm yourself,’ Trey ordered. He refilled her glass. ‘We shall sort it all out. Tell me what you do know.’

She breathed deep. Panic accomplished nothing. If there was one thing she had learned from her troubled early life, it was the value of a clear head in a time of crisis. She drank again and drew courage from the warmth the brandy spread through her chest. ‘That is nearly all of it,’ she said shakily. ‘The legend is old. It came to Europe when Bonapart and his delegation of scholars and artists returned to Egypt at the turn of the century. There was talk then, that the scarab had been found, and brought to France.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me to find that true. Many items went home with the French.’

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